Disconnection (20 page)

Arriving at the police station from Chartres Street was not easy. The streets were engorged with tourists and pedestrians, every flavor of character walking the streets. Ahead in the traffic near the great Cabildo building and the Presbytere, Lewis saw what suspiciously looked like a REPENT sign. Seeing religious propaganda around the French Quarter was nothing new—holy rollers came to New Orleans all the time looking for new Christian soldiers to join their cause. It was the size of the sign that caught Lewis’s eye. It was as big as a billboard, and colorful, with each letter in a different hue. Someone had spent some time making it.

As Lewis drove past, he saw people holding the poster forward, and the figure of the Reverend Harold Applegate standing behind them, waving his Bible in the air like a flag.

Lewis’s mouth formed an O. In his haste, he had forgotten about the reverend’s spiritual revival.

Applegate spotted him from the pulpit where he was standing. “Detective Kline! Detective Kline!” He jumped off his wooden podium and ran over to Lewis’ car.

Oh, Lord, Heaven help me
.

“Detective!” Applegate called, reaching the car. “How are you this afternoon?”

I just had a hemorrhoid operation and now it feels like my ass is about to split apart and my wife thinks the world is coming to an end and there is a serial killer on the loose out there and the only guy that may know anything is a pig farmer but other than that I’m fine, how are you?

“Peachy,” Lewis answered. “And you?”

Applegate’s chest swelled with pride. “This revival is more than I could have ever hoped for, more than I could ever dream of! Take a look around you, detective. Take a look at Jackson Square.”

Lewis took a second look and saw what must have been three hundred or so people standing behind the REPENT sign, each individual wearing a shirt that expressed one biblical verse or another.

Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give to thee the crown of life
.

Repent! Turn from your idols and renounce all your detestable practices!

He who conceals his sins does not prosper!

Prove Your Repentance and Keep Yourself.

The afternoon seemed swollen with the war between good and evil.

Cars were honking in the distance. Kids rolled down their widows and shouted out vulgarities at the repenters as they drove past. The repenters in turn screamed out encouragements such as “God bless you!” and “Jesus loves you!” Young black kids drove by in their sooped-up cars with rap music thumping, the kids sometimes slowing down long enough to gesture the peace symbol with one hand held out the window.

Pedestrians were given leaflets from the repenters, leaflets that were sometimes kept but were mostly thrown to the ground, the river’s breeze catching the papers and floating them through the violence of the day, from street to store entrances to statues standing aloof and solid near the sidewalks. Uniformed cops huddled in corners sipping coffee from paper Café du Monde cups, occasionally glancing up to affirm that nothing violent had broken out.

“Looks as if you’ve stirred the city,” Lewis observed.

The reverend’s smile broadened. “And it’s only the beginning!” he exclaimed. “Praise the Lord for the time he has given us to bring sinners unto him! Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord! Would you like to join us, detective? We sure could use another warm body. The more the merrier.”

“I’d love to join your crusade, Reverend,” Lewis lied, “but I’ve got to get to work, I’m afraid.”

Applegate nodded understandingly. “Yes sir, I certainly would not want to interrupt you on your mission to find Chloe’s killer.” His lips flexed into a frown. “Have there been any new leads, Detective?”

“We remain hopeful, Reverend.”

Applegate babbled on for a while longer before the traffic finally started up again and Lewis had to press the accelerator on the Tahoe to begin moving. “Good luck!” Lewis cried as the car pulled forward, leaving Reverend Applegate behind on the busy street.

Minutes later the pink antebellum home that now belonged to the 8th district New Orleans Police Department came into view on the corner of Royal and Conti Street.

After enduring the pain of finding a parking spot, Lewis stepped out of his car and walked through the wrought iron gates and up the building’s marble steps past the white columned entry. The American and Louisiana state flags waved simultaneously above him as he stepped through the glass doors. Lewis immediately spotted Sawicki at the receptionist’s desk flirting with the popular Pamela Creek. His partner’s normally red face turned redder when he saw Lewis walk toward him. “You’re here?” he asked.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Lewis motioned to the nearest empty room with a tilt of his head.

Sawicki followed him. “What’s going on?” he asked after Lewis closed the door. “I thought you were having your hemorrhoid operation today.”

Lewis scowled. “How many people know that?”

Sawicki shrugged. “Whoever you told.”

“I only told you.”

“Then,” Sawicki began, hiding his smile with a coke can over his lips, “I’m the only one that knows.”

Lewis highly doubted it, but he dropped the subject in favor for more important matters. He asked, “You up for a trip to the boonies?”

Sawicki shifted his feet. “We’re paying a visit to the pig farmer that called earlier?”

“Yes. Why weren’t you here to answer the call?”

“I was at lunch.” Sawicki took a gulp of his soft drink.

“Well, Pamela had to track me down.”

“She told me. Sorry. My cell phone died. Does the complaint look legitimate?”

“One can only hope.”

“True. Oh, Lewis?”

“Yeah?”

Sawicki cleared his throat as he crushed the coke can with the one hand before tossing it into the nearest garbage can. “The stake-out cops called from Mandy Whitaker’s apartment. Neither Mandy nor Sela Warren came home last night.”

Lewis took a deep breath. All he needed was trouble from Sela Warren. “Did they check her apartment?” he asked Sawicki.

Sawicki nodded. “Yeah. She wasn’t there. But no one else has been there either, so I guess that’s something. Can you think of anywhere else she would be?”

“She has a grandmother in Hammond. She had a boyfriend with her the night someone vandalized her car.”

“Dean Wolf. He lives on the Tulane campus. We’re looking into him now. And I’ll get someone to check on the grandmother. Oh, and guess what?” Stuart’s expression grew nervous under the station’s bright yellow light.

Lewis cocked his head to the side and groaned. “I can’t imagine,” he answered.

Sawicki took a step back. “Stuart Reed’s disappeared, too.”

T
he thick fog surrounded the water like a mother’s hand unfolding over the back of her child. It was in the fog’s thickness that Sela and Dean discovered the Bayou Desiard. Spanish moss, hanging from the branches of the live oaks, reflected in the bayou’s stream as the couple moved their pirogue across the water’s murky depths.

“What is this stuff?” Dean asked, pulling down a coil of moss from a red oak.

“Spanish moss,” Sela answered.

“There sure is a lot of it.” His fingers rubbed along the plant’s edges. “It feels like a cross between a boiled egg and a stick. I wonder about its chemical components.”

Sela rolled her eyes. “Biology nerd. I don’t know about its make-up, but my mother told me that in voodoo it’s used in something called the
Success Ritual
. People mix it with Frankincense tears and candles and then set it afire so that it will send prayers to spirits.”

Dean shook his head. “That’s weird.”

“You think so?” Sela asked. She playfully tossed a little swamp water at Dean with the blunt end of her paddle. “Nothing like that happens in any of your Jewish rituals?”

“Good question. Let me think about it. Oh, I know. We have Rosh Chodesh.”

“Okay, you’ve lost me,” Sela said as she leaned her head back and pensively inhaled the bayou’s humid air.

“It means
new moon
. Back in ancient times, two witnesses had to confirm its appearance—it was important because the new moon meant a new month, and that was when all the festivities would begin.”

“Why?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s just how it was.” He looked out along the water, where a shard of the sun’s light came crashing through the thin vines, spearing a yellow current into the still grayness of the afternoon. Dean shook his head thoughtfully. “This place is amazing. What was I talking about?” he asked.

“New moon. Festivities.”

“Oh, yeah. So the witnesses would report the new moon to the court of judges in Jerusalem, and when they had the court convinced, bonfires would be lit on hilltops all around. Every community that saw the bonfire would then light their own, and so on, until every Jew on Earth knew about the new moon.”

Sela paused from paddling. “Okay. But lighting bonfires to signal a new moon and setting Spanish moss on fire to send prayers to spirits isn’t exactly the same thing.”

“You asked.”

“I guess.”

“Look at that bird! Its head looks like it’s about to tumble off its body!” Dean exclaimed.

He pointed at an Eastern Kingbird. It was huddled on its bare limbs nearby, its tiny feet holding tight to a bobbing perch while its head, larger than the rest of him, practiced to stay balanced.

“Yeah, the birds here are great,” Sela said. She looked suspiciously down at the water’s surface. “It’s the alligators and water moccasins you really have to worry about.”

“I thought alligators didn’t attack humans. Aren’t we too big for them to eat? I thought they only attacked other animals. I heard about a golden retriever in Bossier City getting eaten by one. I never heard of an attack on a human though.”

“It doesn’t mean it’s never happened. Have you seen an alligator’s teeth?” Sela shivered. “I’d just as soon not take my chances with something that managed to outlive dinosaurs.”

And God knows I’ve taken enough risks these days anyway
.

Dean bent over and lightly kissed Sela on the lips. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promised, warming Sela with his gentle caress.

They spent time discovering the bayou’s winding waterways as they listened to the Mississippi kites, red-winged blackbirds, and cardinals hooting and cawing above them. The sun strained through the overhead awning of thriving green growth. The live oaks, red maples, willows, and tupelo trees marked pathways through the water, each tree stationed in its own gaze, watching out over the rest of the bayou with the monarchic stare of kings.

The pirogue drifted through a quiet little bend with the sunshine pouring onto uprooted trees. Dean took out the tackle box from under his feet. “You ready to fish?” he asked, an excited gleam in his eye.

His enthusiasm was contagious. “You bet,” Sela said as she stood up and reached for the two fishing poles they had borrowed from Dean’s roommate’s bedroom that morning.

Dean opened the tackle box, revealing ajar of worms they had bought at the gas station for ten cents each, and hooks and wires. “In case ours go loose,” Dean explained, nodding at the hooks. “At least, that’s what my roomy told me.”

“Thank God for him, or else we wouldn’t know what we were doing.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I’ve fished before. What’s that knife for?” Sela asked, pointing to the lower compartment of the box.

“That’s for gutting, Ms. I’ve-Fished-Before,” Dean responded, a sarcastic smile turning his lips into a perfect bow.

The weather cooled as an hour passed. Neither Sela nor Dean had caught a single fish. “This is harder than it looks,” Dean mumbled under a frustrated sigh. “Where are all those crappies my roommate was talking about? The black ones and white ones? And the largemouth bass? I don’t see
anything!”

“Patience. Every good fisherman knows patience. So, you’ve never fished before, huh?” Sela asked, grinning at him from the other side of the boat.

Dean laughed. “In New York? In the Hudson? You go fishing in the Hudson, you catch a dead body.”

“What about upstate?”

“When I go upstate, I’ll let you know,” he answered.

Sela reeled in her line to check if the worm was still there. It was. She threw it back in the water. The splash sent sprays of water onto the shirt and pants she had borrowed from Dean. She had forgotten, in all the excitement yesterday, to bring spare clothes to his apartment. Lucky for her, she and her boyfriend were almost the same size. “We look like prisoners of war,” he had said when they were staring at themselves in the mirror that morning. “How much do you weigh?”

“One-ten. You?”

“One-forty. We’re sticks! I bet if we ever had a child, it’d weight two pounds at birth.”

Dean laughed then, but Sela hadn’t. They had practiced safe sex every time, so an unwanted pregnancy wasn’t what bothered her. It was his allusion to the future that gave her goose bumps. Did he think, did he really think, that they had a future together? Sela had hardly thought about the longevity of what they had. Then again, she had been preoccupied with other matters since the night she met him. Poor Dean, for all his charm and likeability, had yet to receive Sela’s full and undivided attention. He was always in competition with Chloe.

Tell him. Tell him about Chloe
.

(And ruin a good thing? No, no, no.)

She had not heard from Chloe since last night, and for whatever reason, she could not remember exactly what was said. That she went into Dean’s bathroom to talk to Chloe was clear enough—she remembered the room’s Germ Festival too damn well (just thinking about it made her want to vomit)—but after that, everything was a blur.

Sela shook her head. Maybe it was better that it was a blur. Sometimes things were best left forgotten.

Still. Chloe’s silence bothered her. She wasn’t sure why. It seemed to Sela that she should have rejoiced at the peace she had experienced from her Chloe-free hours, but in truth, she was uneasy over the lack of communication. For hours to stretch on end without a word was abnormal, and anything abnormal these days frightened Sela into apprehensive suspicion.