The Dead Saint (16 page)

Bubba's gaze followed the paddleboat on the Big Muddy, framed by the office window. The sun turned the wheel-rippled waves into splinters of light. His eyes roved to the nameplate on the walnut desk, Boudreau Guidry Tietje, Attorney-at-Law, and then settled on the man who sat behind it engaged in a monologue. He was in his fifties, with receding hair and a broad smile, his worries written in wrinkled calligraphy across his face. He wore a dark, tailored suit and a custom white shirt with
BGT
embroidered on the French cuffs. A gaudy crawfish tie bedecked his neck as incongruous as nude-show neon lights at the symphony.

"As you know, I'm the executor for the estate of Elias Darwish."

Bubba nodded. The secretary had told him that when she called to set up this appointment.

"His mother is his heir. But settling a foreign estate is going to take a while—that's for sure."

Bubba wished he'd given Lynn more than five hundred dollars for Mrs. Darwish. Boudreau Guidry Tietje, Attorneyat-Law, did not appear to be motivated by efficiency and economy.182

"Elias was as protective of his mother as a mama gator protecting her baby. Persuasive too. He convinced me to sign a contract setting a ceiling on my fees and expenses as executor. But it's a generous contract—that's for sure."

Neither Elie's insistence on a contract nor his generosity surprised Bubba.

Boudreau placed his hand on a shoebox in the center of his desk, the lid sealed with duct tape. "Elias brought this to me the day before he was killed."

The timing startled Bubba. "Last Tuesday? Was Elie expecting . . . trouble?"

"You know Elie. He was casual, as always. He said the contents weren't worth renting a safe deposit box, but they had sentimental value. Workers were coming to renovate his condo and he was afraid it might get lost."

The renovation was news to Bubba.

"Workers'll do that—that's for sure," said Boudreau. "Strew everything like a rainstorm scatters pine needles. Anyway, I told him I'd keep it here in my safe until he returned. He thanked me and then jokingly said, 'Give it to Bubba Broussard if something happens to me.' He was always joking." Boudreau glanced out the window at the river, losing his flamboyance. "Not anymore."

No, thought Bubba. No more serious talks. No more jokes. He would miss both.

"It was such a casual remark that if he'd said any name but yours, Bubba, I probably wouldn't even have remembered it." He picked up the shoebox and gave it to him.

Bubba held it with reverence. Elie had touched it, taped it, thought of him. Boudreau eyed the shoebox, curious—"that's for sure." But Bubba wanted to open it in private. He stood and extended his hand across the desk. "Thank you. I hope your meeting with the crawfish farmers goes well."

The lawyer looked surprised, then glanced down at his tie and laughed. "The tie stands out like a sucked thumb on a dirty baby."

The secretary opened the door. "The crawfish farmers are here."

Bubba threw his legs over the door of his silver customized Corvette and looked at the empty passenger seat. "Oh God! I miss the best friend I ever had!" The meeting with Elie's lawyer brought another reminder that death terminated everything but memories. He put the shoebox in the empty seat and headed for the Superdome. It was the place he felt closest to his friend. It was closed when he arrived, but a security guard let him in. He could always get in anywhere in New Orleans. He loved this city. And this place, he thought, walking out on the field, shoebox in hand, memories vivid. He sat down at the fifty-yard line, feeling Elie's presence and seeing again that magic foot kick field goals from this very spot—sometimes even farther from the goal. He pulled the duct tape from around the shoebox and slowly removed the lid, not knowing what to expect. He smiled at what he saw. Sentimental value, indeed—a stack of photos. They'd had many good times together. Victory celebrations. Football signings. Benefits. Parties. He sat there a long time. Looking at each picture. Remembering. Reliving. With gratitude he realized how vividly the mind stores memories—sights, sounds, smells. All there. But no new ones with Elie. Never again. He would give anything for them to have been anywhere but Jackson Square last Wednesday morning.

In a few of the photos they wore their Saints uniforms. In some there were groups of people. He and Elie were in all of them. Except one. He held a picture of an older woman standing beside a wall shelf that held framed pictures too small to make out. He wondered if Elie had included it by mistake. She must be his mother. He turned it over to see.

Instead of a name there was a small white sticky-note in Elie's handwriting: "Clean out that locker, Bubba!" He chuckled, fondly remembering the silly joke between them—our lockers are so messy we'd make our mamas ashamed. A thought about Elie's personality broke the laugh: his tendency to say in a joking way the things he felt most serious about. His words echoed: "No one could find anything in your locker, Bubba! If I had something important, I wouldn't put it in a safe deposit box. I'd just hide it in your locker." He'd said it jokingly a couple of weeks ago. "Give it to Bubba Broussard if something happens to me," he'd told his attorney, also jokingly, the day before he was killed. Bubba shuffled through the stack of photos again. Something in that stack had to be significant enough for Elie to deliver it to his attorney for safekeeping and to concoct a story about condo renovation. All the photos were four-by-six. All in color. All included the two of them. All but one—a three-by-five, black-and-white picture of an elderly woman. It just didn't fit, like finding the Queen Mother added to the face cards in a poker game. And it was the only photo with a note on the back. "Clean out that locker, Bubba!"

He gathered up the photos and headed to his locker.

The agent announced the flight to Skopje, and the boarding line moved slowly forward. He methodically matched Lynn's name on her ticket to her passport and her photo to her face. He glanced down at the roll-aboard, scanned it, froze for a moment, and looked up, glowering. Fear shot through her. But there couldn't be a problem—she didn't have the President's letter anymore.

With a suspicious glint in his eye he scrutinized her passport again. Then he eyed Galen's suitcase and didn't bother with his passport. He muttered words she didn't understand and thrust a whistle between his lips. It reverberated shrilly against the concrete and steel of the airport.

Terror seized Lynn. A security guard advanced on them. "I don't understand," she told him. "
Ich verstehe nicht."
But she did understand, all too well. Somehow they knew she'd given a secret letter to Major Manetti and then stolen it back.

The guard didn't bother to explain. His face and body language declared "no nonsense"! He marched them back to the security checkpoint that Dick had avoided earlier. With great flare that entertained the bored passengers, No-Nonsense deposited them at the end of the line. He pointed to their bags. "No security stickers!" he said in heavily accented English.

"Security stickers?" Relief washed over Lynn. "Security stickers!" she repeated with the titter of a teenager.

Galen was anything but elated. He had spent his life as the quarterback, whatever the playing field. He pointed to an empty security station and rose to his full height. "Take us there," he ordered in his most authoritative manner, "and get someone
immediately
to do the security check!"

No-Nonsense glared at him like he hoped Galen would bolt so he'd have an excuse to shoot.

"We
cannot
miss that plane!" Galen's tone was close to the edge. Lynn knew that partly he was concerned about her itinerary, but mostly he rebelled against being ordered around.

"The U. S. Empire might rule the world. But when I am on duty, it does not rule this airport!"

Lynn decided to try a softer strategic approach. "Please, sir, we don't have security stickers because we were escorted directly through the private entry."

No-Nonsense looked skeptical.

"I'm sure you know that Major Marshall Manetti was . . ." she swallowed, finding it hard to say the word, ". . . killed by a sniper Sunday."

He nodded.

"You probably know that Major Manetti was the chief aide to the NATO general in charge of Balkan strategy."

He looked surprised but nodded again as though he knew everything of significance.

"It is a terrible loss," she said. "More complicated than I can explain." You wouldn't believe!

No-Nonsense scrutinized her eyes and face.

"We flew to Vienna with him Sunday."

He leaned forward slightly, totally attentive.

"You see, my husband has a high position and is known for his international work." With studied innuendo, she added, "If you know what I mean."

He took new measure of Galen's authority. For a moment Lynn thought he was going to salute.

"We exchanged vital information with the major." Poor Galen thinks I'm exaggerating. "And it is essential that we get to Skopje tonight." A blatant non sequitur, but maybe it would work.

"I understand." He drew to attention and hoisted her suitcase, escorting them back to the gate in double time, clearing the crowd like a tank. The boarding door had closed. He zeroed in on the agent who'd called security. Lynn couldn't understand his ensuing diatribe, but it vanquished everyone at the counter, reopened the boarding door, and halted the pilot's preparation for takeoff. Satisfied, No-Nonsense escorted them onto the plane.

"
Vielen Dank,"
Lynn said, meaning her thanks. He nodded, clicked his heels, and marched off the plane. With a relieved sigh she settled into her seat. "For a few minutes, Love, it looked like you and the security guard were about to play
High Noon.
And you didn't have a gun."

"That man doesn't need a gun! His words alone left a bloodbath at the boarding counter." Galen paused, eyeing her. "Speaking of words, I'm going to have to start watching yours more carefully. You told him the truth—mostly—and managed to leave a completely false impression."

Lynn felt no pride in this new skill she'd developed as a courier. Deep inside she wondered if it was leading her down a path toward becoming less than she was.

Bubba Broussard entered the locker room to an eerie silence. The contrast to the normal motion, muscle, and mockery unsettled him. The stillness shouted Elie's absence. His locker stood open and empty. The police—or someone more menacing—had already cleaned it out, seeking clues, he supposed, but it seemed invasive. The dead are helpless, their privacy no longer honored.

Clean out that locker, Bubba! He opened his, beside Elie's, and began taking everything out, examining one item at a time. Clutter encircled his feet by the time he reached the bottom. Bubba grinned. "OK, Elie. You get the last laugh. My locker's clean."

A lone white sock remained, tucked in the back corner. He picked it up to toss in the throwaway pile and felt something in it. Even in the silence he looked over each shoulder to be sure he was alone and kept the sock in the locker protected from view as he stuck his hand inside. His fingers touched a small, hard object. He pulled out a USB flash drive.

Bubba rubbed his thumb across it and carried on a mental monologue aimed at Elie. Why didn't you just tell me about this? Why didn't you just stick it in the shoebox? You had to have some reason. Regardless of the why, the what was clear: Its secrecy was imperative to Elie. I'll honor that secrecy with my life, bro.

Paranoia persuaded him to keep his own computer clean. He'd already had one stealth visitor. He looked at his watch, stunned by how late it was. He didn't have time to take the flash drive to the library computers at Tulane before the Saints' private tribute to Elie. Missing it was unthinkable. Afterward the library would be closed. He'd go to Tulane first thing in the morning before shooting the TV ad for United Way. He started to put the flash drive in his pocket but decided to leave it in the locker where Elie had chosen to hide it. He put it back exactly as he'd found it and piled everything on top. He had no idea how long it had been there, but it had been safe so far.

Safe so far. He hesitated. Surely it would be safe one more night. He slammed his locker door and headed for the team's tribute to Elie.

The flight from Vienna to Skopje, unfortunately, was memorable. The adventure—or misadventure—began soon after No-Nonsense deplaned. The attendant, a large-boned woman with masculine features, charged toward them like El Toro. "Seatbelts!" she ordered. Her gaze darted to Big-Black, obviously measuring its size as Lynn shoved her "small personal item" under the seat. A budding starlet with a captive audience, she dramatically shook her head and gave a disdainful there's-always-one roll of her eyes.

Lynn wondered if her embarrassment and humiliation had something to do with the rules being on El Toro's side. It's self-defeating to alienate a flight attendant, so Lynn smiled at her—a gesture evidently interpreted as the swirl of a matador's cape.

"Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, your extravagant lack of consideration is
not
helpful. First you delayed our departure. Then you had yourselves escorted on board by a security guard who left the wounded in his wake."

She excelled in the capacity to make Lynn feel small. And to do it in fluent English.

Before El Toro could continue the goring, takeoff was announced. Nostrils flaring and head down, cheated of pawing the ground, she wheeled and charged to her seat.

Seatbelt, Lynn was tempted to call. She and Galen looked at each other, astonished. "Well, Love, that was entertaining!"

"I hope you have a couple of parachutes in your 'purse.' She may make us jump."

As the plane rose into the air, the feeling of being watched returned to Lynn. Well, she thought, no wonder. El Toro played to the passengers at our expense. Everyone in the area is looking at us.

The man across the aisle from Galen leaned toward them and initiated conversation. His eyes belied his open pose. Lynn thought of a crouching tiger waiting to pounce. She trusted Galen's sense of judgment. He didn't need help. Her well of emotional reserves was close to the bottom, and she turned toward the window. The tiger will get nothing from me.

Lynn rued the reality that there was not time for deeper reflection on Vienna before preparing for Skopje. And the same would be true when she left Skopje for Sarajevo. There was never time to reflect on the last place and anticipate the next place. They just hustled themselves from one setting to another with research in between. She gazed out the window, watching the sunset colors dance with the distant horizon. Soaring through the darkening sky five miles above the stench of recent realities playing out on the planet, she moved at last into the center of herself. Peaceful. Resting. Feeling her heart beat to the rhythm of the universe. Breathing slowly and deeply. Speeding through space, profoundly still. Refilling the well.

A tap from behind startled her. She peered down at the broad fingers of the large hand on her shoulder and turned around toward its owner, who sat directly behind Galen.

"Excuse me. Little English." The passenger spoke hesitantly in a thick accent that Lynn recognized as Russian. His firm jaw and direct eyes left her with the impression of a straightforward man who got to the bottom of things. "Mrs. Peterson?"

She nodded, unsurprised since El Toro had broadcast their last name.

"Bishop Lynn Peterson?"

Now
that
surprised her! She couldn't recall her first name or title being used on the plane or while waiting at the gate. She nodded but decided to withhold both her warmth and limited words in his language until she had a better feel for the situation.

"Viktor," he said, putting his hand on his chest. "I see your . . ." He framed a picture with his thumbs and forefingers and said slowly, laboriously, "You write . . . little Russian book."

Ah! Lynn fell in love with anyone who recognized her face from a book cover instead of a passport photo. The "little book" was about her denomination's work in Russia. "Yes, sir," she acknowledged with a smile. "
Da, gospodin."

It was his turn to be surprised. "You speak Russian?"

She shook her head. "
Nyet."

"Your book . . . good book."

She refrained from leaping over the seat and kissing him on each cheek, Russian style. "Thank you, Viktor.
Spasebo."

Struggling for the words, he said, "It . . . catch Russian . . .spirit."

She basked in his compliment.

Cool the vanity, Lynn.

Then a maelstrom of questions swirled through her mind. How did he know my full name? Did he really recognize me from my picture in the little Russian book? How did he learn about it?

It wasn't exactly an international best seller, Lynn.

He didn't Google me. This plane doesn't have wireless. And he couldn't have known I'd be on the plane. She smiled to herself, realizing that what she wanted to believe actually made the most sense: Viktor was a nice man who had discovered her book, read it, and liked it, just as he had said.

Suddenly the plane banked to the left and interrupted Galen's conversation with the man across the aisle. He turned to Lynn. "Do you suppose we're returning to Vienna?"

Hijacked, she thought, then joked because she was scared. "Just avoiding a black hole, Love."

"The lady likes hyperbole." His grin looked less spontaneous than contrived to console. The plane lurched. Dipped. Seemed to go into freefall. The wings caught the air again. The engines roared with a mighty thrust of power. The plane rose in a sharp climb, then leveled and flew steadily through the night sky.

"Well, Love, that was entertaining!" She realized they were clinging to each other.

A voice from the cockpit filled the plane, first in German-accented English. "This is the captain speaking. Vienna Air Traffic Control failed to provide a flight plan that took into account heavy military action in the Balkans. As a precaution to ensure your safety, we have been diverted and issued a new flight plan. Our arrival time in Skopje will be later than scheduled. The crew apologizes for the Vienna ATC. Thank you for your understanding." With an edge of levity, he added, "My friends, we would volunteer to participate in this noble NATO cause, but all we could drop is luggage."

Lynn glanced out the dark window, grateful she couldn't see fireworks.