The Gates of Evangeline (15 page)

And then he's gone, leaving me with growing misgivings.

•   •   •

I
CAN
'
T FOCUS
. My mind spins in anxious circles.
Who is this woman coming? Why is Noah acting so sketchy? What's he hiding?
I drive into town, hoping a change of scene will help. The temperature is in the high forties, unusually chilly, I'm told, and not the best weather for a jaunt, but I walk up and down the historic district of Main Street, hands in my pockets.

I should've just asked Noah straight up what was going on. Now it's too late.

I stop and read a couple plaques about historic homes, admire the wraparound porches. The houses on this side of the street open up to the bayou in the back. I see a few boats in driveways and imagine the days when people hopped into their vessels and sailed all the way to the Mississippi.

On the opposite side of the road, nicely dressed families start to trickle out of a local church. I continue walking, still ruminating about Noah's weird behavior, and then pause. Did someone just say my name?

“Charlotte!”

Detective Minot is waving at me from across the street. I raise a hand to greet him just as his wife, Dr. Pinaro, reaches me. I recognize her from all my Internet stalking. She's a short but sturdy woman who could probably rock a pantsuit, though at present her cheeks are flushed with cold and her short auburn hair windswept.

“Sorry to chase you down like this,” she pants. “I'm Justine Pinaro. I just really wanted to meet you.” Despite all her degrees, she has a sweet, down-home voice that has probably served her well career-wise. I try to shake her hand, but she engulfs me in a quick, clumsy hug. “No, no. You aren't a stranger to us. Not after everything.”

“I'm so sorry about Didi,” I tell her, and she shakes her head.

“She's in God's hands now. And I had my good-bye with her. I couldn't have asked for more.” She manages a weak smile. “To be honest, it's still hard to believe it's over.” She motions for her husband to join us. “I don't know if Remy told you, but the funeral was yesterday.”

“No, he didn't. I wish I'd known, I would've—”

“It's fine. There were too many people anyway.”

Detective Minot joins us on our patch of sidewalk. Unlike the first time I saw him, he's dressed up, slacks and a tie, a classy-looking trench coat. But still haggard. He lays a hand on his wife's shoulder. “You all right?”

She nods. “I just wanted to thank Charlotte here. And I was going to—” A plump woman walking by us pauses to offer her condolences. Dr. Pinaro's face immediately slips into public-figure mode, sad but gracious. “We appreciate your prayers, Maggie, we really do. And the lasagna you left the other night was wonderful. Thank you.”

Detective Minot shifts his weight from one side to the other. He doesn't like people talking about his personal business in the middle of a busy sidewalk; go figure.

“Listen,” Dr. Pinaro says as soon as her well-wisher has gone, “I don't want to waste your time, Charlotte—may I call you Charlotte? I bet you have things to do. I just wanted to tell you, I think you have a very special gift. And I feel fortunate you and God brought that gift to my family.”

I glance at her husband to see how he's taking the God talk, but he's staring at the pavement. “I'm . . . just glad if I helped.”

“Remy said you might be able to help him with a case. I hope you will.”

“I'll try.”

She moves closer to me. Her mouth, coated in a plum shade of lipstick, is just inches from my ear. “Before today, my husband hadn't been to Sunday service in ten years. There are no accidents, I know this.” Her voice is low and assured. “You,” she whispers, squeezing my hand, “are an instrument of God.”

It's not the unblinking intensity of her eyes that terrifies me, or even the gross violation of my personal space. It's the fact that, with all my years of spiritual ambivalence, I can't be sure she's wrong.

Detective Minot swoops in and expertly steers his wife away from me. “You better get going, Justine. The Pellerins invited us for lunch today, remember?” He looks back at me. “You got some time now, we could talk. I'm not a big fan of the Pellerins.”

I check to make sure Dr. Pinaro won't be upset, but she's nodding enthusiastically like,
Oh yes, God would approve of his ditching this lunch date.

“All right,” I say slowly, because an idea is just occurring to me. “Why don't you come with me? I'll take you to Evangeline.”

O
n the drive back, I tell Detective Minot about my Gabriel dream. Having told only my grandmother up to this point, I'm hesitant, but Detective Minot makes it easy. He doesn't seem surprised or incredulous, just repeats back the salient details like he's planning on filing a report.

“Okay, so chipped tooth. He lived at the big white house and had a dog. And he said that a man had been hurting him.”

“Right,” I confirm. “He said the man threatened to kill him and his mom if he told her. I'm thinking sexual abuse.” We come to a yellow traffic light. With a cop in the car, I actually stop instead of breezing through.

“Threats to Mom does sound like sexual abuse,” Detective Minot agrees. “Anything else?”

I rack my brain for details. “Gabriel had a white shirt on. Dark eyes, dark hair. Oh, and we were in a swamp. A rowboat in the swamp.”

“You think that's where he ended up? The swamp?”

“Yeah. But I don't know how you'd ever prove it.” We're not far from the fork in the road where I took a wrong turn my first day in Chicory. On impulse, I make a decision. “There's a place I need to show you,” I tell him. “Before we go to the house.” Maybe he knows something about that boat launch.

With the recent rainfall, the gravel path is partially flooded. My Prius creeps through puddle after cloudy brown puddle, and I can hear the tires spin out a few times, floundering for solid ground. Ignoring Detective Minot's dubious looks, I successfully coax my little car down to the circular parking lot. The minute we step outside, I regret coming. The feeling is so strong it's almost physical, like hands pulling me somewhere I don't want to go. Sweaty, dirty hands.

Detective Minot heads over to the wooden dock, squinting, trying to determine exactly where we are. “Is this part of the Deveau property?”

“I don't know.” I trail behind him, the sensation of grimy fingers becoming unbearable. I push up my sleeve, half convinced I'll find something unpleasant coating my skin. Nothing. Just the hairs of my arm standing on end.

“Is this the place you dreamed about?”

“Not exactly. But Gabriel's been here.”

Detective Minot studies me with cool blue eyes. “How do you know?”

“I just . . . feel it . . .” I want to leave. Right now. I want this disgusting place to stop touching me. “Actually, this was a mistake. Can we go?”

As I turn back toward the car, I swear I feel someone grab at my hip.

Detective Minot watches me from the dock, much too far to have touched me. “You okay?”

The short answer is no. “Something bad happened here.” My voice is shaky.

Detective Minot glances at the boat launch and then out at the murky water. I don't wait around for him. I hurry back to the car and shut myself inside. Wrap my arms around my chest. Fight back a wave of nausea.

He gives me a couple minutes to compose myself, getting the lay of the land before he joins me. “Want me to drive?”

I shake my head. “I'm all right.” But I don't start the car. I want to make sure all the Gabriel feelings are gone, that it's just me now.

“Did you . . . see something?”

If only it were that simple, Gabriel speaking to me in pictures. But it's not. “He's making me feel it like he did.” I'm almost whispering. “It happened the last time I came to this place, too.” I close my eyes, remembering the headache I got, that seasick feeling, my inability to breathe. “I think the guy brought him here. He hit Gabriel on the head, then took him out on a boat. The guy threw him in the water, but Gabriel wasn't dead, not then. I think he drowned.”

Detective Minot's eyes widen. “Jesus.” It's more of a prayer than a curse. He holds his head and massages his temples. “Okay. And you're sure they left from this boat launch?”

“Yeah. They left from here. And one other thing.” There's only one explanation for the way I felt here, the sense of violation, the unseen hands. “We're definitely dealing with sexual abuse. This guy was a frigging pervert.” I brush away a few tears, hoping Detective Minot doesn't notice.

A blood vessel bursting in the brain of a four-year-old should be the worst thing that could happen, the absolute worst. But it's not.

•   •   •

A
FTER THE EXPERIENCE
at the boat launch, I'm no longer eager to explore the upstairs of Evangeline. Who knows what I'll feel when I step inside that child's bedroom? Detective Minot sees the shift in my mood and gives me a chance to bow out, but I refuse. Gabriel has waited long enough.

The time is right. I wouldn't go roaming through the house on my own, but with a cop at my side, I feel bold. And Detective Minot would never barge into the Deveau home without an invite, but I've provided him with one, sort of. It's Sunday. No pesky twins, Jules is gone, and Hettie hasn't exactly been up and at 'em lately. There's no one to get in our way.

“So . . . have you seen his room before?” I ask as we catch our first glimpse of Evangeline through the trees. “I haven't been in yet.”

“Me neither,” he replies, “just seen photographs and diagrams in the case files. Hettie wasn't exactly cooperative when I approached her.”

I stop at the gate to let the guard get a look at Detective Minot. “This is Remy Minot,” I say. “He's visiting me today.”

It's one of the young guards. “I'll have to log it. You got ID?”

I feel kind of cool when the gate opens, like a girl who just got her big brother into an exclusive club. Then, in the staff parking area, I spot an unfamiliar red SUV with Texas plates that read
HUNNY B.
Really, Noah? She has cutesy misspelled vanity plates?
Noah and his designer are nowhere in sight, so I do my best to focus on the task at hand.

“Let's start with the exterior,” Detective Minot suggests, bringing me back. I didn't realize before how badly he wanted to get onto the property, how frustrated he was by Hettie's stonewalling. Now that he's here, he doesn't waste a minute. “The original investigators believed that the kidnapper walked right into the home,” he tells me, heading toward the rear of the house, “but I'd still like to see the windows.”

I scramble to keep up with him. “I thought the windows were locked. You don't really think the guy climbed in a second-story window and then hauled Gabriel out with him, do you?”

“No,” he concedes, “but if a window was the point of entry and exit, it would explain how Gabriel's door was still locked the next morning, and how the adjoining door to his parents' room was still latched from both sides. The only other explanation is someone with a key to Gabriel's bedroom.”

We're standing by the fountain at the back end of Evangeline. Ordinarily the stone cherub centerpiece would joyfully spew water from his lips, but the fountain has been turned off for winter. Now the cherub stands on one foot, face tilted upward and mouth agape as if in shock.

“Is that the ballroom?” Detective Minot points to the two sets of French doors.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “They don't use it much anymore.”

He studies the second floor and its balcony. “So that's the master bedroom where Neville and Hettie slept.” He draws a line with his finger. “And Gabriel's room adjoined theirs off to the left.”

We turn the corner of the house and inspect the upper level. “Right there.” He points. “Those windows would've been Gabriel's.”

Assuming there haven't been major changes to the house in the last thirty years, I have to agree with the original investigators. There's no obvious access through the windows. The balcony doesn't extend nearly far enough to reach them, and there aren't any trees or overhangs to help someone get inside.

“
Maybe
you could make it with a ladder,” I say, “but the windows would have to be open, and it would be hard to go down with a toddler.” That was what Bruno Hauptmann attempted when he kidnapped the Lindbergh baby—and his ladder broke.

“There was never any sign of a ladder,” Detective Minot muses. “And the windows were locked, at least by the time police showed up.”

“And then there's the dog,” I remind him.

“Yeah. Someone from the inside
had
to be involved, at least as an accomplice.” He sighs. “I sure wish we coulda talked to that nanny. See if her story stayed consistent.”

I feel an irrational surge of anger at the whole Lauchlin family. Maddie and Jack for dying. Sean for disappearing. And Noah for being too young to be useful. Thinking of the Lauchlins does prompt a question, though. “Did anyone ever look at Maddie's son as a suspect? Sean Lauchlin?”

We're making our way to the front of the house, but the mention of Sean's name stops Detective Minot in his tracks. “How'd
he
turn up on your radar?”

“Brigitte mentioned him last week.” I find his reaction more interesting than my question. “I take it investigators had an eye on him?”

Detective Minot glances around, despite the fact that there is absolutely no one here. “This isn't the place to discuss it,” he says. “Let's check out the room first and get outta here.”

I resolve to grill him later. We enter the house and hurry up the staircase, its thick carpeting absorbing the sounds of our footsteps. Strands of daylight make the second-floor hallway much less sinister today, but my heart is banging at my rib cage anyway.
Will I have to feel every horrible thing that happened to that poor child?
Detective Minot stops at a door on the right and gestures for me to enter first.

I put a hand on the knob and recoil sharply when a door opens behind us. I whirl around and see a hefty black woman helping Hettie with a walker.

“Hey there,” the nurse greets us cheerily. “I was just gonna take Miss Hettie out to the garden for a bit a fresh air. Y'all comin' by for a visit?”

I bank on the old woman's dementia and run with it. “We were, but we can wait,” I say. “You two take advantage of the day while it's not raining.”

Hettie examines us both with intelligent eyes. She looks better than she did the last time I saw her. Still thin, but more alert. Not exactly a good thing at this particular moment. Beside me, Detective Minot rubs his palms together and stares at the floor. If she recognizes him, we could be in trouble.

“Come with us to the garden,” the nurse suggests.

I rack my brain for plausible excuses. “No, I have allergies. We'll come back.”

The nurse is too polite to point out that it's January, hardly allergy season. She shrugs. “That suit ya, Miss Hettie?”

Hettie moves slowly, peering at me like a turtle. “It's kind of you to drop by again,” she says. “I trust your book is going well.”

I freeze.
She knows. She knows everything.

But her face still says benevolent hostess, and there's no sign she remembers Detective Minot whatsoever. “Has Jules been telling you all about the history of the house?” she asks, and I realize that she remembers me as the plantation-home writer. I can make this work.

“He's told me some,” I say, “but I was hoping to chat with
you
, too. And do you mind if I explore the house? I'd love to see the design choices you've made, but I don't want to intrude.”

“We wouldn't have invited you if it were any intrusion. You treat Evangeline as your home.” She grips the handles of her walker, struggling to hold herself up. “I told Jules he ought to put you and Gabriel in the house, but he thought you two'd prefer a little privacy, even if those cottages are small.”

Oh. My. Hettie's brain is completely scrambled.

The nurse eventually convinces her they'd better continue on to the garden, and Detective Minot helps her safely down the stairs.

He returns shaking his head in amazement. “I don't get it. She didn't even ask who I was. And what was that about Gabriel?”

The last thing I'm going to do is tell him about Noah. If he finds out I've been sleeping with the son of Sean Lauchlin, I'll never get the info I want. “Hettie's been a little confused lately,” I say. “But you heard her. She gave us the run of the house.” So what if that permission was predicated on her belief that I'm a potential daughter-in-law? Before I can reconsider, I open the door to Gabriel's room and step inside.

•   •   •

I
DIDN
'
T REALIZE IT BEFORE
, but all this time I've been picturing his room a certain way. Blue walls, green trim. A
Sesame Street
bedspread. A big comfy armchair in the corner where he could sit in his mother's lap and read bedtime stories. Somehow, in my mind, Gabriel's room was Keegan's.

It's a little unsettling to walk into a space so different from what I imagined. Gabriel's room looks nothing like my son's, or any other child's. Above the white chair-rail molding, the walls are sage green and decorated with antique prints of rosemary, wild chives, and chicory. The Deveau family has transformed the space into a guest room.

What did you want them to do? Leave it forever, like some creepy mausoleum? They had to let go, Charlie. And sooner or later, so will you.

I walk around the room opening drawers, touching blankets and furniture, picking up objects: a small clock, a lace cloth, a glass of potpourri. I search for some lingering hint of Gabriel, but there's nothing. I approach the windows at the far side of the room, stand in the waning light, and wait. Part of me has already given up. I didn't have to
try
to feel something at the boat launch. It just happened. Maybe Gabriel has communicated with me enough for one day.

My last hope is the door that adjoins the master bedroom. Thirty years ago, investigators found it still latched from the inside; today, the small metal latch has been replaced by a sizable dead bolt. I twist back the dead bolt and turn the doorknob, expecting to see the room that Neville and Hettie once shared on the other side. Instead, I find a huge, sparkling bathroom.