The Gates of Evangeline (5 page)

A
s I enter Isaac Cohen's office on Wednesday morning, I determine that he has changed very little in the twelve years since I left
Cold Crimes
. His beard could use a trimming, and his olive suit doesn't quite fit his long frame. Although he's gained some weight and lost some hair, he's the same eccentric man I remember.

“Charlotte!” Isaac flaps an arm at the chair beside him. “Come in, come in!”

The small office is made even smaller by all the clutter. I worm my way around teetering piles of manuscripts, boxes of newly printed books, and a scraggly potted plant. As I sit down, a framed black-and-white photograph on his desk gives me pause. I stare at the empty-eyed man from another era, not sure why I find him so disconcerting.

“A Victorian death portrait,” Isaac says with relish. “Welcome to my lair.”

He's joking, of course, but “lair” is in fact an apt word for his office. Isaac has plastered the walls with book jackets much in the way a serial killer might cover his walls with souvenirs of his victims. On the right side, I see titles like
Heist!
and
Encyclopedia of Gangsters
. The opposite wall is more grim:
Green River Grave
and
Dinner with Dahmer
.

“Serial killers are in this season,” I observe.

Isaac chuckles. “They never go out of style, believe me.”

I'm already wondering if this is a mistake. Somehow in my rush to escape
Sophisticate
, I've overlooked the subject matter of my work at
Cold Crimes
. Murder. Sick and twisted people doing sick and twisted things. It didn't bother me in my twenties, but that was before I became a mother, back when the only life I thought of was my own.

“So.” Isaac sucks on his teeth. “Always nice to see a face from the past.”

“I'm flattered you thought of me. It's been a while.”

“Well, this project came up. I think it would be a good fit for you.”

My eyes narrow at the word “project.” That doesn't sound like a job—it sounds like freelance.

Isaac grabs a tissue and blows his nose. “The Meyers Rowe crime division is working on a series of books right now called
Greatest Mysteries of the Twentieth Century
.” He blows again and dabs delicately at the resulting strand of snot. “Each book features a high-profile unsolved crime. We're doing one book per decade. The Black Dahlia for the forties, Dan Cooper in the seventies, JonBenét Ramsey for the nineties. You get the picture.”

“Who's Dan Cooper?”

“D. B. Cooper.” He waits for the name to register with me, but it doesn't. “Hijacked a plane, got two hundred thousand dollars, parachuted out. Never seen again.”

“Cooper didn't kill anyone?”

“No, no. Not all the books are about murder.” He gives his nose a final scouring and discards the tissue. “What I have in mind for you is our crime of the eighties. You're familiar with the Deveau family?”

Of course I know the name. They're like the Hilton family, only the granddaughter is better behaved, and their upscale hotel chain was founded with Old South plantation money. Rae, who often travels to the Gulf Coast for business, has always boycotted them. Apart from a history of slave owning, the Deveau family has been mixed up with only one major crime.

“The Deveau kidnapping?” Now that I understand where Isaac is going with this, I'm disgusted. “That's hardly one of the greatest mysteries of the century. Or even that decade.”

“Do you know the case?”

“Not well,” I concede. “I was only nine when the kid went missing.”

“Then you'll need this.” He thrusts a folder into my hands. “Gabriel Deveau. Two years old. That's an overview to get you started.”

I glance inside the folder and see a couple of photocopied articles that I don't intend to read. “I know the basics. They never found him. One ransom note, no body, no criminal. Not much of a story, Isaac.” Privately, I wonder how the hell another missing child has stumbled into my lap.

“Next August will be the thirty-year anniversary, and local law enforcement recently reopened the case. There could be a major break.” He drums his fingers on the desk. “I reread that piece you did for
Cold Crimes
on the Lindbergh kidnapping. Brilliant.”

“The Lindbergh baby turned up dead,” I point out. “Hauptmann was convicted and executed for the crime. That's a pretty crucial difference.” I rub my temples, trying to swallow my disappointment. “So this is the job? A book deal?”

“Beats unemployment,” he says. “Maybe you'd like a change of pace.”

I'd been so hopeful, so ready to start something new. But this? “I appreciate you contacting me,” I tell him, “but I don't think it's the opportunity I'm looking for.”

“I haven't told you the best part.”

I stand up, eager to get out of Isaac's ghastly office.

“The Deveau family approached
us
. They
want
to do this book.” A slow grin spreads across his face. He has beautiful white teeth, which I find alarming. “You'll receive unprecedented access to their documents and exclusive interviews. Plus, they're offering three months' room and board at Evangeline, their Louisiana estate. You'd literally be working at the scene of the crime.”

That stops me in my tracks. “It's an authorized family biography?”

Isaac sees that he's got me curious and his grin broadens. “Neville Deveau has always been tight-lipped with the press, but he died last winter, and his wife has cancer. It's the twin daughters, Sydney and Brigitte, who came to us. They want someone to write a history of their family.”

“A book about the kidnapping isn't exactly—”

“I've assured them their family history is necessary to provide context for the kidnapping. We can meet both goals here. They're excited to proceed.”

“Brigitte married into the Caldwell family, right?” I rack my brain for tabloid headlines I've seen about them, but it's been a while. They're old news. “And there's a brother, too. Andre Deveau.”

“Yeah, he's the CEO of Deveau Hotels.”

“I interviewed him once for an article.” It was years ago, I remember, an article on luxury hotels. His assistant allotted me five minutes to get a couple sound bites for the magazine; Andre gave me half an hour and bought me a twenty-two-dollar mojito. One of the few times in my life that I, the child of an alcoholic, have actually permitted myself to drink. Andre Deveau was a pleasant, surprisingly low-key man. We had a nice conversation, first about his hotel chain and then about travel more generally. I recognized a quality in him that I possessed too at the time: the loneliness of the chronically overworked.

“So you've already got a connection here!” Isaac jumps on the slightest sign of my interest, the semi-maniacal smile never leaving his face. “How serendipitous!”

I have no desire to immerse myself in another family's tragedy when I'm already struggling with my own. “Thank you,” I tell Isaac, moving toward the door again, “but I can't leave my day job for a short-term project. Have you tried Derek Santana? He's good at these—”

“Yeah, I tried him.” He rakes a hand through his beard. “I won't lie to you. I've approached several people. Brigitte Caldwell has been a nightmare to deal with. She refused to work with the last writer we sent her.”

I shake my head. “Why bother? You're a great editor, Isaac. You've got to know this project is crap.”

He sighs. “Sydney and Brigitte have promised to throw their weight behind this. They have connections. Think book signings, radio interviews, TV. You can't buy publicity like that.”

“Profiting off their missing brother seems a little desperate. They can't be hurting for cash.”

Isaac shrugs. “Who knows? Hotels and properties along the Gulf Coast have lost business, what with Katrina and the oil spill. And I get the sense the sisters like attention. They have a lot of . . . family pride.” He makes his final pitch. “I need a writer who can speak their language, and the twins are big fans of
Sophisticate
—”

I'm too tired to hold this remark against him. “Good luck, okay?”

Before I can make a full escape, Isaac leaps after me with the folder of articles. “Don't forget your info packet.”

I grab the folder and hurry out into the maze of Meyers Rowe cubicles. One more metaphorical door closing. Give me a window and I might jump out.

•   •   •

W
HEN
I
GET HOME
that afternoon, my yard is curiously devoid of leaves. Someone has raked. Mason, possibly, or else my retired neighbor across the street. There's also a pumpkin on my front steps, and I remember that Halloween is approaching. I sit out on the stoop for a while, holding the pumpkin in my lap like a cat. They want me to keep fighting, all these people in my life. To carry on, day after day after day. But for what? A job I've grown weary of and may very well lose? A house so quiet and full of objects from another time that it feels like a museum? Sometimes these things aren't enough to fight for.

When the sun goes down, I head inside. Go through the motions of living. Shoes on the mat, coat in the closet. Heat up a pizza and force myself to eat. Slip into my pajamas, brush my teeth. And then I enter Keegan's room.

It's abnormally clean, but the smell is almost right, the light from his airplane lamp warm and sleepy and inviting. He doesn't seem so far away tonight.

Maybe I can bring him closer.

From the toy box, I select his three favorite stuffed animals—Dinosaur, Fat Teddy, and Ringo the Rhino—and arrange them around his pillow. I peel back the blankets and untuck them at the corners, forming a little cocoon in the middle just big enough for a four-year-old to snuggle inside. I flip off the lights. Sit down on the edge of his bed. Watch swirls of glow-in-the-dark adhesive stars appear on the walls around me.

“Shall we sing a bedtime song?
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
” My voice is low, half song, half whisper.
“You make me happy when skies are gray. You'll never know, dear, how much I love you . . .”
I don't sing the final line. “Mommy used to sing that to you when you were a baby.”

The stuffed animals stare at me, stiff and unblinking.

I sing another song, one of Keegan's favorites from school that I mangle the words to. He would've hated that. My inability to remember lyrics correctly always drove him nuts.

But I won't let myself think in the past tense right now.

“Time for bed, buddy,” I say, patting the covers. “Should we do a monster check?” I get down on my hands and knees and look under the bed. “Nope, nothing there. Looks good. Now we'll check the closet.” I slide open the closet door. “Hmm, any monsters in here?” I peer into the dark space, push aside a few hangers. “Just clothes, I think we're—” Behind me, a sound.

I stop, my head still in the closet, and listen.

A stirring of sheets from the bed. A child sighing, as if in sleep.

He's there,
I think, not daring to breathe.
This is real.

I turn around very, very slowly and face his bed.

It's empty.

“Keegan?”

I wait, but there's no answer. No movement, no sound, just the three stuffed animals huddled around the pillow in the exact same positions where I left them. Is my mind playing tricks on me? But I have to trust myself, have to believe in my own senses. I felt something. Still feel it. An electricity in my body. Hope crackling through my veins.

“I'm right here, baby. Mama's right here.”

Still nothing. The quiet is crazy-making. I heard him, didn't I? Heard
something.

I plant myself next to his bed, eyes sweeping around the room for anything out of place, any sign that I'm not alone in here. Because I don't want to be alone in here.

“Okay, Kee,” I murmur. “I'll just wait. I'm not going anywhere, I promise.”

I sit. I listen. I keep waiting.

•   •   •

M
Y EYES FLICK
ER OPEN
. I'
M
curled up on the floor of my son's bedroom, cheek pressed to the carpet. Outside, the sky is just starting to lighten with the purple-gray beginnings of morning. I realize that I was dreaming. Or whatever it's called.

A swamp. Swishing water.

I roll on my side, get my bearings. There was a boy in my dream, although not my son. A boy in a boat.

Somewhere outside a mourning dove coos, soft and plaintive. I pick myself up, roll my neck a few times to ease out a crick. I'm not scared this time, the way I was with Hannah, just focused. He was speaking to me, this boy. He told me things. I shouldn't forget them.

Downstairs, I find a notebook and pen on the kitchen counter. I jot down a few notes, barely able to make out my own handwriting in the dark.

Place: Boat in swamp. Trees, brush, alligator.

Boy: 3ish. “Jo-Jo.” Dark eyes, longish hair, chipped tooth. Dead?

Told me: Lived in big white house. Had doggie. Hurt (killed?) by male. Afraid to tell mother.

Guesses: Abuse. Physical? Sexual? Possible family
member?

I'm about to close the notebook when I think of one more thing.
Asked me to help
, I scribble, and the words send little chills down my spine. What happened to this child? What could I possibly do for him?

I settle in for a breakfast of lumpy instant oatmeal and work through the picture. Was he a local kid, like Hannah? I try to recall any nearby swampland but draw a blank. And alligators don't inhabit the Northeast. I do a quick search on my phone for “alligator habitat.” The closest alligators, it would appear, are in North Carolina, but most alligators within the United States live in Florida and Louisiana.