The Heavens Rise (18 page)

“For who?”

“For both of you.”

Anthem studied him for a while, decided that he was telling the truth and drained his entire Diet Coke in three uninterrupted swallows. Then he slammed the glass back down to the bar as if it were a shot of tequila. “Good!” he declared. “Then help me write the thing.”

“I can’t. Not today.”

“Benny,
come on.
I don’t have the time. I—”

“You’ve got nothing but time this weekend. You’re on call, which means you’re going to be staying home, gardening, downloading porn, and trying not to drink, until you have to go out on a ship.”

“You really think I can do this?” Anthem asked him.

Ben was disarmed by the hope in Anthem Landry’s reluctant smile, by the brightness in his eyes and the blend of childlike nervousness and exuberance Marissa’s offer had stirred in him so suddenly. For years now, sarcasm had been his most effective shield against Anthem’s physical beauty and frequent moments of raw, boyish charm. But this wasn’t the time. And so what if one unguarded smile from a handsome friend had him relieving himself later that night to a preposterous and vaguely incestuous fantasy? He was allowed one or two every now and then, as long as he kept it a fantasy. As long as it was only every now and then.

“I think you’re going to knock it out of the park, A-Team.”

Anthem picked up his empty glass, clinked it against the neck of Ben’s beer bottle, and tousled Ben’s hair with one massive hand so forcefully Ben was forced to bend over and shield himself. Then he barreled out of the bar and into the blinding sunlight outside, proving with each step that it was possible for a giant to move with a spring in his step.

F
rom where he stood, just outside the window above her kitchen sink, Marshall Ferriot watched the woman inside drag a meat cleaver across her left wrist, and then her right, and wondered, just as he had with her boss, Danny Stevens, earlier that morning, if it would have consoled her to know how beautiful she looked in the final moments of her life.

As she cut herself, Janice Walker appeared in Marshall’s gaze as a shimmering, colorless apparition, trailing little starbursts of quantum material that shifted through the air around her like ghostly impressions of herself, impressions that effervesced so brightly in Marshall’s vision, they distracted him from the resulting arterial spray when Janice effortlessly dragged the knife’s blade across her throat. It was the same experience he had every time he willed himself to open to his subjects and felt the velvety rush of their souls moving into his.

As with all of them, he’d experienced a brief flash of her soul when
he’d first hooked her. He’d seen a woman he knew to be her mother walking a young Janice by the hand through the Audubon Zoo, and the monkeys in their cages turned to stare at them with humanlike approval and warmth, the product of young Janice’s fanciful imagination. And then the vision passed, and it felt as if he were drinking her in as he forced her to shuffle toward the cutlery block so he could get to work.

It hadn’t been Marshall’s intention to re-create that long-ago fantasy of what he wanted to do to Nikki Delongpre after she’d betrayed him. But that’s exactly what he’d done, in all its bloody splendor, albeit from a slight distance and with a much older and less attractive subject. The little tableau was so appropriate to the day’s agenda, Marshall laughed gently as the woman slid down the blood-splattered wall with lifeless, unblinking eyes.

Effortless, easy. No need for chitchat, no need to go inside and risk contaminating the scene as he’d done with Danny Stevens. And it was a painless death he’d granted her, despite all the blood. As far as Janice’s consciousness was concerned, she’d been rinsing dishes one second, headed off to the afterlife the next. No need to inform her that her ticket had been punched because her boss of seven years suspected she might have had some suspicions about how much he’d stolen from the Ferriot trust.

Now she was crumpled against the blood-splattered wall just inside the back door, her Pepto-pink bathrobe spilling open over her bloodstained pajamas, her eyes glazed and lifeless, but her slack jaw still drawing slight breaths. With impossible, steady determination, she rolled over onto all fours, lifted a hand to her gushing throat and began painting letters across the nearest wall with a splattered finger: S O R R Y M A R S H A

Marshall felt the sharp tug deep in his chest that told him the woman’s death had arrived. He released her, and he was relieved when she didn’t spasm with sudden agony or grasp desperately for her gushing throat.

He didn’t want her to suffer. After all, what was she guilty of besides answering phones for a crook for several years? He’d had no choice but to position her alongside all the other pieces he’d left behind in a precise trail of blood and lies, pieces that included her missing boss and the evidence Marshall had left on his computer suggesting his wife had discovered evidence of his crime and that this discovery had resulted in her violent murder; pieces that included Allen Shire, dead by self-inflicted gunshot wound in the house on Chamberland Island, along with a suicide note nearby explaining how he’d conspired with Elizabeth and Danny Stevens to kill Marshall and milk the trust, and that when he and Elizabeth had quarreled over his share, he’d killed her in a fit of rage, only to be consumed by guilt.

Which body would be discovered first?

The curiosity made Marshall almost giddy. He’d done such a good job. The discovery of one body would immediately lead to the others, and then the world would be made aware of a murder plot that hadn’t actually been executed, by three individuals who had barely known one another. Yet the evidence would be undeniable, indisputable.

But there was one person out there who wouldn’t be convinced, of this Marshall was sure.

How long before she’d hear the story? Did she have some kind of news alert set for his name or the names of his family members? (He’d set up one for the names of everyone he’d killed over the past few weeks.) There was no telling. But Marshall was confident that by the end of the day at the latest, as the news media and cops shook their heads in bafflement over the extraordinary, impossible details of the diabolical plot that had cost Marshall his life, one woman would hear the story and be gripped by fear and certainty. She would know that yes, the story of Marshall Ferriot’s murder was too impossible to be true, and that the real explanation was far from ordinary, and in that moment it would be as if Marshall’s ghost had floated up out of his comatose body and whispered in Nikki’s delicate little ear:
I’m coming for
you, bitch. I know what you did to me and I’m coming for you. But first, I’m going to destroy everything you ever loved.

He was walking briskly down the alleyway toward the street, reaching for the notecard in his front pocket on which he’d written Anthem Landry’s address, when he noticed his ring was gone. Marshall retraced his steps, but the brush alongside the house was cut back, the dirt exposed and visible, and there was no tiny glint of gold anywhere he looked. The ring he’d lost wasn’t some nondescript piece of generic jewelry either.

He’d purchased the little beauty on Chamberland Island, the same day he’d left Allen Shire’s body to rot. He’d walked the length of the island before he’d reached the bed-and-breakfast at the other end. There, shadowed by oaks and just a stone’s throw from the plantation house that played host to honeymooning couples, Marshall had come across a tiny shack that turned out to be a gift shop. It was owned by the daughter of the woman who ran the bed-and-breakfast, and the dusty glass cases were full of custom-made jewelry fashioned from found objects native to the island. And those objects had included the carcasses of water moccasins. The ring he’d purchased and worn faithfully ever since had been a gold-dipped rib from a cottonmouth. And now it was gone. In fact, he had no recollection of seeing it on his hand after leaving Beau Chêne that morning.

And that was bad. That was very, very bad. Because it wasn’t just any ring. It was literally one of a kind. And if he’d left it behind at Beau Chêne . . . well, then, the invisible hand that assembled his perfect little imaginary murder plot wouldn’t be so invisible after all.

Hovering just inside the alleyway, Marshall rested his hand against his pants pocket and the address inside. He stilled his panic by reminding himself of his power and of its great depth. As he decided what to do next, he assured himself that he was entitled to act with as much patience and wisdom as the God that had given him his incredible gift.

B
en Broyard?”

He’d only been home a few minutes when his phone rang. He’d expected Anthem, with some desperate question about the basics of English-language composition. But the woman who’d just said his name didn’t sound familiar, and her phone number hadn’t looked familiar either when it flashed on his iPhone’s screen. Except for the area code, 228, Bay St. Louis, a quaint coastal Mississippi town about an hour’s drive from New Orleans, close to where Katrina’s eye had made devastating landfall.

“Speaking.”

“My name’s Alison Cross. I . . . forgive me for calling on a Saturday.”

“It’s no problem at all, Ms. Cross. How can I help you today?”

What he heard was the nervousness of a woman with a good story to tell, a story that was tearing her apart, so he padded to his desk, grabbed a pen and put his earpiece in, all without missing more than a few syllables of the woman’s stammers.

“It’s my husband, you see— Oh, Christ. I sound like a woman in some movie. I just can’t believe I— He’s
missing.
He’s been missing for almost a month now, and I just— Okay. Maybe I should start over.”

“No. Please. Keep going.”

“I still get the paper, you see. Your paper, I mean. Jeffrey and I—”
Jeffrey Cross
, Ben scratched onto his pad. Vaguely familiar, but only vaguely. “—we lived in New Orleans up till just a few years ago and so I still subscribe to
Kingfisher
because it makes me feel connected still, I guess. Anyway . . .”

“Your husband? Jeffrey?”

“Yes. When I saw your name . . . that article you wrote about the cold storage facility that got shut down in New Orleans East . . . Well, I just thought that maybe . . . Do you
remember
my husband?”

“Honestly, I don’t, Mrs. Cross.”

“Well, of course not, it was so long ago, and I feel terrible bringing it all up now. I certainly don’t want to make my trouble yours. Not after all these years. But I just thought, what with the connection and all—”

“What connection would that be, Mrs. Cross?”

“I’ve told you he’s missing, right? My husband.”

“Yes. You have.”

“You must hear stories like this all the time. Husband goes missing, wife insists he wouldn’t leave her. I mean, you probably think I’m as crazy as the police. But maybe there’s one . . .”

Truck brakes hissed out front, and a large shadow fell across his front drapes. He padded to the window as Alison Cross continued, keeping his footsteps as quiet as he could.

“ . . . You see, I wasn’t the love of his life. I mean, we were happy but I know Millie was the real . . . I mean, she was the one he—”

“Millie?”

When he pulled back the edge of the drape, he saw a giant pickup truck with a small motorboat attached to its tow hitch, and sitting behind the wheel was Marissa Hopewell Powell. She saw him peering out at her,
and punched the horn lightly. Ben just stood there wondering why his boss, who had been on her way to a good drunk just a few hours earlier, when she’d left him in that dive bar with Anthem, was now sitting in front of his apartment in someone’s else truck, towing someone else’s boat.

“Millie Delongpre,” said the woman on the other end of the line.

Ben was too stunned to respond at first. He let the drape fall back into place. Marissa punched the horn in protest.

“I’m sorry. Did you say—”

“Millie Delongpre. Yes. You see, she and my husband, they were together before she met Noah and, well, Jeffrey always carried a torch for her. He even talked to her in his sleep . . . Jesus . . .” For a few seconds, he wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying. “I’m throwing all of this at you at once.”

“Your husband is missing.” Outside, Marissa honked the horn. “And he used to be involved with Millie Delongpre.”

“Yes, and I remembered how close you were with her daughter and I thought maybe there was a chance you would help me.”

The horn honked again. Ben threw open his front door and lifted an index finger to request silence. In response, Marissa shouted,
“Hot tip, Uptown Girl. Get in!”

“Mrs. Cross, are you saying you believe your husband made contact with Millie Delongpre?”

“No!” she gasped. “No, no, no. I just—I don’t know
what
to believe, to be honest with you. The police are so dead set on convincing me that my husband
planned
to leave me, I just . . . I’ve been thinking of any explanation. I mean, isn’t this how it works in the movies? They tell you you’re crazy so many times eventually they drive you insane.”

“Sometimes,” Ben answered.

“It’s just . . . what with the connection between you and the Delongpres, well, it was something, you know? Something I could
try.
” Now the woman actually was crying. And Marissa was honking the horn like they were a half hour late for a Saints game.

“Mrs. Cross, I’m going to call you back, okay? And I mean that. I am. I’m just in the middle of something right now and I want to be able to give you my undivided attention.”

“Sure,” she whispered. “Of course. Do you need my number—”

“I have it on caller ID. Is this the number you’d like me to call?”

“Yes. Sure. That’s great. Thank you. I really— I appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

He hung up on her, then bounded down his front steps. “What is wrong with you?” he cried.

“What, we’re you makin’ a date? I got a hot tip. Let’s go.”

“You also got someone else’s truck and someone else’s boat. I’m confused. I thought you were drinking today.”