Waters Run Deep (10 page)

“I can go—”

“No, Mom.” He gave her the look—the one he saved for a collar. The one that said, don’t mess with me on this.

Picou closed her mouth and glared back. “I just—”

“No.”

“Don’t talk to me like that. I’m your mother.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I know and that’s why I won’t let you run around chasing a dream. This could break your heart.”

“My heart was broken long ago, Nathan.”

He fell silent. What was there to say to something like that? All their hearts had been broken the day Della disappeared and each family member dealt with it in a different manner. His mother had sought out every divine intervention from the parish priest to whatever crackpot psychic she could round up in New Orleans—and every other discipline in between. Anything to buy her a little hope.

“You want to protect me.” Picou thumbed the worn pages of her grandmother’s Bible.

He jerked his head up. “Yeah.”

“Well, I’m a big girl and, here’s the deal, I’ve known Della was alive for a long time. Deep down in my heart, I knew. When Zelda Trosclair came last week, she saw our family’s future. The past will be restored by a dark stranger, one who comes from far.

At first I thought it was Annie, but maybe—”

The door creaked and a small hand grasped the door frame, followed by a round face covered with what looked to be jam.

Spencer’s eyes grew wide when he saw Nate.

“Hey,” the boy said.

Picou’s attitude transformed. “Well, good morning, handsome.”

Spencer pushed the door open. “Mornin’. Me and Annie’s going for a walk. We’re gonna look for animals and stuff.”

“Well, that sounds lovely,” Picou said, rising from the desk, her hands now steady, her gaze resolved. Didn’t matter what Nate told her. She believed the girl asking questions was Della and she believed the crazy prophecy the mambo had given her.

“Annie said you might come, too. You wanna come, too?”

Picou glanced at him. “Well, I don’t know. My son Nate is here.”

“There’s other po-lice here. I saw ’em.” Spencer said, his eyes sliding to Nate. “Are you a police? You don’t have a hat.”

Annie poked her head in. “Spencer, come with me. You were supposed to wash your hands and face. Come back to the kitchen.”

“You said Miss Peekaboo could come with us.” The boy inched away from Annie’s insistent outstretched hand toward Nate’s mother.

“Miss Peekaboo?” Picou’s smile was like the sliver of sunshine creeping in through the drapes. “Now, that’s a new one.”

“Sounds like a lounge act,” Nate muttered.

Annie’s lips twitched and sudden heat flared low in his belly. Damn, but her mouth was delectable. Pink, plump and out of place below those no-nonsense gray eyes. Just like yesterday. She’d totally distracted him when he was supposed to be questioning her.

“What’s a wounge act?” Spencer looked up at Annie.

“I’m not touching that one,” she muttered, grabbing the boy’s hand and pulling him toward the open door. “Excuse us. Spencer needs to wash up before we go for a stroll.”

“I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a few minutes,” Picou called.

Annie’s glanced back. “You’re coming with us?”

“I’ll show you where to find arrowheads and paint rocks. And I know where a fox lives.”

Annie and Spencer disappeared. He heard the child chattering about the fox and it made him feel better somehow. Picou pushed a curtain back, securing it so the sunshine streamed fully into the library. It illuminated—as if seeking to prevent Nate from hiding the one piece of information he hadn’t revealed to his mother—the fact the woman who’d raised Sally, Enola Cheramie, was Sal Comeaux’s grandmother. It was an unturned stone because the old woman had sworn she’d known nothing of Sal or his whereabouts. When asked about the child, she told them the girl was one of her granddaughter’s children. The Lafourche investigators never followed up on her statement.

Telling Picou about Enola would pull the nail out of Della’s coffin. He wasn’t ready to do that yet. Mostly because he wasn’t ready to admit he had the same hope shelved on the highest shelf in the closet of his soul. Because to fail again would hurt too much.

But maybe Sal Comeaux had rectified the wrong done to the Dufrene family before drowning in the bayou.

And maybe Nate wasn’t truly responsible for his sister’s death.

* * *

DAYS LATER, ON THE NOW-established morning walk, Annie allowed herself to lag behind Picou and Spencer as they scoured trees and bushes for wildlife. Every snail, bug and squirrel intrigued the child, whose experience with nature thus far had been at a petting zoo.

He seemed to especially enjoy the dirt and rocks on the path.

“Look at this!” he cried for the fifth time in ten minutes. Picou patiently stopped to peer at a…rock?

“That’s a sedimentary rock,” Picou said, lifting the large stone. “See the little pieces of stone?”

The boy nodded. “What’s this one?”

Annie zoned out because geology was boring. She glanced around the woods that encircled the large house. The production company filmed on the other side, leaving the large stretch to the right of the house unoccupied. Birds twittered overhead and some unknown animal scrabbled up and down the trees. It was empty and peaceful.

And a perfect place to meet Jimmy and get her gun.

She’d tried to keep busy with the boy, thankful for the morning walks where Picou regaled Spencer with stories and simple things like birds’ nests, beehives and graveyard ghost stories. The boy loved it, and Annie actually found it restorative.

Jimmy had texted her when he arrived in town last night. Ace had gotten him hired on with the catering company providing craft service to the crew. They’d decided having him embedded within the area of actual production might be beneficial in tracking down whoever was responsible for the threats.

Outside of the dead bird and note, which had been sent to the nearest FBI lab, no other attempt at mischief had been made—or if it had, she didn’t know anything because Nate and his partner had not been around. She assumed whoever played games with the family had been eerily silent, which could mean several things: no actual escalation, as Sterling suggested, no opportunity, or a patience belying a calculating coldness. It was the last one that bothered Annie.

The first threat received by the Keene family had been in the mail. The nondescript white copy paper along with generic envelope held no trace evidence and was postmarked in Malibu.

You can’t fix what you have done

Too bad I have to break the wrong one

Poor Spencer pays for another’s sins

The writing gave little away, other than the perp was decently educated and bore a grudge. At first Carter had disregarded the note as a crackpot fan, turning it over to the police who pretty much thought the same thing, but when a brick crashed through the production-office window one night, Carter decided to call Ace Sterling, a man he’d used before. Since Annie had just hired on, Ace had suggested an additional bodyguard who could provide for the needs of the child while protecting him. So Annie went on her first undercover case.

Spencer’s laughter brought her back to the task at hand. She didn’t need to daydream.

Picou tugged Spencer toward a thin trail hidden in the underbrush. “Let me show you something really special.”

Spencer skipped ahead of her, his little head swiveling clockwise as he took in the ancient oaks spreading above him. “Can I climb one of those trees?”

Picou contemplated the trees. “If the tree goddess gives you permission.”

“Tree goddess?” Annie snorted. “Really?”

Picou turned her head. “Do you doubt the woods are filled with spirits?”

“Depends on how much liquor the high school kids left behind,” Annie said, picking up an empty vodka bottle from where it lay near a huge felled tree.

Picou gave her an exasperated look before turning back to the boy. “And I had hopes for you.”

Annie tossed the bottle toward the base of the tree. She’d pick it up on the way back. “I believe in what I see. With my own two eyes. I don’t do unexplained.”

Picou tsked as they forged ahead, finally emerging into a clearing holding three huge mounds measuring almost thirty-five feet in height.

“Cool,” Spencer shouted, breaking into a run.

“Stop,” Picou said, lunging ahead and grabbing Spencer by the T-shirt.

“Hey,” he said, trying to wriggle away. “I want to climb them.”

Picou pulled the boy toward her and crouched down. “These are Indian mounds.”

Annie shaded her eyes against the brightness of the sun and studied the three mounds. She’d never seen anything like it. “Are they sacred?”

“Yes, and they are very old. Built even before the pyramids,” Picou said.

“Really?” Annie moved beside them, slightly in awe that such an odd structure existed on the land owned by the Dufrenes.

“What’s in them?” Spencer asked. “Is there a way to go inside?”

Picou shook her head. “Nothing inside. No one knows why they were built. Maybe as a marker for territory. Whatever they were it’s unexplained.” She glanced at Annie before looking back at Spencer. “They’re very old and built long, long ago by the people who first lived in Louisiana. Isn’t that interesting?”

Spencer nodded. “I guess. I wish I could climb on them.”

“Just like my boys. Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. They might have well been a playground for little native boys and girls anyhow. Over at the ULB campus, the kids used to slide down them every home game. Grab some cardboard and your kid will be occupied for hours, leaving you to booze it up.” Picou gave a wry laugh. “They finally stopped it several years ago. Didn’t want them damaged, but I supposed one wee boy won’t hurt these.”

Annie grinned. “The power of a pile of dirt.”

Picou allowed a smile, giving Spencer a little push.

He needed no further urging. His feet flew as he scampered up the mound. Annie pulled her phone from her pocket and pretended to check messages. In actuality she added a marker to her GPS. Perfect spot to meet Jimmy—easy to get to, far from prying eyes. Later she would meet Jane at the hotel bar for two-dollar longnecks and a zydeco band, but first she wanted to get her gun and see if Jimmy had learned anything. She quickly texted him and gave the coordinates to the mounds.

“Your phone might not work out here,” Picou said, moving so she stood in the shade.

“You’re right. No bars,” Annie said, pocketing her phone. “Wanted to make sure my dad hadn’t called.”

Picou nodded. “Is he back in California? Is that where you’re from?”

“Little north of San Diego. You ever been there?”

Picou shook her head. “Nope. Born and bred a Louisiana girl. This land has been in my family for 158 years.”

“That’s quite a past,” Annie commented, keeping an eye on the child as he lay down, folded his arms across his body and rolled down the hill. His shrieks made her smile. Who needed twisted-iron play equipment when the Native Americans of the past had given them the perfect playground?

“I’m the only one left. This land has been held by a Laborde son for generations. Would still be true if my brother Benny hadn’t died in ’Nam.”

“I’m sorry,” Annie murmured.

“Me, too.” Picou’s eyes turned misty. “He was something else. Darby looks like him. Square jaw and thick blondish hair. Good lookin’ like none other. He died in ’69. I was twenty-five and had just married Martin. My mama looked at me and said, ‘No more Labordes, cherie,’ to which I said, ‘The hell there aren’t. I’m a Laborde. That hasn’t changed just ’cause I married Martin.’”

Annie nodded. She understood. Picou’s identity wasn’t rooted in her husband; it was in the land, in her family’s legacy. She rather liked that about Picou.

“So Beau Soleil is still held by the Labordes. We won it off the Duplessis family in a card game, who themselves took it from the Chickamauga Indians. Guess their ancestors built these mounds.”

“Must be nice to have a history like that. Mine’s not nearly as interesting. Do your boys feel that same closeness to this place?”

Picou snorted. “Maybe Nate, but he’s always been hard to read. Abram is wrapped in his own world—one of pigskin, off-season workouts and recruiting, and Darby’s been running from Beau Soleil ever since he was a boy. And Della, well, I haven’t found her again…yet.”

“I thought—” Annie closed her mouth. Who was she to prick a pin in the inflated hope of the older woman?

“You thought she was dead?”

Annie nodded.

“She’s not. She’s alive. And she’s close.” Picou stared out into the woods as if she might part them and find the treasure she sought.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve always known, but Darby made me certain. He’s her twin, and when he was small, he dreamed of her, cried out to go get her and bring her back. It’s something you feel in your bones, you know. Deep down inside, throbbing, waiting.” Picou paused as if weary from revealing something so personal. “And then there is the powerful mambo who gave me a prophecy.”

Mambo? More like mumbo jumbo. Must be a Louisiana thing. People wanted to believe in something. Always had. Even Tawny flirted with the kabbalah and other mysticisms. But not Annie. The only thing she believed in was herself and the power of hard work. She hadn’t been to Mass since her mother’s funeral. Funny how what drove some people toward unflinching faith destroyed it in others.

“I hope you find her.” Annie walked toward the mounds, uncomfortable at the turn of conversation. “Come on, Spencer, we need to get back for worksheets, PB&J and a nap.”

“I don’t want a nap,” Spencer called, ducking on the other side of the mound.

“Here we go,” Annie grumped to herself, trudging toward the first mound. “I’m not messing around, Spence. When I say jump, you say?”

“I don’t want a nap,” Spencer called.

“Wrong answer,” Annie called.

Picou laughed as Annie chased Spencer around the mounds. She even encouraged him by telling him to yell out “Marco.”

Annie went along, being a good sport with her successive call of “Polo.” Finally she caught him.

“The answer is ‘how high?’”