Page 40 of Broken Bayou
Taylor’s Marketplace sits in stunned silence. The old men aren’t bickering. The fry cook isn’t frying. Ermine reaches for my hand. Her touch sends a shiver through me. How many more barrels are there?
The image on the television cuts from Rita and the bayou to a one-story redbrick building with a glass door. A few feet in front sits a podium with microphones attached to it. Chief Wilson exits the building and approaches the podium. His hair is wild under the large Stetson, and his eyes are red rimmed. Several other law enforcementmen and women enter the screen and flank his sides. Some in blue, some in brown, some in suits.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Chief Wilson says, “my statement will be brief; then I’ll be handing the mic over to our lead investigator, Tom Bordelon, who will also make a brief statement.” A man in the crowd raises his hand. “We will not be taking questions.” Chief Wilson shuffles on his feet. “As you know, we are dealing with something unprecedented in our town. There are a lot of rumors right now, a lot of fear. I’m here to reassure you all and tell you we are working around the clock to get this solved. Your safety is our number one priority. I’ve asked the residents of Broken Bayou to please stay clear of our levees and the bayou at all times. I’m asking again. This is for your safety and the safety of our divers. We cannot tape off an entire bayou, so I’m asking you all to self-monitor and stay back. I promise we will keep you updated as often as we can. Thank you.”
He steps aside, and the man in the khakis and white polo steps forward. “Good morning. My name is Tom Bordelon, and I’m a detective for the Louisiana State Police. I’d like to reiterate what Chief Wilson said and ask you to please keep away from the bayou at this time. It is of the utmost importance that we keep our crime scenes from being contaminated.” He clears his throat. “As of this morning, we have recovered four barrels, each containing human remains. Also this morning, we were able to identify the latest victim, fourteen-year-old Claire Fonteneau. Daughter of Louisiana senator Ann Fonteneau.”
Ermine gasps.
Dixon Thomas yells, “What the hell! That was fast.”
The guy in the ball cap says, “Didn’t she disappear about a year ago?”
“Shhh!” Ermine hisses and turns up the volume.
The lead investigator continues, “Senator Fonteneau was able to fly in from New Orleans this morning to make the positive ID based on items found with the remains. Mrs. Fonteneau has asked the media to please give her family time to process this tragic news.” I think ofthe jet flying overhead this morning. Of a distraught mother on board, having to run the worst errand a parent could run. The investigator adds, “We have been working closely with the sheriff’s department and local authorities and have narrowed down a person of interest. We will continue to question this person in the hopes of discovering who committed these heinous crimes. Thank you.”
Reporters pepper him with questions: “Who is the person of interest?” “Are you calling this person a serial killer?” “What about Katharine Boudreaux?” “What about that car you found?”
Chief Wilson and the others walk back through the glass doors without looking back.
Ermine lowers the volume on the television. She looks to the ceiling and crosses her chest, mumbles a prayer under her breath. The room is deadly quiet. The men, the fry cook, and I all exchange a look. There’s no more banter. No more gossip. It’s like I can see the weight of reality settling onto their shoulders. Two barrels, then three, had been enough to get the town talking. Four has shut them up. I want to offer them some kind of advice, some way to navigate the feelings surrounding the horrific things bubbling up from their bayou, but I can’t. This goes well outside my area of expertise. And the more things around me unravel, the more thingsinsideme unravel. A thread has separated from the tight ball I’ve kept in place all these years, unspooling at an alarming rate, starting with that stupid interview and my ridiculous reaction to that caller.
My cell rings. It’s Travis. “I need to get this,” I say to Ermine.
“Hi,” I answer as I walk away from the counter. “I just saw the news. Unbelievable.”
“Willa, what the hell did you get me involved in?”
I stop midstep. “What?”
“When were you going to tell me?” His voice is quiet and calm, but his tone is clear. He’s pissed.
“Tell you what?”
“Don’t play me for a fool.”
I think of the tapes. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m coming!” He yells to someone, then to me, “I’m talking about the trunk of your mother’s car.”
The ground shifts under me. Heat builds under my skin. What had Raymond said at the impound?They must have found something good.My voice shakes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know anything about the trunk.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m coming,” he yells again. Then he says into the phone, “We’ll have to finish this later.” He hangs up and leaves me in stunned silence.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I jump.
“Are you okay?” Ermine says.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Can I help?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m good.” I walk to the door, and Ermine follows me. A man wearing a cowboy hat comes through the front door, and Ermine watches him as he walks past us. When she looks back at me, her eyes sparkle. “I remember that fella now. The one you asked about first.” It takes me a moment to realize she’s referring to my mother’s boss. That conversation feels like it happened days ago, not minutes ago.
Ermine continues, “He used to wear a big black cowboy hat. Drove some big, giant car. Ran with your mama.” She squints and looks off for a moment. “Come to think of it, that fella just up and disappeared.”
Chapter Twelve
