Page 46 of Broken Bayou
April 2018
Katharine Boudreaux steered her car the best she could down Main Street. She should have gotten a ride. Called a taxi. An Uber. Anything. She rolled down her window. The wind in her face helped. She turned onto Bridge Street. One more bridge and she’d be home.
Her cell dinged in the seat next to her. She reached for it, couldn’t quite grasp it. She leaned over farther. Her fingers grazed the case. She looked down for a second, but when she glanced back up, she was headed not onto the bridge but straight for the side of it. She hit the brakes, or so she thought. The car lurched forward, hitting the side rail and catapulting Katharine’s car over the side.
Katharine didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious when her eyes fluttered open. Something had woken her. A flash of light.
Blood trickled down her face. It was quiet except for the sound of water lapping against the car. But her car was only partially submerged. She must have landed on the bank. She tried the door handle. It was stuck. She pounded on the window. And that’s when she saw him. A man standing beside the car, staring in at her. She screamed.
“Hang on,” he yelled. “Lean away from the window.”
Katharine did as he said. A second later the window shattered. Katharine gasped as tears ran down her cheeks. “Oh my God. Thank you!” This man would know what to do. She couldn’t believe her luck.
Katharine fumbled for her seat belt. The man leaned in through the window. “Let me help.”
That’s when she felt something sting the side of her neck. She yelped and raised her hand to the spot.
“What ...” Katharine felt woozy. Her tongue too thick to form words. She was completely incapacitated.
Then the man held something up. “Let’s do another one with your eyes open. Say cheese.” A light flashed again.
Katharine’s eyes fell shut. She heard her phone buzzing somewhere close.
But she never got to answer it.
Chapter Fourteen
Something heavy and hard settles under my ribs later that morning as I sit in the kitchen with Charles LaSalle’s business card in my hand.You never know when a lawyer will come in handy.It’s time to go to the police, but I’m not going without an advocate.
After showering earlier, I decided on pants and a T-shirt today. No more silk. No more pretending. I’m an accomplice to something horrific. No need to dress it up and call it something it isn’t. I glance at the crease in my left elbow. The mark I left is small and red. No indication of the depth of pain it holds from knowing I helped my mother dispose of a body. I rub my face and try to stop my thoughts from unspooling, but they have too much momentum. And I’m too tired to stop them. I’m back inside Mama’s cluttered car as I followed Travis from his house down a dark dirt road leading to the deepest part of the bayou. The Delarouxes’ farm on the northeast side of town. A sprawling tree farm with an old farmhouse and several run-down shacks around the property. Travis stopped and turned off his lights. I did the same. We met in front of Travis’s truck. The August night scorching, humidity so thick it was hard to breathe.
Travis pointed to the bayou. “Dump it there. Other side of the levee.”
I set my coffee on the kitchen table with a shaky hand and will my last sip to stay down. The house is silent. The window over the sink shows a bright blue sky. My days in this town are longer than theyshould be. As if I really need another hour to sit and think about what I’ve seen.
I watched the tape more times than I should have, stopping it right after Mama hauled his body up into the trunk, then rewinding to watch again. Never watching far enough to see my younger self enter the frame. I should have. I need to see it. I need to own it. But I couldn’t. I kept watching Mabry and Mama over and over and over. Maybe to make sure I saw exactly what I think I saw. Maybe to punish myself for thinking what I’d done for Mama all those years ago was harmless. I tell myself what I’ve told countless people: you were a child. But Mama wasn’t a child. She knew. And she sent me there to get rid of it. Get rid ofhim.
Then a thought occurs to me that I hadn’t considered yet. Its sharp and disturbing point piercing my throat, closing off my windpipe as I try to inhale. What if her boss wasn’t dead?
I jump up from the kitchen table and release the contents of my stomach into the farm sink. I heave until all that’s left is bile. I run the water, rinse my mouth, then lean back against the counter. Then the tears start. Slowly at first but building quickly into deep guttural sobs. After several minutes, I manage to catch my breath. He wasn’t alive. There’s no way. I saw what happened. If he’d been alive ...
That’s when I hear it. A car engine or a truck. An older model with a missing muffler. I race for the window in the front foyer and see taillights skittering down the drive toward the gate. It looks like Doyle’s truck. He is the last person I want poking around here.
I race upstairs, skittish and shaky, for my handgun. It’s where I left it, unloaded. I grab the cartridge box from my duffel and load it, then ease back down to the window. I flick on the giant chandelier in the foyer and look outside. The driveway is empty. I unlock the front door.
The late morning is as hot as every other morning. Not even a hint of a breeze. The sky above me shows no sign of creating a cloud anytime soon. Birds chatter through the oaks. The cicadas are already up and singing as well. The hotter it gets, the earlier they start. The humidityfeels like a weighted blanket, and sweat starts on my neck even before I make it to the porch steps.
I sit and try to manage the river of emotions flowing through me. My fear morphs into anger, then remorse, then guilt. It’s cycling through my veins like poison. And with it comes the memory of Mabry. Oh, Mabry. I cradle my head in my hands. Mabry was trying to protect Mama. Mama was trying to protect Mabry. And I’m still trying to protect them both. But that circle of protection is becoming more and more toxic.
No doubt, in Krystal Lynn’s warped mind, sending her eldest child back to clean up her mess that night made perfect sense. But I can’t stop my mind from reeling. Why? Why would she think that was the best option? A small sad laugh escapes me. I know better. I know you can’t apply logic to an illogical person. I can’t expect normal reactions from a woman who had no idea what normal was.
She wouldn’t get back in the car.I saw the fear in Mabry’s eyes that night. I assumed it was something Mama had done. In a way it was. But I had my hand in it too. I put that car in the bayou. I disposed of evidence. Of ... I can’t finish the thought. I harness every ounce of energy I have left to lock it away. No going there right now. And no calling Mabry. Even if she’d answer, I’m not sure what I would say.
As I stand back up, something brown and crumpled catches my eye at the bottom of the steps. Possibly trash. But it doesn’t look like trash. It looks like a paper bag. And it wasn’t there yesterday. I ease down the steps to it. The top of the bag is neatly folded down.
Part of me says don’t touch it, but I give the bag a small kick. Whatever’s inside is hard and sounds metallic. I think of the figurines and Eddie. If this is one of those, it’s considerably bigger than the others. Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem too dangerous based on my baseless assessment.
Slowly, I set my handgun down, pick up the bag, and unroll the top. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find, but it sure as hell isn’t what’s inside. I drop the bag as if it’s full of snakes. I stare at it severalseconds before grabbing it and pulling out the metal object inside. A license plate. It’s heavy in my hand. Cold. With a shaky hand, I drop it back in the bag. The old convertible was missing its plate. I roll the top back down. This isn’t like the metal dolls Eddie made, the gifts he’s given me. This is a message. A message from Doyle Arceneaux.
