Page 73 of Broken Bayou
Seven minutes after punching in the number, the account is canceled. Mabry’s voice is gone. Forever. A gaping fissure opens in my chest, and I want to release the pain coming from it. I want to yell into the stale, humid air. I want to slice my skin and let the pain spill out onto the wet grass around me. I want so many things. I rub the small heart tattoo on the inside of my forearm, next to the fresh cuts. Mabry’s heart. I press my lips together and choke down the acid in my throat. And somewhere, deep beneath the pain, another feeling fights to the surface. Something I haven’t felt in a long time, if ever. Relief. Sweet, unburdening relief. And with that relief comes another feeling. Forgiveness. The relief I expect. I always tell my patients that when it hits, it will feel like someone who’s been twisting your arm finally releases it. It’s instant. But forgiveness I didn’t expect. Yet it’s even more important. Forgiveness can offer freedom.
I glance at the thermos in my tote but remove the other item I brought with me. An outdated cell phone. The battery’s been dead for years. I used to charge it regularly but then realized it didn’t have to be charged for me to hear Mabry’s voice.
With the phone clutched in my hand, I ease down the backside of the levee to the bank of Broken Bayou. It’s sloppy, and mud sucks at theorange boots. Dark water churns from the heavy downpour. My hand is shaking, but before I can change my mind, I throw the phone as hard as I can into the warm night air. A splash, then nothing.
“Nice throw.”
I scream and whip around. A flashlight beam blinds me. I hold up my hands to protect my eyes, gauge the distance between me and this stranger and if I can run. I picture Doyle, standing there with one of his knives.
“Oh. Sorry,” the man says, and the light lowers.
My eyes adjust again to the darkness. I can tell it’s a cop standing there, and I exhale as I think of Travis. Then I remember Travis doesn’t have a uniform anymore. And even when he did, it didn’t look like this man’s. The officer steps closer, and I see his face. “Raymond.”
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Raymond St. Clair says. He scans the bank with his flashlight.
“Taking care of something I should have taken care of years ago,” I say.
Raymond glances at the bayou, then back to me. “Well, you shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“I know.”
“I saw the car parked by the levee. Got worried.”
“I was just about to leave.” I manage a smile even as I close my tote to hide the large silver thermos. My talisman.
Raymond’s eyes dart in every direction, then land on me. “You need to be careful out here.”
I glance at the bayou, then back to Raymond. “At least you have a suspect in custody.”
He lets out a quick laugh that holds no humor. “Everybody knows Delaroux’s not the guy. He’s just a way for the DA to look good.” He shakes his head. “No. Our guy’s too smart to get caught.”
Smart isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe Doyle. Sly is more like it. Maybe even lucky. But not smart.
“And the whole town knows you’ve been talking to that reporter,” he continues. “I don’t think I’d be advertising my involvement, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m not a threat to anyone.”
“I know that. And you know that. But ... still. Be careful. So many people come close to danger and never even know it. It’s crazy.” He nods toward the water. “Like those women. One minute, they’re having fun somewhere; the next minute, they’re incapacitated.” He rubs the side of his neck. “We all gotta watch out for each other now. You know?”
My skin prickles. I nod. Something about the expression on Raymond’s face looks familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
“C’mon, I’ll walk you back,” he says, nodding to the top of the levee.
“Just give me a minute,” I say.
Raymond nods, doesn’t question me. He walks to the top of the levee, stops a moment, then turns his back to me.
The bayou gurgles below me, and I picture myself grabbing the thermos and walking down to it. I see myself opening the lid and releasing Mabry’s ashes into the wind, into the water where we were baptized. So many awful things have come from that water. Something pure and good needs to go back in.
But my muscles boycott. I gather my things, and instead of walking to the water, I walk away from it, past Raymond, and back to my car.
It’s late. I’m tired. And it’s not time.
October 1999
Emily Arceneaux checked her bedroom door. Still locked. Good. They’d think she’d gone to bed. Emily waited. She just wanted to be normal. She wanted to be like the other girls in town. She wanted to have fun. She couldn’t remember the last time she laughed. Well, that’s not true. He had made her laugh. And now he wanted her to leave with him. That made her smile. And Emily didn’t smile a lot.
A sound came from her window. A pebble hitting the glass. Emily raced to it and opened it. He would be out there, waiting for her.
