J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

He turns the key in the ignition, triggering a shake and a few squeals before the four-liter V8 rumbles to life.

“That doesn’t sound good. You should get that checked.”

His cheeks flush and he balls his sinewy hand into a fist. “Get out, March. I’ve had enough, okay? Whatever this is about-getting the fix in, making sure our stories are straight-I don’t want any part of it. How much clearer do I have to be?”

“I thought we’d buried the hatchet after the Thomson thing. You thought I was dirty on that, and I proved you wrong. How much clearer do I have to be? Stick your head in the ground if you like, but the Fauk appeal isn’t going away. What you saw yesterday is just the tip of the iceberg. The only way we’re going to be vindicated on this is if we do the vindicating ourselves. Now, that’s nothing new for me, but you’re in for a rude awakening.”

“It has nothing to do with me.”

“Keep telling yourself that. But you were right yesterday in the elevator: this thing does have the power to drag you down. Donald Fauk was a career case for you and me both, and if that conviction is overturned, I don’t think your buddies in Internal Affairs are going to be too keen on keeping you around.”

He gives me a wicked smile. “Don’t worry about me. If it is overturned, there won’t be any doubt in people’s minds who’s to blame.”

That’s probably true. While he’s kept quiet officially, I know for a fact that behind closed doors Wilcox has never been reticent about his suspicions concerning me. After teaming up to bring down Reg Keller, though, I’d let myself believe we had turned a page. Things would never be like they were, but at least some of the venom had been drained. But going by the look on his face-the raised vein in the forehead, the twisted mouth-perhaps I was wrong.

“How many times do I have to apologize?” I say. “If it’ll help, I’ll do it again. I dropped the ball when we were partners, and you picked it up way too many times. I cut corners, I screwed up, whatever you want me to eat, I will. But you’re wrong about what I was doing. I never framed anyone. I never planted evidence. I was never what you think I am. You’re determined to fit me into that mold, but that was never me.”

“Then we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

“Not good enough. Maybe I’m not making myself clear. The DA’s not going to fight this thing like he ordinarily would. Lauterbach made too good an impression. He’s even got Bascombe second-guessing. You were in the car with me when Fauk confessed, and you know he was ready to talk long before that. Nobody had to threaten him-in fact, you kept telling him to keep his mouth shut. If you can’t trust me, Stephen, trust yourself.”

He unclenches the fist and lets out a breath. After a pause, his body relaxes a little, sinking down into the seat. He hangs his left hand over the wheel, kneading the leather with his thumb. I give him time to calm down, time to let his brain work.

“That much I agree with,” he says. “Fauk’s confession was genuine. He didn’t need any prodding to give it up.”

“But you and me are the only people who know that for a fact.”

Another pause. “This is against my better judgment, but. . what exactly do you want, March?”

“I’m meeting Lauterbach this afternoon to look at his case in detail. Bascombe didn’t give me any option. So blowing that apart is up to me. Your mission, if you choose to accept, is to find out what’s happening with Fontenot. That lawyer yesterday morning said there was an investigation in progress. We need to find out how far back they’re looking.”

“You have the relationship with Fontenot, not me.”

“And I can talk to him if it comes to that. First, though, we need to know exactly what he’s facing. As far as I’m concerned, Gene’s a good cop. Having said that. . Look, I don’t know how else to put this, so let me be blunt: if there’s a full-blown investigation going on, getting in touch with him directly might not be such a great idea.”

“It’ll look like conspiracy,” he says. “You’ve given this some thought.”

I ignore the barb in that last remark. “I’m gonna take a drive up to Huntsville tomorrow.”

“Turning yourself in?”

Shaking my head, I pop the passenger door open. “I have an informant up there who might be able to help with Fauk.”

“Wait a second.” He grabs my sleeve. “What kind of help do you mean?”

“Brad Templeton says he hasn’t had any suspicious contacts, but I’m convinced there’s a connection between the Fauk murder scene and the one I’m working-only not the connection Lauterbach has in mind. Maybe someone’s been in touch with Fauk, though. If my guy can get close to him, I might be able to find out. You wanna let go of me?”

His hand trails down to the buttons on my jacket sleeve. His eyes narrow as he pulls at the fabric, working one of the buttons undone.

“Those are horn buttons,” he says. “And they work.”

I pull myself free. “Charlotte’s dad inadvertently left me an inheritance.”

“Lyndon Pellier?”

His mouth crumbles into an eloquent frown, the kind of frown a Roman senator might have worn contemplating the rise of the barbarians and the complex ways of fate, rewarding the undeserving with gifts beyond their comprehension while overlooking virtuous men like himself.

“I have a whole closet full,” I say, slamming the door behind me.

His sad eyes follow me through the rain-dimpled glass.

Back at my car, I wait a few minutes for Wilcox to get going. The rain picks up, drumming across the roof and windshield. Everything is gray outside, even the brownish grass, but the sky seems unaccountably bright, like the effort of concealing the sun has just about exhausted the clouds overhead. I feel exhausted myself and thinking about Gene Fontenot doesn’t help one bit.

After Hurricane Katrina, Gene endured his own dark night of the soul, running concurrently with the collapse of civilization all around. His house swept away by floodwater and out of contact with his ex-wife and their two kids, all he could do was roam the powerless, swarming city, teaming up with other overwhelmed officers in an effort to improvise law and order. Six months later, sitting on the stairs outside my garage apartment with a sweating beer bottle in his grasp, Gene told me stories that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

By then, thinking he’d had enough of the Big Easy, like a lot of his fellow New Orleanians he contemplated a permanent move. I offered to recommend him, for what that was worth, and it wasn’t until the interview with HPD was arranged that he had second thoughts. The zydeco in his blood wouldn’t let him stay. Or something sentimental like that.

Our late night talks had convinced me that Gene was a kindred spirit, another lawman out of step with the world around him. After I confided in him about the bartender at the Paragon and some of my other projects, he opened up with a few of his own extracurricular enforcement efforts. Mostly stories about standoffs in knee-deep water with angry citizens on one hand and panicked cops on the other: I accomplished more in six days with a Remington pump gun than in the whole rest of my career put together.

If he’d had a talk with Donald Fauk in that interview room while me and Wilcox jumped through hoops at the car rental agency, I believe he would have told me on one of those nights in late 2005. But he never said a word.

Though I’m half tempted to call him, what I told Wilcox is true. The last thing I want to do if Gene is caught up in an internal inquiry is mix my name up in the case-especially if the accusation in the Fauk appeal is being actively investigated. Even so, I can’t help feeling I owe the man more. Leaving him in Wilcox’s unsteady hands doesn’t seem right. For now, that’s all I can do. There’s just too much on my plate.