Jana DeLeon - The Reunion

“Of course you do. Purcell was a hit man for the New Orleans mafia who romanced Ophelia LeBeau for her money and a safe hiding place when his own employer put a hit on him. Then he killed her and sent her kids away like they were department store returns. I’ve got lots of feelings about it myself, and trust me, all of them are bad.”

“We don’t know for certain that Purcell killed Ophelia.”

“Then what was he paying all those people for?”

William nodded. “Oh, we’re certain Purcell was paying for silence, and I’d guess it’s exactly as you say and he killed Ophelia, but we still can’t prove it. And with everyone on his payroll dead, there’s no one left to ask.”

“And that’s exactly my original point—all the bad guys are dead.”

William stared out the plate-glass window of the café and looked across the street into the swamp. Finally, he looked back at Tyler and leaned across the table.

“I don’t think they are all dead.” William’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “The swamp is wrong. You don’t even have to enter it to feel it. Something is still out of balance, and I don’t think the swamp will rest until it churns up all its secrets.”

If it were anyone else speaking or if his father were talking about anywhere else but Calais, Tyler would suggest he needed professional help. But the swamps of Mystere Parish were different than any place he’d ever been. Although he’d been surrounded by them his entire childhood, and had traipsed through them thousands of hours, Tyler had never felt at ease in the dense cypress trees and foliage.

It was as if the swamp itself was alive.

Certainly, the swamp comprised lots of living things, but it was something more than that—as if the swamp were a separate living entity, with its own agenda. At times, it was pleasant enough, but he’d never found the atmosphere relaxing, even though parts of it were beautiful. At other times, it had been oppressive, the weight of it pressing in around him.

That oppressive weight had always aligned with something tragic, usually death.

If the swamp was out of balance, then something was still very wrong in Calais. Given that the only recent tragedies all centered on the LeBeau estate, Tyler understood why his father was so anxious to ensure that Ophelia’s middle daughter was offered the best protection he could provide. The swamp wouldn’t return to a peaceful state until a reckoning had occurred.

“What do you think is wrong?” Tyler asked.

“I don’t know, and that’s what bothers me the most. But we may get some answers soon.”

“How’s that?”

His father looked at him, his expression sad and haunting. “We’re exhuming Ophelia LeBeau tomorrow.”

Chapter Three

As she pulled through Calais, Joelle studied the old buildings, looking for something that appeared familiar. The weathered brick buildings were typical of any old small town, but none of them sparked even a twitch of memory. The café caught her interest as she pulled by, but only because she planned to spend her two weeks allowing others to cook for her. She hoped the food was good, as it appeared to be the only option.

Her stomach rumbled as her thoughts turned to food, and she realized it was well past lunch. She’d almost stopped several times, but each time she pressed the accelerator and continued down the highway, anxious to get the long drive over with. Unfortunately, she had arranged to meet the attorney at the house in about ten minutes, so eating would have to wait a bit longer.

As soon as she passed the last building on Main Street, she pulled a paper with directions from her purse. She’d gotten this far without referring to the attorney’s instructions, but when the directions started including items such as “turn right at the giant oak tree,” it was time to pay attention. The last thing she wanted to do was to get lost in the swamp.

She turned to the right at a four-way stop, directing her car onto a semblance of a road. The economy rental she’d acquired before leaving Jackson was no match for the bumps and holes that mostly made up the dirt trail that led to the house, and she gritted her teeth as the dashboard rattled. She swerved to miss a huge hole, but her right front tire caught the edge of it and the entire car dropped. Cringing at the sound of the bottom of the car sliding across rocks, she clenched the steering wheel and leaned forward to get a better look at the road.

The cypress trees that lined both sides of the road grew thicker, creating a canopy above the road that blocked most of the sunlight from entering. If she hadn’t known any better, she would have sworn it was late evening rather than mid-afternoon. Surely, the house couldn’t be much farther.

Fifteen minutes later, she rounded a corner and the house burst into view. Continuing her slow creep around what remained of the circular driveway, she looked up at the place she’d spent the first four years of her life, waiting for that spark of recognition to hit. She was disappointed when it never came.

A new pickup truck was parked in front of the house, and she pulled up behind it and parked, figuring it belonged to the attorney. She jumped out of the car and stretched her aching legs and cast a glance back at the car. She’d rented the economy vehicle to try it out, thinking she might purchase the same model to replace her totaled Honda. The tiny car would be a huge benefit in the city, where she rarely drove more than twenty miles in one stretch, but after hours on the road, she was well aware of just how cramped her long legs were in such a compact space.

Her suitcases could wait until after she’d spoken to the attorney, so she headed up to the front door. When she raised her hand and knocked, the door inched forward just a bit. She pushed the door open and stuck her head inside.

“Mr. Duhon,” she called out. “It’s Joelle LeBeau.”

She waited a bit, expecting the attorney to appear or at least respond, but only her own voice echoed through the giant entry. Deciding the attorney must be off in a part of the house where he couldn’t hear her, she stepped inside, then drew up short. A twinge of something—some tiny flicker of recognition—flashed through her, but as soon as she tried to grasp it, the flicker disappeared.

The entry was massive, like the entry of a hotel or museum. The giant spiral staircase was centered toward the front and she peered up to see the balcony running around the entire second floor, doors to various rooms lining the upstairs walls. The first floor of the entry was littered—there wasn’t really a better word—with decorative columns and tables, all housing art, china and glass that seemed to have no consistency of era or country of origin.

To the left, a wide hallway led away from the entry. Patches of sunlight streamed from the room at the end of the hallway and onto the stone floor. Figuring the hallway led to a family room or kitchen, she took off to the left, hoping to locate the attorney.

The kitchen and breakfast nook were in sharp contrast to the rest of the house and had her smiling. Clearly, someone had put in long hours on this room and it showed—the gleaming cabinets, polished countertops and fresh coat of paint made the room a cheery retreat from the gloomy entry. Giant windows formed the far wall, along with a single door that led onto an overgrown patio.

She gazed around the room once more before readying herself to continue her search for the attorney, and that’s when she realized the patio door was partially open. Now understanding why the attorney hadn’t heard her call out in the entry, she stepped outside and looked up and down the long stone patio. Shrubs and brush had grown right up to the edges, and vines climbed the stone columns and trailed across the ground, but it was clear that someone had recently started clearing the brush away.