“So, if you didn’t come over to rag on me about the swimming pool, what is it?”
“I’ve had a job offer.”
“Oh? Congratulations!”
Dan didn’t look happy.
“So what’s the problem?”
“The job is in Baton Rouge.”
“Huh? Too far away. Just say no.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Ooookay. So you commute.”
Dan shook his head slowly.
“Enough with the hemming and hawing. Spit it out.”
“Celesta Care bought that old hospital in Baton Rouge and plans to renovate and modernize the entire complex, adding new wings so that there will be one massive unit devoted to nothing but pediatric oncology, complete with living facilities for families. They like what we’ve done here at Bayou Rose on a small scale and want the same kind of thing there, but bigger. A small village of cottages.”
“Sounds like a big deal.”
“It is. It will be.”
“And you’re hesitating . . . because?”
“Of you.”
“What? Me? Are you crazy? What do I have to do with your accepting or not accepting a major promotion?”
“We’ve never been apart, except when you were in the service while I was in med school, and that was horrible. You know it was.”
“Ah man! That’s sweet, but we’re not married or anything. And you’re sure as hell not my daddy.” Aaron was making light of a separation from his brother, but it was a big deal. His headache was back in spades, and he barely tamped down the panic that thrummed just beneath the surface of his skin. Which was ridiculous, of course. “If this is what you want, go for it, bro. I’m a big boy . . . we’re big boys. Time to cut the cord.”
“I’ll never cut the cord,” Dan said and reached over to squeeze his arm.
“Okay, give me the deets.”
“Well, the timing couldn’t be worse, of course, with Samantha’s pregnancy, but they’re willing to wait until after the babies are born for me to join their team. If I decide to join their team.”
Aaron nodded. “How about Bayou Rose? Samantha loves this plantation, and look at all the work she’s put into renovations so far.”
“In the end, it’s just a house. That’s what she told me anyhow. She’s willing to go wherever I go, and Baton Rouge isn’t that far from New Orleans if she wants to continue working for Starr Foods. Besides, there’s some historic mansion on the site that would go to me, as the director, and Samantha’s already salivating with plans.”
“Oh Lord! I’d be alone here in that big old house,” Aaron said before he could check himself.
“Aunt Mel would probably stay, at least for a while. And who knows? Maybe you’ll be marrying yourself.”
Don’t count on it. Not anytime soon.
“And I’m sure Tante Lulu would make sure you aren’t too lonely.”
“Very funny! What about the cottages? Would families of sick kids still come here? Who would manage all that? And how about the ongoing renovations that Samantha has been supervising?” Aaron really was beginning to panic now. All this on top of the FAA investigation, his continuing work for the Jude’s Apostles/Magdas, his pursuit of Fleur, his job with Bayou Aviation.
“We could always sell, if it’s too much for you. With all the improvements we’ve made so far, we should make a hefty profit, or at least break even.”
For some reason, the thought of selling created more dismay. Aaron hadn’t realized he’d become so attached to the place.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, downing the rest of his beer in one long swallow. “If I’m going to be here by myself, there’s going to be a swimming pool. And probably a billiards table in the dining room. And mirrors on the ceiling of the master suite.”
“Go for it,” Dan said. “Anyhow, nothing’s decided. We can talk about this again. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
Aaron had a lot to think about after Dan left. Maybe it was time for him to make a huge turn in his own life. Buy a plane and start his own business again. Or try something different. Charter boats in the Caribbean, for example. That would be good.
On the personal front, maybe he’d been stalled in “infatuation” mode for too long, and it was time to kick it up a notch with Fleur. Stop treating her with kid (i.e. nun) gloves, and start using the tricks of the trade he’d mastered years ago with (many) other women.
Then again, maybe not. Maybe he should just look in new directions. Lots of fish in the sea, as the old expression went. Unfortunately, he’d had a taste for only one particular fish lately, but that could be changed, couldn’t it?
Most immediate, what to do about this big frickin’ plantation if he was going to be living here all by his lonesome? Dan’s timing sucked the big one.
Decisions, decision, decisions.
But first, for some reason known only to God and St. Jude, he felt the need to talk to Fleur about all this.
Chapter Five
Lone Ranger to the rescue . . .
Fleur needed to talk with Aaron.
But not about his apparent midday hookup with some blonde in New Orleans, as Tante Lulu kept harping about on the way back to her cottage.
“That boy is gettin’ on my last nerve.”
“Whoo-ee, he is in a heap of trouble. Wonder when he last went ta confession?”
“Didja see that floozy splattered all over him like honey on a hot rock?”
“I think she was lickin’ his ear.”
“Why dint you jist whack her with yer shoppin’ bag fer skunkin’ yer man? Oh, I know he ain’t yer man yet. Give it time. Why are ya lookin’ cross-eyed at me?”
“I been thinkin’ that the fool needs ta put a ring on yer finger, but mebbe you better put a ring in his nose, instead. Tee-hee-hee!”
All this chatter passed over Fleur, who had bigger troubles than Aaron LeDeux and his love life, or Chatty Cathy in a Zsa Zsa Gabor wig (Don’t ask!) and a glittery shirt with a padded bra. Why hadn’t Fleur insisted to Tante Lulu that they go into the nondescript thrift shop in Houma to buy Fleur’s much-needed wardrobe? Why had Fleur succumbed to Tante Lulu’s urging that they try the new consignment shop in New Orleans?
Now, it was too late.
A few moments ago, out in broad daylight, on the busy New Orleans street, she’d seen a nightmare vision from her past.
And he’d seen her, too.
Ten years might have passed since she’d been in the presence of the creep, but she’d never forget Miguel Vascone, a member of the Mexican mob who worked with the Dixie Mafia on sex trafficking. It was Miguel who’d tricked her, a fourteen-year-old runaway, into accompanying him to his “safe house,” which turned out to be not safe at all.
Yes, she took risks all the time, especially when on a Magda mission. Like that time in the New Orleans strip club. But she was always part of a team, and their risks were minimal. Or so she’d thought. For the most part, she’d remained hidden in the remote convent, where she should be now.
How could this have happened to her?
Miguel had been one of her pimps during those six bad years as she’d been rotated from one Mexican city to another, and then occasionally to resort areas (the circuit sometimes referred to as the “Border Cha-Cha Pipeline”), places where Miguel’s father, Santos Vascone, the leader of a powerful drug cartel, owned mansions-turned-prisons for the young prostitutes.
It had been Miguel who’d been knocked over the head with a baseball bat and left for dead in Acapulco when she’d been rescued by a team of Street Apostles and Magdas ten years ago. And she’d been the one wielding the bat left out in the hall by one of the brothel guards. The Street Apostles and Magdas didn’t carry weapons.
Apparently Miguel hadn’t died.
As she peeled out of the parking lot onto Royal Street in Tante Lulu’s hard-to-miss lavender convertible, she’d seen in the rearview mirror that Miguel had at first run after her vehicle, bu
t then stopped and appeared to be making note of the license plate, jotting it down on his hand with a pen or marker or something. Any chance of his not recognizing her were nil.
Oh Lord! Was her ten years of convent safety ended now? Surely, Miguel and his cohorts would have no interest in a woman her age. They much preferred young girls for their clients. But he would want her back to punish her for leaving, and for the injuries he’d incurred.
This was bad. First of all, if he was able to trace the license plate to Tante Lulu’s address, not only was she in danger, but Tante Lulu would be, too. If she went back to the convent, Miguel might be able to track her there; then, the nuns would be in danger. Not just that, but the whole Magda mission in rescuing girls would be jeopardized.
She couldn’t go to the police. Not without discussing it with the Street Apostles or the Magdas. Even then, she had no way of locating Miguel, other than saying he was in New Orleans. And then she would be revealing the activities of the Street Apostles and Magdas, which was a no-no, even for law enforcement.
What to do? What to do?
She needed to talk to someone, and for some reason the person who came to mind was Aaron LeDeux.
“What’s the matter with you, girl?” Tante Lulu asked when they got back to the cottage. “You’re as nervous as a porcupine in a balloon factory, and ya drove so fast back here that I practic’ly got whiplash.” While she talked, she took off her Zsa Zsa Gabor wig and picked road bugs out of the blonde strands.
Fleur explained briefly and told a horrified Tante Lulu that she would give her more details later. She went into the bathroom where she threw up in the toilet, rinsed out her mouth, then straightened with resolve. No time for a pity party.
When she went into the living room, Fleur’s eyes about bugged out when she saw what Tante Lulu was busy doing at the kitchen table, which was visible through the archway, but she would address that later. Instead, she went out to the porch to make her phone call.
“Aaron?”
“Fleur? I was just about to call you.”
“You were?”
“Yeah. About that scene back in the city—”
“Never mind about that.”
“But you should know, that the woman you saw with me wasn’t a girlfriend, or anything like that. She was just a . . . business acquaintance.”
Fleur laughed. “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”
“Seriously. She’s with the FAA, the Federal Aviation Administration. Luc and I met with the agency people this morning. I had lunch with her after my meeting.”
“A liquid lunch?”
“On her part, not mine.”
“Aaron, I don’t care about your women. I thought you understood that.”
“You called me,” he said, clearly offended.
“Not to berate you over your personal life.”
“Anyhow, what you saw . . . that wasn’t the reason I was going to call you, not the main reason. Something has come up involving my brother, and I need a second opinion.”
“From me?” she asked with surprise.
“An objective outsider.”
That sounded cold, but she couldn’t really be offended when she’d pretty much wanted the same thing from him. “Can you come over to Tante Lulu’s? I need to talk to you, too.”
“You sound frightened.”
“I am.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I’d rather discuss it in person.”
He sighed, then agreed, “I’ll be over in an hour. Are you okay in the meantime?”
“Yes.”
“Is Tante Lulu with you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I sense something in your voice. What is the old lady doing?”
“Putting bullets in her gun.”
He said the F word under his breath. “Do you have a weapon, too?”
“No, although I wield a great bat, if I can find one. Honestly, I feel like Annie Oakley’s sidekick. A Grandma Moses version of Annie Oakley.”
“What does that make me?”
“The Lone Ranger?”
He paused before saying, “Hi ho, Silver pickup truck.”
Just when he thought she was out of reach, she reached out . . .
The Lone Ranger arrived in his silver pickup truck a half hour later. Aaron had probably ruined the shocks on his practically new vehicle, barreling over the rutted country road.
Jumping out to the driveway, he almost tripped over Tante Lulu’s pet alligator. He gave the reptile a dirty look and said, “Don’t even think about it! I’m carrying, and I’m in a bad mood.” Useless opened his huge mouth, and Aaron could swear he yawned. So much for Aaron’s threat! Taking no chances, Aaron unlocked the trash barrel that held about fifty-five gallons of Cheez Doodles, and tossed a few handfuls to the beast. The gator let out a little roar, as if to say, “Thanks, bozo!”
When he walked around to the back of the cottage, he saw Fleur sitting on a rocker, sipping at a glass of iced sweet tea. Through a window, he could see Tante Lulu inside, puttering around in her kitchen. The smell of some spicy food wafted out, a dish involving seafood. With everything so calm and natural, where was the danger?
“That was quick,” she said.
“You made it sound urgent.”
She didn’t claim any different, which caused the fine hairs to rise on the back of his neck.
He sank down into a rocker and looked at her more closely. Her dark hair was in a windblown, messy ponytail, probably from riding in the convertible, and the skin of her face and arms was developing a warm suntan, also probably from riding in the open air. She was wearing the same clothes she’d had on earlier—white, stretchy, knee-length pants, along with an oversize New Orleans Saints T-shirt. She’d mentioned the other day that she had to rely on left-behind apparel at Tante Lulu’s until she had a chance to replenish her almost nonexistent wardrobe. Fashion was not a priority while residing at the Magda convent. Thus the trip into New Orleans today to the used clothing shop, he supposed.
He stiffened, feeling an odd twinge of something—not anger, not pity, but something in between—that she had to borrow clothing or buy used. If she was his . . . well, never mind. That was a road he shouldn’t—couldn’t—go down right now.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“You made it sound important.”
“It is.” She set her glass on a side table and clenched her hands together, almost like she was praying. “I saw Miguel Vascone today in New Orleans.”
“Who is Miguel Vascone?”
“The most vile, evil, perverted . . .” She inhaled and exhaled to calm herself, then began to explain, “When I was fourteen years old, on my birthday, I ran away from home. Not for the first time. But on that particular day, I was hanging around with some friends near the bus station in New Orleans. It was a good place for panhandling tourists coming into town. All the kids did it. Sometimes we made enough to buy a fast-food meal. Other times, we’d hit pay dirt and make enough to party. Innocent stuff, especially compared to what kids do today.”
He waited, sensing that she needed to tell this story in her own way. Questions would come later. Like what was so bad about her home life? And how had an underage girl gotten from Bayou Black to the Big Easy? Why hadn’t she been in school?
“Miguel was young and good-looking. He couldn’t have been more than twenty at that time. My girlfriend, Francine Fontaine, and I were contemplating whether we had enough nerve to buy bus tickets to actually leave town. We always had big dreams of running off to Nashville where we would become country music stars. Usually, we just ran away for a day or two before returning home and having our back ends blistered before trying again later. My daddy had a belt he called Big Ben. Frannie’s father preferred kicking, with steel-toed boots.”
He was as horrified by the coolness with which she spoke of the abuse. Sensing she wouldn’t want to delve into the details of her family at this time, he homed in on something else she??
?d said. “You mentioned Nashville . . . do you have musical talent?”
“Not really, although Frannie was good on the guitar, and I sang sometimes. We busked for cash donations. Our best duo was to that old Patsy Cline song, ‘Crazy.’ Yeah, that’s what we were. Crazy, and dumb as dirt.” She paused, deep in some memory.
“Go on,” he encouraged.
“Miguel told us that he had two motel rooms nearby, one of them empty since his buddy had to go home suddenly. He said we could stay there for the night. And guess what? He just happened to know a guy in Nashville looking for backup singers for a music video being made by Garth Brooks. I know, I know, how could we be so gullible? But Frannie and I had bad home lives, and this guy was being so nice.” She shrugged. “Bottom line, we were drugged, and when we woke up a day, or maybe two, later, we were in some house in Mexico with a bunch of other kidnapped girls. At first, we didn’t understand. But we soon learned. Oh, did we learn!”
“Ah, Fleur,” he rasped out over the lump in his throat, reaching out a hand for hers.
“No!” She moved her arm so he couldn’t touch her. “I’m not telling you this because I want your pity.”
“So, you ran into a guy in New Orleans today. And you recognized him from fifteen—sixteen—years ago?” he asked skeptically.
“There’s more. Miguel’s father is a big honcho with a Mexican drug cartel, or he used to be before he was murdered by some other competing cartel. Miguel and his older brother Juan were in charge of the prostitution side of the business. I saw a lot of Miguel over those six years of hell.” She shivered.
Aaron barely restrained himself from yanking her over and onto his lap, and hugging the fear right out of her.
Tears filled her eyes, and stung his own eyes, too.
“Testers were sent in to pretend to rescue a girl. If she was cooperative, she was punished in the most horrible ways. I can’t even speak about that. Bottom line, I learned to trust no one.”
Aaron had a feeling she’d fallen for the “tester” ruse. Probably more than once. No wonder she had trust issues!
“When I was rescued, along with five other girls, I hit Miguel over the head with a baseball bat. Hard! His skull was bashed in and there was so much blood. I thought he was dead. Apparently not. I’ve since adopted the Magda’s philosophy about nonviolence, but at that time, I wasn’t thinking. Just reacting. No excuse, but . . .” She shrugged.