ramshackle bait and tackle shop also sold sandwiches and snacks, and as Dave tied off at the private dock, he spotted Latrell Bingham dumping bags of ice into the washtubs Marsilius used to chill soft drinks and beer. The kid looked up, grinned and waved to Dave, then went back to his work.
Dave lived just down the road in an old two-story bungalow with screened-in porches and trellises of climbing roses. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside, but the place suited him fine. Except for at night, and then he missed the noises of the city. The scream of a siren heading across Canal Street toward the hospital, or the music and drunken laughter spilling from the bars and strip clubs on Bourbon Street. But what he missed most of all was the hum of alcohol as it coursed through his bloodstream, numbing the pain and guilt, giving him a split second of peace before the rage took over.
The bayou gave him too much time to think. Sitting out on his porch after dark, with the moon glinting off the water and the croak of bullfrogs and crickets echoing up from the swamp, Dave would start to remember the way Ruby’s eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, and how she’d cling to his neck when he galloped her off to bed. The way Claire would look up at him when he returned, and quietly put away her book.
He remembered everything, and yet at times, it seemed to Dave that he had a hard time calling up their faces and the sound of their voices. The old demons would start to prod him then. Alcohol had always given him a moment of clarity along with the peace. If he stopped at one drink or even two, he would be able to remember them properly. The problem was, he’d never known when to quit. A couple of whiskeys would turn into a two-day bender that left him shaky and sick and wondering why he didn’t just hole up somewhere and die.
He didn’t want to go back to those days, no matter how lonely the nights were out here. New Orleans was temptation. New Orleans was Claire and Ruby and a life Dave was never going to get back.
Stepping up on the porch, he fished his house key from a flowerpot and let himself in. The shades were drawn and the house was still dim and cool. He’d converted the small living space off the entrance into his office, and the only other rooms on the bottom floor were an eat-in kitchen and a half bath out back. His current setup didn’t allow for entertaining, but that didn’t matter much to Dave because he rarely had company. And whenever someone did stop by—usually Marsilius or one of the neighbors—they always sat out on the porch, where they could catch a breeze off the water.
Rolling up the old-fashioned shades to allow in some light, Dave walked into the kitchen to put on another pot of coffee before heading upstairs to shower. By the time he came back down, the sweet smell of chicory filled the house. He dug through the coat closet off his office until he located the box of files he wanted, and then carried it out to the porch. Settling down in a padded rocker, he lifted the lid from the box and removed one of the folders.
Before he left the department, he’d made copies of the Savaria case files, and thumbing through the reports and statements now was like sifting through a pile of bad memories. So many things had gone wrong in Dave’s life that he didn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on the loss of his livelihood. But he’d loved being a cop. It was the only thing he’d ever wanted to do. If someone had told him that he’d end his career by destroying evidence in a homicide investigation, he would have called that person a liar. But he’d done that and worse. His daughter, his wife, his job—all gone in the blink of an eye because of one bad decision. One weak moment that had changed the course of his entire life.
The day Ruby had gone missing, he’d let Angelette talk him into drinks after their watch, and the next thing he knew, they were checking into a seedy motel off the old Airline Highway. The tension had been building between them for months, and a part of him had known it was only a matter of time before he succumbed.
What he’d wanted from Angelette didn’t have anything to do with the way he felt about Claire, but she wouldn’t believe that. No woman would. Dave had still loved Claire then as much as he ever did. Maybe even more. But Angelette was like a poison in his bloodstream, and he only knew one way to get her out of his system.
Afterward, he’d left her fuming at the motel while he drove home to his wife and kid. And he liked to think that if things had turned out differently, he would never have put himself in that situation again. But he couldn’t be sure. Back then he’d been reckless with the things he cared about the most.
Claire’s call had come as he’d peeled out of the parking lot, and all he could think on his frantic drive home— and for days, months, years afterward—was that his daughter had been kidnapped while he’d been holed up in some motel room with another woman.
He’d never told Claire about that day, but she knew. When she hadn’t been able to reach him right away, she’d sensed something was wrong. He could see it in her eyes. He could hear it in her voice every time she spoke to him. Claire knew, and she blamed him for not being there to protect their daughter. She knew and she would never be able to forgive him.
And because of his moral frailty they’d lost their daughter forever.
Pain seared through his chest and he glanced up from the file to stare off across the water, letting the glide of a blue heron capture his attention, giving him a moment’s reprieve before the suffocating guilt settled back in his lungs. And with it came the longing.
All he had to do was walk over to Marsilius’s place and take a bottle of beer out of the tub. For a moment, Dave let himself imagine the twist of the bottle cap between his fingers, the taste of the icy liquid in his throat and the soothing numbness that would come later when he moved on to the hard stuff. His need was so great that he actually got up from his chair and opened the screen door.
Marsilius stood on the other side. Dave hadn’t even seen him come up, but now he felt annoyed and relieved at the same time by his uncle’s unexpected appearance.
Peering around Dave, Marsilius glanced at the papers scattered on the floorboards, where the folder had slid from his lap when he stood. “You going somewhere?”
“Just got up to let you in,” Dave lied. He moved back so that Marsilius could step up on the porch. “What’s up?”
“Thought I’d come over and make sure you’re okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
Marsilius shrugged, but his blue gaze was direct and slightly accusing. “You were out pretty late last night. Must have been after two when I heard you come in.”
“You keeping tabs on me?”
“What if I am?”
“Well, you can relax.” Dave let the spring snap the screen door closed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I drove into New Orleans to visit a sick friend.”
“A sick friend, huh?” Marsilius looked as if he wasn’t buying it. “This sick friend wouldn’t happen to be named Jim Beam, I don’t reckon.”
“I wasn’t drinking, Marsilius.”
“Never said you were.” But Dave saw a flicker of relief on his uncle’s face as he took out a white handkerchief and mopped the back of his neck. He sat down heavily in the rocker and stretched out his bad knee. “Gonna be a hot one today. Barely eight o’clock and it must be close to ninety.”
“It’s the end of July. What do you expect?”
“Heat gets to me worse every year, seems like. Maybe I’ll sell my place and head north one of these days.”
North to the Creasy clan was anything above I-10. “You’re not going anywhere, old man. You’d freeze your ass off up north.”
Marsilius grunted as he leaned over and absently rubbed his knee. He was a big, muscular man with grizzled hair and a broad face weathered from the years he’d spent under a sweltering Gulf Coast sun. He wore faded jeans, a Mardi Gras T-shirt from twenty years back and a pair of old Converse high-tops he’d bought at the Salvation Army.
Dave pulled out a lawn chair, but didn’t sit. “You want some coffee?”
“I wouldn’t say no.” Marsilius folded his hands behind his head and stared up at the drowsy ceiling fan. “I heard the boat go out earlier,” he called after Dave. “How’s she running?”
“Purring like a kitten.” Dave poured the coffee, then carried both cups out to the porch. Marsilius had picked up one of the folders from the box and was glancing through the contents. “That’s private business,” Dave told him.
“Saw the name on the box and couldn’t help myself.” Marsilius exchanged the folder for the coffee. “Why you hanging on to those files anyway, son? That was a bad time for you back then. You’re not doing yourself any favors
