The Heavens Rise

the story of Marshall Ferriot’s murder was too impossible to be true, and that the real explanation was far from ordinary, and in that moment it would be as if Marshall’s ghost had floated up out of his comatose body and whispered in Nikki’s delicate little ear: I’m coming for you, bitch. I know what you did to me and I’m coming for you. But first, I’m going to destroy everything you ever loved.

He was walking briskly down the alleyway toward the street, reaching for the notecard in his front pocket on which he’d written Anthem Landry’s address, when he noticed his ring was gone. Marshall retraced his steps, but the brush alongside the house was cut back, the dirt exposed and visible, and there was no tiny glint of gold anywhere he looked. The ring he’d lost wasn’t some nondescript piece of generic jewelry either.

He’d purchased the little beauty on Chamberland Island, the same day he’d left Allen Shire’s body to rot. He’d walked the length of the island before he’d reached the bed-and-breakfast at the other end. There, shadowed by oaks and just a stone’s throw from the plantation house that played host to honeymooning couples, Marshall had come across a tiny shack that turned out to be a gift shop. It was owned by the daughter of the woman who ran the bed-and-breakfast, and the dusty glass cases were full of custom-made jewelry fashioned from found objects native to the island. And those objects had included the carcasses of water moccasins. The ring he’d purchased and worn faithfully ever since had been a gold-dipped rib from a cottonmouth. And now it was gone. In fact, he had no recollection of seeing it on his hand after leaving Beau Chene that morning.

And that was bad. That was very, very bad. Because it wasn’t just any ring. It was literally one of a kind. And if he’d left it behind at Beau Chene . . . well, then, the invisible hand that assembled his perfect little imaginary murder plot wouldn’t be so invisible after all.

Hovering just inside the alleyway, Marshall rested his hand against his pants pocket and the address inside. He stilled his panic by reminding himself of his power and of its great depth. As he decided what to do next, he assured himself that he was entitled to act with as much patience and wisdom as the God that had given him his incredible gift.

19

Ben Broyard?”

He’d only been home a few minutes when his phone rang. He’d expected Anthem, with some desperate question about the basics of English-language composition. But the woman who’d just said his name didn’t sound familiar, and her phone number hadn’t looked familiar either when it flashed on his iPhone’s screen. Except for the area code, 228, Bay St. Louis, a quaint coastal Mississippi town about an hour’s drive from New Orleans, close to where Katrina’s eye had made devastating landfall.

“Speaking.”

“My name’s Alison Cross. I . . . forgive me for calling on a Saturday.”

“It’s no problem at all, Ms. Cross. How can I help you today?”

What he heard was the nervousness of a woman with a good story to tell, a story that was tearing her apart, so he padded to his desk, grabbed a pen and put his earpiece in, all without missing more than a few syllables of the woman’s stammers.

“It’s my husband, you see— Oh, Christ. I sound like a woman in some movie. I just can’t believe I— He’s missing. He’s been missing for almost a month now, and I just— Okay. Maybe I should start over.”

“No. Please. Keep going.”

“I still get the paper, you see. Your paper, I mean. Jeffrey and I—” Jeffrey Cross, Ben scratched onto his pad. Vaguely familiar, but only vaguely. “—we lived in New Orleans up till just a few years ago and so I still subscribe to Kingfisher because it makes me feel connected still, I guess. Anyway . . .”

“Your husband? Jeffrey?”

“Yes. When I saw your name . . . that article you wrote about the cold storage facility that got shut down in New Orleans East . . . Well, I just thought that maybe . . . Do you remember my husband?”

“Honestly, I don’t, Mrs. Cross.”

“Well, of course not, it was so long ago, and I feel terrible bringing it all up now. I certainly don’t want to make my trouble yours. Not after all these years. But I just thought, what with the connection and all—”

“What connection would that be, Mrs. Cross?”

“I’ve told you he’s missing, right? My husband.”

“Yes. You have.”

“You must hear stories like this all the time. Husband goes missing, wife insists he wouldn’t leave her. I mean, you probably think I’m as crazy as the police. But maybe there’s one . . .”

Truck brakes hissed out front, and a large shadow fell across his front drapes. He padded to the window as Alison Cross continued, keeping his footsteps as quiet as he could.

“ . . . You see, I wasn’t the love of his life. I mean, we were happy but I know Millie was the real . . . I mean, she was the one he—”

“Millie?”

When he pulled back the edge of the drape, he saw a giant pickup truck with a small motorboat attached to its tow hitch, and sitting behind the wheel was Marissa Hopewell Powell. She saw him peering out at her, and punched the horn lightly. Ben just stood there wondering why his boss, who had been on her way to a good drunk just a few hours earlier, when she’d left him in that dive bar with Anthem, was now sitting in front of his apartment in someone’s else truck, towing someone else’s boat.

“Millie Delongpre,” said the woman on the other end of the line.

Ben was too stunned to respond at first. He let the drape fall back into place. Marissa punched the horn in protest.

“I’m sorry. Did you say—”

“Millie Delongpre. Yes. You see, she and my husband, they were together before she met Noah and, well, Jeffrey always carried a torch for her. He even talked to her in his sleep . . . Jesus . . .” For a few seconds, he wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying. “I’m throwing all of this at you at once.”

“Your husband is missing.” Outside, Marissa honked the horn. “And he used to be involved with Millie Delongpre.”

“Yes, and I remembered how close you were with her daughter and I thought maybe there was a chance you would help me.”

The horn honked again. Ben threw open his front door and lifted an index finger to request silence. In response, Marissa shouted, “Hot tip, Uptown Girl. Get in!”

“Mrs. Cross, are you saying you believe your husband made contact with Millie Delongpre?”

“No!” she gasped. “No, no, no. I just—I don’t know what to believe, to be honest with you. The police are so dead set on convincing me that my husband planned to leave me, I just . . . I’ve been thinking of any explanation. I mean, isn’t this how it works in the movies? They tell you you’re crazy so many times eventually they drive you insane.”

“Sometimes,” Ben answered.

“It’s just . . . what with the connection between you and the Delongpres, well, it was something, you know? Something I could try.” Now the woman actually was crying. And Marissa was honking the horn like they were a half hour late for a Saints game.

“Mrs. Cross, I’m going to call you back, okay? And I mean that. I am. I’m just in the middle of something right now and I want to be able to give you my undivided attention.”

“Sure,” she whispered. “Of course. Do you need my number—”

“I have it on caller ID. Is this the number you’d like me to call?”

“Yes. Sure. That’s great. Thank you. I really— I appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

He hung up on her, then bounded down his front steps. “What is wrong with you?” he cried.