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Bayou Whispers PROLOGUE
PROLOGUE31 October 2005Orleans Parish, LouisianaON HALLOWEEN NIGHTthat year, no little ghosts or goblins wandered the streets in search of candy. No laughter rang out in what was left of the Lower 9th Ward neighborhood. Two months after Katrina had ravaged this place, it still resembled a war zone, covered in debris and stagnant pools of foul-smelling water from the levee breach.As midnight approached, a young teenager—naked, dirty, covered in mosquito bites, and with a nasty leg wound wrapped in crusted-over grey rags—stumbled from a copse of trees. She was thin, so very thin, weighing barely eighty pounds.The muddy and cracked streets before her sat dark and empty; human detritus littered the roads and yards, and the skeletons of ruined homes bore unintelligible spray paint that looked more like the desperate scratching of a fluorescent wild beast than symbols from a nameless insurance company or traumatized recovery workers.It was a city of the dead, a city of the
Bayou Whispers ONE
ONEPresent DaySt. Dismas ParishTHE AIR FELT THICK,and Curtis Jones always had trouble breathing this time of year. The rain had followed the sunset, but it couldn’t wash away the humidity of summer. The moisture in the air hung like damp towels, causing Jones to work harder for each breath. It might have been the after-effects of Desert Storm. Or the cigarettes. Or maybe it was the fact he was on the downslope toward sixty. For whatever reason, he should have been at home, taking it easy with a bourbon in hand and a sizzling steak fresh off the grill on a paper plate. Or maybe watching the news. Or one of those Lifetime movies Georgina used to like so much.He should have been doing anything but driving his classic 1987 Grand National T-Type at seventy-plus miles per hour on the slick tarmacadam of Route 21 South while being chased by two sheriff’s deputies in a couple of Ford Explorers. But such was the life of a criminal who dipped his wick in the territory run by Majo
Bayou Whispers TWO
TWOBrooklyn Heights, New YorkEarlier that dayJEANNINE LARUE STOODoutside Stanley’s brownstone, shaking in the warm summer rain, holding a useless umbrella ... She was so upset she hadn’t even tried to protect her hair from the incessant drops. The result being that the previous $200 straightening process on her thick, black locks had turned to sodden curls. Trying to fit into the look of the otherwise all-white law firm where she worked was a job in and of itself. Stanley had suggested she’d be more “accepted” with straight hair. Fuck him.Fuck all of them.She had been in courtrooms and jailhouses with murderers, rapists, and some of the evilest human trash the city of New York had ever known. None of them had ever fazed her in the slightest. “Ice Queen” is what the good ole’ boys in the office called her behind her back. Her friends called her the same thing to her face.She liked making the white patriarchy nervous. She liked being the Ice Queen.But St
Bayou Whispers THREE
THREESt. Dismas Parish Sheriff’s OfficeInterview Room #2THE ROOM WASsparse and smelled of old cigarettes and sweat. A worn table, chipped, with the word “fuck” scratched in its surface an impressive number of times, stood between the hand-cuffed man facing the two-way mirror and the man with his back to those watching and listening. A single dented lamp hung over the table, casting shadows along the walls and on the stained ceiling tiles. The room was supposed to intimidate. The room was supposed to scare those brought into it. For Curtis Jones, the room reminded him of his past. He smiled at the thought.The former cop had a dozen cuts and abrasions that had been hastily bandaged. The bump on his forehead throbbed, and he knew he’d have two black eyes by morning, but he had somehow miraculously survived.Jones rubbed the tangled hair of his goatee. The old man with matted long hair that he watched in the mirror did the same. When did I get so old?He shifted in hi
Bayou Whispers FOUR
FOURDelta flight 2504En route to Louis Armstrong International AirportAFTER THE CAB RIDE, Jeannine was barely able to make the Delta lounge before breaking down with a sob. A fellow flier took pity on her and bought her a martini. Jeannine should have said no, but she was shaking so hard all she could do was nod her head. She should have said no to the next three martinis, as well.Jeannine had been sober since college—no booze, no pills. She had to give it to Stanley. With his help she had learned to deal with the horrors of her past without self-medicating.Stanley would be so disappointed in her right now. She felt that old familiar shame rising as bile in her throat.She made the ladies room in time to empty the contents of her stomach. When her flight was called, she staggered out of the stall, only to have another woman look at her sideways and tutloudly.Jeannine ignored her.She washed her face, rinsed her mouth, and stumbled onto the concourse. She didn’t re
Bayou Whispers FIVE
FIVEGreenwood Cemetery Caretaker’s CottageNew OrleansTHE “SAFE PLACE”was a cemetery.One of the krewe—Richard “Red Rooster” Romain, a black Baptist with a penchant for the occult—worked as the caretaker and lived in the small cottage nestled between the stone and marble above-ground graves.“The neighbors don’t put up much of a fuss,” he’d once said when asked why he liked living surrounded by the dead. But Jones knew the truth had to do more with the former Ranger’s interest in Voodoo, than it did with peace and quiet.A three-legged cat let out a loud “meow” as Curtis entered the dimly lit cottage. The place smelled of fried sausage and peppers, and the growl from his stomach reminded him the last time he’d had something to eat was a cold slice of pizza earlier that day.“Rooster!” Jones called. “Hey, Roo!” He deliberately made a lot of noise as the old man of his krewe had a blown eardrum from the war. Probably only one of a handful of soldiers whose Purple Heart was
Bayou Whispers SIX
SIXLouis Armstrong International AirportNew OrleansAN ASIAN-LOOKINGflight attendant—a woman too young to be working full-time, in Jeannine’s opinion—sat with the shaken attorney as the rest of the passengers disembarked. “It was only a nightmare,” she told the young attendant. “Too many drinks before getting on board. I’ll be fine in a minute. Honestly, you don’t have to stay with me.” “It’s not a problem,” said the Delta cheerleader with a toothy smile. “Gets me out of picking up other people’s booger rags stuffed in the seat cushions.”Jeannine’s stomach lurched. “Nice,” was all she could say without grabbing an airsick bag.The last passenger—an old man with a cane—finally exited the aircraft.“I’m okay,” said Jeannine to the attendant. “Really. I can just go grab my bag and get a cab to my hotel—”“Jeannine LaRue?”A short man with a buzz cut appeared. He wore a cheap suit under a damp trench coat and stood flanked by two uniformed cops. The three of them block
Bayou Whispers SEVEN
SEVENFebruary 2006WGNO Temporary Studio Outside the Louisiana Superdome“DON’T BE NERVOUS,”said Stanley with a reassuring smile. “You’ve done TV before. I’ll be with you the whole time. Look at me if you get nervous, okay?”“I’ll be fine, Uncle Stanley,” said fourteen-year-old Jeannine. “You worry too much.”“The people want an update on you,” continued Stanley as if she hadn’t spoken. “Talk about your new prosthetic. And don’t forget to mention the charity event next week. That will lead right into the announcement of my new talk show.”“I know, Uncle Stanley!”“And don’t call me “uncle” on the air, okay? Might give people the wrong impression, got it?”Jeannine nodded.“Say you’ve got it.”She sighed. “I’ve got it, Stanley.”“That’s my girl,” he said, as he put his arm around her shoulders.“One minute, Dr. Bernstein,” said the news director.JBack in the make-shift green room, Curtis Jones, in his dress uniform, paced nervously while watching the broadcast. He
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