Crossroads Shadowland (6 page)

"Continue," Frank said.

"That's pretty much it." A
lengthy silence ensued during which time she
fidgeted under their bold stares. "Oh, all right. I said I
found the burial records of the soldiers who might possibly be
responsible for the hauntings."

Carmen bolted from the table and paced. "Are
they buried in Lafayette?"

"Some, yes," she whispered.

"Good, God, Marsha," her
husband screeched. "Why didn't you mention
this before?"

Frank's heart went out to
her when she burst into tears. "Who would
believe such a theory? I don't believe it myself." She
glanced up. "Do you
believe it's possible,
Mr. McGuire?"

From Frank's perspective,
their distress seemed genuine, their turmoil heartfelt. He breathed
an internal sigh of relief, hated discovering a parent had
been intricately involved in the disappearance of
their own child. He'd seen it happen all too often, motivated by
financial stress, spousal jealousy or sexual
exploitation.

"I guess anything is
possible, but we're jumping to conclusions. I want to
stress again, don't hold anything back from
me."

"Well, I'm not buying it."
Carmen stopped her harried steps and faced
them. "I think it more likely we'll receive a ransom
note."

Frank had done his homework
and knew the question would arise.
Since
the Burroughs owned a chain of hardware stories stretching from
New
Orleans to South Carolina, and the
Chapman's descended from ancestors who
raised Arabian thoroughbreds, Frank considered the
possibility at the onset. Now, it seemed only remotely possible, if
not improbable.

"Money has always been an incentive in
kidnappings," Dave said.

"I think contact would have
been made by now." Frank wanted to give
them something to hang on to without letting on the case had
just taken a drastic turn. Or perhaps it had taken the turn long
ago and he just needed
confirmation.

Marsha's perceptive brown eyes narrowed. "Do
you know something you're not telling us, Frank?"

"Nothing concrete. At this point let's call
it a hunch."

"What does that mean?" Mark asked
wide-eyed.

"Nothing more than my experience in the
field."

A fresh flurry of tears
rolled down Marsha's face when she reached out
for Carmen's hand. "If whoever took the boys doesn't want
money, we have to
assume a sexual predator
might be behind this."

Carmen's sob revealed her horror.

"Let's not jump to
conclusions; allow Frank to do his job." The anguish in
Dave's eyes belied his words.

Frank knew while they might
have considered the possibility a molester
was involved they hadn't actually said the words aloud until
now. "Any
success in talking the police
out of the shoe and flashlight?"

Mark shook his head.
"Evidence." The man handed him recent photos of
the boys and a list of friends and places they hung
out.

After spending the better
part of an hour with the parents discussing
possibilities and strategy, Frank excused himself with a
promise to be in touch
the following day.
At this point, he almost wished he was dealing with a
person motivated by financial gain. At least he'd
know what to expect in the
ensuing
days.

To tell Brent and Charlie's
parents he believed a ghost
had
snatched
their boys,
would result in questions he couldn't deal with right now,
much
less answer. Carmen's words ran
through his mind, '
Well, I'm not buying
it
.' He
had a
sinking feeling that before too long, they'd all have to buy
it.

And like it or not, eat, breathe and live
with it.

Chapter Four

Since the brochure at Hotel
Provincial said, 'No trip to New Orleans is complete without a
visit to Pat O'Brien's,' Frank's feet couldn't transport him
there fast enough. At their outdoor patio, he'd
order a red rum blend called
the Hurricane
as soon as he arrived. After his horrific afternoon, perhaps
he
should have ordered the infamous Hand
Grenade—the ingredients a closely-
guarded
national secret.

Frank grabbed a table to
the left of their signature fountain, ordered, and people-watched,
hoping Rand's face would appear among the crowd.
Abandoning the Hurricane twenty minutes later,
Frank went for broke and
ordered the Hand
Grenade. A man with buff biceps and lean hips delivered the
beverage in a green plastic glass at the same
time Rand settled into a chair
across from
him.

"My meeting with Sister
Francoise smacked of a history lesson from
junior high," Rand said.

Quicker than a fly
loitering on the fringe of a spider web, the waiter
appeared and looked at Rand. "What can I bring
you?"

"I think," Rand paused and
nodded toward Frank's drink. "I'll have one
of those green things."

"Great choice." Frank put
the glass to his lips and moments later said,
"History class, huh? I assume you're talking about the
background of the
Ursuline nuns and the
property the hotel sits on?"

"Don't get me wrong; the
hours sped by and I found it all quite
fascinating."

"Before you tell me, give me a visual on
Sister Francoise."

"Okay." Rand looked off
into the distance. "You said her voice on the
phone reminded you of a little bird's? So will her
physicality. Think mighty
heart, small
toes."

"You saw her toes?"

"She wore sandals." Rand
graced him with his engaging smile. "Anyway,
picture clear, wintry blue eyes and weathered skin softened
by a roadmap of
humanitarian
crinkles."

"No long robe to go with those sandals?"

Rand shook his head. "I
never saw habits on the ones I met. Sister
Francoise sported a dark blue blazer and a denim skirt. Other
than the
religious pins on her lapels and
a gold crosses around their necks, you'd never
know the women at the Archdiocese were nuns."

"You're good. I liked the
part about the weathered skin and the wintry
blue eyes."

Rand picked up the drink
the waiter had delivered, sipped, and smacked
his lips. "I think after one Hand Grenade, wintry blue might
be bintry woo."

Frank snorted. Damn, the kid oozed charisma.
"All right, lay it on me."

"Most of what you told me
earlier was correct, with one exception. The
Order moved uptown in 1824. They don't reside in the original
convent where
records dating back to 1718
are housed. Not only is the convent the only
remaining building from the French colonial period in the
United States, but
survived the disastrous
eighteenth century fires that destroyed the rest of the
French Quarter."

"And that's significant to this case
why?"

"I seem to remember you
talking ghosts and
Close Encounters of
the
Third Kind
shit."

Frank cupped his palm and with a forward
motion said, "More."

"The story about the fire
blew me away. When all seemed lost, an
elderly nun by the name of St. Anthony climbed the stairs to
a second story
window, placed a statue of
Our Lady in the sill and prayed. At that very
instant, the wind veered and the flames were blown back over
their path of
destruction and died out."
Another thoughtful pause. "So I'm thinking nuns
and the like command Godly power. Thought it relevant if
you're dealing with
a dark
force."

"Oh, I agree." Frank
stroked his chin between his thumb and index
finger. "How receptive was our formidable Sister Francoise to
our
assessment?"

"Very. It seems she's
assisted several of the priests with exorcisms in
The Big Easy with a ninety-five percent success
rate."

"Impressive."

"Said she'll phone you
tomorrow, plans to look through some files
tonight concerning Lafayette Cemetery."

Frank tossed a twenty on
the table and signaled the waiter. "I thought
we'd head there next." When Rand frowned, he asked, "You had
other ideas?"

He pulled an envelope from
his shirt pocket and read off the names. "I
thought we'd hit Razzoo, Bourbon Street Blues and, I love the
name of this
one, the Funky
Butt."

Frank smiled. "Two
questions: Do you plan to remain standing after we
hit all those joints, and where in hell did you
get that list?"

"
No
on the first question," Rand said
emphatically, and on the second, a
little
bird with long, black sleeves told me."

"You're shitting me?"

He shook his head. "Told
you she knew a lot about the history of New
Orleans."

"I made good progress today, and soon it'll
be dark. Let's go."

"I want to hear about that
progress on the way." Rand rose from the
table and headed for the door with Frank close on his
heels.

* * * * *

Frank indulged Rand by
hitting every bar on his list, saving the best for
last. A mammoth painting of a naked woman smacked
them in the face upon
entering their last
stop on Rampart Street. Off the beaten path, but renowned for its
world-class jazz and blues, the Funky Butt seemed the perfect place
to
cap off their evening.

Against the trumpets
blaring out
When The Saints Come Marching
In
,
Rand ordered
a pitcher of beer, a basket of crawfish, and chicken strips
with
honey-mustard on the side. His eyes
heavy, his words slurred, he leaned in. "Frank, when in Greece,
talk like the Grecians."

"Stupid ass," Frank said
and shook his head. "It's when in Rome do as
the Romans do."

"Whatever. Anyway, we're in
"N'awlins, so why'd ya quit drinking three
bars back?"

"Rand, you're in
mother-fucking la-la land right now, and I
am
on a case
in N'awlins in case you forgot."

He waved him off. "Be fine once I eat."

"Oh, yeah? Just to make sure, I'll flag down
a cab when we leave here."

His question came out of
the blue. "You ever get it on in the back seat of
a taxi, McGuire?"

The waiter plopped down the
pitcher in front of Rand and hustled off
again. "We agreed not to discuss what came down before you,
remember?"

"What about what came down
before
you
?" he
shouted above the din.
Frank felt a muscle
in his jaw tic. "You want to eat those chicken strips
or wear them back to the hotel?"

"Speaking of chicken, here
it is. Thanks, man," Rand said to the waiter
and dove in. "I'm starving, so you best help yourself before
I clean house." He
passed the basket of
crawfish across the table.

Still mulling over Rand's
comment about prior partners, Frank had a
hard time dismissing images that not only summoned his
jealousy, but
stiffened his cock. He'd
never seen a man more stunning than Rand, and
everywhere they went, heads turned. Men, women, it didn't
matter; the kid's
ebony hair and
jade-spoked eyes drew long, lust-filled stares.

The three-piece band left
the stage, granting them a few precious
minutes of relative silence. The place held about seventy
patrons now, enough
to pitch the chatter
into a dull roar.

"Chicken?' Rand said
holding the basket in the air between them.
"What did come down before me?"

"Huh?" Rand cupped a hand over his ear.

"You're a prick, you know that?"

"You gotta speak up, too
much noise." Pointing to the crowd behind him,
he added, "Did you say something about your prick?" When
Frank flipped the
basket through the air
with a flick of his wrist, Rand's eyes widened. "A stupid
joke, Frank, that's all."

"Must have gone over my
head." Nearly tipping the small table over, he
came to his feet. "Party's over. Let's go."

"You're jealous, Frank?"
Another smile. "Hey, you
are
jealous."