Read Online DR13 - Last Car to Elysian Fields by James Lee Burke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Lee Burke
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Where are their parents?"
I started to climb through the fence.
"No, I'll do that. I'm sorry. I'm " She didn't finish whatever she was going to say. She ducked under the top rail of the fence and ran awkwardly onto the dock, then returned, clasping each of the children by the hand.
The children's faces were hot, angry, a bit frightened, their cheeks pooled with color.
"We didn't know we did anything wrong, Miss Theo," the little boy said.
"You shouldn't go near a lake or pond or the bayou without your mother or father. Don't you ever do this again," Theo said, and shook him.
Both of the children began to cry.
"Hey, you guys, let's get a soft drink," I said.
I took them by the hand and walked them to the drink table and asked the waiter to give each of them a Coca-Cola. Through the trees I saw Theodosha walking rapidly toward the back of her house, her arms clinched across her chest, as though the temperature had dropped thirty degrees.
I decided I'd had enough of the Lejeune family for one evening. I told Father Jimmie I'd say good night to our hosts for both of us and went to find Theodosha inside the house. I didn't have to look far. She was in the den with her father, sitting on a stuffed leather footstool beneath the mounted airplane propeller, her face in her hands. Castille Lejeune stood above her, stroking her hair, his eyes filled with pity.
Neither one of them saw me. I backed out of the doorway and joined Father Jimmie outside.
"Do you know where Merchie is?" I asked.
"He and another man went to the stables. The other guy seems to have his own Zip code," he said.
"Let's go, Father."
"I was too hard on Flannigan?"
"What do I know?" I said.
We got in my pickup truck and headed down the long driveway toward the state road. I thought the bizarre nature of my visit to the plantation home of Castille Lejeune was over. It wasn't. In the glare of flood lamps by a long white, peaked stable, Merchie Flannigan was perched on top of a fence, drinking from a bottle of Cold Duck, while a tall, gray-headed, crew-cropped, angular man in cowboy boots and western-cut slacks was lighting strings of Chinese fire crackers and throwing them in the air while a group of children screamed in delight. In the background, a half-dozen thoroughbred horses raced back and forth across a fenced pasture.
Merchie flagged me down and walked toward my truck, slightly off balance.
"Not leaving, are you?" he said.
"Looks like it. Thanks for having us out," I said.
Merchie bent down to window level to see across me-. "I'm a bum Catholic, Father. But I try," he said.
"You were in the reformatory?" Father Jimmie asked.
Merchie's face reddened. "Yeah, I guess I was."
"We'll compare stories sometime," Father Jimmie said.
The tall, crew-cropped man lit another string of firecrackers and threw it popping into the air. One of the thoroughbreds struck the fence and knocked a slat onto the grass.
"Why are you letting that guy panic those horses like that?" I said.
"That's Will Guillot. Those are his kids," Merchie replied, then seemed to look into space at the vacuity of his words. "Will does things for my father-in-law. You don't know him?"
"No."
"You should," he said.
"Why?"
"You're a police officer," he said. He leaned on his arms against the side of my truck, his eyes slightly out of focus, his breath like a wine vat.
Chapter 5.
The telephone call to Father Jimmie came on Sunday afternoon, while he was watching a pro football game on television at the rectory. It was raining, and through the window he could see the rainwater cascading off the roof, pounding the small garden he tended in the green space between the gray, back wall of the church and the alley where the sanitation service picked up the garbage.
"I need to go to confession, Father," the voice said.
"Reconciliation is scheduled every afternoon at four, except Sundays," he said.
"I need to go now."
Father Jimmie looked over his shoulder at a quarterback completing
I started to climb through the fence.
"No, I'll do that. I'm sorry. I'm " She didn't finish whatever she was going to say. She ducked under the top rail of the fence and ran awkwardly onto the dock, then returned, clasping each of the children by the hand.
The children's faces were hot, angry, a bit frightened, their cheeks pooled with color.
"We didn't know we did anything wrong, Miss Theo," the little boy said.
"You shouldn't go near a lake or pond or the bayou without your mother or father. Don't you ever do this again," Theo said, and shook him.
Both of the children began to cry.
"Hey, you guys, let's get a soft drink," I said.
I took them by the hand and walked them to the drink table and asked the waiter to give each of them a Coca-Cola. Through the trees I saw Theodosha walking rapidly toward the back of her house, her arms clinched across her chest, as though the temperature had dropped thirty degrees.
I decided I'd had enough of the Lejeune family for one evening. I told Father Jimmie I'd say good night to our hosts for both of us and went to find Theodosha inside the house. I didn't have to look far. She was in the den with her father, sitting on a stuffed leather footstool beneath the mounted airplane propeller, her face in her hands. Castille Lejeune stood above her, stroking her hair, his eyes filled with pity.
Neither one of them saw me. I backed out of the doorway and joined Father Jimmie outside.
"Do you know where Merchie is?" I asked.
"He and another man went to the stables. The other guy seems to have his own Zip code," he said.
"Let's go, Father."
"I was too hard on Flannigan?"
"What do I know?" I said.
We got in my pickup truck and headed down the long driveway toward the state road. I thought the bizarre nature of my visit to the plantation home of Castille Lejeune was over. It wasn't. In the glare of flood lamps by a long white, peaked stable, Merchie Flannigan was perched on top of a fence, drinking from a bottle of Cold Duck, while a tall, gray-headed, crew-cropped, angular man in cowboy boots and western-cut slacks was lighting strings of Chinese fire crackers and throwing them in the air while a group of children screamed in delight. In the background, a half-dozen thoroughbred horses raced back and forth across a fenced pasture.
Merchie flagged me down and walked toward my truck, slightly off balance.
"Not leaving, are you?" he said.
"Looks like it. Thanks for having us out," I said.
Merchie bent down to window level to see across me-. "I'm a bum Catholic, Father. But I try," he said.
"You were in the reformatory?" Father Jimmie asked.
Merchie's face reddened. "Yeah, I guess I was."
"We'll compare stories sometime," Father Jimmie said.
The tall, crew-cropped man lit another string of firecrackers and threw it popping into the air. One of the thoroughbreds struck the fence and knocked a slat onto the grass.
"Why are you letting that guy panic those horses like that?" I said.
"That's Will Guillot. Those are his kids," Merchie replied, then seemed to look into space at the vacuity of his words. "Will does things for my father-in-law. You don't know him?"
"No."
"You should," he said.
"Why?"
"You're a police officer," he said. He leaned on his arms against the side of my truck, his eyes slightly out of focus, his breath like a wine vat.
Chapter 5.
The telephone call to Father Jimmie came on Sunday afternoon, while he was watching a pro football game on television at the rectory. It was raining, and through the window he could see the rainwater cascading off the roof, pounding the small garden he tended in the green space between the gray, back wall of the church and the alley where the sanitation service picked up the garbage.
"I need to go to confession, Father," the voice said.
"Reconciliation is scheduled every afternoon at four, except Sundays," he said.
"I need to go now."
Father Jimmie looked over his shoulder at a quarterback completing
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