really outside and not just in her dreams. She rolled out of bed and stumbled to the window just as the doors of a police car opened and two shadowy figures dashed through the rain toward the house. Without giving herself time to think of why they might be there, she grabbed her robe from the back of a chair and put it on as she ran.
She could hear them pounding on the door before she reached the top of the stairs. As she started down, Marie appeared out of nowhere carrying a flashlight and a baseball bat.
“Marie! What’s going on?” Laurel cried.
“Don’t know, but I’m gonna find out,” Marie said. “Be careful comin’ down the stairs. The power is out.” Then she yelled through the door, “Who is it? Who’s knockin’ on the door?”
“It’s me. Harper Fonteneau!” the police chief shouted back. “Let me in, Marie. It’s an emergency.”
Marie set the bat aside and then opened the door, shining her flashlight right in his eyes.
“What wrong with you, Harper? Don’t you know it’s the middle of the night?”
Harper flinched as the lights blinded him, then pushed his way past Marie and into the foyer. From the corner of his eye, he saw movement on the stairwell and turned to look. It was the woman from town, standing midway up the stairs.
“Ma’am,” Harper said, “I need to talk to you.”
“You wait a minute!” Marie yelled, and grabbed Harper by the arm as he started up the stairs.
Harper pulled a small pink jacket from inside his coat.
“You see this? It belongs to Tommy and Cheryl Ann Moutan’s little girl, Rachelle. She’s been missing more than six hours in this storm. We need help, Marie.” He waved the jacket toward Laurel. “Can she do it? Is she like Marcella?”
“What’s wrong?” Laurel asked.
Harper ran up the stairs as Laurel was coming down. Impulsively, he thrust the jacket in her hands.
“Please…please, lady. Can you see her? Can you tell us where she is?”
All she saw was a tiny pink jacket with the name Barbie embroidered on the front and then the room went dark. She fell backward onto the stairs with the jacket still clutched in her hands. She didn’t see Marie rush toward her or feel the police chief’s hands as he caught her just before her head hit the stair rail.
“Mommy…I want my mommy.”
The small, high-pitched voice that came out of Laurel’s mouth raised goose bumps on Harper Fonteneau’s arms.
“Holy Mother of God,” he said softly, and made the sign of the cross as he stared down at the woman on the stairs.
“Where are you?” he asked. “Where are you, Rachelle?”
“I’m afraid,” Laurel cried in that same little singsong voice. “The gators are gonna eat me up.”
Then she started to weep. At that point, Harper began to shake. He didn’t want to go tell Tommy and Cheryl Ann Moutan that their baby girl was dead. He didn’t want to have to recover her in bits and pieces floating in the bayous.
“Sweet Jesus…no,” he muttered, and stifled the urge to throw up.
Laurel flinched, then threw her arms above her head as if covering her face.
“Daddy…Daddy…the water is comin’ over the stump.”
Harper gasped. Wherever the child was, she was in danger of drowning, which had to mean she was somewhere in the bayous. This wasn’t good, because most of the search had been conducted on dry land. He frowned, trying to remember which searchers had been assigned to the waterways, then remembered that Rachelle’s own uncle, Justin Bouvier, had gone there on his own. He turned to the deputy who’d accompanied him into the house.
“Give me your radio,” he said, pointing to the handheld two-way the deputy had on his belt. As soon as he had it, he keyed it up. “Justin…this is Chief Fonteneau. Do you read me? Over.”
There was a crackle of static; then a faint voice broke the silence there on the stairs.
“I read you, Harper. Any news? Over.”
“I’m at the Grove,” he said. “I need you to listen and
She could hear them pounding on the door before she reached the top of the stairs. As she started down, Marie appeared out of nowhere carrying a flashlight and a baseball bat.
“Marie! What’s going on?” Laurel cried.
“Don’t know, but I’m gonna find out,” Marie said. “Be careful comin’ down the stairs. The power is out.” Then she yelled through the door, “Who is it? Who’s knockin’ on the door?”
“It’s me. Harper Fonteneau!” the police chief shouted back. “Let me in, Marie. It’s an emergency.”
Marie set the bat aside and then opened the door, shining her flashlight right in his eyes.
“What wrong with you, Harper? Don’t you know it’s the middle of the night?”
Harper flinched as the lights blinded him, then pushed his way past Marie and into the foyer. From the corner of his eye, he saw movement on the stairwell and turned to look. It was the woman from town, standing midway up the stairs.
“Ma’am,” Harper said, “I need to talk to you.”
“You wait a minute!” Marie yelled, and grabbed Harper by the arm as he started up the stairs.
Harper pulled a small pink jacket from inside his coat.
“You see this? It belongs to Tommy and Cheryl Ann Moutan’s little girl, Rachelle. She’s been missing more than six hours in this storm. We need help, Marie.” He waved the jacket toward Laurel. “Can she do it? Is she like Marcella?”
“What’s wrong?” Laurel asked.
Harper ran up the stairs as Laurel was coming down. Impulsively, he thrust the jacket in her hands.
“Please…please, lady. Can you see her? Can you tell us where she is?”
All she saw was a tiny pink jacket with the name Barbie embroidered on the front and then the room went dark. She fell backward onto the stairs with the jacket still clutched in her hands. She didn’t see Marie rush toward her or feel the police chief’s hands as he caught her just before her head hit the stair rail.
“Mommy…I want my mommy.”
The small, high-pitched voice that came out of Laurel’s mouth raised goose bumps on Harper Fonteneau’s arms.
“Holy Mother of God,” he said softly, and made the sign of the cross as he stared down at the woman on the stairs.
“Where are you?” he asked. “Where are you, Rachelle?”
“I’m afraid,” Laurel cried in that same little singsong voice. “The gators are gonna eat me up.”
Then she started to weep. At that point, Harper began to shake. He didn’t want to go tell Tommy and Cheryl Ann Moutan that their baby girl was dead. He didn’t want to have to recover her in bits and pieces floating in the bayous.
“Sweet Jesus…no,” he muttered, and stifled the urge to throw up.
Laurel flinched, then threw her arms above her head as if covering her face.
“Daddy…Daddy…the water is comin’ over the stump.”
Harper gasped. Wherever the child was, she was in danger of drowning, which had to mean she was somewhere in the bayous. This wasn’t good, because most of the search had been conducted on dry land. He frowned, trying to remember which searchers had been assigned to the waterways, then remembered that Rachelle’s own uncle, Justin Bouvier, had gone there on his own. He turned to the deputy who’d accompanied him into the house.
“Give me your radio,” he said, pointing to the handheld two-way the deputy had on his belt. As soon as he had it, he keyed it up. “Justin…this is Chief Fonteneau. Do you read me? Over.”
There was a crackle of static; then a faint voice broke the silence there on the stairs.
“I read you, Harper. Any news? Over.”
“I’m at the Grove,” he said. “I need you to listen and
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