craved. “Thanks, Lonnie,” she said gently. “Some things should be left as they are,” she told Jasmine.
“This isn’t one of them.” Her tears had dried—gone as quickly as they’d come. Now she felt only a fierce determination. “Fornier might be able to help me catch a killer.”
The woman’s eyebrows knitted. “He’s already shot one. What more can he do?”
“Stop another.”
“How?”
“By providing information.”
The woman’s lips pursed stubbornly. “I’d rather he didn’t get involved. I don’t want him to go back to prison.”
Jasmine spread out her hands, palms up. “If anyone gets in trouble, it’ll be me.
I have to stop the man who kidnapped my sister.” The woman reached up to smooth the hair on the back of her son’s head, as if he were ten years old. Mentally, he probably was. “It’s always the innocent who suffer,” she said. Then she sighed. “I can’t give you an address. T-Bone doesn’t have one. From what I hear, he lives alone in the swamp somewheres, without mail service or utilities.”
Jasmine’s heart sank. “How will I find him?”
“Portsville’s very small, beb. If you go there, someone will take you to him.
And when you see him, tell him Ya-Ya Collins sent you. That might help.” She frowned. “Then again, it might not.”
“Thank you,” Jasmine said and meant it.
“Good luck findin’ your sister.”
42
Jasmine nodded, got back in her car and turned around. It seemed she was going into the swamps, after all.
Now to avoid the alligators…
The headstones were a bad omen.
After passing several waterside towns with docks that disappeared into an inky morass, which grew inkier as night fell, Jasmine entered Portsville. It was located on Bayou Lafourche at nearly the southernmost tip of Louisiana. The cemetery was right there beside the road, but it was unlike any she’d ever seen. The aboveground tombs, all painted white, glowed eerily in a foot of water—the same marshy water that lapped gently at the telephone poles running parallel to the highway.
She wondered how people down here weathered each new hurricane, each storm. It’d take a certain stubbornness to hold out, people who loved this land more than she’d ever loved a particular location. She’d always felt a bit restless. There was no mystery as to the reason, of course, but she was envious of the devotion required to fight for existence in such a place. To say, “This is my home and I’m staying put.” Judging by the small group of frame houses, most of them built on pilings, plus a single two-story hotel, two gas stations, a bait shop and a coffee shop, she guessed there were maybe fifty people taking such a stand. And she was willing to bet almost all of them were fishermen. Someone had to own the motley collection of boats bumping against the dock. With only a sliver of moon in the sky, she couldn’t see them very well, but they obviously didn’t belong to the rich and famous.
What now? She turned in to one of the gas stations, but like the other, it was closed. Should she have gone back to her hotel and set out tomorrow morning, when she could’ve gotten an earlier start?
Now that it was dark, she had no idea how she’d find Fornier out on the bayou
“somewheres.” And she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay in the tin-roofed hotel that hung over the water. Although there was nothing wrong with the hotel, except that it looked deserted.
She checked her watch. Seven-thirty. New Orleans was only an hour and a half to the northeast. She could drive back there tonight and arrive at a reasonable time. But she was hungry and exhausted, and she hated to waste another day on this search, especially if it turned out that Fornier couldn’t or wouldn’t help her.
After parking in a lot that was mostly crushed shells, she went into the hotel, where she found a big man who looked as weathered as the rickety dock she’d just passed.
“Wanna room?” The buttons on
“This isn’t one of them.” Her tears had dried—gone as quickly as they’d come. Now she felt only a fierce determination. “Fornier might be able to help me catch a killer.”
The woman’s eyebrows knitted. “He’s already shot one. What more can he do?”
“Stop another.”
“How?”
“By providing information.”
The woman’s lips pursed stubbornly. “I’d rather he didn’t get involved. I don’t want him to go back to prison.”
Jasmine spread out her hands, palms up. “If anyone gets in trouble, it’ll be me.
I have to stop the man who kidnapped my sister.” The woman reached up to smooth the hair on the back of her son’s head, as if he were ten years old. Mentally, he probably was. “It’s always the innocent who suffer,” she said. Then she sighed. “I can’t give you an address. T-Bone doesn’t have one. From what I hear, he lives alone in the swamp somewheres, without mail service or utilities.”
Jasmine’s heart sank. “How will I find him?”
“Portsville’s very small, beb. If you go there, someone will take you to him.
And when you see him, tell him Ya-Ya Collins sent you. That might help.” She frowned. “Then again, it might not.”
“Thank you,” Jasmine said and meant it.
“Good luck findin’ your sister.”
42
Jasmine nodded, got back in her car and turned around. It seemed she was going into the swamps, after all.
Now to avoid the alligators…
The headstones were a bad omen.
After passing several waterside towns with docks that disappeared into an inky morass, which grew inkier as night fell, Jasmine entered Portsville. It was located on Bayou Lafourche at nearly the southernmost tip of Louisiana. The cemetery was right there beside the road, but it was unlike any she’d ever seen. The aboveground tombs, all painted white, glowed eerily in a foot of water—the same marshy water that lapped gently at the telephone poles running parallel to the highway.
She wondered how people down here weathered each new hurricane, each storm. It’d take a certain stubbornness to hold out, people who loved this land more than she’d ever loved a particular location. She’d always felt a bit restless. There was no mystery as to the reason, of course, but she was envious of the devotion required to fight for existence in such a place. To say, “This is my home and I’m staying put.” Judging by the small group of frame houses, most of them built on pilings, plus a single two-story hotel, two gas stations, a bait shop and a coffee shop, she guessed there were maybe fifty people taking such a stand. And she was willing to bet almost all of them were fishermen. Someone had to own the motley collection of boats bumping against the dock. With only a sliver of moon in the sky, she couldn’t see them very well, but they obviously didn’t belong to the rich and famous.
What now? She turned in to one of the gas stations, but like the other, it was closed. Should she have gone back to her hotel and set out tomorrow morning, when she could’ve gotten an earlier start?
Now that it was dark, she had no idea how she’d find Fornier out on the bayou
“somewheres.” And she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay in the tin-roofed hotel that hung over the water. Although there was nothing wrong with the hotel, except that it looked deserted.
She checked her watch. Seven-thirty. New Orleans was only an hour and a half to the northeast. She could drive back there tonight and arrive at a reasonable time. But she was hungry and exhausted, and she hated to waste another day on this search, especially if it turned out that Fornier couldn’t or wouldn’t help her.
After parking in a lot that was mostly crushed shells, she went into the hotel, where she found a big man who looked as weathered as the rickety dock she’d just passed.
“Wanna room?” The buttons on
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