Jasmine thought of her own father. She’d been so busy shielding herself from the pain of their relationship she’d seen him only once in four years. “It’s that way for some kids.”
“Not you, though, huh?”
Jasmine instantly regretted divulging so much of her personal history. “My father’s still living. I’m just not close to him.”
“Don’t waste the time you got left, beb. That’s the best advice I can offer.”
Jasmine didn’t want any advice. She was managing, wasn’t she? She’d gotten off drugs, made something of her life. That was progress.
After accepting her change, she turned to go. She didn’t feel comfortable asking this woman about Fornier; although they were strangers, they’d revealed too much about themselves in their brief exchange. There were other people in town, she told herself. But Lonnie’s mother was finally interested enough to stop her with the question Jasmine had been expecting from the beginning.
“Where ya from?”
“California.”
“You come to see Fred’s Lounge?”
“No, I’m not a tourist. I’m looking for someone.”
“Here?”
“I don’t know if he’s still around, but he was born and raised in Mamou.”
“Who we talkin’ about?”
Jasmine’s reluctance to push her own agenda burned away beneath the hot glare of opportunity. “Romain Fornier.”
Her eyes narrowed, the tentative connection they’d established already at risk.
“What you want with him?”
“I’m hoping he can help me.”
“Help you what?”
“My sister went missing sixteen years ago.” A lump rose in Jasmine’s throat.
After almost two decades, the hurt and loss still surfaced at unexpected moments.
She swallowed hard and attempted to continue. “She was only eight.”
The deep groves in the woman’s face indicated that she’d lived a hard life.
Money had probably been scarce even when her husband was alive. But there was genuine kindness in her, despite her apparent loyalty to Fornier. “I’m sorry.”
Jasmine blinked back the tears that threatened. “It’s fine. I—I don’t know why I’m crying like this.”
She came around the counter. “You’re cryin’ ’cause you care, beb. Ain’t no stoppin’ that. But you don’t want to bother T-Bone. He’s been to hell and back, fuh shore.”
“T-Bone?”
“That’s what we call him. Used to be T-Boy, which is an old Cajun tradition, but when he was eight, he got in a fight with a bully who was three years older and took a good lickin’. His mamère was a superstitious old lady who told him to bury a steak and his black eye would heal, so he took his papa’s T-bone off the grill and did exactly that—and got another whippin’.” Her laugh settled into a wistful smile.
“Ever since, he’s been T-Bone. He used to be a good boy, the best. But now…it’s better to leave him alone.”
“I’m not trying to hurt him.”
“How could you hurt him? He’s lost everything he cares about. He’s not the same person anymore. He’s so en colère—angry, you understand?—he works real hard to keep his distance from everyone. There’s no need to make him the misère.”
Between her accent and the French words, this woman’s English was difficult to follow, but misère obviously meant miserable or something close. “So he lives here?” She felt sudden hope, despite her new friend’s warning.
“No, he lives near Portsville, out on the bayou.”
“How far away is that?”
“’Bout five hours southeast, down near Grand Isle and Leeville, give or take twenty minutes. Mais, like I said, I think it’d be a waste of your time to drive down there. He barely speaks to his own kin.”
Somehow, Jasmine didn’t quite believe that Romain was as unfriendly to his relatives as this woman said. If the local gas station owner knew him well enough to tell a story about his childhood, the community was a close one and chances were good he maintained some ties to it. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” she said.
Lonnie had finished with the car. He stepped inside, grinning like an eager dog after fetching a stick, and his mother put a hand on his shoulder to give him the approval he 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.”
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.