“I’ll make up the couch in the front room for you,” she told him. “We can talk tomorrow, after you are rested.”
Good, that’ll give me some time to think up a believable story. To Evangeline, he said, “Yes, of course, and thank you again for taking us in tonight. I appreciate it more than you know.”
Evangeline nodded and left to clean up the kitchen.
The sun had barely gone down when Alan, bone-weary, drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, he arose to the aroma of freshly baked cookies. He sat up with a start and looked around, and then he remembered. The woman, Evangeline, had taken them in for the night. He washed up in the tiny bathroom down the hall and made his way to the kitchen. On the windowsill, a tray of Madeleines had been placed to cool. Two cups were laid out for coffee, which was freshly-made and ready to be poured.
Evangeline sat in a rocking chair by the window, mending a dress and watching the news on TV. She lifted her head as Alan walked in.
He froze as he listened to the serious-faced announcer discussing his life. “Chicago Police are investigating the deaths of three people found slain outside the city on Saturday. Kate Fairfield and her daughter, Erin Caldwell, were found shot to death. Another man found at the scene, Joseph Reggio, was the victim of a stabbing. Missing are Alan Fairfield and his three-year old granddaughter, pictured here. Fairfield, a well-known businessman in the Chicago area, although not a suspect in the slayings, is wanted for questioning by Chicago police. Anyone with information as to their whereabouts is asked to contact—”
To Alan’s relief, Evangeline switched off the television when she noticed him standing frozen in the doorway.
Alan waited. The next thing that came out of her mouth would tell him everything he needed to know.
What she said was, simply, “You have suffered a great loss. I am sorry.”
“Yes.” He felt close to tears again, thinking about Kate and Erin, but swallowed them back.
“You and the child are still in danger.”
“Yes,” he said, wondering how she had arrived at the conclusion. “I need to find a place for us to stay. Somewhere safe.”
After an interminable pause, Evangeline got up to pour him a cup of coffee. She handed it to him. “I can help, perhaps.”
She had turned out to be their savior. It was Evangeline who made discrete arrangements to purchase a run-down plantation house and surrounding acreage under his new identity. She employed the help of a New Orleans lawyer who did not mind dealing in cash, of which Alan had plenty. She had also helped him raise Catherine, thereby allowing him to remain anonymous. It was Evangeline who purchased groceries in the nearby town of Marécage Noir, who had accompanied Cat on her first day of school, who ran errands and cooked for them.
Alan spent the first two years of his exile patiently restoring the old plantation house to its former beauty. Day after day, week after week, the house echoed with the sounds of his labor as he scraped layers of paint from the wood trim, patched up cracks in the plaster walls, sanded and stained the floors, applied fresh paint to each room, and replaced broken windows. The plumbing, he was relieved to find, was sound, although some of the electrical wiring had to be replaced. He repaired the roof and laid new planks on the gallery floor, and dressed the windows with new louvers. After clearing out the overgrowth surrounding the house, he planted a large flower garden in front and a vegetable garden in the back. As a finishing touch, he painted the exterior with fresh white paint and trimmed the louvers in black so the house stood out crisply against the new gardens and lush backdrop of the treed acreage.
When all of the manual labor was finished, he and Evangeline arranged to replace most of the furniture with antiques purchased through a dealer in New Orleans. Then, again with her help, he had arranged for the massive built-in bookcases in the library to be stocked. Little by little he amassed quite an impressive book collection.
The plantation gleamed like a jewel when he was finally finished with the renovations. Only then did he feel confident that it was a fitting place for Catherine to grow up.
After Catherine started school, he spent his time reading or roaming the acreage that comprised his property. When she arrived home, he devoted the rest of his day to her. On weekends, she accompanied him to explore the mysterious sanctuary of the bayou, which lay less than a mile to the south of the house. Occasionally, the two of them would venture out in a small skiff, although he was always careful not to stray very far. It was too easy to get lost in the swamps. Catherine, however, loved the secret places, and if she felt lonely for company other than his, she never showed it.
Over the years, Alan ensured Evangeline was generously compensated and would gladly have handed over everything to her; had, in fact, tried to do just that, but she would have none of it. As he got to know her better, Alan became convinced she accepted his money mostly because she thought his pride would have been wounded if she did not. Her needs, she always told him, were simple. She still returned home each night to her tiny cottage, only a few miles down the road from him, and still drove her Valiant, ‘Old Reliable.’ She was Alan’s only friend. One true friend was all anybody really needed, he thought, remembering Joe.
And so, with Evangeline’s help, Alan had lived in hiding. Although he was more or less a hermit, his prison was a comfortable one, and both Catherine and his secret had remained safe.
Chapter 8
New York City – Present Day
On board American Airlines Flight 1293 connecting from New York to New Orleans, Jennifer, the first class flight attendant pushed her cart down the aisle, taking drink orders and preparing them with mindless efficiency. She paused and perused the handsome, dark-haired man in Seat 12A.
Amazing eyes. She gave him her best smile and admired his well-tailored suit. Definitely a player. He ordered a Bloody Mary. She had him pegged as a scotch-rocks man, and told him so. He only laughed in reply. As she passed his drink to him, she let her fingers brush his as if by accident.
All at once she felt queasy. The hurried breakfast she’d consumed in the city on her way to the airport churned in her stomach. She took a deep breath. “Can I get anything else for you, sir?”
Although she tried to smile, it felt more like a grimace. Without waiting for an answer, she turned and fled back to the toilet. There she relieved herself of her breakfast and then dry-heaved for another few minutes.
Sammael paid no attention to the hasty departure of the woman. He was too busy obsessing about his plans for Fairfield. The thought of torturing Alan delighted him to no end. He’d been hunting Alan Fairfield for years, ever since those fools had let him slip through their fingers in Chicago. He snorted with glee at the memory of how they’d paid for that monumental screw up. He had eviscerated them both. That almost paid for the three decades he’d spent finding Fairfield again. It grated on his nerves that the man had managed to elude him for so long. But that little problem was about to be rectified. Fairfield would be an old man now, vulnerable. He wouldn’t see Sammael coming until it was too late. This time, he would do the job himself so there would be no mistakes. He loved tormenting the elderly. They were so helpless…
With a sigh, he relaxed, settling back in the comfortable leather seat and sipping his drink. Too bad it wasn’t made of real blood.
To pass the time, Sammael donned the complimentary
