“What’s the deal?”
“He says there’s a witness to Blue Melton’s abduction. He says St. Martin Parish won’t do anything about it.”
“We’re out of our jurisdiction,” I said.
“Not anymore. If the witness’s account is accurate, we just became players. It’s not something I wanted, but that’s the way it is, bwana. I suspect you couldn’t be happier. Check out a cruiser, and I’ll meet you out front.”
We drove up the two-lane state road to the home of Avery DeBlanc in St. Martinville, up the bayou from the drawbridge and the old cemetery, one that was filled with white crypts. He was waiting for us in a rocking chair on his gallery, both of his walking canes propped across his thighs. He stood up when we approached him, lifting his crippled back as straight as he could. “T’ank y’all for coming,” he said.
I introduced Helen, then helped him sit down. “Can you tell us again what this little boy told you, Mr. DeBlanc?” I said.
“Ain’t much to it. The boy lives yonder, down where them pecan trees is at. He said he looked out the window. He said it was night, and a white boat come up the bayou and parked at my li’l dock, and two men got out and went to my house. He said the boat had a fish wit’ a long nose painted on the bow. He said the men went into my house and came back out wit’ Blue. He said he could see all t’ree of them in the porch light. They had a big green bottle and some tall glasses, and they was all drinking out of the glasses and laughing.”
“When did this happen?” Helen interrupted.
“The boy ain’t sure. Maybe a mont’ ago. Maybe more. He’s only eleven. He said Blue was walking wit’ the men toward the bayou, and then she wasn’t laughing no more. The two men took her by the arms, and she started fighting wit’ them. He said they took her down to the dock, and he t’inks one of them hit her. He said he couldn’t see good when they was on the dock. The only light come from the nightclub across the bayou. He t’inks the man hit Blue in the face and put her on the boat. He said she cried out once, then didn’t make no more sounds.”
“The boy didn’t try to tell anybody or call 911?”
“He was home alone. That li’l boy don’t do nothing wit’out permission,” Mr. DeBlanc said.
“Where did the boat go? In which direction?” Helen asked.
“Sout’, back toward New Iberia.”
“Why is the boy telling you this only now?” I asked.
“He said his momma tole him it ain’t his bidness. He said his momma tole him my granddaughters ain’t no good. They’re on dope and they hang out wit’ bad men. But it bothered him real bad ’cause he liked Blue, so he tole me about it.”
“And you told this to the deputy sheriff?” I said.
“I went to his office. He wrote it down on his li’l pad. He said he’d check it out. But he ain’t come to see me or returned my phone calls, and the boy said ain’t nobody talked to him, either.”
Helen and I walked down to the dock. The planks were weathered gray, the wood pilings hung with rubber tires. The bayou was high and dark from the rain, the surface wrinkling like old skin each time the wind gusted. I tried to squat down and exam
ine the wood, but a burst of pain, like a nest of tree roots, spread through my chest. For a moment the bayou and the live oaks on the opposite bank and the whitewashed crypts in the cemetery went in and out of focus.
“I got it, Dave,” Helen said.
“Give me a minute. I’m fine.”
“I know. But easy does it, right?”
“No, I’m going to do it,” I said. I eased down on one knee, swallowing my pain, touching the dock with the tips of my fingers. “See? Nothing to it.”
“There’s no telling how many times it’s rained on those planks,” she said.
“Yeah, but the kid didn’t make up that story.”
“Maybe not. Anyway, let’s have a talk with the deputy or whoever this guy is who can’t get off his ass.”
“Look at this.” I took my pocketknife from my slacks and opened the blade. The tops of the planks in the dock were washed clean and uniformly gray and free of any residue, but between two planks, I could see several dark streaks, as though someone had spilled ketchup. I cut a splinter loose and wrapped it in my handkerchief.
“You think it’s blood?” Helen said.
“We’ll see,” I replied.
We drove to the St. Martin Parish Sheriff’s Annex, next to the white-columned courthouse past which twenty thousand Union troops had marched in pursuit of Colonel Mouton’s malnourished Confederate troops in their unending retreat from Shiloh, all the way to the Red River parishes of central Louisiana.