The Grace Painter (The Grace Series Book 1) Read online

  Sebastian dabbed his eyes. He’d never been close to his father, yet felt moved by Claude’s parting words. But what does it mean? Floating down a hidden stream? A rusty wheel for a gravestone? His father’s bones enriching a field?

  After the execution, Claude had been cremated. The lines about a bloated corpse and a vine-covered tomb didn’t make sense. Sebastian read the enigmatic verses again, but still couldn’t ascertain the nonsensical poem. He finally folded up the paper and shoved it into his pocket.

  “What do you think it means, Sebastian?” Jean-Paul asked. “It’s been bothering me for some time.”

  “I’m not sure,” Sebastian answered. “Maybe Claude just wanted to jot down his feelings. Who could really blame him?”

  And then the meaning came to him ever so slowly in bits and pieces and fits and starts until a Vegas casino sign flashed the answer in his mind. Sebastian felt his pulse quicken. His mouth turned chalky as understanding took hold.

  The poem revealed the ransom money’s hidden location.

  Everyone, including the FBI assumed the Boudreaux patriarch had taken the secret of the missing McAllister millions to the hereafter with him. But apparently his father fooled everyone.

  Sebastian smiled. During his stay at Angola he’d passed the long days and lonely nights cultivating his mind through reading. While the other cons wasted their time ogling smut magazines, he read every literary classic he could get his hands on.

  He especially enjoyed seafaring classics by Joseph Conrad and Herman Melville. And whenever he felt discouraged he turned to Keats and Thoreau. Poetry was like a salve to his tormented mind. It kept him sane when nothing else could. Living in confinement with sociopaths tortures the soul, fraying it little by little until paranoia swallows it whole.

  Sebastian’s voracious reading appetite made his IQ soar. And now through his old man’s generosity, he would have the financial assets needed to match his lofty intellect. He just needed to decipher the riddle inside Claude’s parting words to collect his three-million-dollar inheritance.

  His smile faded when they sped by a Louisiana state trooper parked in the median. Sebastian turned to look back at the trooper. He watched the patrol car accelerate out the median, its lights flashing.

  Sebastian glared at his little brother.

  Jean-Paul responded with a nervous smile. “You would think a fancy car like this Audi would have a top-shelf radar detector. But it doesn’t,” Jean-Paul said, his foot still heavy on the gas pedal.

  “Jean-Paul, have you lost your mind? Pull over immediately.” Sebastian suddenly feared his parole would be the shortest in penal history.

  “I know this looks bad, but it’ll work out, Sebastian. Trust me.” Jean-Paul stomped on the gas and the powerful car surged forward with a satiny roar. A puckish smile gashed his face when he saw the patrol car become a tiny speck in his rearview mirror.

  Chapter 2

  Outrage erupted inside Sebastian’s head. “Stop the car and let me out. I don’t want any part of this,” he declared in a trembling voice.

  Jean-Paul surveyed the road ahead. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Sebastian,” he quietly drawled through pursed lips.

  Sebastian’s eyes darted. “Why not?”

  “When I said I borrowed this car…what I should have said…is I stole it. But I’m going to return it when I’m done with it. And I also plan to fill the tank and wash and vacuum the car before I take it back.”

  Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Perhaps you should leave a vase of flowers and a thank-you note when you drop the car off in their driveway,” he suggested tartly. He wanted to strangle Jean-Paul. His brother deserved nothing less. The fool wrecked his only chance at a comfortable life.

  Sebastian stared glumly at the flashing lights behind them. Only five minutes ago his future sparkled bright. Now in an eye blink, his destiny turned overcast. He turned back around and fished in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. He lit up and took a deep drag, noticing for the first time the rain streaking the windshield. Gloomy drops splattered the Audi and slicked the blacktop, making their high-speed flight even more treacherous.

  The radio suddenly crackled with a warning from the National Weather Service. Sebastian listened intently to the computer-generated voice as it issued a hurricane warning and mandatory evacuation order for southern Louisiana.

  Undeterred by the rain, Jean-Paul concerned himself with the flashing lights growing larger in his rear-view mirror. Adjusting his wipers to their highest setting, he mashed the accelerator pedal to the floorboard. The Audi knifed through the rain as if it rode on rails. The sedan’s tires hummed. Once more the trooper fell back.

  Sebastian struggled to sit still. His jittery nerves cramped his leg muscles into knots. He ignored the pain and diverted his attention toward landmarks and road signs. “We have to get off Highway 61,” he blurted out. “The trooper has radioed for backups by now. We need to find a different route into the Basin.”

  Jean-Paul nodded. “Highway 10 is less than five miles away. We’ll exit at Saint Genevieve and take the ferry across the river. Then we’ll take Highway 77 into the Basin.” The Atchafalaya Basin is the largest freshwater swamp in the United States, and the Acadian subculture living in the Basin is known for being independent and tightlipped. If a safe haven existed for them, it would be there.

  Sebastian heard his brother talking but ignored his prattling remarks. He focused his attention on a light blinking in the distance. Moving his head forward as much as his seat restraint would allow, he squinted at the carrot-colored luminescence. It appeared to be an arrow sign pointing toward the other lane. His breath lurched to a standstill. “You have to get over, Jean-Paul. Our lane is closing.”

  “I see that, Sebastian,” Jean-Paul responded calmly. “But I’m going to pass up as many cars as possible. We need interference.”

  “Don’t wait too long to get over,” Sebastian growled. In his mind he could already hear his former cellmates hurling expletives at him as guards led him down his cell block, back to his tiny cot in his tiny cell, back into hell.

  Jean-Paul shot a glance into his rearview mirror. His bladder constricted when he saw two more patrol cars join the pursuit. “Looks like they’ve called in the cavalry,” he said. “There are three troopers now.”

  Concentrating intently on the narrowing road ahead, Sebastian braced his hands on the Audi’s dash. The intensifying rain made it seem like they were driving through an automated car wash. Visibility shriveled to a dozen yards. Sebastian almost failed to notice the orange-and-white barrels materialize in front of them. “Look out for the barrels!” he shouted.

  Cursing in French-Acadian, Jean-Paul jerked the wheel to his left to avoid the barricading water-filled barrels. But he didn’t maneuver quickly enough, and the Audi’s front bumper clipped a barrel. The Audi shuddered from the high-speed impact and caused several construction barrels to catapult into the air like placekicked footballs.

  A spinning barrel shattered the lead patrol car’s windshield. The patrol car skidded into the temporary concrete barrier truncating the right lane. The violent impact flipped the car onto its roof and spun it like a top into the grassy embankment.

  Jean-Paul diverted his eyes from the trooper’s demise. Taillights from slower traffic fast approached and needed to be dealt with. For a split-second he calculated his chances. Not liking his odds, he pulled over onto the shoulder and sped by the crawling traffic without impediment. Unfortunately, the two remaining patrol cars followed his example. The lead patrol car surged forward and tapped the Audi’s back bumper.

  Jean-Paul peeked at his speedometer. A buck-twenty and that’s about as fast as he dared travel. Sweat dripped off his capacious nose and into in his lap. He held the wheel as still as possible. His focus became so keen he failed to hear his brother scream an urgent warning.

  “You’re going to miss our exit!” Sebastian shouted.

  The Saint Genevieve exit sign suddenly emerged from the cloud
burst. Jean-Paul instinctively whipped the Audi back onto pavement, inadvertently cutting off another motorist. The elderly driver tromped on their brakes and swerved to avoid colliding with the Audi. The second highway patrolman broadsided the Buick sedan, igniting a chain-reaction accident involving a dozen cars.

  Sebastian let out a spluttering breath when he saw the third trooper pull over onto the shoulder and begin assisting drivers involved in the pileup.

  “Looks like we gave them the slip, Sebastian. A few more minutes and we’ll be on the ferry.”

  “We got lucky, Jean-Paul, very lucky. And don’t be surprised when a welcoming committee greets us on the other side.”

  “Surely we can switch vehicles on the ferry,” Jean-Paul suggested, as they tooled unabated through the quaint town of Saint Genevieve. Tourists make daily migrations to Saint Genevieve to visit its historical district and take in its many festivals. The ferry they headed for operated near Saint Genevieve’s southern edge and provided access to the Cajun country to the southwest.

  Jean-Paul slowed the Audi to a legal speed. The heavy rain brought them an advantage. The townspeople and tourists waited out the deluge inside. Sebastian eased back into his seat. Perhaps they could delay their arrest a little longer.

  Up ahead he could see cars and trucks driving onto the ferry’s broad deck in preparation for the short ride across the Mississippi River. But as they drove closer his optimism took another nosedive. The ferry looked close to its thirty-five car maximum. We have to get on, he thought.

  Pulling up to the ticket hut, Jean-Paul lowered his window. He extended his left hand with their fare.

  “The ferry is full,” the old man inside the hut said. “Another ferry will embark in thirty minutes. You’ll have to take that one.”

  Sebastian leaned over and looked up at the geriatric ferry worker. “I know you have regulations you must abide by, sir. But it’s imperative we be allowed to take this ferry. We have a terminally ill family member in Breaux Bridge that has only hours to live. If we have to wait for the next ferry we may be too late.”

  The old man stroked his frizzy beard like it was a pet cat. He deliberated for what seemed like minutes, and then spat a large wad of tobacco juice into a brass spittoon. Sebastian held his breath.

  “I shouldn’t be doing this. There’s a good chance we’ll be over the weight limit. But if you can fit your fancy car into that tiny opening by the stern, I suppose you can go,” the old man said, his voice sounding at least a century old.

  “Fair enough,” Sebastian replied. “God bless you for your kindness,” he added for good measure. Lying convincingly is all about charm. A friendly voice and an engaging smile go a long way in diffusing suspicion. He’d perfected his technique many years ago, even before he served time at Angola. Dishonesty always came easy to him.

  Jean-Paul drove the Audi up the ferry’s loading ramp and into the small opening by the stern. It took considerable jockeying, but he managed to make the car fit. Even as he shut off the engine, the ferry began chugging away from shore.

  Jean-Paul looked over at his older brother. “I know it’s not as you planned it, Sebastian. But what’s done is done. We’ll just have to lay low in the swamps. In a few months they’ll forget all about us.”

  Sebastian grunted. “They’ll never give up, Jean-Paul. You know that. They’ll keep coming for us.”

  “Yeah, but the city feds won’t last long in the Basin. They’ll get lost in the canals. If we can avoid the local cops we’ll be fine. Now, which car do you think we should steal?” Jean-Paul asked.

  Sebastian thought quickly. His mind scrabbled for an answer. “The vehicle directly in front of us. It has all-wheel-drive, which we’ll need in the swamps. And if we’re lucky, no one will turn around and see us take it.”

  From where they were parked, slightly behind and at an angle to the Dodge Durango, Sebastian could see only a young woman sitting in the vehicle. She shouldn’t be too difficult to overpower, he reasoned, genuinely amazed at how quickly he relapsed into criminal behavior. He placed the blame entirely upon Jean-Paul. His brother got him into this mess by stealing the Audi. What was he supposed to do, jump from the car and risk injury when he found out it was stolen?

  Jean-Paul touched Sebastian’s shoulder. “We should get on with it then, Sebastian.”

  Sebastian nodded and unbuckled his seat belt. “Okay, Jean-Paul, when you see me escort the young lady around to the Durango’s passenger side, leave the Audi and get into the Dodge.”

  “What are you going to say to her?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’ll come up with something.” Sebastian filled his lungs with a deep breath and stepped into the driving rain. He walked at a moderate pace up to the black Durango and rapped on the driver’s window. The woman flinched at his knuckles striking glass.

  Doing his best to appear non-threatening, Sebastian smiled and made a motion for her to roll down her window. At first he thought she might refuse, but then she complied. The window lowered. “Sorry to bother you, Miss, but do you know you have a flat tire? It’s a rather bad one. But if you’ll show me to your spare, I think I can fix it before we reach shore.”

  “That would be very kind. But I’m not sure where the spare is kept. My husband never showed me,” she said, climbing out just like he planned it. She ducked her head against the slashing rain and hurried around to the back of the SUV. Sebastian followed close behind.

  The woman stopped by the hatch and turned around to face him. The rain had already smudged her makeup and ruined her stylish hair. “Which tire is flat,” she asked, brushing back her golden hair.

  “The passenger front tire. Come on, I’ll show you,” Sebastian said, grabbing her arm firmly. The woman immediately attempted to wrench free. Her defensive reaction didn’t surprise him. He expected to incur at least a little resistance. To compensate for her belligerence, he increased his grip.

  “Let go of me!” the young woman bellowed, her cry swallowed up by the wind.

  Sebastian jerked her arm behind her back and cupped a hand over her mouth. He moved his mouth up to her ear and asked in a firm voice, “Are the keys in the ignition?” He watched her nod her head up and down. Her pretty eyes bulged.

  “Excellent. Now what I’m about to do may seem rather harsh, but if you’re a strong swimmer you might make it to shore.” Bending at the knees, Sebastian scooped up the slender woman and dropped her over the railing, into the rain-swollen river. The young woman bobbed to the churning surface several seconds later, sputtering and gasping. She thrashed her frail arms in a floundering attempt to stay afloat.

  Rain slapped at Sebastian’s brow as he observed the drowning woman. He needed to finish the theft and climb into the Durango, but couldn’t seem to tear himself away from the spectacle. The young woman slipped beneath the surface a second time. This time at least a dozen seconds transpired before she broke the undulating surface.

  Sebastian wanted to turn away, but stood cemented in his tracks. He locked eyes with the woman for a brief moment. A silent exchange from killer to victim, only now the young lady no longer seemed afraid. Moments ago fear and panic coruscated in her eyes. But now a venomous rage burned in its place. Sebastian looked away, unable to match her gaze.

  Just as she was about to go under again, the woman yelled something. But the blowing rain and clamorous ferry muffled her parting words. Shaken by the haunting exchange, Sebastian climbed into the Dodge and slammed the door shut. His hands shook and his stomach felt queasy. What have I become? He thought with a shiver.

  “I think it went well, Sebastian.” Jean-Paul said. “I kept my eyes peeled on the cars ahead. I don’t think anyone saw us make the switch. So what did you do with the woman?”

  Sebastian dabbed at his brow with a wet sleeve. A nervous cough tumbled from his mouth. “She went for a little swim,” he mumbled.

  Jean-Paul’s mouth dropped. “And you were jumping on me for stealing a car.”

  “I couldn’t thi
nk of another option. Who knows, maybe she’ll be able to tread water long enough to be rescued.” He actually hoped she drowned. Alive, she could identify them.

  Slowly but surely the ferry completed its six-minute crossing and chugged up to the unloading dock. Sebastian’s rapid breathing returned to a normal rate. He didn’t see any police cars barricading their way. The road ahead looked wide open.

  Jean-Paul started the Dodge. One by one the cars ahead of them rolled off the ferry. Finally they disembarked. Moments after crossing through the nearby town of New Hope, they turned onto Highway 78 and traveled seven miles. At Livonia they turned onto Highway 77, which took them in a southeasterly direction along the edge of the Atchafalaya Basin.

  Forty minutes later they neared Copeland’s outskirts. That’s when they heard the crying and discovered a little girl in the back seat staring back at them with bugged-out eyes.

  Now I know what the drowning woman shouted about, thought Sebastian. He shook his head and cursed himself for not checking the backseats of the vehicle before getting in. A careless mistake that might cost him.

  Now he had a little girl to worry about. What am I going to do with her?

  Chapter 3

  Baton Rouge, the next day

  Annie Crawford sat on her gallery swing and watched the rain pummel her flowerbeds. Pink hollyhock petals littered her lawn like New Year’s confetti. Her prized flowers, so pretty yesterday, slumped in disarray. She knew they would come back next year and be just as vibrant and beautiful, but still felt bad. She’d put so much work into them.

  Annie looked at her hands. Blisters mottled her palms and fingertips. Some vacation this is turning out to be.

  Instead of sunbathing on a tropical beach, she opted to stay home and refurbish her bathroom walls. Six wallpaper layers needed to be removed. Her painted-lady cottage oozed historical character, but needed serious refurbishing. The “to do” list on her refrigerator door stretched to the floor.

  Annie sipped a glass of sweet tea and looked up at the enormous live oak tree shading her small front yard. Hurricane Vera packed triple-digit winds and could easily snap the thick limbs hanging over her house. She should have hired tree trimmers long ago, but couldn’t bear to see its magnificent limbs short and butchered. Oh, well, that’s why I pay my insurance premiums, she thought, determined to enjoy her vacation and not stress about anything as banal as tree trimming.