River Of Mist And Light

By Gary P. Landry

River Of Mist And Light is a tale of suspense, intrigue, murder, and mouth-watering New Orleans cuisine. As a lunar eclipse approaches, more than one killer is on the loose in the Crescent City and the adjoining river parishes. And the hunters become the hunted as the mist rolls back and reveals a current of unimaginable destruction aimed at everyone and everything in its path.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781623097684

Gary P. Landry

Gary P. Landry is an author and attorney who lives near New Orleans, Louisiana. In addition to "The Bridge Tender," he is also the author of "River Of Mist And Light," a contemporary thriller about killers hunting killers in New Orleans and the adjoining river parishes.

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CHAPTER 1

Christopher Book sat near an old heron’s nest on the Mississippi levee, trying hard to avoid looking at the dead woman in the river, or to think about the course of her being there. He briefly looked to his right and watched a tall ibis as it stepped lightly through a spray of goldenrod, its sharp red bill fishing for prey among the soft flowers. Above the water, a succession of night birds caught his attention as they flew across the light of the full moon. Among their pitched calls, he thought he recognized the gentle song of a blue linnet and the familiar caw of a corn thief starling. Unsure, he quickly turned away and leaned back into the slope of the levee, still trying to divert his attention any way possible. A night of the hunted, he realized, had only just begun.

Book drove his elbows into the slanted soil, pressing down harder than he intended. Just above his wrists he felt a familiar shooting pain, for once a welcome distraction, though it felt like a brush fire had been lit in the hollows of his palms. Book pulled off his thick black gloves and wished for a moment that his hands were grappling hooks that could somehow roll back time itself, or perhaps lift him up to some distant world where the last seven days were nothing more than the harmless mist of a heron’s breath. But, he knew, not even the wings of that tender bird could provide him with the escape he now needed.

So he listened for some sign that he had been followed, then allowed his eyes to nervously wander the various corners of the night. Beyond the curve of the levee he could almost make out the bell tower of his country church, standing tall and round and upright like an old stone cannon, a cloud shooter by day but mere bird roost by night. In the near distance he saw the familiar lights of his small town and the crowns of orange blossoms in a grove he had played in as a small boy. Closer yet lay the long gravel road that topped the levee as far as an eye could travel. But he could not see through the dark to the Ascension Parish courthouse, though he vividly remembered the long ago summer job when he helped chase out the river hens and tear apart the planks of the abandoned old schoolhouse from which it sprang. Soon, Book realized, he would stand instead on its murder docket.

While he awaited the distant sirens that suddenly began to wail, he measured his fear by the potent blend of wild visions that raced through his head. On the moon over Ascension, he imagined a ring inside a circle, etched with his indictment: The welder did it! At first he calmly parsed the divined image as he might a coin in the palm of his glove. But when he stared harder into the shifting maul of night, the shining words grew tall and stringy, harsh as spikenards in a bean row, and filled with immense vowels and mean consonants rushing in on a posse of light. For a moment he thought the round luminous scroll of some titan’s quill had unfurled for the world below. Then clouds taunted the shape of the moon until it became ragged and malformed and began to pursue him like a white crow caught aloft in the rigging of night. Startled, Book tried to clear his mind by tightly pinching his lids and raking his head against the slope of the levee as though he could pull cleansing spells and incantations out of the high grass. But the raucous light and shrill words lingered. Unable to fight the visions, he simply turned away.

His eyes fell with the angle of light until he finally looked again at the body in the Mississippi. Bottom heavy, it had settled into such a vertical float that only the thin head and splayed arms broke the surface. With the push of current, a broken branch of a cherry blossom snagged on the bones of the nearly missing face, then shook loose its flowers, which unraveled at the woman’s white collar. The scene reminded Book of a flamingo that a vandal had wrapped neck-down in black tissue and staked in last year’s crèche. The bird killer was quickly caught, he now remembered.

Below him, the river coughed up a slag of drift, then offered its familiar invite. Not me, my friend, he whispered back, his mind rejecting any thought of suicide. At the water’s edge, he scouted a crusted barge that sat abandoned and mired. A wild hen as old as moss stood watch on the bow, jealously guarding her carriage to the sea. Nearer to stern, a feral sow in search of mole crickets paused briefly at the mud caked hull, then caught the human scent and immediately took flight. Not a bad idea, Book nodded, briefly eyeing a small skiff on the distant bank.

His thoughts continued to wander in all directions but up. Across the water, he watched a spotted hound snap at a Luna moth, then walk away after stepping on a shard of broken dock light. For less than a moment, he too gave thought to resistance but felt it would be like trying to tack the wind. Through a stubborn crease in the night clouds, he felt Orion’s glare and the charge of the still moon: aggravated murder. As though anything could be more aggravating than murder.

Against his will, the pull of light finally took him back aloft. Among the sea of constellations he caught the usual riggers: the hunter, the horse, the two dippers, a pot of scorpions and crabs, a ram and a bull, the great bear and its littler one, the twins and their goat. A vast jarring swirl of milk like stars, but not a sparkle of comfort. Closer in, Book imagined a newer configuration: a moon with wings steadily flapping out the consensus of his fate: his confession was imminent, his guilt now the third pillar of certainty, along with death and taxes. Everyone thought so. Everyone knew the welder did it. They might as well post it on the moon. They had already stripped him of his name.

So he lay under the brittle stars, on the soft damp grass of the levee, alternating his gaze between the river’s hard current and the rushing moon. The levee ran high and he felt the night wind dance a jig across his chest and crop his bloodied cheek. He almost laughed as the four words again slid across his mind, but he knew he would not be laughing when they came to arrest him. For the second time. If they didn’t just shoot him first.

Book stared up one last time at the ball point moon and again witnessed the scrawl inside the ring. On the other side of the planet, he had killed many times, though he now wished there had been none. Instead of lunar scripture, he received medals for those. Now he would receive the third trial of the century. Or would it be the fourth?

THE WELDER DID IT! Those were the four words he knew the tabloids now shouted out in every checkout stand in America. Their opening statement. There aren’t many butlers in poor rural Ascension Parish, one sneered. So the killer might as well be a welder: a grimy, blue-collar type who chewed tobacco and drove a pick-up truck like some gap toothed, slack-jawed southern moron. But Book didn’t fit their picture, they quickly learned, filled with a higher glee upon discovering the welder had once been a lawyer. Worse yet, the murder victim was no ordinary woman. In her brief life she had become the most famous woman in America. Death had already turned her into a rose without a shadow.

In Ascension Parish that night, the sky held but the moon was falling. The welder was on the run. Followed by a charge of murder for the second time in seven days.

If only he had not gone to the bell tower that day, he lamented. Or buried that body on his property.

OUR LADY OF THE RIVER sits on a modest round bluff along a bend in the Mississippi River thirty miles above New Orleans. Built by missionaries during the Spanish occupation of Louisiana in the seventeenth century, the church’s white adobe walls and red tile roof echoed the style of the Missions one expected to find in places like Santa Barbara or the San Juan Capistrano, with the exception that swallows were replaced by playful flocks of purple martins. But it was the bell tower, and its magnificent great bell, that had long been the pride and joy of the church’s parishioners. Almost two hundred feet high, their bell tower was the highest point in Ascension Parish. One of the old river pilots who belonged to the church called it their mast to heaven. Others believed that neither saints nor sinners could find redemption or salvation and enter heaven until the great bell rings.

The view from the spiral tower was spectacular. At the time of the Spanish occupation, the tall ships of both pirates and traders could be seen far in advance, for the river could hide no secrets from those in the watchtower. The whorl of the Mississippi current, the magnificent ocean going vessels, the grain barges and their proud tugs, even a floating casino — these and more now enticed the eye of those who climbed the tower. Across the river, one could see a massive green swill of virgin pine forest, as yet unfelled by the local lumber barons and pulp companies. On starry nights, even the strangely haunting beauty of the nuclear power plant down river, with its glittering dome and spool-like cooling towers, mysteriously enhanced the view.

On the alleged day of the murder, Book had gone to the bell tower to weld a gift for the old Mother Superior who was now nearing her end. Four months after Pearl Harbor, the Mother, then a young nun just assigned to her first parish, had reported to Our Lady of the River. Sister Jude Pipit was its only nun for the next seventeen years. Eventually the church gave her what it thought was its top honor, the position of Mother Superior at the St. Louis Cathedral in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Although she dutifully professed to be honored, her fellow nuns were certain Mother Jude’s heart always belonged to and cherished her precious Lady of the River. Her devotion to her old riverside church was legendary among its parishioners, and each year they honored her with a special mass and picnic on her birthday. Fearful that this would probably be her last birthday, they decided to surprise her and also ring the great bell, even though it had not been rung since it was recently damaged by some unknown vandals.

Book was a member of the congregation. Most knew he had once been a lawyer, then walked away from it. A few thought him a loner, others just saw a shy country boy who preferred creek water to pin-stripes and tonic. The three other lawyers in the congregation eyed him with scorn. None could remember his name, or cared to. All earned six figure salaries, the golden handcuffs that they would never submit to a welder’s torch, even though they despised their jobs. They genuflected to the carpenter on the cross but could not comprehend how a lawyer could ever stoop so low as to become a welder. Unlike the welder, they never missed a mass.

For the most part, Book kept to himself. But he listened, and he offered a helping hand when there was some need for which his skill was suited. Once he had welded a wrought iron gate at the entrance of the nearby cemetery. A hurricane had nearly knocked it off its hinges. Another time he welded a broken axle on a tractor the church used for hay rides for the children. He had even once welded a metal angel the children had pieced together from odd scraps. The Iron Angel, they called it, even though it wasn’t made from iron.

Now he had come to weld the great bell. Over two hundred years old, it was as majestic as the great river beside it. Without hesitation, the congregation had insisted on ringing it to honor the Mother Superior, even though a long thin crack had developed after the vandals struck.

Book deliberately decided to stop by on a Wednesday, arriving just before noon. The priest, Father Clayton Chiral, took Wednesdays off, except for an early seven o’clock mass, after which he usually headed off to New Orleans for reasons never made known to his staff. As a rule, no one came to the church on Wednesday afternoons, for even the staff was given the day off. Thus he could work alone and uninterrupted, just as he preferred. The bell would be ready by morning.

Book parked his pickup on the back side of the cemetery where no one would see it should Father Clayton or his staff return early. His welding torch and other equipment were left behind for now. He had prepared a small lunch that he would take to the bell tower, watch the river traffic for a while, then inspect the bell before heading back down to retrieve whatever tools he needed. He might even do a few extra laps up and down the twenty flights of wooden stairs. Book tried to stay lean, even imagined repelling down the side of the bell tower someday. But that would have to wait another day. First he had to fix the bell.

His first trip up the twenty flights came easy. The scent of old redwood floated in the stairwell as his steps shook loose the fragrant secrets of the thick risers. He was barely panting when he finally reached the top of the bell tower. As he sat down to eat, his blue eyes traced the curling line of hardwood forest on the far side of the river. Beyond its loblolly pines, he saw an open meadow where a scratch of periwinkle edged towards a rusted old whippletree. A tired farmer and his crow colored dog sat nearby in the shade of an odd hickory. While his master puffed on an old corn pipe, the dog’s tail lazily swatted at a tiny red warbler feasting on a wood tick. The farmer’s cat, whiter than a snow hare, ignored the small bird and crouched in wait for some unseen prey.

In the middle of the great river, the captain of a mammoth Russian freighter sounded his horn when he saw the man in the bell tower looking across his bow. A dozen brown pelicans soared above the vessel’s frothy wake, feasting upon the bounty of river cats churned up from muddy depths by the massive propellers. A deck hand stepped out of the bridge, turned to shore, then hurled a gray tube and small platter of orange rinds into the starboard current. The tube fell beneath the surface, the rinds down the throats of the ravenous birds.

Book, frowning at the seaman’s spoilage, thought that a mariner above all should know that one cannot rake a river. He finally turned away from the gray hulled procession lazily moving down to the sea. Beside the rectory below, a small garden of intricate delicacy briefly caught his eye. From his aerial view, he noted the garden’s odd shape, almost like a scythe, with a path of colorful stones as the handle, connected to a lovely arc of belladonna in full blossom. Book watched curiously as a lonesome hummingbird briefly nibbled at the garden’s dark berries, then bolted towards the midday sun. Its fluttering wings clipped a single flower, the little purple bell falling gently to the red soil below.

The ships in the river moved on and the silent noon returned. Book unlaced his steel-toed boots, ran his cottoned toes across the long sill, and curled his back against the narrow sash of the open arch. Through the stone window, he felt the secrets folds of light and the solitude of the wind. On his hard belly, a small cup of bisque rose and fell with the tide of his breathing. Above the bell tower, a bank of clouds moved in and appeared to suture the sky as though all of the blue had been an unwelcome wound. In the lesser light, a pleasant chill settled in and Book began to doze.

Later, his ears woke first but he had felt the sound before it reached his drums. The cup on his gut had bobbed slightly when the wave hit. Like a trout line, he thought, after the bite but before the thrashing began. He quickly dropped from the sill and listened to the unmistakable sound, then looked out at the last sight he wanted to see heading to the old church.

CHAPTER 2

The sound reminded Book of a throaty wild boar that had once ambushed him on a Pass Manchac mud flat. He beat it off with a cane stalk, then jumped into the narrow inlet and prayed it wouldn’t follow. Better to chance the moccasins, he thought, eyeing the harsh tusks that finally turned away.

The sound coming at the bell tower did not turn away. And it was not an ordinary car engine, he immediately recognized. Book quickly scurried into a corner wall between two of the tower’s portals, pressing his back hard into the rough stone surface. He instinctively thought to hide because the gruff roar made by the engine was unusually powerful, far more than that of the old Buick station wagon driven by Father Clayton. He felt a strange fear overcome him, fueled by a sense that someone was coming who did not belong to the old Mission.

Book finally peeked out from his refuge and looked down into the circular driveway in front of the church’s front door. His instinct was right. The approaching vehicle was a massive limousine, a black rolling beauty that was almost tank-like in its proportions. Its immaculately polished hood shot a searing reflection of afternoon sun right up into the bell tower, momentarily blinding him. Squinting furiously against the sharp glare, he watched a well-dressed redhead exit from a door held open by two bodyguards, each wearing large dark sunglasses that also mirrored the burning sun.

From his angle, Book could not see the woman’s face, though her elegant suit, double breasted and pin-striped, exuded power. But before she stepped out of his view, he caught a quick glimpse of the seductive cleavage, a string of magnificent pearls, and slightly muscled but lovely legs. Once again, an image of power came to mind, and Book immediately took flight out of the bell tower.

Book moved swiftly, like a crow, but silently, skimming down the twenty flights of redwood in less than a minute. But he was still too slow. The bottom stair of the tower ended in a small alcove that was inside the church. The woman was already stepping into a first row pew to the left of the altar, lowering her knees on the narrow strip of leather on oak that ran directly in front of the confessional. He saw that someone had tossed a sprig of dogbane on the red marble floor between her and the booth. He puzzled over the strange offering, though the woman seemed to not notice.

As far as Book could tell, no one else was inside the church. For the moment, he realized he was stuck. With the woman’s two bodyguards just outside the front door, there was little chance of slipping out through the front. Even worse, the woman had apparently turned the large deadbolt lock after entering the church. The only other feasible exits were to the sides of the first pew, almost even with the altar. If he went that way, surely she would see him and call out for her guards. So he pulled back into the shadows of the alcove, hoping that the woman would quickly say a few prayers, then be on her way.

But when Book glanced over at the confessional, he was stunned by what followed. The door to the priest’s booth was shut and impenetrable to outsiders trying to peer in. But the confessor’s booth had only a curtain, beneath which one could only see the small pew along the wall that separated the two compartments. Above the confessor’s booth were two small colored light bulbs, one red, the other green. When he had first glanced at the bulbs, the red light was clearly on, indicating that a priest was not in the adjoining booth and confession was not available.

But as soon as the woman finished her first rosary, the green light suddenly came on. Book was confused, even stunned somewhat. When he first drove onto church property, he had not seen Father Clayton’s station wagon or any other vehicles. True, he had not looked in the garage, which was closed as usual, but he had never known the priest to park his battered old heap in the garage anyway. But then again, he did not know this priest all that well, much less his parking habits. Although a member of the parish for more than two years, he had never even shaken hands with or spoken to Father Clayton.

A soft rustling sound of fabric suddenly jerked his thoughts back to the scene before him. The woman also had caught the green light. He watched her walk slowly, almost seductively, into the confessional. From his position in the alcove, he could see her legs flay out behind her as she knelt on the pew. The curtain was so low that all he could see were the beautiful legs and glossy red heels that nearly matched her hair color. When he saw her suit coat suddenly fall to the back of her calves, he nearly choked out loud. But the words that soon followed were even more stunning.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned, she said, in a low husky voice, one that sounded vaguely familiar, though Book could not pin it down.

Is that right, my child? came the male voice from the priest’s booth. A voice that sounded like that of Father Clayton, though Book wasn’t certain.

Yes, Father, she said, still speaking in the husky whisper that teased Book’s memory.

And did you lock the door of the church after you entered?

Yes, Father.

What about your bodyguards? he probed. They won’t try to enter?

No, Father.

And are you sure they cannot hear your confession from the other side of those doors?

Yes, Father. I ordered them to remain in the limousine. They will do as I say. They always do.

Book detected a slight tease in the woman’s voice. He sensed that this was a game they were playing, one they had played many times before, especially since her coat was still draped over her calves.

Well, child, continue with your confession, Father Clayton instructed.

Father, I have sinned in many ways. I have lied. I have stolen things. I have had bad thoughts. I have done bad things.

A soft clunking sound drew the Book’s eyes once again to the narrow opening beneath the curtain. He saw that the woman had kicked off her heels, followed by the unmistakable sound of a zipper. Now she was lifting one knee at a time off the leather cushion of the small pew, pushing her skirt under and behind her. With her left heel, she nudged it into a small clump behind her feet. Book immediately wanted to flee, but he remained frozen in place, obsessed by the thought of the bodyguards outside, not at all sharing the woman’s confidence that they had remained inside the limo.

What kind of bad thoughts have you had, my child? Father Clayton picked up again.

Book sensed that the priest had waited for the sound of the falling shoes, his cue to continue the game.

I think about killing someone, she said in hard voice. Often.

Don’t we all? he shot back.

The woman was straying from the priest’s game, Book guessed. A short silence followed, punctured at last by the priest clearing his throat and the impatient thrum of fingers on the thin boards that separated the two.

What else? he asked, his tone relentless.

Lustful thoughts, Father, she relented. About bad things I want to do, and have others do to me.

But those are just thoughts, my child. Do you feel remorse for your thoughts?

No, Father.

Well, my child, they are still just thoughts.

But I do bad things too, Father.

Like what, my child?

Do I have to say them, Father?

Yes, my child. You must confess your sins if you seek absolution.

A slight moan emitted from behind the curtain. Book saw elbows jostling the fabric, then watched as the woman’s bra dropped over her crumpled skirt. From inside the priest’s booth, he heard a gasp, followed by labored breathing.

Father, she started up again, changing the pitch of her voice to an almost girlish level, I touch myself.

In bad places, my child?

Yes, Father.

Oh, was all the priest could say.

Book almost laughed out loud, but then he realized there was not so much as a nervous hint in the priest’s voice. The priest was not expressing shock, he realized, he was giving direction.

Should I confess more, Father?

You must, my child. Absolution is never easy.

I also touch another, Father.

But child, it is okay to touch your husband.

I don’t touch him, Father. I touch another man.

Is this other man a good man? the priest asked in a baited voice.

No, Father.

Is he a handsome man?

Yes, Father. I undress for him.

Book heard the priest slowly clear his throat, but once again he did not detect any nervousness in the gesture. Or shock.

You understand you are committing adultery? the priest asked.

Yes, Father. I lose control.

Is he the only man you do this for?

Yes, Father.

Book did not know what was taught at seminaries, but he began to wonder if the manual on confessions included a chapter titled SNAGGING SOME ASS — MORTAL OR VENIAL SIN? But even with everything he had heard so far, he was still unprepared for what came next.

"Are you dressed right now, my