Tempe was at the lawyer’s offices bright and early, even before the admin assistant had arrived. Ruth let him follow her in and asked him to wait in the lobby until Perry came in at 9 am. He seemed un-surprised to find Tempe there and ushered him into his office where he made coffee for both in a Keurig.
“I see you’re a man who values his time, Tempe,” he said and opened his briefcase. Handmade of leather, it bore the double ‘H’ of a European designer and cost as much as a used car. Inside were papers stapled together and a series of manila folders.
The top one had the name John Doe on it, and he placed that one in front of Tempe. Perry explained that it was a court order giving John Doe, aka Cris Snow over to the custody of his father, Tempe Neige. It was signed by Judge Lonnie Burke, Fifth Circuit Court of Chicago and dated yesterday. There were other papers proving that the boy’s DNA and Tempe’s were related through a filial connection. Copies of Cris fingerprints from samples taken off his things at home and identified by the Louisiana Bureau of Criminal Investigations. Double-checked by the FBI through their Crimes Against Children Data Base. Pictures of Cris when he was ten, taken at school in Pine Bayeux.
“Everything you need is in here, including a request to appoint you as the Trustee for the John Doe Trust Fund. I’ve gone over the documents and the lawyers from the Trust have included every contingency. Let me warn you, Tempe. The Trust does allow you to take a sum out once a month but only what the Administrators deem appropriate. So, if you think you’re suddenly going to be an instant millionaire, think again.”
He watched Tempe’s face as he said that and when there was no reaction, he continued. “The Admins of the Doe Trust have also included a monthly welfare check on the boy. In the event of Doe’s, Cris death, the Trust reverts to the other survivors of the bus accident and not his heirs. At that time, it was uncertain whether Cris would survive surgery, come out of the coma, be cognizant or had any other family.”
“Can I change any of it?” Tempe asked softly.
“Legally, you can challenge any or all of it but fighting it in court will cost you the fortune and you would still lose. So, no.”
“Thanks,” Tempe said briefly. “And your 5%? How do I pay that?”
“Legal fees are allowed by the Trust. I submitted my bill and have been told that the Trust will honor our deal,” Perry said carefully. He saw the flare in Neige eyes, but it was quickly gone.
“I suppose buying myself a Ferrari is out of the question, then,” Tempe drawled.
“There are clauses that say the Trust will pay for reasonable accommodations for living. A house down at the beach, California or Florida would not be denied. Even one in Louisiana.”
Tempe stood up and held out his hand. Perry hesitated a split second and then stood, shaking the man’s hand. He watched as the Louisiana Deputy took his papers and walked out the door.
Perry went to the door and waited as the tall, soft-spoken Cajun strode to the elevator and disappeared inside.
Ruth said, “that’s a dangerous man, Mr. Perry.”
“For a moment there, I thought he was going to jump me,” Perry admitted. “Ruth, can you do some discrete investigating on our Deputy Snow? Of Pine Bayeux, Louisiana?”
“How about using Detective Eachann? He’s still on sick leave from the NYPD and is also consulting for CMEC,” she suggested. “And he’s related to one of the lawyers that have control of the Trust.”
“Great idea. Call him and ask if he can make time to see me.”
She went back to her desk and looked at her computer screen. Found an opening at the end of the week if she juggled two other less important meetings. When she had contacted Eachann and relayed the message, explained the circumstances, he agreed to drive up and talk to the lawyer.
I
put the worn pages down, the contents warred with my thoughts and memories. I remembered being there, doing those things. I remembered the taste of venison stew and being whipped by the French brothers when I had taken too long to respond to their demands. I remembered how cold I always was; how my hands and feet were frozen every morning and hurt when I warmed them by the fire.
Yet, my name wasn’t Crispin Lacey. I wasn’t eight years-old nor did I live in the forest in the 1830s. My name was Cris. Cris Snow. I was eleven and it was well into the new millennium. Like Crispin, I had lost mom and my father had disappeared leaving me to the tender mercy of the foster care system. To say that I was a troubled child was an understatement.
I had caused quite a stir, roused a few situations when I had been awake and aware at the Rehab place. I had seen things. Heard things that weren’t there or had no explanation. Often, I screamed at night in terror – but in French and a language that no one else understood. When confronted with tapes of the episodes, I did not understand them, either. I had known enough not to tell them what I was experiencing not because I was afraid but because I hadn’t known what was going on, either. Now, it all made sense to me.
I always woke before I dreamed that I was dead. Sometimes, I knew I would die by freezing to death. Sometimes, I was stabbed with a large knife or shot with arrows. Sometimes and these were the worst ones – I was raped to death by a filthy man dressed in leather and furs made from bear hides.
I seemed to hear a man’s voice calling me, but he called me by another name that I did not associate with my own. He spoke in a language that sounded melodious with a charming lilt that gave me a sense of comfort even when I did not understand a single word.
I looked up some of the words on the Internet; there were only a few that I could recall. Carriadhe. Beloved. Heart. The words to a lullaby sung in Gaelic. The language of the Irish. Of Druids, Magic, Merlin, and mystery.
I had no clue why those things bothered me. I wasn’t Irish. I had no relatives from that country. From my earlier memories of my mother, I knew that she was Italian. Northern Italy where the Swiss lived, and she was a blonde like them. My father was dark-haired and eyed, from Louisiana. Part Creole, con man, Deputy Sheriff with a whole lot of mean. No Irish, no Native American. I had lived my first ten years in the swamps and hollows of Louisiana. Mom and I had run from my abusive father and our pedophile landlord, run to the backwoods of Tennessee, run right into a bus wreck where I was the only survivor. I lost my mother, my future and all my past when the authorities identified me as John Doe because we had boarded the bus under fake names and no papers.
C
hase’s Corners was out-of-the-way for the group but not by so much. Still, Captain Lacey gave it a wide berth. No sense in taking chances with his cargo, especially since Johannsen had likely spread the rumor that he was going to rob it. They kept to the back trails that were harder on the horses but had the advantage of fewer riders on it. The trail lay close to the river, was plagued by mosquitoes and biting flies so most people took the ridge trail where the cooler air kept the pests at bay.
At best, they had two more days on the trail; with the heavy load the horses tired faster and couldn’t be pushed. The trail had its boggy places and required dismounting so that the extra hands could push the wheels out of deep mud-holes. The same for any water crossings. Most of the streams in the area were soft, muddy bottoms, not hard gravel. There were sandbars and quicksand, places too easy to ride up on and not marked as such. Yet, they had the two Cherokee who warned them of bad crossings and better trails that they could take.
By the evening of the second day, Lacey pulled into a spot used for camping by other travelers. It had everything they needed – fuel, water, and safety. There was a fire ring laid out with rocks, a lean-to made of pine poles and a makeshift corral dropped with pine trees behind the shed. There was a granite ridge behind them as a windbreak and even enough grass for the horses to graze on. After he unhitched them, he hobbled both and turned them loose.
The Army boys had their tents up in minutes, coffee brewing while Tall Man and his companion went hunting for dinner. Half an hour later brought them back with both rabbits and turkeys. Lacey commented how much better they ate since the Indians came to help.
After their bellies were full, they divvied up the watches with LeFevre and the corporal taking the first two-hour shift. The night passed quietly. Nothing disturbed the soldiers sleep.
The rest of the trip was uneventful and that was disturbing. Lacey thought Johannsen would have made some attempt to cut them off before they arrived at St. Louis. It was with great relief that Captain Lacey drove the weary team into the post and pulled up in front of the Quarter Master’s cabin.
He saluted the Major standing outside the door. This man was ramrod straight, dressed in the complete uniform, and looked as if he had just come from inspection. The Major saluted back and stepped off the porch, taking the heads of the team.
“Any problems, Captain? I’m Major Lassiter.”
“No, sir. With the additional help, we were well guarded,” Lacey returned.
“Additional help?” Major Lassiter questioned, and Lacey turned around to look. Both Indians had disappeared. The four soldiers had already dismounted and were walking their horses to the remount stables. Heading to the mess tent and barracks after that.
“Step down, Captain and join me for a drink. I have your transfer papers and orders.”
“Transfer papers? They’re supposed to be my resignation orders,” Lacey protested.
“We’ll discuss that later.”
“The team?” Lacey said.
“Your man can see to it.” He called out and a private scurried over and saluted.
“Private, see to the horses and wagon inform the Quarter Master the cargo needs to be repacked in the morning. Come back when that’s done and haul the Captain’s bag to the Officer’s quarters.”
“Yes, sir!” The youngster disappeared inside the Depot and brought out a Sergeant who took over the detail of unloading and unhitching.
Lacey stepped down wearily and followed the Major into his office, a rude wooden building where the sunlight shone through the cracks and with it, the wind. Fitzsimmons remained outside with their packs wishing he’d been invited in for a wee bit of the Irish.
Lacey turned around and said, “Fitz?”
Thankfully, the freedman came in and sat in a chair close to the pot-bellied stove.
The Major poured three shots of Irish whiskey and tossed one back. Both Lacey and Fitz let theirs linger on the throat before swallowing the peaty spirits.
“Ah, that’s a mighty fine drink,” Fitz said, and Lacey laughed.
“Don’t you dare say ‘Faith and begorrah’, you daft Irishman,” Lacey laughed. “Major, my orders.” He pushed over the packet that stated his orders to deliver the gold coins and scrip to Fort Merrick at St. Louis to a Major Dearborn.
The Major read the orders and signed his name with a flourish, waving the ink dry. In turn, he handed Lacey a thin packet bound in white twine and knotted beneath a wax seal.
“Your commission resignation papers, signed by General Scott himself, Captain Lacey. I would be remiss if I didn’t state that I tried to talk you out of it. This young country needs more officers like you.”
“I must make haste to St. Louis, sir. My young son is being held hostage by a sodomite. I have to rescue him.”
“It’s a good thing you’re already headed to St. Louis, then. What can I do to help?”
“We would appreciate some riding horses and a pack mule. It’s less conspicuous than the wagon. Especially since you will be off-loading your payroll.”
“You’re in luck. We just took in a load of half-broke horses from the west. Mustangs, they call them. Hardy little creatures. General Scott authorized me to give you three months wages before you leave in the morning. You know about the paddle-wheelers? They go upriver but it’s a six-month’s journey that way. Don’t think you want to risk that length of time for your boy.”
“No, sir. We’d like to leave at first light. Will we be able to count on Tall Man and his brother?”
The Major shrugged. “I have no authority to order the Indians to do anything. But I suspect that those two will be with you. Sully will take you to the Officer’s quarters. Your man is welcome to bunk with you.” He stood and opened the door, where the private was waiting to take them to the mess and show them their rooms.
Dinner was stew and biscuits, hot coffee, and all they could eat. The barracks was a small wooden building off to the side of the parade ground, had two beds with corn husk mattresses and a heavy wool blanket plus a quilt. Their gear was laid at the end of the bed.
Private Sully showed them where the latrines were and offered to bring a bucket of hot water, so they could wash. Only after all that was done did the pair fall into bed and sleep.