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16
Bayou Gauche, Louisiana
WEDNESDAY, JULY 27, 8:00 A.M.
Gabe’s still going to feel guilty, isn’t he?” Xavier asked when Burke ended the call with Molly and Gabe and tossed his phone to the kitchen table. It was just the two of them for now. Everyone else had had breakfast and were off doing other things. Carlos and Manny were playing video games, Willa Mae was knitting, and his mom had found a romance novel in the bag of stuff that Burke’s office manager, Joy, had bought for them the night before.
Xavier himself had been trying to read his textbooks but had kept nodding off. He hadn’t slept much the night before and needed caffeine. He’d entered the kitchen in time to hear Burke on the phone with Gabe, confirming that the mortician was dead along with the pathologist who’d done Rocky’s real autopsy.
Poor Gabe. His dad was dead and now two more people were as well, one of them his personal friend. Because Gabe had asked them both for help. It made Xavier’s gut clench at the thought of anything happening to Carlos. Or his mom. Or Manny or Willa Mae.
“Probably,” Burke said with a regretful shake of his head. “Involving others in your personal drama, even when it’s not of your own making, puts a huge weight on the shoulders.”
“I know,” Xavier said, miserable to even consider it.
“I know you do. That’s why I said it. It’s not of your own making. Not your fault. Not Gabe’s fault. That’s why therapists exist. For the aftereffects.”
Xavier studied the older man. Burke had to be forty, maybe older. He was still in great shape for a guy his age, but his eyes had little wrinkles at the corners and held a lot of sadness when he thought no one was watching.
He wanted to ask about Burke’s story, but he understood keeping one’s personal history private. He loved Carlos like a brother, and he’d been an amazing support the past few days, but he didn’t think that Carlos could have held on to his secret all these years.
“For a long time,” Xavier said quietly, “I thought that I’d made up what I saw.”
“The woman getting murdered.”
Xavier nodded. “I’d have these awful nightmares. Wake up screaming.”
“I know those nightmares. I have them myself from time to time.”
He really wanted to ask more, but Burke didn’t look in the mood to share any more. “When Rocky came into my life—back into my life—I wasn’t sure what was worse. I mean, it was awful thinking that I was so screwed in the head that my imagination made up the woman getting killed. But then...”
“You found out that it wasn’t your imagination.”
“My mom and dad took me to therapists when I was little. They’re the ones who said it was all in my head. A product of my trauma.”
“Well, you had just seen your mother die,” Burke said pragmatically.
Still, Xavier shivered. “I can still see her hands on the hole she’d chopped in the roof. She’d shown me the hatchet in the attic, told me what to do in a flood. Her mother had told her about a hurricane in the sixties, how people got trapped in their attics trying to outrun the flood, so they started keeping hatchets in case they needed to escape through the roof.”
“Hurricane Betsy,” Burke murmured. “Back in ’65. My uncle told me about it, too. He also kept a hatchet in the attic. Your mother was wise to have done so.”
Xavier pressed his lips together, trying not to give in to the fear he felt every time he remembered. “I know, but the water came too fast. We heard a loud noise—that was the levee breaking—and within a few minutes the house was filling up. She barely had time to cut through the roof. She shoved me out through the hole, but she...” He swallowed hard. “She was trying to get out, trying to lift herself out, but the roof kept breaking away. Her hands would disappear, then reappear and grab the roof. Then disappear again.”
Burke sighed. “That is enough to give anyone nightmares. And then to see a woman murdered on top of that? Hell, Xavier.”
“I know. Trust me, I know. But the therapists never listened to me. I was just a traumatized little kid, making stuff up. It’s hard not to be bitter.”
“I get that. But do me a favor? When this is over, I’ll give you the name of a therapist who can help you. Please call her. She’s very good.”
“She helped you?”
“Immensely.”
Xavier waited for him to say more, but he didn’t, which was his right. “What’s next?”
“Next we look at photos of your neighborhood as it exists today. I looked at Google Earth last night and at the neighborhood’s recovery and renewal website. Gotta say, I’m not hopeful. The neighborhood looks different than it did before Katrina, and you were so small.”
Xavier’s gut churned some more. “If I have to go back there, if it’ll help y’all identify the original victim, then I will.”
