“Listen to what she wrote,” he insisted, rushing to open the little leather notebook. He thought I still had reservations. “It was her last entry. She said, ‘I’ve had my troubles. Dark, dark days. But today, I’m happy knowing my Everett is coming soon. I didn’t know love like this could exist. He’s mine—the closest person in the world to me, this tiny baby I haven’t even met yet. I hope all our lives, we’ll be this close.’”
His mother’s words stilled me. The sunshine found Ever through the branches, lighting his skin, making him look like an angel for once.
“It brings me peace,” he said quietly, closing the book. “Knowing she was happy. Her spirit went gently, I think. Which means she’s at rest.”
My mother’s voice echoed back:That lie is probably the only mercy that boy’s ever been given.
A breeze ruffled Ever’s hair. It carried the sweet scent of flowers. This was all he had: a pretty tree, a yearly ritual, a merciful lie. I couldn’t tell him how she really died—not now or ever. It wouldn’t bring his mother back, so what would the knowledge do other than wound him? No, I had to carry the horror alone so he could be spared. I’d always wanted to protect him—maybe this was how I was meant to do it.
Ever frowned at my silence, eyes tracking over my face. “What do you need to tell me?”
I took a deep breath. “Nothing after all.”
35
NOW
Remembering the details of that day makes me all the more certain Everett’s mother’s “swamp spiritualism” can be traced back to Le Culte de la Lune—or whatever version of it survived in secret over the centuries, called Wicca or witchcraft depending on who you asked. It adds up: the symbols, the white stone circles, the illustration of the Virgin Mary hanging in Célestine’s room. If I take Ever at his word that he’s not the one who carved the symbols in the swamp—and remembering the way I’d judged him years ago, I’m keen to trust him now—that means someone else in Bottom Springs practices. Someone who’s kept it hidden, only to go public now. But who and why, or does it even matter? Do the symbols in the swamp have anything to do with the murders, or are they connected only by happenstance, pieces of evidence discovered at the same time?
The more I learn, the more my list of questions grows.
All the more reason to take a page out of Nissa’s book and research. I shake the mouse and wake the old dinosaur desktop, returning to the January 1999 issues of theBottom Springs Bugle. Forcing myself to squint at the tiny print, I scroll through news of high school football games, a winter storm, the celebrated opening of the Rosethorn Café, and otherquotidian happenings. It’s not until I get to March that I find anything interesting: Célestine Duncan’s obituary.
It’s just two short lines. “Célestine Gabrielle Duncan, born in Trufayette Parish on June 9, 1974, passed away during childbirth on March 2, 1999. She is survived by her husband, Killian Duncan, and infant son, Everett Duncan.”
Cold and nondescript, a woman’s life reduced to less than a paragraph. And they printed the lie Killian must’ve fed them about how she died, no questions asked. My stomach turns. I keep scrolling, but there’s no other mention of her.
But in a June issue, something new catches my eye: an article about my father titled “Young ‘Reverend’s’ Fiery Speeches Court Controversy.” I read aloud to the ghosts: “Bottom Springs native James Cornier, 25, has caused quite a stir in recent months with his radical, impassioned speeches against what he terms ‘the malevolent influence of the occult’ in Trufayette Parish. Mr. Cornier, who styles himself a ‘born again’ reverend despite his lack of formal religious training, claims God chose him to bring believers into the fold and eradicate a sinister network of occultists in Bottom Springs.”
I blink at the screen for a second, then clear my throat and keep reading.
“His heated speeches about sin and corruption are delivered every weekend in a clearing near the entrance to Starry Swamp, where Mr. Cornier, under the influence of the Holy Spirit, has taken to speaking in tongues and even handling serpents, two of the five signs distinguishing God’s true believers, according to a passage from the Book of Mark. While these controversial worship practices are most often associated with the Holiness movement and other forms of extreme evangelicalism, attendance at Mr. Cornier’s rustic sermons has swelled to considerable numbers in recent months. And as his popularity grows, Mr. Cornier’swords are having an impact: the ‘reverend’ is credited with driving out the Longbeaux family, longtime Bottom Springs residents accused by his followers of practicing witchcraft, as well as the Freeman family, whose home was vandalized twice with threatening graffiti before they relocated.”
“Though Mr. Cornier’s following is on the rise in Trufayette Parish, not all are impressed. Angela Links, spokesperson for the New Orleans chapter of the Anti-Defamation League, when sent a recording of one of Mr. Cornier’s speeches, claimed any language inciting violence against particular peoples can be held liable for the resulting crimes. In particular, she flagged the parts of Mr. Cornier’s speech that focused on a need to ‘dispose of immoral women,’ which she termed a thinly veiled threat.”
“In defense of his methods, Mr. Cornier told theBugle: ‘It’s time for real Christians to take our religion outside the walls of the church. True believers have been charged by God to bring our faith into every aspect of our lives. No more Sunday Christians. Our careers, our politics, our families, and our communities should all reflect Godly values. In this fallen world, ours must be a muscular faith. If not, like Sodom and Gomorrah, we will fall into ruin. I urge the people of Bottom Springs to eradicate the poisonous influences living among us. Our survival depends on it.’”
“Mr. Cornier does seem to be right that the fate of Bottom Springs is on the table. With dwindling attendance at Holy Fire Church compared to Mr. Cornier’s growing flock, it seems the town has been overtaken by religious zealotry and evangelical fervor. This journalist, for one, would hate to see Bottom Springs become a place that drives out long-standing neighbors over feverish accusations. The soul of this town may indeed be in jeopardy.”
I whistle softly. “You tell ’em…” I check the byline. “John Abraham.”
Well, at least one person in history has had the stones to disagreewith my father, even if he was a journalist I’ve never heard of at a now-defunct newspaper. I had no idea my father got his start like that, stoking a witch hunt, but I can’t say I’m surprised. I search for more articles about him, but find none. In fact, as I pore through issues, searching for John Abraham’s bylines, I notice the subjects of his articles turn to wedding announcements and social calendar coverage—no more religion, nothing hard hitting. Could my father have been powerful enough to shape the coverage?
I continue to scroll, reloading the reader twice with new film, but it’s not until an issue dated nearly a year later that I find my father’s name again. The article is the opposite of critical, celebrating Reverend James Cornier’s ascendance to the pulpit of Holy Fire, made possible by the early retirement of the church’s previous leader. To my surprise, I’m in the accompanying photo, a red-haired toddler in my mother’s arms. She and my father stand in front of Holy Fire, renamed Holy Fire Born Again, a small and humble building with a parking lot paved with dirt. My mother’s expression matches my father’s: grim and haughty, chins held high, as if their inheritance of the church was a foregone conclusion. I can’t help but wonder if the previous preacher actually retired or was forced out.
I groan into my hands. These glimpses of Cornier family history, while illuminating, have nothing to do with Fred’s or Herman’s murders. I need to focus. I rub my eyes and, with a weary sigh, start fresh on another roll of film.
Quickly, a new problem presents itself: as the years progress, the newspaper goes from scarce mentions of my father to an abundance. And not just him: I can trace the ascension of the Fortenot Fishing Company and Blanchard Hospital clearly through the issues, theBugleturning chock-full of mentions of Fred Fortenot and the Blanchard family. The men I’m hunting are everywhere, making each page a laborto get through, and yet nothing I read gives any clue as to who might’ve wanted Herman dead or how Fred got involved with the Sons of Liberty, his likeliest killers. I find no evidence to support my favorite theory, that Herman got involved with the Sons of Liberty himself and they were also responsible for his death. It makes so much sense to me, though I can’t tell if that’s because I’m applying Occam’s razor or I simply want a neat and tidy answer pointed away from Everett.
Hours slide by until I’m well past the library’s closing time. It’s hard to tell without windows or a reliable clock—the desktop’s forever frozen at 1:14 p.m.—but I’ve stopped hearing footsteps from above, so Nissa must’ve gone home for the night. On-screen, black-and-white newspaper print bleeds one week into another until my vision swims. I close my eyes, lean back in my chair, and let out a sigh. The basement ghosts do not respond.
“Why,” I wonder aloud, “did I think I could investigate two murders by myself? I work at a library and I’m being defeated by microfilm. Disgraceful.”
I slump back over the keyboard and punch the forward key with more force than strictly necessary. I’m in July 2013 now, the last year theBuglewas in print, and the issues are preoccupied with the giant bicentennial celebration that took place that summer. I was fourteen at the time, so skimming through pictures of the parade and memorial dedication on Main Street triggers distant memories. I click to a spread of the town-wide barbecue on the shore and the day floods back: the smell of hot dogs burning, the crunch of hot sand under my feet, the glittering fireworks. I can remember my mother admonishing me to put down my book and join the other girls in the water, but I can’t remember my father.
I click to the next page and find him glaring back at me. My gaze flicks to the other faces in the photograph, and my stomach drops in shock. Gathered in a close circle around my father on the beach are KillianDuncan, drinking a beer, and Sheriff Theriot, shirtless and grinning, one arm slung over Fred Fortenot’s shoulders. Fred’s laughing behind mirrored sunglasses, and beside him is Augustus Blanchard in white linen, his disapproving gaze on Killian. Only my father seems aware their picture is being taken, and the look in his eyes is vicious. There’s no one around them—they’re set apart from the crowd as if they meant to be not noticed. I glance down at the photo credit: J. Abraham. My father’s lone critic.
I reel back from the screen. There’s no way to read their posture and expressions other than chummy, even intimate. But my father hated Killian Duncan. So did Sheriff Theriot and Fred Fortenot. What were these men doing together, and with Augustus Blanchard, of all people, presiding? I feel a distant sense of recognition, like a memory is struggling to surface. Is it possible I’ve seen them together before? Was Killian one of the men who used to come home with my father, high off some mysterious revelry, and I was just too young to remember?
