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  ONE

  Winton Chevalier paced up and down the linoleum in the stark white hallway, reflecting on the many surgeries he’d had in his thirty-five years. Funny how in all that time, he’d rarely been to the hospital to visit someone else. Now that he was in the hospital, but on the other side of the proverbial bedpan, he felt disoriented, useless. He paced, not because he was a habitual pacer, but because he didn’t know what else to do with himself.

  A nurse backed out of a doorway holding a food tray and bashed him in the face with her large buttocks. He stumbled but kept his feet.

  “Oh, I’m sorry little guy. Didn’t see you there.” The nurse’s expression fell when she saw that Winton wasn’t a seven year old. “Oh, I…” Her mouth hung open.

  “It’s all right.” Winton ran his hands down his front. “Just glad I have these cat-like reflexes.”

  The nurse smiled through her embarrassment and walked away faster than if she’d accidentally farted. Winton watched her hustle off, one dark eyebrow rising on his forehead.

  Winton’s continued pacing had a bit of a limp and a waddling gait, as one leg worked better than the other: which leg depended on the day. It had been some time since his last procedure, and he was clearly due for a tune-up — one of the many pleasures of his condition — but no one was cutting into him that day. So he paced some more.

  One consolation of all his surgeries and all his hospital visits was that the end usually justified the hassle. His father would be okay, he assured himself for the hundredth time. They’d cut the cancer off his leg bone, and Roland Chevalier would be there to meet his unborn grandson, Winton’s first child.

  “Who do you think would win in a fight, a lion or a tiger?” Winton’s older brother, Corbin, interrupted his thoughts.

  Winton turned to face him. “What’s that?”

  Corbin was almost as tall as their stately father — two feet taller than Winton — but lacked all other markers of their father’s stature. Corbin was heavy-set with rounded shoulders, a blockish head and cow’s eyes. Sandy hair like their mother. He sat slumped on a bench a few feet away, absentmindedly chomping on homemade beef jerky, while staring off at some poster with wild animals on it. “Who’d win?” Corbin asked. “A tiger or a lion?”

  “I don’t know.” Winton was frustrated by the inanity of the question. Corbin was harmless but tiresome. Winton would try not to be curt with him, given the circumstances. “The lion, I reckon.”

  Corbin smirked, looking self-satisfied. “You’re wrong. It’s the tiger.”

  “Why the hell did you ask then?”

  Corbin ripped some jerky away with his teeth and chewed, never looking at Winton. “Saw it on the History Channel. They know who’d win ‘cause the Romans would make animals fight in the Colosseum, like when they ran out of Christians or Muslims to kill.”

  “There weren’t any Muslims in the Roman era,” Winton said. “Are you sure you were watching the History Channel? Isn’t it all ice road truckers and scum bags trying to pry into storage lockers?”

  Corbin carried on as if he didn’t hear his reply. “So, sometimes they’d put different animals in with each other and make ‘em fight. And usually the tigers won. So that’s who’d win in a fight, between a lion and a tiger. The tiger.” Corbin ripped another bit of jerky away.

  “That’s fascinating stuff, Corbs.”

  “It ain’t always the bigger one that wins, either,” Corbin said, still staring off at the poster. “Sometimes speed kills.” Corbin shadow boxed clumsily with a sad approximation of speed, one hand still gripping beef jerky. His fat jiggled all over, as he pummeled the air.

  Winton’s brother had always been big-boned, as they say, but in his thirties had steadily gained weight until borderline obese. It was a wonder to Winton that his brother could still pass the physical tests required to be a police officer. Then again, if there was ever a state where folks would turn a blind eye to such health issues, it was Louisiana.

  Corbin perked up and straightened his shoulders, looking off behind Winton. “Momma.”

  DeeDee Chevalier hurried her way down the hospital ward carrying an overnight bag, a purse, and two plastic sacks that Winton was sure were full of home-cooked food. One could never tell if DeeDee was fixing to care for a loved one or settling in for a siege.

  Despite the worry dotting her face, she smiled brightly upon seeing Winton. “Oh, Winton, you made it.”

  When Winton had first heard about the strange growths on his father’s leg, he figured it was nothing, but a week later, they’d learned it was cancer and a nasty, uncommon sort at that. Winton had prepared a go-bag and treated the situation as a dry run for taking his wife, Missy, to the hospital to give birth.

  “Hey Mom. I took the puddle jumper from Houston.” He took the sacks of food that smelled of DeeDee’s spicy fried drumsticks and corn bread, and she bent to give him a kiss on his forehead. “You always keep your promises, Win. I was worried for a few years there, but I somehow raised you right.”

  Corbin popped up, took his mother’s bag and slung her purse over a shoulder as naturally as any man Winton had ever seen. Corbin caught Winton’s look. “A purse is just a bag like any other.”

  “It is,” Winton said. “And it isn’t.”

  “You’ll see when you’re married,” Corbin said.

  Winton had to furrow his brow at his big lunk of a brother. “Hoss, I’ve been married for two years. I got a kid on the way.”

  “A purse is a bag like any other,” Corbin said.

  A nurse and doctor stepped out of a nearby room. DeeDee pounced with her questions, and the doctor, already acquainted with his patient’s wife, raised his hands defensively. “Mrs. Chevalier, I’ve just explained everything to your husband. I’m sure he can relay it to you before the sedative kicks in.”

  “But is he going to be all right?”

  “It’s a tricky procedure, but we have to move forward in confidence.” The doctor gripped her elbow, nodded once and walked off.

  DeeDee looked around helplessly.

  “You can go in now,” the nurse said in a more pleasant manner and guided her to the door.

  Winton gripped the food bags in one hand and managed to snag his own travel bag with the other, dragging it across the linoleum behind him.

  Roland Chevalier was still a handsome man, but looked years older than the last time Winton had seen him, only months before. Maybe it was the cancer. Maybe it was the treatment for the cancer. Maybe it was the worry. Corbin and DeeDee crowded his bedside, leaving Winton blocked from view. He wasn’t sure his father even knew he was there, but then a long, strong hand slipped out between his mother and brother. Winton set his things down and clutched his father’s hand with both of his. Though Corbin and DeeDee were peppering him with questions, Winton could feel his father’s attention pointed at him, his inner strength humming in his reassuringly warm paw. His father gave a quick double squeeze, as if to say, “Can you believe these two?”

  Winton smiled.

  His father retracted his hand and Winton hopped up on a chair by the door. He got a text from Missy: We miss you. In the picture she was turned sideways, hand on her six-month pregnant belly. She was so tall, though, that she didn’t look very pregnant.

  Sometimes when Winton saw her at a certain angle, or when friends commented on how little she was showing, a cold shiver ran through him and pooled in his stomach. He’d paid for an expensive genetic test, and the doctor in Houston had assured him that his son was going to grow up without any of the dozens of varieties of dwarfism. But being a first-time father, his
mind continued to play tricks on him, making him wonder and fear.

  Winton didn’t feel inferior or less of a man because of his stature. He wasn’t thrilled about it, but he’d dealt with the bulk of his frustrations ten years previous. Besides, he was a lot of things many big people were not: smart, bold, charismatic when necessary, even charming. He managed dozens of people and the operations of a big and growing business venture. And he further congratulated himself that he did it without making too many people hate him in the day-to-day.

  So, he hadn’t feared when Missy first told him they were pregnant. Little or big, he’d raise any child of his to be great at whatever they put their hand to, and to do so with kindness and loyalty. And yet, imagining going through what his parents had? The doctor visits, the possible complications, the worry. The cold reality of raising a stunted child in a big world had begun to dawn on him. He felt shame for secretly hoping, needing his unborn son to be unlike him physically, but he knew it was what he wanted. He didn’t care if the kid could pick him up at ten years old and kick his ass by the age of twelve. He’d laugh it off, just so long as his kid grew up happier than he had.

  Winton shook himself and counted his blessings. His hardest years were past. Now were his glory days. He had his wife, now a son, financial success, and true friends, the kind that stick by you in the storm. He was on top of the world. That was all he needed to think on.

  The glow inside him dimmed, hearing his family talk over the prognosis, which was good, but not one hundred percent.

  “So, just this one surgery, then?” DeeDee asked.

  “If they get it all,” his father said. “They’ve got it all mapped out.” He cleared his throat. “DeeDee, has Lucas shown up yet?”

  Lucas was the youngest of the three boys. Thirty-two, handsome and svelte like their father, though not as tall. He had the dark Chevalier hair and features that Winton also shared, though Winton’s features were somewhat bent from birth with a little extra help from clumsy falls, a punch he didn’t deserve and a couple he did. He had more in common with Lucas than Corbin — they both liked a joke — but where Winton was quick to provide the dry humor and mild cynicism, Lucas could raise a wider variety of spirits with his high energy and cheer, a personality trait only sharpened by being the baby of the family.

  “I still haven’t heard a word,” DeeDee said. “I tried to call Melissa, but they broke up apparently. What about the station?”

  Lucas, like Corbin, had fallen into the family trade: police work. All three men had served the New Orleans PD, Winton’s father retiring as Chief. The name Chevalier carried a certain legacy in the department, probably what afforded Corbin a little leeway despite not being the sharpest nor the fittest officer on the force.

  A knock sounded at the door. In stepped a man in a cheap light-colored suit, with a big balding head and square shoulders. Winton didn’t know his name or recognize his face, but he was surely a cop.

  “Well, well. The whole gang is here,” the man said.

  “Dee, Winton,” his father said. “This is Captain Luther Remus.”

  “A pleasure, ma’am.” He shook DeeDee’s hand, and nodded down at Winton. “Son.”

  “What’s he doing here?” Corbin whispered to his dad.

  “Why don’t y’all give me a second alone with Captain Remus.”

  They stepped into the hall as asked, and a short while later, Remus emerged into the white hallway, smiled his big blocky, coffee-stained teeth, and tipped an imaginary cap before walking away.

  “Is there any word of Lucas?” DeeDee asked upon re-entering the room.

  “It’s fine.” Winton’s father tried to adjust his position in bed. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  “I just don’t understand why Lucas wouldn’t be here by your side.” DeeDee clutched her husband’s hand and sat on the edge of the bed.

  Winton’s father looked DeeDee in the eyes. “Lucas would know that I’d prefer him taking a bad guy off the street than standing here fussing over me. Now, the nurse gave me a sedative, and I’m fixing to zonk out.”

  “You sure you don’t wanna eat something?” DeeDee asked. “I got chicken you like. I got peas and—”

  “My love,” he said, gripping her arm. “Relax yourself. For me. Please. And don’t just stay cooped up in here with me. Go stretch your legs. Hell, go see a movie.”

  DeeDee laughed at what she saw as an absurd request. His father smiled resignedly, knowing it was a fight he couldn’t win.

  “Maybe I’ll pop down to that farmers market close by,” she said by way of compromise. “See if it’s up and running this early in the year.”

  “That sounds swell.”

  As they made their way out, Winton hoisted his bag over a shoulder, mentally preparing for the squalling noise of Corbin’s three kids and wife in their cramped home.

  “Winton,” his father said. “I need a word.”

  Winton dropped the bag, closed the door behind his mother and walked to his father’s bedside. “What’s up, Dad?”

  His father’s eyes grew wide and starkly white, as if he’d seen something unpleasant. “Winton, things aren’t right.”

  “It’ll be okay, old man. You’ll beat—”

  “No,” his father said. “Not me. With the department. Something’s off.”

  “Off? How?”

  “Winton, I haven’t told your mother, and I haven’t told Corbin. But something’s wrong. Really wrong. And the department isn’t doing anything about it.” His father’s eyes were glassy, making his green irises stand out.

  “Dad, it’s one of the best forces in the country. You were always so proud.”

  “I was proud. I know this department better than I know my own family. And son, it ain’t right.”

  Winton blinked. His gorge rose as if preparing to be sick. “You don’t mean, like, corruption?”

  “It isn’t so unbelievable,” his father said. “It’s the way things have always been, always knocking on the door, especially in New Orleans. I fear it’s silently festering again.”

  “And Lucas got in the middle of it somehow?”

  “I just can’t think why else he wouldn’t be here. When I was on the force I could’a sussed this out like a bloodhound in no time. But now I’m outta the loop, and I can’t get out of this bed.” He clasped Winton’s hand in his so firmly it conveyed his father’s emotion in a way words couldn’t. Winton felt his own eyes grow hot. “Winton I’m desperate, and I don’t know who I can trust.”

  “Dad, I’m no detective. I… I don’t know—”

  “Don’t gimme that.” His father sniffed, gaining control of himself. “You’re whip smart, son. It’s just a puzzle, and our Lucas is at the end of it. I want my boy back, Winton. I want my baby boy.” His father wept openly, teeth gritted, eyes pinched, something Winton had only seen the big man do twice, and one of those was football-related. “Before I die, I gotta know my baby boy is okay.”

  Winton flapped his gums, no sound coming out.

  “Winton.” His father sniffed and clutched his hand. “Your job, your loving wife, your precious baby on the way. I know what I’m asking you to risk. That’s why I gotta ask you for something more, something I feel ugly asking for.”

  “Jesus, Dad, what more could you ask?”

  “You step one foot down this path, you’re stepping into a world of shadows. The nearer you get to Lucas, the nearer you’ll get to evil men, men convinced they’re above any sort of law.” His father shook his head, something in his eyes growing less lucid by the second. “Winton, that’s no place for a peaceful man.”

  “I can hold a gun.”

  “I’m not talking about guns. I’m talking about doing whatever it takes.” He inhaled sharply through his nostrils. “Winton, all that rage and anger you had when you were younger. The trouble it got you in. Do you remember?”

  Winton swallowed bile back down. “I recall.”

  “Son, I need you to find it wherever you left
it. I need you to pick it up, sharpen it. Then I need you to wrap your hand around it tight ‘til your knuckles go white. And when the moment comes, son—” He squeezed him harder. “Don’t blink.”

  Winton did blink, stunned, frozen in place. It was all he could do. He’d never heard his father talk like this. He’d never seen him so scared. His father’s strong hands released him, and he had to look at his feet to keep his balance. When he looked up from the floor, his father was reclined, eyes closed, face growing less pained. “Find my boy,” he muttered, as drug-induced sleep took him. “Find him.”

  TWO

  Jo Beth Chevalier greeted them at the door to Corbin’s house, with two of their kids cramming past her ample thighs.

  “Uncle Winton! Uncle Winton!” Chucky and Pete towered above Winton, or so it felt, imposing upon his person with their excited chatter and demands that he come see their newest toys and video games.

  “Let the fella breathe, you little turds.” Jo Beth swatted them behind her and bent to give Winton a hug. “I made those enchiladas you like.”

  “That cream cheese-filled insult to authentic Mexican food?”

  “That’s them.”

  “Sweet.”

  Jo Beth greeted her husband with a couple demands about things around the house. “And tell that neighbor not to fling his dog crap into our yard. He does it again and he’ll find a nice surprise in that foreign car of his.” Jo Beth set a hand on Winton’s shoulder. “Come on. You’re sleeping in Suzette’s room.” He followed her down the hall and into the room that could have been a large closet. The low bed was covered in pink sheets and a Princess Sophia comforter.

  “Them’s the only sheets I got that fit.”

  Winton walked toward the bed and set his things down beside it. “That’s just fine.”

  “Shower’s broke,” Jo Beth said. “But you can take a whore’s bath if you’re feeling funky. Get settled and come see me about a drink.” He nodded in thanks as she left, then looked about the room. When it started to spin, he leaned on the bed, forcing himself to take a deep breath.