“I don’t know. I guess it could be. I bet if we dug down we could find more fulgurites buried in the sand.”

“It’s shaped like a cross. Did you notice that?”

“I didn’t. But now that you mention it, it does resemble a cross. And it’s about the same size as a crucifix.”

Rafter grinned and held up the lightning-formed crucifix. “This is miraculous in a way. I guess you could say we’re standing on holy ground.”

“Yeah, good thing we’re barefoot.”

Rafter stood up. He’d broken his pelvis less than a year ago. Squatting in the sand made it ache. “Annie, there’s something I need to tell you. Now is as good a time as any.”

Annie stood up and looked at him curiously. “Okay, I’m a little worried. You sound serious, Jon. But go ahead.”

Rafter dropped the fulgurite into the sand and took Annie’s hands in his. “First off, I take our marriage vows seriously. We’ve entered into a covenant. And I intend to keep every vow. But I wish now I would’ve pledged one more vow during our ceremony.” Rafter paused. A lump formed in his throat. He started to get emotional. “So with God as my witness, I pledge to protect you from harm, to keep you safe from evil people like Sebastian and Jean-Paul Boudreaux.”

“I don’t need you to be my guardian, Jon. I just need you to be my husband.”

Rafter shook his head. “You’ve been through so much, Annie, more than any person should have to bear. So until I take my last breath, until death separates us, I will protect you. No one will ever take you hostage again.”

****

Remembering the vow he made on the moonlit beach ignited a murderous fury inside Rafter. He’d promised to keep Annie safe from people like Arcadias, to never let her be kidnapped again. And he’d failed her. His words on the beach rang hollow now.

If he ever got Arcadias alone he didn’t know if he could hold back his fury. He might just break every bone in the man’s face. Lord, please help me calm down. This rage I feel isn’t going to help end this crisis. Please don’t let me do anything rash and stupid.

Chapter 39

Newton Laskey and his two agents stood near the police cruiser and talked to Detective Jack Casey. The detective from the Iberville Parish Sheriff’s Department had just given them a condensed version of the events leading up to Copeland Police Officer Josiah Barrett’s death.

“It doesn’t make any sense, Detective,” Laskey said.

Jack Casey scratched his head. “What specifically doesn’t make sense? If you ask me, crime never makes any sense.”

“You said Officer Barrett was shot in the back three times.”

“If I did, I misspoke. Barrett was actually shot twice in the side and once in the back,” Casey clarified, his voice steady and clinical.

“And he was shot with full-metal jacket rounds?”

“Yes. There were entry and exit wounds. The exit wounds were much larger and ragged than the entry wounds. The entry wounds were symmetrical and had gunpowder and cordite residue ringing them.”

“And Officer Barrett came here looking for an old man who lives down the road and was missing.”

“Yes, Cora Hoxley said her husband Ned came here to tell the Rafters’ their dog was injured, and Ned never came back. That’s why Barrett came here.”

“I take it he answered the call on his own without any backup.”

Casey nodded somberly. “Copeland used to contract with the sheriff’s department to run nightly patrols. But then the city council decided they needed their own police department. Unfortunately the town budget only allocated for two policemen, the chief and Barrett. The chief had finished his shift, and Barrett had just started his when he visited the Hoxley place.”

“What doesn’t make sense to me is that Barrett was shot in the back and side. Why would Barrett turn his back on Jon Rafter if Rafter was the raging lunatic Sheriff Tubbs makes him out to be? Why didn’t Barrett pull his gun, and why wouldn’t the entry wounds be on the front of his body? This tells me he was turning to leave when he was shot. And if he was turning to leave he must’ve thought the old man wasn’t here, or he was an acquaintance of the shooter and trusted him.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Laskey. The investigation is just starting. But in a town this small, Barrett probably knew Jon Rafter.”

Agent Otis Grant spoke up. “Was the officer shot on the porch?”

Detective Casey looked at the African-American FBI agent. “We assume so. We haven’t gone up onto the porch. It’s too dangerous. But we can see a pool of blood on the walkway at the foot of the stairs. The blood trail extends from there to the cruiser.”

Laskey rubbed his chin. “It’s a miracle the officer made it to his cruiser to call in.”

Casey nodded. “Judging by the blood trail there wasn’t much blood left in him when he called in.”

Laskey looked at the cars parked in a small lot on the east side of the house. “Who do these cars belong to?”

“The two pickup trucks belong to what we assume are paying guests. The newer Chevy is a rental to Arcadias Charbonneau. The old pickup is registered to a Damien Charbonneau. The BMW belongs to a family law attorney out of Baton Rouge named Kevin Jepson. The Buick sedan belongs to Ned Hoxley.”

“Are Damien and Arcadias brothers?”

Casey nodded.

“Do they have records?”

“Arcadias is clean as a whistle, not even a speeding ticket to speak of. Damien has a DUI arrest on file. The arrest happened three years ago. Other than the DUI, Damien is squeaky clean too.”

“Why would two brothers want to rent rooms here?”

Detective Casey shrugged. “Maybe they’re romantics and brought girlfriends. We’re only estimating the number of people inside the home.”

“So neither one of the brothers is married?”

Casey nodded. “Both are single. Damien is a lifelong bachelor. Arcadias is divorced.”

Laskey looked up into the sky, noticed the Big Dipper shining brightly. As a kid he always wanted to be an astronaut. Somewhere in high school the ambitious dream died. He wished now he could rocket to the farthest reaches in space and leave this crazy planet far behind. Laskey returned his gaze to the detective. “What do the Charbonneau brothers do for livings?”

“Damien pours concrete. Arcadias was once a history professor at McNeese State University. Now he owns a treasure hunting shop in Grand Island.”

“You said something about a bloody footprint in the art studio. Can we take a look?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Laskey, follow me,” Casey said. The detective led them on a circuitous route, bypassing squad cars and deputies clustered around the sheriff, to the carriage house sitting fifty yards from the main house.

Laskey stopped in his tracks when he saw a metal detector leaning against the carriage house. Otis Grant pulled up beside him. “Looks like the guests have been hunting for treasure, Newt. They sure know how to make themselves feel at home.”

“There’s something weird about this crime scene, Otis.”

Casey turned his head at Laskey’s comments. “Fingerprints have been lifted from the metal detector. We’re waiting to hear back on a definite match, but I’m guessing the prints belong to Damien Charbonneau. The prints from the metal detector match those lifted from inside his pickup truck and on the door handle.”

Kevin Brubaker touched Laskey on the shoulder. “Hey, Newt, you mind if I go back to the car and get on my laptop? I want to check out the social media sites, see if Rafter or the Charbonneaus are Facebook friends with the dead cop, find out where they all went to high school. That’s the easiest way I know to find out if one of them knew the cop.”

“Yeah, go ahead Kevin. What can it hurt?”

Brubaker left as Laskey and Grant followed the detective into the carriage house. Laskey took in the lovely paintings hanging on the walls, as well as the mangled canvas lying on the floor. He also noted the puddle of blood drying on the floor not far from the vandalized painting. Numerous paw prints were visible on the bloody floor, as well as a shoe print.