CHAPTER TWO

Marcel stared out at the bayou, his happy place. It was unlike anywhere else in the world, and he'd traveled the world. At least in his time, he traveled the world as it was then. By sea, but it was still travel. When he tried to explain to others about the beauty of his bayou, most didn't understand. They questioned why anyone would want to live in a swamp with strange, deadly creatures and foul smells. Why live in a place where you must raise your floors off the ground for fear of flooding?

He would take his time explaining the differences between a swamp and a bayou, especially his family's bayou.

"It's just a swamp, Marcel," said the harbormaster in Boston.

"No, mon ami, it's not. A swamp doesn't move. It's there because of rain or overrun from a lake. It can smell and get nasty. My bayou, she's different. She moves like the curves of a woman, sleek and special. It constantly flows with wide and shallow sections both. She has streams, rivers, and coastal areas. My bayou has plants, wildlife, saltwater and freshwater fish. No, mon ami, my bayou is important."

He remembered that conversation so well. Many times, he tried to explain to others the beauty of his bayou. But how do you tell someone about the way the sun glows off the smooth water, her colors reflected like a prism, when they are colorblind to her beauty?

No, he never got the chance to tell the whole world about his special bayou, but he tried. Instead, his life was cut short by greed.

Marcel Robicheaux was an entrepreneur who sailed the oceans, bringing riches to and from his homeland in Louisiana. One thing he refused to touch was human flesh. He would not be a part of transporting slaves, nor would he take part in the buying or selling of flesh. He put his foot down on that and wouldn't budge for anyone or for any amount of money.

Women were definitely trying to capture his attention and his fortune. But even for entertainment purposes, he refused to pay a woman for her time. There were plenty of women willing to spend time with him for free. He wasn't about to pay a whore to have sex with him. If she were starving, in need, or had children who were starving, he always gave her some coin and tried to help. But he would not pay for flesh.

He also knew that with his family's name and fortune, many young women were willing to have sex with him in the hopes of having a child by the infamous sailor.

But Marcel wasn't stupid. There were ways to prevent such things from happening, and he made sure he followed the side of caution.

On his last voyage home, he was caught in a storm, in spite of his best efforts, then hit broadside by a rival ship. His only thought was to get his men off safely. And he did, at the expense of his own life. He didn't know it then. In fact, he wasn't sure he'd actually died. He seemed suspended in time, in place for decades. He could wander his family's land, see the strange changes that time was bringing to Belle Fleur, but it seemed no one knew anything about him.

Then, one day, it was as if he were awakened. A tiny white-haired woman spoke to him, and he was keenly aware that she could actually see him, and he could see her. They could speak, they could have long conversations. She was a fascinating woman, and as he soon discovered, she was not the only one.

Yes, his bayou was magical and mystical, and the future generations of his family had done well in securing the beauty and expansion of the family lands. They'd created something beyond his wildest dreams.

Although happy to have some small part in it, he missed the human contact of flesh on flesh. Not just the flesh of a woman beneath him but just the contact of being able to shake a man's hand. Being able to eat the vast array of delicious foods that those alive could devour. He missed it all so much.

"Ah, but you are a beauty," he whispered, staring at the water.

There was a sharp stab in his chest, and he frowned. He hadn't felt pain in more than two hundred years. He felt it again, like a warning of something to come. It was over his left breast, where his heart was once beating furiously with adrenaline, now with the slow beat of a drip from a faucet. How was this possible? Was it his time to leave this place?

Standing, he looked around the water, then behind him, but saw nothing. Unsure of what to make of it, he thought he'd ask Irene what it could be. Suddenly, he saw a small bateau coming around the curve. This was Robicheaux land, but that was not a Robicheaux boat.

He couldn't see anyone in the vessel. One of his great abilities was to be able to float across the water. He couldn't walk on the water, not exactly. But he could move across the water and to the other islands of his land. It had been a big solace to him before coming to all the others and making himself known.

Suddenly, a woman sat up in the boat, her soft sobs and cries tearing at his heart. She was alive, at least for the time being. She raised a small pistol, pointing it directly at herself. Marcel wanted to scream. But those in the living world generally were unable to hear him or see him. They only could if Irene or Matthew gave them permission, or will, or something.

He wanted, needed to do something. Gathering his energy and courage, he spoke.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said the deep, rich voice. "A beautiful woman such as yourself deserves to live."

Amy Fontenot had lived in the New Orleans area her entire life. She'd grown up in the parochial school system, attended the University of New Orleans, got a master's degree from Tulane, and struck out on her own.

She'd buried her parents at twenty-five, heartbroken by their senseless car accident, then moved back in with her grandmother. Two years later, she passed as well. Deciding to leave the business world, Amy wanted to do something different. She wanted to make a difference in her city.

"Amy, your resume is impressive, but you've never done fundraising before," said the man.

"I know. And I appreciate that you even agreed to interview me, but I know that I can be good at this. I'm from the city, I know a lot of people and business owners, I understand the culture, all things you're going to need if we want to raise the awareness of the organization."

"Well, I'll give you this; you're very convincing," he laughed.

She held her breath for three days, waiting to hear if she would be given a chance. When the phone call came, there was a sudden feeling of dread, then elation.

"Welcome to the team, Amy. We'll see you next Monday morning at nine."

It was her dream job. Throwing herself into understanding and learning everything she could about the Prometheus Foundation and its founder, Amy was devoted to her work. Usually at the expense of her personal life.

Dating was difficult anyway in a city like New Orleans, but her job now made it all the more difficult. Always working on a new fundraiser, always gone in the evenings for dinners, it took boyfriends only a few dates to decide they were done. Most wanted nothing to do with the endless fundraisers, schmoozing with the rich and famous of New Orleans, or knocking on the door of a business owner to beg for more money.

What Amy realized was that men seemed to want her at their immediate fingertips, their beck and call. She was not that woman. Working for the Prometheus Foundation was her joy. She was fulfilled, happy, and loved her work.

Checking herself in the mirror, she smiled at the reflection. Something she hadn't always been able to do. Her dark, wavy hair was cut short around her ears, just kissing her collar. Large brown eyes smiled back, her teeth straight and white thanks to orthodontics. She took pride in always dressing professionally and probably spent a few more dollars than necessary on clothes. But it was her one weakness.

Traffic was about what it always was in New Orleans. The festival season was over, so there weren't quite as many tourists. She was grateful for that, at least. Finding a parking spot was the next challenge. Working with Prometheus for almost six years now, she couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

This was her dream job.

"Good morning, Amy. Mr. Sheffield would like to see you," said Tina, the receptionist.

"Of course, and good morning, Tina," she smiled.

The non-profit was her baby. When she'd started there six years before, they were barely making ends meet. Having been open for almost two hundred years, tossed from one owner to another, they were struggling in New Orleans when Amy came aboard.

Now, they had three offices, ten branches that offered support for single mothers and their children. They'd recently completed a shelter for battered women and children and were working on a resource center to help the unemployed find work.

"Knock, knock," she smiled, standing in the doorway.

"Oh, Amy. Come in," he said with a somber face. Usually, Mr. Sheffield was always pleasant, happy, and upbeat. Today, he was anything but.

"Is something wrong? Did something happen at the construction site? I can go out there if you need me to," she said.

"No. No, that's not it," he said, shaking his head. "Amy. Amy, I just don't know how to say this."

"What's wrong?"

"Amy, the account that held our funds from the Mardi Gras fundraiser is empty."

"Empty? That's not possible," she laughed. "There was more than two million dollars in there. How is it empty?"

"We don't know. I was hoping you could tell me," he said, staring at her.

"Me? I don't have access to that money. I'm not an accountant. I just do fundraising and then put that money to good use. You know that I don't even see the checks, let alone have anything to do with deposits or withdrawals. Someone else is in charge of getting it into the right accounts."

"I know. Believe me, I know. But the bank says that someone transferred that money to an account with your name on it, then transferred it to another account, and now it's gone." Amy was stunned. For a moment, she thought it was a joke, but the look on Sheffield's face told her it was not.

"I think I'm going to be sick," she said, grabbing her stomach, reaching for the back of the chair. "You can't possibly think…"

"I don't. I don't, trust me. It's just that the board, well, the board, thinks we should place you on administrative leave for the time being."

"But I've done nothing wrong," she said, shaking her head.

"Amy, I know. I just think you need to take some time. Maybe. Maybe get a lawyer, Amy. Just in case." She stood from the chair, shaking her head.

"I don't need a lawyer! I've done nothing wrong," she exclaimed.

"Amy, the Prometheus attorneys may file charges against you. I think you need to get a lawyer."

She'd been numb. Completely numb. She felt betrayed, attacked, and utterly alone. She had no one.

That was yesterday.

She'd gone home, searched every document, every policy in Prometheus, every possibility without a single trail of where the money had gone. There was nothing in her own account other than a few hundred dollars. She even copied the registry of her personal banking records and sent them to the board, Mr. Sheffield, and the attorneys.

She had a little over three thousand in her savings and a little over eight hundred in her checking. She had money from her parents and grandparents in an IRA and a CD, but it had nothing to do with the foundation.

That was yesterday.

She'd reached for the telephone a dozen times, thinking to call an attorney, any attorney. But if she did that, wasn't she admitting guilt? Wasn't she saying, ‘I need someone to defend me and prove my innocence, even though I know I am innocent'? Her devastation swiftly became complete, overwhelming depression.

Today, she was floating in an old fishing boat with her father's pistol on her lap, fully loaded. She would not bring shame to her family or the foundation. She'd done nothing wrong, but the evidence was pointing directly at her. She could not shame them. She would not. She'd done nothing wrong, and yet no one would believe her.

She lifted the pistol, the end of the barrel coming straight toward her mouth.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said the deep, rich voice. "A beautiful woman such as yourself deserves to live."