Chapter 3
Mallory Plantation—Remy
Grief had settled over Mallory Plantation these past few weeks. Erik the Viking had earned their trust—and shattered it. The clan wasn’t just heartbroken; they were furious. Remy most of all.
Hoping to lift everyone’s spirits, Elliott Fraser invited all the adults to join him and Meredith in New Orleans to support Remy and his band.
Remy was drumming one-handed on a practice pad when his phone flashed Lamar Herbert’s name. Lamar managed every detail of their New Orleans arrangements. The bass player calling now, of all times, could only signal trouble.
Remy drummed faster, expecting the worst. He’d never been a pessimist, but lately he couldn’t stop bracing for impact. He steadied his voice and answered.
“What’s up?”
“We’ve got a problem.”
“Fuck. What is it?”
“I can’t reach Bastien. He flew to Chicago yesterday. He and his sister had an event last night. They were both flying to New Orleans this morning. He sent me the flight details yesterday, but they didn’t arrive on that flight.”
Remy squeezed his eyes shut, but the battlefield came anyway—explosions detonating in his skull, shrapnel tearing flesh, men screaming for medics as smoke and blood swallowed the air.
He did a quick ten-count before answering, voice unsteady. “They might be on a later flight.”
“I’ve been trying to reach him, but he’s not answering, and he knew I was driving to the airport to pick them up. I don’t have Marcelle’s phone number. Do you?”
Remy’s pulse raced, and it wouldn’t slow down. Forming coherent thoughts was a struggle. “I… doan. Where… are you now?”
“I waited for thirty minutes, and when he didn’t text, I left.”
Remy strode across the room to the French doors. Beyond them, the garden lay dormant, lavender waiting. He wanted that sweetness to drown out cordite and sulfur.
Lamar paused. “You still there, Remy?”
Remy blinked hard, forcing his focus back. “The flight must be delayed.”
“I’ve been tracking it. The plane landed, but the LeBlancs weren’t on it.”
The dread Remy sensed settled in his gut, tightening his core as his jaw locked. It would stay there until he found his friends. “Bastien’s never gone off the grid before.”
“Maybe he hooked up with someone and missed his flight. It’s not good, Remy. I heard you have connections to people who can search for them.”
Remy flinched. Even drunk, he’d never mention that to anyone. “Bastien wouldn’t have a random hookup. He’s self-conscious about his leg in new situations. And who told you I had connections?”
“I was trying to locate my deadbeat dad a year ago. Bastien said that if he couldn’t find him, you could.”
“Yeah, I’m a real Louisiana Bloodhound.” How’d Bastien know what Remy did for MacCorp? “I guess Bastien came through for you.”
“Yeah, he did, but it wasn’t worth the effort.” Lamar took a long pause before asking, “Can you find Bastien?”
“Yeah. Doan worry about it.” Remy shouldn’t have made that promise, but Lamar sounded desperate. “Give me a couple of hours. As soon as you see his ass in New Orleans, you can kick it across the bayou.”
“And I’ll fuckin’ do it, too. If Bastien screws this gig up for us, I’ll never forgive him.”
Remy grimaced. His own worry, mixed with his bandmate’s anger, formed a bitter cocktail that threatened to knock him on his ass. “He wouldn’t bail on us, Lamar.”
“If he’s not here within twenty-four hours, I’ll have to cancel the gig.”
Lamar disconnected, and Remy picked up the other drumstick and played eighth-note triplets with each hand. The fast pace jump-started his brain.
He didn’t have any personal information about Marcelle or details of her whereabouts in Chicago.
He might ask David to find her, or he could drive to Bastien’s house in Richmond, sneak inside, and look for clues.
But that was a bad idea. If he set off the alarm, the police would show up.
And if that happened, Elliott would have to bail Remy out of jail.
Remy texted David: Need help. Are you available?
David replied: I’m in the clean room.
Remy: On my way.
Remy rushed downstairs, wondering if he should mention this to Elliott first. If he did, Elliott would ask questions Remy couldn’t answer.
He found David in the office he shared with Braham McCabe. David had two offices, but this was his preferred location. It was safer crossing into the gray zone while sitting inside an impenetrable concrete bunker.
“What’s up?” David asked.
Remy sat down next to the desk. “You remember my army buddy Bastien LeBlanc?”
“Aye. We’ve jammed together, and he helped me write that security application that flags unidentified persons on the property if they sneak in and the cameras don’t pick them up. Why?”
“He and his sister are MIA. He flew to Chicago yesterday to attend a fundraiser with Marcelle. They were supposed to fly to New Orleans today, but missed their flight, and I can’t reach Bastien.”
“He knows his shit and isn’t the type to go off the grid.”
“That’s why I’m worried.”
“I’ve got his business and personal information in the system, but nothing on his sister. What do ye have on her?”
“She teaches music part-time at the University of Chicago, plays trumpet for the Chicago Symphony, and has a PhD from Columbia University. I doan have an address.”
“I’ll pull up her driver’s license for a picture. Once I have that, I’ll check admissions at Chicago hospitals, police reports, and any unidentified deceased. If there are photographs from the fundraiser on the Symphony’s website, I’ll run a scan and search for their pictures.”
“How long will it take?”
“Five to ten minutes.”
“Are you going to ask Ofello?”
“Since we’ve got Clay’s uncle’s massive computer system at our disposal now, why not use it?”
“If nothing comes up, I’ll fly there this afternoon. I’ve already booked the plane to take all my gear to New Orleans. I’ll stop in Chicago on the way.”
“Do ye need a compass?” David asked, tilting his head and lifting a brow. “Chicago is north of us, and New Orleans is south.”
Remy ignored him and glanced at a monitor he hadn’t noticed before. “What’s going on there?”
“It’s the James Webb Space Telescope feed—David’s current obsession,” he said flatly. “Exploring mysteries beyond our solar system.”
“Are you looking for a planet in our solar system that can support life?”
“Not in our solar system. It’s the beyond I’m interested in.”
“At least there’s a beyond. But can you rule out planets that woan support life? Those planets might support Erik and Violet’s civilization.”
“That’s an unknown,” David said. “We don’t know what beings like Erik need. Did they once have a physical body and later discover how to exist without it? I doubt we’ll ever find answers to our questions.”
“Unless Erik comes back.”
“Somebody says that to me every day. It never stops. None of us can get over what he did—especially Elliott.” David turned his attention to his keyboard. “Go get some coffee while I chat with Ofello, who’s as temperamental as our twins. She shut down twice yesterday.”
Remy groaned. “I bet Erik programmed her that way to irritate us.”
“He had a wicked sense of humor. As for Ofello, she’s capable of complex reasoning, but she doesn’t want to share.”
“Maybe Ofello will play nice today and help you find Bastien and Marcelle.”
Remy left to make a cup of coffee. The clean room was unusually quiet this morning. He’d heard the archaeologists who worked in the annex took some time off. Good for them.
Remy checked a few emails before returning to David’s office to wait for his computer to do its black magic.
David was reading from a sheet of paper.
“Yer friends aren’t in the morgue, hospitals, or jails.
Bastien arrived in Chicago and took an Uber to an address on Wolcott Avenue.
There are no charges on his credit card after paying the Uber driver.
I found two charges on Marcelle’s card from a vintage clothing store in Chicago.
Neither Bastien nor Marcelle appeared in any of the pictures from the fundraiser. ”
Remy picked up a stack of books, sat in a chair, and held them in his lap. “Are you saying they vanished?”
“Or they’re in her townhouse—”
Remy shot up out of his chair, dropping the books. “Dead?”
David gathered the books and placed them back on the chair. “Or they hooked up last night and never made it home to fly out this morning.”
Remy paced the room, running his hand through his hair. “I doan see Bastien doing that, and while I haven’t seen Marcelle in a couple of years, disappearing doesn’t fit her profile, either.” He stopped pacing and considered his options. There was only one. “I’m going to Chicago.”
“Boots on the ground is the only way to straighten this out. We can call Cam Lenox at Worldwide to go check out Marcelle’s townhouse.”
“It’ll take too long for Cam and his team to get there. I can be in the city a few hours before them.”
David steepled his fingers and tapped them together. “I agree, but are ye prepared for what ye might find?”
Remy rolled his neck to relieve the muscle tension, even though he knew it wouldn’t work. He needed a massage. Too bad. He didn’t have time for one. “No, but I need to do this.”
“I’ll go upstairs with ye to tell Elliott what we found.”
“You mean what we didn’t find?”
David stood and gave Remy’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Let’s hope his intuition isn’t working right now.”
Remy followed David upstairs to the den, where they found Elliott playing chess with Clay MacIntyre, a former New York Times Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist and one of three recent additions to the clan.
“Are ye leaving for New Orleans now?” Elliott asked.
“Not yet. I’m going to Chicago first.”
“Why?”