Chapter 47 New Orleans—Remy
New Orleans—Remy
After four hours of playing the first of five gigs, which included a half dozen breathless curtain calls, Remy was tired. He hadn’t known such crushing fatigue since the dust-choked days in Afghanistan, the closest comparison his mind could make.
A cocktail of stress, relentless worry, and little sleep had whittled him down. He was a hollow-eyed drummer, which pissed him off for several reasons. When, in God’s name, had he grown so pathetically soft that he couldn’t stay up two nights in a row to be with his forever girl?
In his defense, sleep had eluded him since Lamar’s first call shattered the calm, raising life and death questions about Bastien and Marcelle.
When they returned to the plantation, Remy intended to corner Charlotte and ask for a physical and routine bloodwork. Not that he felt sick, but his lack of energy and a decrease in his speed and intensity worried him.
Overhead work lights came on, and the last of the paying patrons—those who had clung to the tables near the stage—filtered out. The only souls remaining were family members seated in the bar’s shadowy rear, their proud smiles visible even from this distance.
What truly mattered, what held his heart in a vice grip, was the unvarnished opinion of the patrons. And tonight, judging by the applause, whistles, and lingering cheers, the verdict wasn’t just clear—it was a roaring triumph.
Elliott signaled Remy to come to his table.
Remy, moving with weariness that belied the evening’s success, grabbed two cold beers he’d pre-paid for earlier and stashed them with the bartender.
He sank into a chair next to Elliott and parked Skye’s beer on the scarred wooden table, for a later toast to the night’s victory and a private prayer for sleep.
“I didn’t think this trip would work out, but ye made it happen, and the audience loved the band. I’m proud of ye, lad.” Elliott lifted his cocktail glass. “To a job well done.”
Remy clinked his long-neck beer bottle with Elliott’s glass. “Honestly, I didn’t think it would either. We’ve been through several chaotic days. But we made it.”
“I shouldn’t have doubted ye.”
“It was reasonable. We were working with a short time frame. We could’ve returned with more than one injured traveler.”
“Charlotte said Archibald should make a quick recovery.”
Remy lifted his beer bottle. “Here’s to a talented surgeon, antibiotics, and longer than average telomeres.”
Elliott sipped his drink. “Skye has one of the most extraordinary voices I’ve ever heard. Her duet with Rick was earth-shattering.”
Remy tipped back his beer and took a long draw, then lifted it in greeting to Kenzie and Kaitlyn, a few tables away, who had their heads together in serious conversation.
Elliott turned to see who Remy was acknowledging. “Those two have been like that all night. They act like they’ve been friends forever.”
Remy set down the beer and gently peeled the label off the bottle. It was a mindless habit to occupy his hands when he didn’t have his sticks. “Kaitlyn had high expectations of the people she’d heard about her entire life.”
“From what I’ve observed, we have met and surpassed them,” Elliott said. “As for my expectations for Skye, Kaitlyn, and Marcelle, I believe they will conquer the world.”
“I hope they can wait a few days before they start.”
Elliott studied him, putting Remy under that infamous microscope that made everyone subjected to it uncomfortable, including Remy.
“Why are ye so tired?” Elliott asked. “I’ve seen ye go three or four days without sleep, and it never bothered ye. Ted’s noticed—this week—that yer time for a one-mile training run is a few seconds off, and ye’re lifting less weight.”
“You asked him?”
“I get a weekly report on everyone.”
Remy stopped peeling and took a long swig. “I doan appreciate you spying on us,” he said flatly.
Elliott’s study of Remy intensified. It was a worrying look, and he knew the drill. Elliott wanted confirmation that Remy was coping with the stress from going back in time. But Remy couldn’t give him that right now.
“I’m not spying on ye,” Elliott said. “I’m tracking the readiness of my teams. A brooch could whisk someone off to anywhere at any time. The team must stay in top shape and be ready to go. If there’s a weak link, I need to know.”
“So Big Brother is watching us. That’s wrong, Elliott. Does David know?” He gave Elliott a hard look. “Dumb question. Of course he does.” Remy took another drink to wash down the foul taste of that news. He looked up and spotted Skye standing near the bar, talking to Rick. “She’s amazing.”
“Ye would never know she wasn’t from here.”
Remy didn’t respond for a minute and then said, “Skye performed tonight with a sound system for the first time, along with a new band, new songs, and a new venue. And she didn’t miss a beat.”
“Ye did.”
“Did what?”
“Missed a beat.”
“Yeah. But the rest of the band worked together to re-sync. The average audience member wouldn’t notice a minor rhythmic error. I’m surprised you did.”
“Just because I don’t play an instrument doesn’t mean I can’t hear nuances in a piece of music.”
Skye turned to glance at Remy and Elliott, smiling.
“Ye probably don’t want to hear this tonight, but here’s my one piece of advice. Don’t get Skye a record deal.”
“Excuse me? What if she wants one?”
“She should create her own record label. That way, she’ll own her music, artwork, videos, and any unreleased material.
Skye should have the best of everything.
Best music producer, songwriter, digital marketing specialist, tour manager, publicist, artist manager, music lawyer, booking agent, business manager, band, back-up singers. Whatever she needs.”
Remy took another pull on his beer. “It sounds like you did a bit of research.”
“I want both of ye to succeed. But what does that do to yer plan to go to medical school?”
“You’ve given this more thought than I have. But I’ll never give up my dream of being a doctor. In the meantime, Skye and I need to find her parents and put them back where they belong.”
“Meredith’s team of genealogists is working on the Robertsons’ past. They didn’t think it would take long.”
“How’d she explain that the Robertsons or Marshalls weren’t born in America and didn’t come here on a ship?” Remy asked.
“They’ve learned her requests are always quirky. They don’t ask questions unless they need clarification. They’re also working on Violet’s story about Gilbert Benoit.”
“Already? I only mentioned it to Meredith at dinner last night. Do you believe it?”
“Violet’s lied about so many things it’s hard to believe anything she says. But I believe Gilbert’s story is true. We’ll know soon enough.” Elliott continued to swirl the drink he’d been nursing for a while.
“Want me to freshen that up?” Remy asked.
“The bar’s closed. They wouldn’t even open it for me.”
“That sounds like you tried.” Remy took another pull from his beer. “Clay and I kept a flask filled while we were in Chicago, which makes us look like heavy drinkers. We aren’t. I think it was the stress, and not having a water bottle handy.”
Elliott didn’t answer, just kept swirling the glass, gaze distant.
Remy studied him for a beat. “What’s on your mind, Elliott?”
“Ye’ve been traveling with me for years,” Elliott said quietly, eyes fixed on the slow rotation of his glass. “Living in temporary places. Ye need a home.”
“When I’m ready, I’ll get one.”
“That won’t do.” Elliott finally lifted his gaze, pinning Remy in place. “I want ye to meet with Charlotte’s architects and start planning yer house. It’s time.”
Remy took another pull on his beer, draining the bottle before setting it aside. “Doan you think that’s premature? Skye and I have only known each other for a week. Building a house together is a big step. I’m not sure she’s ready for that.”
“But ye are.”
Remy snorted softly. “Sure. I’m tired of moving my clothes from one closet to another.”
Skye walked up just then, slid into the chair beside Remy, and reached for her beer as if she’d always been there. “What’d you think of the show, Elliott?”
“I lost my hearing listening to this guy.” Elliott jabbed a finger toward Remy. “I’m glad he didn’t play so loud that we couldn’t hear ye.”
“We never had that problem in Chicago,” she said.
“Because I was playing baby drums then.” Remy leaned back. “My kit here’s the real deal. I had to keep my movements tight—wrists, fingers—to keep the volume down. Plus, you were using a microphone for the first time.”
“I appreciate the restraint,” Skye said.
She scanned the room, her expression shifting as she searched faces. “I don’t see Meredith. She mentioned going shopping tomorrow, and I wanted to make plans.”
“She just left with JL and Kevin,” Remy said. “Send her a text.”
“Have I met them?” Skye frowned slightly. “I can’t remember. I’ve met so many people.”
“Kevin is my son,” Elliott said, “and Jenny Lynn is his wife.”
“But you call her JL,” Skye said, glancing at Remy.
“We all do,” Remy said. “She’s Rick’s sister—a former NYC cop. Same with her brothers, her father, and their friend Pete. He’s married to Sophia.”
“The painter,” Skye said, nodding slowly. “I’m getting better with the women’s names, but putting couples together is taking longer.”
“Ye’ll figure it out, lass,” Elliott said.
Rick appeared beside the table, beer in hand. “Can we ride with you? David and Kenzie aren’t ready to call it a night, and neither are Bastien and Kaitlyn.”
“Sure,” Remy said. “Where’s Penny?”
“She’s confirming tomorrow’s plans with Meredith.”
“I thought Meredith left.”
“She did. They’re on the phone.”
Remy shook his head. “Doesn’t Penny know she can take the phone with her?”
“She doesn’t like public conversations,” Rick said. “She’ll wrap it up.” He turned to Skye. “By the way—there was a talent scout in the audience tonight.”
Skye straightened. “Do you know him? Did he want to talk to us?” Her voice lifted, excitement breaking through. “Do you know if he’s coming to another show?”
“That’s a yes, no, and no,” Rick said, smiling. “But if he’s any kind of scout, he’ll be interested in you.”
Skye jumped up and hugged him. “If he calls, will you send him to Kenzie? I wouldn’t know what to say.” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you for tonight. If he’s interested, it’s because of us, not me.”
Penny walked up behind Rick, phone still in hand. “Hey. Leave my husband alone. You were provocative enough onstage.”
Skye stepped back instantly. “Oh—I’m so sorry. I was just excited about the talent scout.”
“I’m teasing,” Penny said, looping her arm through Rick’s. “Was it the same one you mentioned before?”
“Yeah,” Rick said. “If he’s interested, he’ll call.”
“Works for me,” Penny said. “Now, if we’re not going out to eat, let’s head back to the rental—and Remy can grill steaks.”
Remy stood, scanning the bar. “Has anyone seen Clay?”
“Last I saw him, he was backstage talking to the double bass player,” Rick said.
“Is Marcelle with him?” Remy asked.
“She headed to the restroom,” Penny said.
Elliott checked his phone. “My driver’s out front. I’ll text ye tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to walk out with you?” Remy asked.
Elliott waved him off. “It’s ten feet from the door to the curb. I can manage.”
“We’ll at least walk to the door with you.
” Remy sent text messages to Clay and Marcelle.
Let’s get out of here. Then he stepped outside to watch Elliott get into the limo.
Elliott said he could manage, but Remy had been his bodyguard and aide for so long that protecting him was a habit, even when Elliott didn’t want it.
Elliott waved. “Be careful.”
“You too, boss.” Remy’s spidey senses were off the chart right now. What the hell was wrong? Before he could analyze it, Clay, Marcelle, Rick, Penny, and Skye joined him on the sidewalk. Remy handed Clay the key fob. “You drive.”
Squashed into the back seat, Penny said after a few minutes, “This reminds me of the time we crammed into a rental and fled New Orleans after we watched Elliott press-check his Glock.”
“Thanks, Penny,” Remy said dryly. “My spidey senses are already on high alert.”
“Mine aren’t,” she said.
“Neither are mine,” Rick added. “You’ve only been back from the past a little over twenty-four hours. It always takes a couple of days to unwind.”
“Maybe.” Remy stared out the window, jaw tight. “But something stinks—and it’s not a peat-scented fog.”
“I hope it’s not the Illuminati,” Clay said casually as he turned onto Burgundy Street. “That would suck.”
“David doesn’t think those assholes will ever bother us again,” Remy said.
“Did the Illuminati exist in the early nineteen hundreds?” Skye asked.
“It’s been around for centuries.” Remy glanced at her. “Why?”
She hesitated, then took a breath. “A week before my mother died, I took cash from my father’s safe to pay for medication.
I saw a thick folder inside—with that name on it.
” Her hands folded tightly in her lap. “When I tried to return the money the next day, he’d changed the combination.
I never mentioned the folder. After that, I just asked him for cash when I needed it. ”
“Fuck.” Remy sat forward. “We need to go back.”
“Why?” she asked, startled.
“Because his death just stopped sounding like an accident.”
Skye sucked in a sharp breath. “It was an accident. The brakes failed.”
“I was a cop,” Rick said evenly. “I’d want an independent investigation—especially if your father had dealings with the Illuminati. If he posed a threat, they wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate him.”
“But how could you find out anything now?” Skye asked.
Clay pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. “I have to return Archibald to 1928 Chicago. And I can’t crack a safe.”
“Then we make a separate trip,” Rick said. “We go back to the time of his death.”
“At least we know Capone won’t be interested in Skye then. We won’t have him riding our ass.” Regardless of how tired Remy’s mind and body were, he had to take this seriously. “David can ask Ofello for members of the Illuminati in Chicago in the 1920s. That would give us a place to start.”
“Here’s a thought,” Rick said. “Any chance Skye’s father had a connection to the organization in Scotland during the 1970s, and that’s how he got a brooch?”
“Fuck.” Remy’s phone rang, and he glanced at the Caller ID. “It’s Elliott. He’s like Darth Vader and senses the Force is active.” A cold sweat broke out on Remy’s forehead. “What’s up, boss?”
“I’m not sure. But something has happened.”
“Yeah, we just found out Alistair had a connection to the Illuminati.”
“Fix it,” Elliott demanded before disconnecting.