Of That Day and Hour: A psychological thriller Read online

  “That was intense.”

  “It was.”

  “Is it true what he said about your grandmother?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jeff takes the rest of the day to contemplate the implications of what Casey said to him. Time and time again he watches the recording. Casey hadn’t played the psychic game of hit and miss. No leading questions and no stock message. No farewell acts of she loves you, or that she’s happy on the other side. The aftermath is all too real, too close to home for comfort.

  Casey is the biggest mystery Jeff’s encountered so far in life. The tip of the sun dips behind the mountains, leaving them to fade to black. The day dissipates behind him.

  “Do we have the address for Casey’s mother on file?”

  “It will be in the reports. Why?”

  “It would be an advantage to go to the source and find out a few home truths. He can’t contaminate his mother; he has no contact. Right?”

  “Right. He’s not permitted contact with the outside world.”

  “Perfect.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The whirl of the jet engines propel; the wheels drone. The plane slowly and archaically taxis along, stopping at the beginning of the runway. This moment fills the passengers with either exhilaration or dread. The pilot throttles the engines at full power to detect any possible problems; there are none. He releases the brakes.

  “How did you get me on this plane?”

  “It wasn’t easy.”

  Eve reaches out to Jeff for comfort; her palms are moist to the touch. She looks so beautiful in her moment of fear; her braids fall over her breasts, and rise and fall deeply with each breath she takes. Throughout her life planes have terrified her, a psychological issue made worse by the security problems of recent years. If the plane lands in one piece Eve will still think it's a failed suicide attempt. The engines howl. They are pushed back into their seats; the droning fades as the jetliner hits its optimum speed and leaves the runway. The plane climbs ever higher. They hear the wheels and undercarriage doors retract, a thud beneath their feet. A few minutes later the plane levels out, cruising at its designated altitude: relief for all on board. Only then does Eve release her hand from Jeff's.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “No.” Eve doesn’t care what Jeff thinks; she’s terrified. “I don’t want to look.”

  “You’ll be fine.” Jeff can’t help but smile; he’s never seen her like this. Eve’s such a strong woman.

  “I won’t.”

  Jeff reads the landscape at thirty thousand feet, and Eve concentrates on the magazine in front of her. Below lie golden pastures, national forests and the rolling plains. If Eve had got her way, they would be driving. The flight is routine, bar the odd shimmer of turbulence. It seems no time has passed before they are over enormous deltas, with vast areas of swampland and contrasting coastline below. The 'fasten seatbelt' light comes on. Eve takes a deep breath as she clips the belt around her waist, and takes hold of Jeff’s hand again. The plane starts to make its ear-popping descent. Wing flaps retract, their motor whirring, slowing the plane, creating an unsteady feeling that increases Eve's uneasiness. Powerful engines throttle back then unexpectedly rev. Hydraulics push the landing gear down as the earth below moves ever closer, and yet, for all Eve’s fears, touchdown is a dream. Engines howl in reverse thrust as the state of Louisiana and New Orleans welcome them.

  New Orleans airport rocks an edgy vibe. Named after Louis Armstrong, his statue stands tall amongst backdrop paintings of jazz musicians and live music on the concourse. Ceiling fans resemble airplane wings, and the smell of pralines and Lucky Dogs fill the air. Once through the bustle of the airport, Jeff picks up the rental car. Eve is amused at his bland choice of vehicle, and decides to tease him.

  “What do you call that?”

  “Transport.” Eve’s smiling; he knows she's teasing, yet he still feels defensive.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” Jeff projects authority with his voice, and Eve flashes a 'gotcha!' smile back to him. “Stop it and jump in. We need to find a motel.”

  The car door closes behind Eve with a clunk.

  “The rental agent gave me two pieces of advice.”

  “Go on.” Eve has no enthusiasm in her voice, especially for rental agent advice.

  “Watch out for the speed traps and stay out of the shadows.”

  “What’s new?”

  “New Orleans is broke; one way to raise revenue is to screw the tourists.”

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah, and if City Hall don’t get you; the street hustlers will.”

  “Well this town has soul.” Eve holds that mischievous look in her eyes. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a touch of southern hospitality.”

  Driving through New Orleans' fanciful streets, they are greeted with the past, present and the future. Soulful jazz, blues and funk grooves sound from every street corner. A magical mix of cultures, architecture and street names relating to prominent Spaniards, French patron saints and royals. Yet it’s on the outer districts where they choose a motel. Eve falls in love with the Pink Lady Motel, and Jeff prefers to be on the fringes of the city rather than in the thick of the action.

  They park outside the office which conveniently displays a red neon vacancy sign. The U.S. flag flutters outside. Entering the building, they are greeted by a small room, an empty counter, and a pink radiance of flowers to the left. The notice states 'No Pets' alongside a sign that reads ‘Please ring for service’. The bell chimes with the flick of Jeff’s wrist. He patiently waits; Eve casually looks around at the pictures displayed on the wall. The flamboyant architecture of the French Quarter, a white horse and royal carriage, the bronze equestrian statue of General Andrew Jackson, and a steamboat on the Mississippi River. A flamboyant elderly lady wearing a fluorescent pink blazer swans in from the door at the back of the office. Eve notes her bleached white face contrasts sharply with her deep red lipstick and her black painted eyebrows. For some reason best left to herself, she wears a leopard skin western style hat, and her grey curls protrude from the side. She’s the original pink lady.

  “Hi! Thank y’all for callin’ at the Pink Lady. What can I do for y’all?”

  “Hi. I'd like two single rooms please.”

  “Jeff.”

  “Yes?”

  “Make it a double.”

  “You sure?” Jeff can see Eve flush around her chest and neck.

  “I’ll feel safer.”

  “A double it is.”

  The pink lady gives Jeff a knowing smile; a look of 'it’s your lucky night tonight', and he knows it.

  “One hundred and twenty nine dollars a night. No smoking and no pets; parking is free, and keep the noise down. You’re in apartment forty eight.”

  The pink lady takes Jeff’s card details and hands the room keys over.

  “Thank you.”

  “Enjoy your stay.”

  The allocated parking space now hosts yet another rental car, one of an endless stream of vehicles that have waited outside this brash pink motel. Eve loves the anticipation she feels whilst opening the door. She may be a strong independent woman, but at times like this, her guard slips, and like a child she can’t hold back the excitement.

  “Wow! Look at this.”

  They are greeted with a suite channeling the vibe of the sixties. The walls are a light pink, and a matching circular pink rug sits on top of the hard-wearing grey carpet. There’s a wonderful curved crimson couch with black upholstery. A chrome stem curves from behind the couch, and supports, like fruit from a branch, three golden spotlights. On the wall is a contemporary monochrome New Orleans print in a red frame.

  “She likes her pink, doesn’t she?”

  “Works for me.”

  They walk through to the en-suite bedroom. A large double bed takes center stage, whilst opposite stands an oval mirror. Eve opens the wardrobe doors; pink again, broken up with crimson that matches the cur
tain valance.

  “Perfect.”

  “Ticks the right boxes?”

  “All of them.” This includes Jeff, but she isn’t going to reveal this just yet. ”So what’s the plan?”

  “We’re officially tourists tonight; I thought we could hit the French Quarter and worry about work in the morning.”

  “Cool, I’ll shower first.”

  “Okay.” Jeff stands motionless with a smile.

  “Well go on.”

  “What?”

  “Get out of here while I get ready.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  Jeff walks through to the living room and sits down, resting his head on the back of the couch. He closes his eyes. In the bedroom, flattered by Jeff’s reluctance to leave the room, Eve smiles to herself as she hangs her clothes in the wardrobe. She places red lace panties and matching bra on the bed, alongside her black lace long-sleeve keyhole dress. If nothing else she’s going to keep Jeff on his toes tonight; secretly, she enjoys all the attention. As Eve steps into the shower and water flows over her body, Jeff drifts into a deep sleep.

  He is stepping out of darkness onto a curb, looking up at an old wooden townhouse. It’s painted in an Italianate palette of browns, greys and blues. Now, as with all the other houses on the block, it's decaying like autumn leaves. A small path leads up to the house; old timber steps that strain underfoot take him to the door. Jeff’s hand reaches out and he pulls the knocker back, rapping three times. The door slowly creaks open.

  From the shadows a small hunched lady steps forward. She has white curly hair, and wears a knitted black shawl. Gold framed spectacles sit on the end of her nose. She smiles and gestures that he’s welcome to step inside. The living room is dark and dismal; the walls covered in a chaos of graffiti, mathematical and religious symbols. He reads a few of them, realizes that they mark important family dates: births, marriages and deaths. There’s a child drawn inside the womb alongside his own birth date. The old lady reaches out and takes him by the hand towards a cellar door; red letters are sprayed across it: ‘The end is near.’ Jeff reaches for the door handle; before his hand touches she calls out his name. He looks to her as she shakes the side of his arm, only to see her face morph into Eve.

  “Jeff.”

  “Uh.”

  “Wake up.”

  “I’m sorry.” Realizing it was a dream, he manages a lethargic smile. “I must have nodded off.”

  “Come on, sleepy head, it’s time to get ready.”

  Jeff gets to his feet and can’t help but stare. Eve stands before him with sparkling eyes, wearing a black dress and a beautiful smile. With her slim waistline and seductive legs, Jeff can't stop his body's reaction. Yet he’s wise enough to understand that one uninvited touch will destroy any chance he may have later tonight.

  “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you. Now go and get yourself in that shower.”

  Taxi drivers in New Orleans see human nature at its best and worst. Many are well-educated, interesting: individuals who find themselves chained to their steering wheels, working hard to support families. Alberto is such a driver; he’s seen more than most, and yet he is a delightful guide with a wealth of local knowledge. This can lead to an enjoyable night out at a local watering hole, or an expensive night in casualty for the less-than-polite tourist. He drives into the Pink Lady car park; after thirty years in the business he knows every street, all the celebrities, hustlers, room numbers.

  “Taxi’s here.”

  Jeff and Eve radiate anticipation as they walk towards the cab. Alberto reads them in an instant as lovers, tourists and an easy fare. He steps out of the car and opens the rear door.

  “Thank you.”

  Eve steps inside closely followed by Jeff; both are clearly excited. The door is closed, and Alberto gets back into the driver's seat.

  “Good evening.”

  “Good evening; would you take us to Bourbon Street please?”

  “Sure.” The white limousine leaves the Pink Lady behind, and starts the journey towards the heart of New Orleans. “First time here?”

  “Yes, we arrived earlier today.” There’s a slight pause before Jeff asks. “Could you recommend a nice restaurant or bar for the evening?”

  “What flavor you looking for? We got bars, night clubs, casino, jazz and blues. Don’t just stop at Bourbon Street; Frenchman Street will give you the best live music.”

  “Quintessentially New Orleans, but also cozy, with intimate cocktails, and a welcoming atmosphere would be perfect.” Jeff laughs, knowing he's asking for the impossible.

  “I know just the place.”

  Jeff and Eve sit back and enjoy the myriad of architectural styles passing by, so reflective of New Orleans's long multicultural heritage. Stucco, wood and brick exteriors, single, double and multi-storey houses. Roof aprons are supported by lacy Victorian columns. Jewish and Greek Orthodox congregations stand alongside African American store-front churches. Italians sell fresh produce and the air is filled with jasmine blossom and spicy food. New Orleans was born from Native Americans intermingling with African and European settlers, the city founded as the cultural gateway into North America.

  Alberto explains the history in many of the street names in the French Quarter. Bourbon Street isn’t named after alcohol; Bourbon is a Royal House of France. Many are named after Catholic saints, and Canal Street once acted as a division between cultures. The busy streets start to narrow; horses pull carriages whilst tourists sit under parasols. Houses on either side are adorned with eighteenth century ornate cast iron balconies; neon signs and U.S. flags overhang sidewalks. Alberto pulls over in front of a restaurant, close to two police officers on horseback. They don’t give the limo a second glance.

  “This is as close to Bourbon Street as I can take you; vehicles aren't permitted. It’s just over there.” Alberto points to the junction ahead, a mass of humanity under its spell. “The bar here has a more relaxed vibe than the rest of the quarter. Tell them Alberto sent you; they'll look after you.” Jeff pays the fare whilst Alberto imparts more words of wisdom. “It’s going dark and it’s a full moon, people go loco. Be careful and look after her.”

  “I will.”

  Stepping out onto the pavement Jeff waves farewell; he’s about to close the door when Alberto calls to him.

  “Remember the city is best viewed under a French Quarter streetlamp.”

  “So I've heard, thank you.”

  “Au'voir.”

  The door slams shut and Alberto drives away. Edouard’s restaurant stands just a few steps away. In 1886 Edouard Cheval forged his culinary career with a simple boarding house-cum-restaurant. Today his descendants continue to serve traditional, home produced French food. From the sidewalk, first impressions promise fine dining and cuisine. They walk past two foliage-laden pedestals flanking the white steps and gold rails leading up to the restaurant. The blue and gold lined canopy proudly displays Edouard’s legacy; the glass paneled oak doors invite them in.

  The host greets them with a smile, and seats them with a table for two in a comfortably secluded location. The discreet, laid-back jazz quartet adds flavor and ambiance to the evening. On the waiter's recommendation, they both choose French Louisiana oysters, with Edouard’s original Liberty sauce for the appetizer; the sauce is a closely guarded family recipe. Edouard created the sauce in 1886 in dedication to the Statue of Liberty; it was a gift from the people of France to the United States, and the sauce is Edouard’s gift.

  “That was nice”

  “It was; would you like a top up?”

  “Please.”

  Jeff reaches for the bottle and pours the wine; the waiter discreetly removes the plates. Eve’s eyes sparkle in the candlelight, capturing his soul. She’s always had such beautiful eyes; people often comment on them. Yet for Eve, in this perfect romantic setting; opposite the man she loves and walked away from, there’s one burning question. Will she have to walk away again?

  “Jeff.” />
  “Yes?”

  “Do you miss your family?” She can feel the rush of adrenalin, and the flush of heat in her face; she’s confronting him.

  “Family?” Jeff knows his future with Eve depends on his answer. “You mean wife?”

  “I guess so.”

  “No.” There’s no hesitation in his answer, and looks her square in the eye. “Not at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “Truth?”

  “Please.” Eve knows what she needs to hear.

  “I still love you.”

  “You said that before and you didn’t leave her.” Her guard’s down; she loves him, but she needs the truth. “I’m worth more than that.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. It was a mistake.” Jeff sighs. He has to open up; it’s not always easy for him. “I was torn. It’s not straight forward with children involved. I hurt every single day; I just wanted to be with you. But when you kiss a child goodnight, and tell them that you love them, you’re a hypocrite. How do you love them when you betray them, and your family, because you love another woman?”

  “I didn’t think of it in those terms; I just presumed you didn’t love me.”

  “I do. I always have. When you left I looked everywhere for you. I had no forwarding address and no one knew where you were. You simply cut me out and disappeared. I tried to bury myself in work, but in the end I resented my family for making me give you up. My wife knew something was wrong; I was distant, my spark was gone. And along with it, so were you.”

  “Does she know about me?”

  “What’s the point of hurting someone even further? She lost me; the least I can do, not for her, but for my daughters, is to be kind.”

  “You’re a good man Jeff.”

  Eve’s hand reaches forward; it feels good to have a bond as their fingers touch. The waiter has impeccable timing, and for now, they have to be content with a quick squeeze of hands, one that says 'later'. The roast tenderloin of beef for two has arrived, served with Edouard’s sauce, and special fried potatoes. The food is faultless, the mood perfect.