Chapter 9
Up in the humid attic, Annie quickly picked her way through the antiques, sifting through forgotten items from yesteryear. Any other time, and under normal circumstances, she would be moving along at a snail’s pace, admiring the antique collection with a dumbstruck gaze.
But with psychopaths on the loose in her house, she had no time to admire and reminisce over the memorabilia and forced herself to examine the attic’s contents with only cursory glances. So far she’d found nothing that would create an exit hole in the attic’s ceiling and roof. And she was beginning to think she never would find anything useful.
She operated in a state of disbelief as she searched. A question kept repeating in her head. Can this really be happening again?
This was the third time in her life she’d been held hostage: once when she was eight-years-old by Claude Boudreaux, and then again a little over three years ago by Sebastian and Jean-Paul Boudreaux, Claude’s equally twisted sons. She’d been an FBI agent the second time, assigned to tracking the Boudreauxs, who had abducted a small girl from a car ferry. But things went south when the Boudreauxs ambushed her and took her hostage too.
She’d always called Louisiana home, and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. The vast majority of people in Louisiana were friendly and wonderful to live with. But for some reason the state’s dregs kept finding a way into her life.
At least this time she wasn’t alone. She had Jon with her. And she took great comfort from having him here with her. Despite his easygoing demeanor, Jon had another side to him. Like Superman, Jon could go from mild-mannered artist to action hero in seconds. He didn’t possess super powers, but was a force to reckon with when riled. Annie had a hunch the Charbonneau brothers would likely experience his heroism before morning.
Despite her law-enforcement past, Annie had never met anyone similar to Jon. Storms of life could batter him at will and he’d remain calm. She supposed it was his background as a NYPD hostage negotiator—a stressful job that demanded calm nerves—that kept him serene. But more than that she knew Jon’s faith attributed the most to his intrepidness. He could stare death in the face and not blink because nothing could shake his trust in God’s provision.
She was a believer herself, but her faith—strong and vibrant at first—stagnated after her miscarriage. Forgive me for not praying sooner, God. Jon and I need your help. Please help us escape this attic. Show us a way out of here. We need a miracle.
Annie came to a large wardrobe. She grabbed the small brass knobs, opened the richly stained doors and looked inside. A gasp escaped her mouth. Vintage clothing—elegant and fashionable for their time—hung inside. She couldn’t resist their lure and burned precious time examining the dresses, hats and blouses. They were the clothes of a debutante. Annie examined every dress, admired them all except for one. A black funeral dress hung incongruously amongst the evening gowns and summer dresses.
Annie assumed the clothes belonged to Rose Whitcomb, the late heiress to Lloyd Whitcomb, whose fortune could be traced all the way back to Rutherford Whitcomb. Rose had been a spinster, and Jon inherited the house upon her death. Even though he wasn’t a relative, and served only as a caretaker of the house while Rose still lived, she thought so highly of Jon she wanted him to have it.
Annie pushed aside the funeral dress and found a purse draped from a hanger. She removed the purse from the hanger and looked inside, curious as to what a young, genteel woman carried with her back in the day. But all she found in the purse was a book. She flipped the book open and discovered it was actually a journal—Rose’s journal.
Annie skimmed through an entry. The subject matter captivated her from the first few words. She marked her place in the journal with her finger and made her way over to a nearby side chair. She sat down and began to read, and it didn’t take long before she felt drawn into another timeframe.
Chapter 10
Copeland, Louisiana—April 1942
As the song ended, Rose Whitcomb hugged her dance partner, resting her head on Bobby Hoxley’s shoulder. “I’m so tired, Bobby. I don’t think I can dance anymore,” Rose panted.
“Ah, Rose, we’re just getting started.”
“We’ve been waltzing and fox-trotting for two hours now. I’m beat.”
The party started at seven pm. But guests started showing up at six. And by six-thirty gleaming Dodges and Chevys, Buicks and Fords lined the long driveway. No one wanted to miss a gala put on by Lloyd Whitcomb. Anyone who was anyone came from all over Iberville Parish to sample expensive food, drink vintage wines, and dance to a talented swing band playing Tommy Dorsey and Glen Miller songs.
“But the band is just getting warmed up. They’ll be playing Cab Calloway and Duke Ellington songs before long.”
Rose kissed Bobby’s neck. “Let’s go somewhere quiet, where we can be alone.”
Bobby looked all around. “Okay, but finding a quiet place will be hard with all these people here,” he said. Dancing couples filled the front lawn as well as both the upper and lower galleries of the house. Men with slicked back hair and attired in victory and zoot suits, and women with elaborately curled hair and wearing sleeveless evening dresses and gowns danced the night away.
“Maybe it will be less packed inside the house,” Rose suggested.
Bobby shook his head incredulously. “How does your father do it?”
“Do what?”
“Afford to put on these extravagant parties.”
Rose looked at her boyfriend and frowned. “He inherited quite a bit. Besides the parties are a tradition handed down from my great-great grandfather Rutherford Whitcomb. He started them back in the mid 1800s. Someday the parties will be my responsibility.”
“But doesn’t the money ever run out? The Great Depression has swallowed up everyone’s money. No one I know has two dimes to rub together. Only your father still has money.”
“What are you trying to say, Bobby?”
Bobby shrugged. “I won’t kid you, Rose, people are starting to talk. Some are even saying your father is in cahoots with the New Orleans mafia.”
“That’s the most foolish thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
“I’m not saying I believe it. I’m just saying what I’m hearing. I mean, what exactly does your father do?”
Rose rolled her jade-colored eyes. “Well, if you must know, he hangs out at the country club most days playing golf or tennis. And when he’s not at the country club he’s here flirting with mother and chasing her around the house.”
Bobby smiled. “That sounds like fun. Someday we’ll be married and I’ll chase you around this grand old house. You are going to inherit it aren’t you?”
Rose nodded. “I’m the only child left to pass it down to. The house is supposed to stay in the family.”
Bobby cleared his throat nervously. “There’s something I need to tell you, Rose.”
Rose squinted. “You have my attention.”
“I’m enlisting, Rose. I’m joining the USAAF—United States Army Air Force.”
Rose drew her breath in sharply. “Why are you doing this? You’re only seventeen. You don’t need to enlist. What about our marriage plans?”