Whispers of the Bayou Read Online Free PDF

let it go. After all these years, truly, I had almost forgotten about it until the letter came yesterday from Mr. Pedreaux.”
    Without any further words, AJ reached into the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a heavy silver hand mirror. I stood and turned as I took it from her, my stomach in knots. It took a moment to adjust, tilting the glass so that I could see the back of my head in the reflection of my reflection. Once I did, I gasped, for there it was: a tattoo on the back of my head, about an inch in diameter, etched into my scalp in dark purple ink. The shape had obviously been distorted a bit as I had grown, but the image was unmistakable.
    It was an elaborate cross, tucked neatly inside a bell.
    Now it was my turn to fall apart. The mirror slipped from my hands, though AJ was so close in the small room that she managed to catch it before it crashed to the ground. Suddenly, the scene seemed to grow hazy before me. Gasping for air, I ran back to the living room where there was more space to move around and breathe, the whole scene playing out again and again in my mind.
    Those men had been looking for this tattoo. They had ripped up my shirt to check my back. Tugged up my pants to check my legs. Pulled off my shoes and socks to see my feet. Finally, they had thumbed through my hair to check my head, and there it was. Why those places specifically, rather than just stripping me down and looking all over? Why did they know to look where they did? And once they found it, why did they simply stare for a moment and then run? Were they trying to memorize it?
    “I should call the police and tell them I know what those men were doing,” I whispered to AJ, who was standing nearby and looking as if shewas ready to catch me should I start to fall down. “That might help them connect the dots to some other incident.”
    “You probably should,” she replied. “I’ll get the card that policeman gave you. It’s in with your dirty clothes.”
    From the pocket of my torn pants, AJ retrieved the NYPD contact information. I reached the fellow who was in charge of my case and presented a simplified version of what I’d learned, saying that I realized what my attackers were looking for was a tattoo on the back of my head. I described the symbol and explained that someone else had also approached me today about the same symbol, though not in such a violent manner. The cop listened to my tale, but by the end he merely sounded a bit disdainful, as if I was either grasping at straws or completely making it up. By the time the call was over, I knew three things: the symbol of a cross inside a bell was of no significance to the NYPD, there had been no other reports of mad tattoo-hunting attackers, and the man in charge of my case now thought I was nuts. On top of all that, he refused to send someone over to the museum to retrieve the painting in question because, as far as he was concerned, it was not connected to any crime.
    I hung up the phone and described his side of the conversation. “Honey, it’s not surprising he acted this way,” she assured me. “Even in New York City, that’s probably not something they see every day, a beautiful young woman and respected professional with a creepy symbol tattooed in the middle of her head.”
    I walked to the window and looked down at the streets, half expecting to see Jimmy Smith or my faceless attackers or even the witness from the restaurant looking up at me.
    “Call him,” I said.
    “Who?”
    “This guy who’s dying down in Louisiana. Ask him what it means and what he wants. If he won’t say, tell him what happened to me today.”
    Without another word AJ used the phone for directory assistance and then was connected to the number of the dying Willy Pedreaux. I listened as she spoke to what sounded like the man’s wife and then the manhimself. AJ spoke politely at first, but soon her voice grew angry and then downright furious. Still, the people on the other end wouldn’t