“We dug a bullet out from the back wall. We’re checking to see if ballistics matches up with any registered firearms owned by the Rafters or the Charbonneaus,” Casey said.

“You’re taking all the right steps and running a good investigation, Jack,” Laskey said. “Just don’t jump to any rash conclusions. Despite what the sheriff thinks, my gut feeling says this isn’t a domestic violence case.”

Detective Casey looked at Laskey. “Don’t underestimate the sheriff, Mr. Laskey. He’s often right. He’s been in this line of work a long, long time.”

“I just can’t see Jon Rafter shooting a cop. He was once a cop himself.”

“We often think we know a person well, but we really don’t. We can’t totally know what is going on inside a person’s head. Inner thoughts are deep and secretive mysteries. And then when you add unstable emotions to the mix, anything can happen.”

Laskey sighed. “So what do you think went down inside this art studio?”

Casey shrugged. “To me it looks like Jon Rafter snapped. In a fit of rage he trashed a painting, shot his dog, and then stomped into the house and took the guests hostage. And then when Officer Barrett came by he shot him.”

“But why would Rafter shoot the officer when he was turning to leave? He wouldn’t have had to do that. It doesn’t add up.”

“Mr. Laskey, you know how this works. We won’t know the motive until an arrest is made, perhaps not even until the case goes to trial.”

“Okay, Jack. Thanks for filling me in. My men and I will stay out of your way. But don’t hesitate to ask for anything. I’m the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Baton Rouge Resident Agency. I have a lot of resources at my disposal.”

“I’ll keep your offer in mind, Mr. Laskey.”

Chapter 40

On his way back into the parlor, Arcadias stopped at the front door. He bent down and looked through the peep hole. Although the tiny hole limited his vision, he could see multiple cruisers, their light bars flashing red and blue.

None of his carefully hatched plan was playing out the way he wanted, and his erudite mind scrabbled for credible solutions. Two things needed to happen soon, preferably within the next half hour: First, he needed to find the treasure. Second, he needed to leave the house without the lawmen outside knowing it, the treasure secured to his person.

At some point he may need to give up on finding the Lafitte gold and concentrate on making his escape. But he hadn’t yet reached that point. He still held out hope he would soon hold doubloons in his hands. That was his destiny, and he couldn’t deny its fulfillment, at least not yet.

Arcadias walked into the parlor. Every head turned toward him. He hadn’t felt this much attention since he taught history class at the university.

“What do we do now, Arcadias? We’re trapped,” Iris whined.

Arcadias looked at his girlfriend. “I don’t know yet. I’m still working on a plan. What I do know is that we don’t panic. We can’t allow fear to hamper our reasoning.”

“I can tell you what you should do first, Arcadias,” Rafter said.

Arcadias turned his head, focused his gray eyes on Rafter. “I’m sure you can. But I don’t think I can trust your advice.”

“I’m going to tell you anyway. You need to hook the landline phone back up. Or keep my cellphone or yours handy and turned on. If a negotiator can’t talk to you and gauge your mental state, a SWAT team will knock down the door. You might just buy yourself a couple of hours by simply establishing a communication line, time you can spend looking for your treasure.

“More importantly, you can put yourself in even better standing if you release us. That’s their primary concern out there. They already know you’re a hostile shooter, and that you’ve killed a cop. Now they’re determining if you’re a risk to pull the trigger again,” Rafter said.

“How do you know all this?”

“Believe it or not, I had a different career before I became an artist. I was a hostage negotiator.”

“How ironic, Jon,” Arcadias said. “How does it feel to be on the other side, the hostage instead of the negotiator?”

“I don’t like it. I’ve seen what happens when a hostage scene goes bad. We’re headed in that direction if you don’t lay down your gun.”

“Are you threatening me again, Jon?”

Rafter shook his head. “I’m just being straightforward. Unless you hook the phone back up and start talking, a raid will take place soon. And you don’t want that. I’ve seen a SWAT team in action before. It’s terrifying. They come in with overwhelming force and firepower. They want to scare you into submission.”

Rafter paused before adding, “But a rescue attempt is their last resort. They’ll likely want to make you feel uncomfortable first. Cutting power to the house will be their first tactic. With no lights you won’t be able to see to find your treasure.”

Arcadias mulled over his captive’s advice for a few seconds. There was some truth in Rafter’s words. And he definitely required more time to achieve his purpose. Even though he dreaded it, maybe he needed to talk with those outside. “Why are you helping me?”

“Earlier you said you were a guest in this house. You were right, Arcadias. And as your host, it’s my duty to make you feel comfortable,” Rafter answered.

Arcadias shook his head. A sarcastic smile flashed across his face. “That’s gracious of you, Jon. I can tell you’re warming up to me. A bond is beginning to form. But the bond is temporary and tenuous at best. Don’t push it.”

****

His arms trembling from holding the Dewalt reciprocating saw overhead, Damien Charbonneau balanced his two-hundred pound frame on the four-rung stepladder. He’d found the stepladder in the pantry—the first good fortune to happen to him since they’d arrived. Although the stepladder was old and a bit rickety, it still held him steady and put his work within reach.

Damien stood on the top rung and worked on cutting a large hole in the ceiling, a hole big enough to grant him access to the servant’s staircase behind the cement wall. Plaster dust and sawdust rained down onto his head continuously.

As he guided the saw he prayed he wouldn’t break a blade. If the blade broke they were finished. The treasure would remain hidden.

A strange thought suddenly entered his brain. Damien wondered who the recipient of his prayer was. God would never help him vandalize a home. God and crime were polar opposites and could never coexist.

Damien shook his head and pushed the spiritual thoughts out of his mind. If Arcadias and he were to find the treasure they would have to do it on their own, by their own strength and their own gray matter. He had no doubts Arcadias could find the historic loot given enough time.

And yet a nagging thought badgered Damien, heckled him without letup. What good would it do to find Lafitte’s gold? They would never leave the house with it, would never be able to spend even a single doubloon. They were all headed to prison. A cell at Angola likely would be his home for the rest of his life.

Nonetheless, Damien enjoyed cutting the hole. Working kept him busy and distracted him from his gloomy future and the lawmen gathering outside. He welcomed the sweat rolling down his brow and into his eyes, and enjoyed the muscle fatigue plaguing his arms.

After a few minutes of cutting, Damien took his finger off the saw’s trigger switch and examined his work. He already had a big hole cut in the pantry ceiling. Now he needed to cut out a section from a floor joist so he could swing his legs over the cement wall. But first I need a break from sawing, he thought, and climbed down the ladder.

Damien set the reciprocating saw on the floor and climbed back up to the top rung on the ladder. He turned his headlamp on to its brightest setting, grabbed the top of the cement wall with his gloved hands and wriggled his way up the wall. He stuck his head through the hole. His heart quickened when he saw the staircase leading up to the attic. The staircase looked like something from a horror movie set. Dust covered the steps and cobwebs formed an eerie gauntlet to anyone wishing to use the staircase.