Aunt Trudy considered it impolite to discuss the recent epidemic of disappearing townsfolk without at least first offering her dead brother’s only son a good meal.
     “More pie, Conrad?” asked Trudy.
     “Aunt Trudy, you can see when a man’s full, can’t you?” said Conrad McClure with a satisfied smile.  “Now that I’m filled up to my eyeballs with cornbread and catfish and baked beans and pecan pie, maybe you can tell me what all the fuss is about.  I thought Captain Willis was gonna blow a vein in his forehead when I asked for leave.”  Conrad had just made detective with the New Orleans Police Department, and his first official act had been to ask for time off.
     “Things is bad around here,” said Aunt Trudy in low tones.  “I hope you don’t mind, Conrad, but we needed you to come.  We don’t have a lot of law here in Lancaster Parish.  Don’t need it cause we’re small and don’t have a whole lot of sin like you do in that cesspool you call a city.”
     Conrad rolled his eyes.  “New Orleans ain’t bad as all that.  I like it there.”
     “Never mind that.  Like I was saying, Constable Cartwright does fine chasing the litterbugs, but if it’s some real crime we need solving--well, he’s getting up in years.  He just ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer no more.”
     “Uh-huh.”
     “Folks been disappearing,” said Trudy.  “Old Anse, the butcher, Lila May Jackson, Selma’s cousin George from Memphis, and Freda Aker’s daughter Debbie home from LSU on spring break.  And we got no idea where they got to.  None at all.”
     Conrad shook his head and waved away the notion absently.  His eyelids drooped from the heavy meal, and he sank deeply into a thickly upholstered chair.  “Aunt Trudy, these are grown people we’re talking about.  They can come and go as they please, and they don’t have to report to you or Constable Cartwright.”
     “Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid, boy.  This is a small parish and an even smaller town, so you better believe it when I tell you that everybody here knows everybody else’s business.  Then folks wouldn’t take off without saying something to somebody, and I can still put you over my knee if you don’t think it’s true.”
     Conrad chuckled to himself.  He tried to picture himself over the little woman’s knee.  He was six foot three inches tall and weighed 190.  Aunt Trudy was five foot even and all skin and bones.  Still, Conrad had to admit to himself that his aunt was right.  People didn’t vanish like that in a town this small.  It wasn’t like New Orleans.
     “Okay,” said Conrad.  “I’ve got a few days off.  I can look into it, I guess.”
     “Good.  The constable’s on his way over now.  He’ll give you the details.”

---

     “And that’s the last place I saw the LSU girl,” said Cartwright.  He pointed toward the edge of Lake Howard.  It was a small body of water, an oversized pond really.  Cartwright himself was a barrel chested man with a wide, red face and a thin mop of white hair.  He kept a fat cigar smoldering constantly in his mouth, and his breath was a shocking mix of tobacco and corn liquor.  The badge pinned to his gray sweater reflected dully in the pale moonlight.  “The next morning her mother reported her missing.  Almost all the folks went missing at night and was reported in the morning.”
     “Did any of the victims have anything in common?” asked Conrad.
     “Just that they’re all from around here.”
     “I thought one was from Memphis.”
     “Now he is.  Born here though.  Moved away when he was six.”
     “Nothing else?”
     Cartwright puffed the cigar vigorously.  “Nope.  And I already looked into seeing if they had any enemies.  They’re all from good, prominent families.  No skeletons in the closet that I could dig up.”
    “Right.”  Conrad didn’t have a lot of faith in Cartwright’s detective work, but everything he’d said sounded about right.  He shook his head.  In New Orleans, cases either solved themselves in the first hour, or they took a long, long, time and a lot of leg work.
     “Look, if you don’t need me no more. . .”  It was late.  The night was unusually cool, and a thick fog had rolled in to blanket the little town.  Cartwright probably wanted to shoot back a couple more gulps of corn liquor then hit the sheets.
     “Thanks for you help, Constable,” said Conrad.  “I’ll see you in the morning.”
     “What about you?”
     “I think I’ll walk along the lake.  Try to gather my thoughts.”
     “Sure. See ya.”  Cartwright turned and shuffled away melting into the thick fog.
Conrad shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his denim jacket.  He checked the .380 automatic pistol tucked into the back of his jeans out of habit and approached the soft banks of Lake Howard.  He decided it was simply too dark to look for clues, so he walked along the banks until he unexpectedly came to the bridge.  “What the hell,” he said aloud.
     The town must have rebuilt the old bridge, he thought to himself.  They’d always threatened to rebuild the covered wooden bridge which led to the island in the middle of the lake.  The only thing on the island was an old plantation house which had been gutted by fire years ago.  Town history claimed that the house had belonged to a confederate major, but a dispute over inheritance and ownership of the property left the bridge unbuilt and the old house un-refurbished.  The wooden bridge stretched into the fog.  So they’ve finally rebuilt it.  Funny that Aunt Trudy didn’t mention it.  I wonder if they built a park or something on the island.  He stepped onto the bridge and began to cross.
     Conrad disappeared into the darkness of the covered bridge, the wooden planks groaning and creaking beneath his boots.  He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air.  How far was it?   He’d seen the distance from the shore to the island in the daylight, and it didn’t seem quite so far.  Soon, he spotted the pale square of the bridge’s other end where the moonlight turned the mist an eerie gray.
     He emerged into the fog on the shore of the island and found himself at the foot of a dirt road.  He followed the road for a few minutes, when a flash of orange drew his attention into the forest.  A fire?  Had they turned the island into a campground?  He left the road and trod though the forest toward the flame.  He felt strangely compelled, and his steps were heavy.  Something was definitely odd, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, his cop instincts hammering the back of his head like a mallet but not telling him anything.
     He arrived at the edge of a small clearing and squatted behind a large oak tree.  Six black women danced around a large campfire.  They chanted rhythmically in unintelligible mutterings. Their eyes rolled back in their heads as they shook their bodies and turned and stepped barefoot around the fire.  Conrad had heard a lot about voodoo rituals while he was in New Orleans, but he’d never seen any of them.  One of the women carried a live chicken.  It struggled in her embrace as she danced.  She brought the chicken around in a wide arc over her head, and dashed its brains out against a flat rock.  Conrad flinched.  The woman held the chicken over her head and let the blood drip onto her face.
    Conrad had been watching as if in a trance, but the shock of the seeing the woman with the chicken shook him out of it.  He stood and backed away from the clearing, turning again toward the road.  He found that he was running.  He was scared.  He’d seen a lot in his years as a cop, but now--he didn’t know why--he was scared.
      The plantation house loomed before him.  Warm light spilled from the windows.  They’ve fixed up the old house too.  But even as he thought it, it didn’t seem right.  None of this seemed right, and he felt himself slowing down again, disconnected, like he was on cold medication.  He wanted to approach the house.  Then he did.  He was dimly aware of how his mind worked now.  As if a thought arrived whole from the outside, then compelled him to action.
     He crept quietly around the side of the house and peered through one of the windows.  A man in an old fashioned suite sat at a writing desk.  He had a salt and pepper beard.  Deep lines surrounded his eyes.
     “I’ve been waiting for you.”
     Conrad jumped at the soft voice from the shadows.  Hiding among the Azalea bushes was a dark haired, woman.  She was beautiful, slight and tall.  She wore a thin white dress of cotton, and the nipples of her small breasts strained against the fabric at the sudden, cool breeze.  Her skin was a light brown, but her features were sharp, her nose aquiline.  Conrad couldn’t tell if she were white or black.  He ceased his inspection of her when he realized what she’d said.  “Waiting for me?  I don’t understand.”
     “I called for you, Conrad.  I’m Lena.”  She nodded toward the window at the old man.  “That’s my father.  Major Sutpen.”
     Sutpen.  The Confederate officer who’d owned this old house.  But that was years ago.  “What’s going on?  Those women in the woods--” but is wasn’t just the women.  It was the house, the bridge, everything.  It was all wrong, but Conrad found it too hard to think.  Something was clouding his mind, making it hard to reason.
     “Those women work for me, Conrad,” said Lena with a slow smile.  Her voice was like silk.  “They maintain the spell which creates the bridge.  It’s not just a bridge across the water, Conrad.  It’s a bridge across the years.”
     She took a step toward him, but he took a step back.  Lena seemed surprised and frowned.  But she quickly composed herself, and the smile returned.  “What’s wrong, Conrad?  Don’t be afraid.”
    “Don’t come near me.” He was confused.  He felt a weight, like the heaviness of slumber descending on him.  He needed more information.  “Why?  What’s all this for?”
     Lena smiled indulgently as if humoring a child.  “I suppose it won’t matter if I tell you.  My mother was a slave.  Major Sutpen is white, of course, so that makes me a half breed.  I’m able to see the future with my magic.  Did you know that, Conrad?  And I know that the North is going to win this war.  Someday, women with Negro blood can be as rich as any white person.  So that’s my plan.  What good’s seeing the future, if I can’t use it to my advantage.  Then my magic grew stronger, Conrad.  I could do more than see the future.  I could summon people back from it.  I summoned you, Conrad.”
    Conrad shook his head.  His limbs felt like lead, and every time Lena spoke his name he felt weaker and weaker.  He needed to keep talking, needed to stay awake.  “That still doesn’t explain why I’m here.”
     “The major is writing out a document right now stating that I’m his heir,” explained Lena.  “Later, two Yankee spies will break into daddy’s house and kill him before he ever has a chance to marry and produce white heirs.  Surely, you see what I’m doing, Conrad.  I’ve summoned all the prominent heirs from Lancaster’s major families in the future to die here in the past.”
     “Like Anse and Akers and the LSU girl.”  Conrad grasped at understanding.
     Lena laughed.  “It’s not that simple.  I’ve been manipulating bloodlines since the start of the war.  The people in your time vanished because I summoned some of their ancestors.  Only two prominent families now exist in your future.  The Sutpens and the McClures.  After tonight, there will be only one.”
     That’s when Conrad saw the flash of silver in Lena’s hand.  The shock again brought him out of his haze.  Lena leapt on him, and he grabbed her by the wrists as she attempted to plunge the knife into his chest.  She fought him with unearthly strength, and they toppled into the bushes.  Conrad twisted her wrist, and she dropped the knife.  He leapt to his feet and drew the automatic, but she was gone.
     “Shit.”  He stood panting, his heart racing.  What now, asshole?  Think, Conrad old boy, think.  Now that his head was clear, the unbelievable plot which Lena had revealed to him was stupefying.
     Horses approached, and Conrad ducked back into the bushes.  Two men dismounted and charged with drawn pistols through the front door of the old plantation house.  The Yankee spies! They’ve come for Sutpen just as Lena said.  Conrad might not fully understand what was happening, but he could still foil Lena’s scheme.  He checked the clip on his automatic then rushed in after the spies.  He found the spies and Sutpen in the old man’s study.  He was still at his desk, and the two spies had their pistols on him.
     They turned when Conrad entered the room.  One squeezed off a shot at Conrad but missed.  The room shook as Conrad delivered two shots into each of the gunmen.  They spun around in a shower of blood before landing with heavy thuds on the floor.
     “Good God, man” cried Sutpen.  “I don’t know who you are, but you’ve just saved my life.”
    “The time, Sutpen?  What’s the time?”
    “There’s no hurry,” said Major Sutpen.  The old man had the shakes from realizing how close to death he’d been.  “Let me show you my gratitude.  Let me get you a drink.”
     “Forget the drink, you old fool!”  Conrad remembered what Lena had said about the bridge.  “What time is it?”
     Sutpen drew a silver pocket watch from his vest.  “5:40 a.m.  About five minutes before dawn.”
    Conrad tore out of the house and ran down the dirt road at full speed.  His heart was about to explode, and thin strands of pink light were already peeking over the horizon.  He glanced back only once and saw a tall thin woman like a stab of light in her white dress.  She was far behind him, but Conrad knew it was Lena.
     She shouted after him, but even at this distance, her voice sounded as if it were right behind him.  “You’ve already set wheels in motion, Conrad.  You can run from me now, but you can’t run from the future you’ve created.  And that future is right behind you.  It will overwhelm you.”
    He reached the bridge and continued running.  His footfalls reverberated loudly as he plunged into the dark tunnel of the covered bridge.  When he emerged panting and sweating on the other side, the sun was up, and the bridge remained.  He looked across the water.  The fog had cleared, and the old Sutpen house was prominent on the hill.
     “Shit.  I’m too late.  The bridge is still here.”  Conrad shouted in frustration.
     Cartwright pulled up in a squad car and rolled down the window.  “Are you okay, Chief?”
     Conrad blinked.  “What?”
     “The way you’re carrying on, I thought maybe something was wrong.”  Cartwright no longer wore his gray sweater, but rather a tan deputy’s uniform.
      Then, Conrad noticed that the lane along the edge of lake was no longer a small gravel road, but a well-paved two lane highway.  “Can you take me to Aunt Trudy’s.”
     “Sure, Chief.  Anything you want.”
     “Why do you keep calling me Chief?”
     “You’re chief of police, ain’tcha?”
     Cartwright dropped him in front of a large mansion.
     “What’s this?”
     “You wanted to see Miss Trudy, right?”
     “She lives here?” asked Cartwright.
     Cartwright rolled his eyes.  “Get some rest, Chief.  You been working too hard.”  He drove away and left Conrad astonished on the sidewalk.
     In the house, Conrad found Trudy.  She wore an elegant dress and looked better than she ever had.  “Aunt Trudy?  How long have you lived here?”
     “Why almost thirty years, Conrad.  Are you feeling okay?  You look terrible.”
     “I think I’m a little confused.”  Indeed, that heavy, hazy feeling again clouded his mind.
     “Well, Lena’s here.  She’ll cheer you up,” said Trudy.
     “What?  Who?”  Conrad knew that name meant trouble, but he couldn’t quite remember why.
     Lena walked in and took Conrad by the hand.  She said, “Let me have a moment with my fiancé, will you, Aunt Trudy?”
     “Certainly.”  She left the room.
     Fiancé?  That didn’t seem right.  What was happening?  Why couldn’t he think straight?
     Lena leaned toward Conrad and said in a slow voice, “I told you.  You can’t run away from the future you made.  It’s overcoming you even now.”
     What was she talking about?
     “If I can’t be a rich Sutpen,” said Lena, “then I’ll be a rich McClure.  It’s all the same to me.”
     Suddenly, something clicked in Conrad’s head.  The mist that shrouded his mind cleared away.  “I’m sorry, darling.  I wasn’t feeling too well there for a second.  I don’t know what came over me.”
     “That’s okay, precious.”  She smiled and squeezed his hand affectionately.  “You’ve been working far too hard lately.  Maybe we should get away for the weekend.”
     “Of course, my darling.”  He kissed her lightly on the cheek.  “Anything you say.”