The Barataria Tour Company’s office building was a ramshackle affair, built of unvarnished timbers supporting a corrugated tin roof that looked in need of serious hurricane proofing. It occupied a small plot of land in Crown Point on the eastern side of the bay, about thirty miles outside the New Orleans city line.
A smattering of woodframe houses stood clustered along the shore, almost all with watercraft of some sort anchored in front. Crown Point was populated almost exclusively by people who made their living afloat. Shrimpers, crabbers, crawfish catchers, and the odd gator wrangler.
And then there were men like Dave Thibodeaux, who did all of the above and also supplemented his income by guiding tour boats deep into the waters that had served as his backyard since birth.
Captain Dave docked The Swamp Thing ten minutes ago. Most of the passengers had already gotten in their cars and driven away. A handful remained, lingering around the gift shop and pondering the wisdom of taking home some gator jerky for supper.
Rusty sat in a shady spot next to a vending machine dating back to the seventies. Its smudged plastic front advertised Tab in faded pink and white hues. He’d occupied this spot since being deposited here by Captain Dave, who’d waddled away with a promise to return shortly.
Rusty was making a concerted effort to do nothing except monitor his breath until some sense of calm returned. It was an uphill battle. Every time he closed his eyes, the same vision materialized: Abellard launching himself over the desk, meaty hands closing around his throat.
Gonna get that motherfucker, Rusty thought over and over, the words swirling like a silent mantra. Even if he’s not responsible for whatever happened to Marcie, I’m going to get that motherfucker.
Captain Dave pocketed the last of the money owed him from the tour and walked over. He took a knee, one hand lifting Rusty’s chin.
“Color’s just about returned. I believe you’ve made it through the thickest part of the woods.”
“Thanks again, Captain. I don’t have the first clue how I might be able to repay you. Name it and I’ll do my best.”
“No repayment required. You gave me a whopper of a yarn to lay on the guests. Hell, I ought to cut you a percentage up front.”
Rusty managed a grim smirk.
“Feel ready to go on in?” Dave asked. “You’ll need to make an account of what happened, which is bound to tax a bit more of your time.”
“No need,” Rusty said. “Only account I plan to make is to the rental car company at Armstrong, seeing as my ride’s a lost cause. That bayou rum is some powerful swill. Think I’ll stick to beer next time I go fishing.”
The captain shook his head, a look that split the difference between bewilderment and contempt spreading across his face.
“You mean to say you don’t know where you left your vehicle?”
Rusty shrugged.
“I was half in the bag before I lit out from New Orleans. Big breakfast at Pat O’s, they serve those bottomless Hurricanes. I know it was sheer stupidity to get behind the wheel and drive out here with that kind of front-load on. But sometimes a man’s got to fish.”
“Hmm,” the Captain grumbled, looking at him with a more jaundiced eye. “Lucky you didn’t finish your bender as gator bait.”
“That I am,” Rusty nodded, pushing his back against the plank wall behind him to stand upright. “What I need now’s a ride. I’ll make it more than worthwhile for whoever gets me back to NOLA the fastest.”
“I’ll give you a ride, straight to Vacherie Medical. Gotta get you checked out, make sure you’re OK to go.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. I’m fine. Just a little embarrassed is all.”
“Ain’t that simple, hoss. I got an obligation to report this, one way or another. The bay’s a protected wetland, meaning us swamp folk operate under the eye of the feds. Anytime something strange happens on one of my tours—like, say, fishing a fella out of the mangroves—I’m bound to let the authorities know about it. Could lose my license if I don’t.”
Those words were spoken calmly, without the slightest hesitation. Rusty looked into the captain’s leathered face, meeting his determined gaze.
“What if we both agree you never saw me? I swam back here on my own, chalk it up to dumb luck or whatever.”
Dave glanced over his shoulder, where a few tour guests were still milling about.
“Too many eyeball witnesses to shoot that story down. Me personally, I’d be happy to pretend nothing out of the ordinary floated to the surface on this tour. Afraid I can’t take that chance.”
“Hell, there’s nothing to report. I got a little loaded and lost my footing in the shallows trying to reel one in. Must happen all the time around here.”
“Actually, it don’t. Oh, I’ve pulled plenty of odd things out of the swamp in my day. Nice leather ottoman. Baby manatee. One time I almost went overboard trying to reel in the fender of a ’57 Dodge. But you’re the first two-legged critter to flop onto my boat, and I can’t pass you off as catch of the day.”
“I don’t want to argue with you,” Rusty said, starting to turn away. The captain laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“I’m guessing you don’t want to talk to the sheriff neither. We can avoid that, but at the very least I got to turn you over to Vacherie Medical. After that it’s not my problem anymore. Sounds like a wise choice to me, but it’s your call.”
Rusty tried to swallow, realizing how parched he was after disgorging all that swamp water.
“Don’t give a guy much leeway. Do you, Captain?”
“Only when I got some to spare. Sheriff or hospital, hoss. Say the word.”
Further conversation was clearly pointless. Rusty nodded.
“Hospital.”
• • •
Monday Reed spread out a blanket on a patch of grass in Audobon Park, a favorite spot that almost no one seemed to know about but her. Just a stone’s throw from the placid lagoon, she could hear the quacking of ducks as they splashed about in the sun-dappled water. Farther away, a streetcar faintly rumbled and clattered down St. Charles.
This was her day off, from both of her jobs. Monday worked three shifts a week at Bon Coeur, on a rotating basis determined by the other nurses’ schedules. She served drinks at Temptations five nights a week on average, but it was a causal arrangement and left to her discretion.
The club’s owner, a squat Greek gentleman named Angelo, made it clear upon hiring her last year that she’d have to put out sooner or later. All the girls did. Monday had never allowed him so much as a quick feel, and her unwavering rejection of his crude overtures had the opposite effect of what she’d anticipated. Rather than fire her, Angelo treated her with a kind of quiet reverence, allowing her to work as much or as little as she felt like in a given week.
She enjoyed her free Sundays. As often as the weather allowed, she ended up here in the park. She was more than content to keep to her secluded little section near the lagoon, away from screaming babies and leering drunks, the two categories of humans she encountered most often while working.
Monday removed her button-down shirt, kicked off her sandals and stretched out on the blanket in a bikini top and a pair of denim cutoffs. Fishing a used Harold Robbins paperback from her bag, she scanned the back cover for some motivation to keep reading. She liked raunchy fiction, but preferred a more imaginative touch than Robbins brought to the material.
Tossing the book aside, Monday realized she’d forgotten to bring sunblock. Her fair complexion, the natural result of her parents’ Irish-Swedish union, was not made to endure high exposure to UV rays. She went straight from freckled alabaster to boiled lobster in no time flat, a painful tendency she had no intention of allowing today.
But the sun felt so good pouring over her skin. She didn’t want to abandon it for the safety of the shade just yet.
Five minutes, she told herself. Then she’d place the blanket under the protection of a gnarled oak and see if Mr. Robbins had what it took to hold her attention for another ten pages.
She lay back, head resting on the soft ground. Unprompted, Rusty Diamond appeared in her mind. Was it the thought of sexy reading material that conjured his image? Monday pondered that question with a smile. He hadn’t entirely dissipated from her thoughts since they’d parted ways at Temptations. Monday had taken a mild dislike to Rusty upon first sight at the hospital, based on what Marceline had said about him.
She hadn’t felt any immediate thawing last night, but by the end of their conversation he’d convinced her of two things. One, he was in no way involved with Marceline’s disappearance, and, two, he sincerely wanted to ensure her well-being. How much of his concern was personal and how much expressed on behalf of Prosper Lavalle, Monday couldn’t say. But she sensed something genuine and resolved in him, and she liked it.
All that aside, the guy was hot. Just her type, she realized with an inward groan. The last thing she needed right now was another ill-considered entanglement, having just broken one off last month. She was enjoying sleeping alone for the time being, or had at least partially convinced herself of that. Anyway, given Rusty’s history with Marceline, it wouldn’t feel right.
She felt her phone vibrating in the hip pocket of her cutoffs. The number wasn’t familiar.
“Hello?”
“Monday. It’s Rusty Diamond.”
“Damn, dude,” she said, irritated to feel a thrill at his voice. “You must have ESP.”
“I gotta ask you a favor. It’s not a small one.”
“What is it?”
“Need a ride back to NOLA. I’m at the Vacherie Medical Clinic. They’re ready to release me but I got no wheels.”
Monday sat upright on the blanket.
“Jesus, what happened? Did you see Abellard?”
“Yeah. He’s every bit the gentleman you’d led me to expect.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. Just need to knock some swamp water out of my ears.”
“What are you doing in the hospital? And what happened to your car?”
“I’ll explain all that on the ride, if you can come get me. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’d rather not wait for a damn bus, which I’ve been told won’t leave till after sundown. Otherwise, I’ll have to try and pay someone for a lift. Don’t see any likely candidates at the moment.”
“I’m coming.”
A pause elapsed, and she heard him expel a relieved sigh.
“Thanks, Monday. Hope I’m not breaking up your day too badly.”
“Sit tight,” she told him. “I should be there by five o’clock, give or take.”
Before he could hang up, Monday asked if there was any good news about Marceline, unable to keep the question to herself.
“I don’t know if it’s good or not,” he answered. “But we may be closer to knowing something than we were yesterday. Get out here soon as you can and I’ll fill you in.”