“Wyatt, my man, how the hell you doing?” Jean Pierre said, pumping my hand.
“Great, J.P. These are my friends, Abba and Rory.”
“Jean Pierre Saucier,” he said shaking their hands. “Girl, you about the prettiest woman I seen around Chalmette in I can’t remember when.” Grabbing her left hand, he eyed it for a wedding ring. “You two hitched?”
“Rory is, though not to me,” Abba said.
“Is Wyatt your boyfriend?”
“Just friends,” she said.
Jean Pierre turned his attention to Rory. With hands on his hips, he said, “Son, you about a big one. How much you weigh, anyway?”
“Two seventy-five,” Rory said.
“Mardi Gras ain’t for a couple of months. You on your way to a Halloween party?”
Rory didn’t smile. “I’m Scottish if you can not already tell.”
“Hell, mon, sorry about that,” Jean Pierre said with a grin as he slapped him on the shoulder. “I’m a damn coonass if you can’t already tell, and loving every minute of it.”
Standing about six feet tall, Jean Pierre had wavy hair and eyes as dark as Abba’s. Slender of build, he was dressed in worn jeans and a Western shirt. Boots and Stetson completed his cowboy appearance.
He had the good looks of a French movie star. He knew it and used it to its full advantage. His jovial nature was hard to ignore, and both Abba and Rory were soon smiling at one of his many Cajun tall tales.
“You caught me just at the right time,” he said. “I’m on vacation. Lucky and me was set to head to our camp tomorrow morning. I couldn’t find nobody to go with me, so I’m glad you called. The place is in the middle of nowhere and can get kinda lonesome at night.”
Feeling his gaze, Abba glanced away from his stare and looked at the two dogs, still circling each other and wagging their tails.
“Looks like those two hit it off,” she said.
“That’s my dog, Lucky. Hundred-forty pounds of pure love.”
“That heavy? Oh my God!” Abba said.
“He’s an eating machine,” Jean Pierre said. “That’s a fact. Now, Wyatt, tell me why it’s so important for you to visit the Honey Island Swamp at this time of night?”
“Long story, J.P. We’ll fill you in on the way there.”
“Don’t think you’ll all fit in my old truck,” he said.
“Do you live near here?” Abba asked.
“Couple miles away.”
“We’ll follow you there. You can leave your truck and go with us.”
He stood for a moment in silence, shaking his head as he stared at her car.
“What’s that thing called?” he asked. “Don’t think I ever seen one like that.”
“Because they didn’t make very many. It’s a Pontiac Aztek,” she said. “Best car on the road.”
“If you say so, sweet thing. Hope it drives better than it looks.”
“My name is Abba,” she said. “Not sweet thing.”
J.P.’s smile never disappeared. “Well slap my face,” he said, tapping his cheek with his palm. “Didn’t mean to insult you. You just so pretty, the words just flowed from my lips before I could choke them back. Forgive me?”
When he took her hand, she was unable to mask a smile of her own.
“You’re a mess. Didn’t your mother try to teach you better?”
“It almost put my poor mama in the crazy house trying to change me. She finally give up trying.”
“I’ll bet she did,” Abba said. “Let’s take the truck to your house before I have to be the one to slap that pretty face of yours.”
Abba broke all existing speed limits as she headed north. I sat in the back with Jean Pierre, Rory hunched in the front seat and looking uncomfortable, and the two dogs in back. North of Slidell, J.P. leaned over the front seat to give Abba directions.
“Better start slowing this buggy down. There’s an exit up ahead on the right.”
The off-ramp led to a narrow side road that soon began veering east.
“Who turned out the lights?” Abba asked.
J.P. chuckled. “Once we get across the bridge up ahead, about the only lights, we’re gonna see will be the moon and stars. Too many clouds to see those tonight.”
Abba had greatly reduced her speed. When the rear end of the Aztek slid in a puddle of water, she slowed almost to a stop.
“Want me to drive for you, sweet thing?” J.P. asked.
“No, and if you call me sweet thing one more time, I’m going to put you out on the side of the road.”
“Suit yourself,” he said. “Just try to stay out of the ditch. It’s swampy on both sides of the road and them monster gators in there are always looking for a midnight snack. That ain’t to mention the Swamp Monster.”
“Would you shut the hell up?” she said. “I’m nervous enough as it is without you making matters worse.”
“Just trying to help,” he said.
“How far is your camp?” I asked, interrupting their banter.
“About ten miles; the last two by boat. We’ll have to leave your car at the dock,” he said.
“Will it still be there when we return?” Abba asked.
“Ain’t many thieves this far out in the middle of nowhere. I’ll put a Chalmette police department sticker on your dash. Your vehicle will be fine till we get back.”
Rory had fallen asleep and was snoring, opening his eyes when Abba pulled the Aztek to a stop at a lonely fishing dock. A single exposed bulb swayed in a gentle breeze as we unloaded J.P.’s equipment. Something was howling in the distance.
“Are there wolves in the swamp?” Abba asked.
“Don’t know what that was,” J.P. said. “A good friend of mine that does lots of camping around here says, there are sounds you hear at night you recognize, some you don’t, and others you don’t even want to know.”
“You’re making that up,” she said.
“No ma’am, I’m not.”
“Not to worry, lassie,” Rory said. “I have my broadsword.”
Rory was still dressed as a Scottish warrior with the sword hanging from his side. J.P. grinned and shook his head, though he was careful that no one other than I saw it.
We loaded the ice chests and other equipment onto J.P.’s twenty-foot pontoon boat. Once everyone including the dogs was aboard, he untied us from the old wooden dock, gave the boat a kick to start it moving, and then jumped aboard. Within minutes, he had the motor humming. He let it drift while he went to the front of the boat to light the two lanterns that would serve as our running lights. We motored into the foggy darkness, no one except J.P., and maybe the dogs, able to see more than ten feet or so in front of the boat.
“You know where we are going?” Rory asked.
“Get your panties out of a wad, big boy. I’ve done this a thousand times or more.”
“Well, I can’t see a thing,” Abba said, having to raise her voice to be heard over the drone of the motor.
“There’s some lawn chairs against the railing. Open them up, sit down, and relax. I know where I’m going. I’ll get us there in one piece, I promise.”
The steering wheel was near the back of the boat. Rory unfolded a chair and fell asleep almost immediately. Slick and Lucky lay at his feet and they had closed their eyes. Abba grabbed my elbow, pulling me to the front of the boat.
“Let’s sit up here. I need to talk to you,” she said.
“What’s up?” I asked.
Though the motor was humming and we were all the way to the front of the boat, she spoke in a subdued voice, leaning closer so only I could hear.
“Who is this insulting clown that talks like a hick?”
“It’s just an act,” I said. “J.P. is no hick. He has a degree from USL in Lafayette. He served with honors in Afghanistan as a First Lieutenant. Lawmen all over the state know and look up to him.”
“He’s coming on to me like a sexist pig,” she said.
“J.P. is not sexist. Womanizer, maybe. I promise you he respects women. He’s obviously attracted to you and can’t help himself.”
“That’s not good enough,” she said.
“J.P.’s a lawman. He won’t assault you, I promise.”
“I’m not worried about him assaulting me. I just want to be treated with a little decency and not feel like a piece of bloody meat being waved in front of a wild animal.”
“I’ll have a talk with him,” I said.
“I know we need him right now. I don’t want to be a bitch about it.”
“You have every right in the world to be concerned. I’ll have a talk with him.”
“You say he has a degree. What’s it in, underwater basket weaving?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” I said.
“Try me.”
“The performing arts. You should hear him sing and see him dance. He’s been an extra in lots of movies filmed around here. He’s had more than one chance to do even more as an actor, though he’s turned down every opportunity.”
“And why is that?” she asked.
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“He’s good looking enough to be a movie star, but then so are you, and you’re not sexist.”
“I’ve had my moments,” I said.
“No, you haven’t.”
“No one’s perfect; least of all me.”
Apparently satisfied with my response, Abba grew silent, at least for a few minutes.
“I can’t see a thing except for the flame from those two lanterns. You think he knows where he’s going?”
“I’ve been with him in a boat much smaller than this, during a major storm, and when we had no lights at all.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“The boat sank. We somehow made it to shore.”
“That’s comforting to know,” she said. “I hope he’s learned something because I’d hate to think about having to swim for shore. God only knows what’s out there.”
“It was more than just a storm. We were in a hurricane. No one on earth could have navigated any better than he did. There’s barely a breeze blowing tonight.”
“And that’s what bothers me. How can he see through the fog?”
“Stop worrying. If J.P. says he’ll get us there safely, then I trust him, and so should you.”
“Sorry I'm so negative,” she said.
“It’s okay.”
“I’m tired, we’ve been drinking all day, and . . .”
“We saw dead people.”
“I don’t know why it should bother me the way it does,” she said.
“We were at the scene of several violent murders. It’s normal to feel upset.”
I clutched her hand, and she didn’t pull away. “It’s just now really hitting me. Guess the excitement of the chase and all the alcohol had my senses anesthetized. Right now, my head is pounding, my stomach churning, and I feel like crap.”
“We’ll all feel better after we get some sleep,” I said.
Abba grew silent, though she continued holding my hand. Thirty more minutes passed, fog rolling off the prow of the boat as J.P. cut the engine and nosed into a wooden dock. Hurrying past us, he secured us to the mooring spot with a rope.
Rory and the dogs awoke when the noise of the engine ceased. With the big ice chest under one arm and an Army green duffel bag under the other, he followed us off the boat, J.P. leading the way with one of the lanterns. The other he handed to me.
Though it was dark and the camp cloaked in moving shadows, I could see J.P.’s fishing camp was more than I’d expected. It sat on tall pilings that jutted up out of the water. The wooden structure needed a paint job. It was two-stories tall and much bigger than I’d thought it would be. A screened porch completely encircled the building, and the hinges creaked when he undid the latch and opened the door.
We followed him across an equally creaky porch to the front door of the house. Even though it was late October, the old house gasped when he pushed open the door and entered. J.P. sat the lantern on an old wooden kitchen table bare of even a splotch of paint, took the one I was carrying and handed it to Rory.
“The generator’s in back. I haven’t started it in a while. It’s old and kind of touchy, and I may need some muscle to get it started. Can you help me, Rory?”
Abba and I glanced around the spacious old fishing camp as J.P., Rory and the two dogs disappeared into the darkness. An overhead light came on when we heard the sound of a gasoline motor. J.P. was smiling when he, Rory, and the dogs returned.
“This big boy’s got a set of muscles on him. He cranked that ol’ engine in one pull.”
“This is quite a place you have, J.P.,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting anything this big.”
“Way bigger than I need. For no more than I paid for it, I couldn’t turn it down.”
“How much was that?”
“Nothing. My uncle Johnny left it to me when he passed. Sleeps ten easy. Upstairs is all bedrooms. Mine has a porch overlooking the swamp. I collect rainwater in a cistern out back.”
“Sounds like a smooth operation,” I said.
“The tank’s filtered to keep out the bugs. No hot and cold running water but I have a shower stall on the back porch.
“Mind if I use it?” Abba said.
“You bet you can, pretty lady. You’ll feel lots better, even if the water’s only warm.”
“Best news I’ve heard all night,” she said.
“I see none of you brought a change of clothes. I got a closet full left by various people over the years. Everything’s clean, and you don’t have to worry about giving them back.”
“Is that a Cajun thing?” I asked. “Bertram had loads of clothes last time I spent the night in his camp on Pontchartrain.”
“How’s that ol’ Cajun doing?” J.P. asked.
“He never changes. As ornery as ever,” I said.
“I need to get up to the city for a visit.”
“Yes you do,” I said.
J.P. pointed. “There’s a chemical toilet through that door; not fancy, though it’s reliable. The mosquitoes aren’t bad this time of year. Everything is screened, including the veranda, so there’s no bug problem as long as you stay inside. Well, except for a few roaches and such.”
We followed him up the creaky staircase. As he’d said, there were plenty of empty bedrooms. Rory practically collapsed on one of the beds and was soon snoring loudly. After Slick jumped up beside him, J.P. closed the door, and then led Abba and me down a narrow hall.
“This is lovely,” she said.
J.P. opened a hall closet, grabbing a handful of sheets and towels.
“Even have clean sheets,” he said, tossing a fluffy towel to Abba. “The shower stall is on the porch in back. There’s a bulb that works, and you probably want to check for bugs before you climb in. Like I said, the water’s only warm, though I guarantee you won’t freeze to death.”
“I’m in heaven,” she said.
“The camp is even air-conditioned. Don’t need it this time of year. Just crack the windows. They all have screens to keep out the bugs and other critters.”
“Thanks, J.P.,” I said. “You’re the best.”
J.P. handed Abba a lantern. “Every now and then I get a coon or possum out there on the porch. They’re friendly. Just shake your lantern in their direction and tell them to scat.”
“And if they don’t?” Abba asked.
“Just holler. I’ll be more than happy to come help you out.”
“No thanks. I’ll take care of myself.”
“And I’ll bet you can, little lady,” he said. “Not much of the night left. Get some rest. I’m going fishing before breakfast, and I’ll let you sleep in.”
Abba started for the shower, and I turned for one of the unoccupied bedrooms. J.P. tapped my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks.
“This doesn’t seem like a school outing, and I have a feeling you haven’t told me everything I need to know. Tomorrow, before we proceed any further, you need to explain what we’re dealing with.”
Abba awoke to the aroma of scrambled eggs wafting up the stairway. She found an old cotton robe in her bedroom closet, put it on, started downstairs to investigate, and followed her nose to the kitchen. She found Jean Pierre standing in front of a four-burner propane stove, stirring something in a cast iron skillet with a wooden spoon.
“Smells wonderful,” she said.
When J.P. turned around with a big Cajun grin, Abba saw his long apron decorated with a giant bottle of red Tabasco sauce.”
“Morning,” he said. “Sleep well?”
“The shower was wonderful, even if I had to share the stall with a big spider. Soon as my head hit the pillow, I was down for the count. I didn’t realize how tired I was.”
J.P. poured coffee into a cup from the metal pot simmering on one of the burners and placed it on the kitchen table in front of her. Retrieving a carton of cream from the big red ice chest, he sat it on the table along with a sugar pourer.
“Cream and sugar?” he said.
“I usually drink my coffee black. This looks extra strong. It probably needs a little lacing.”
“If the spoon don’t stand up in the cup, then it ain’t real Cajun coffee.”
“Why do you talk like that? Wyatt told me you have a college degree. Surely they taught English at USL.”
“I’m a homicide detective. People affected by murder often conveniently forget everything they know. My patois gets me in lots of doors,” he said.
“Why are you a homicide detective? Wyatt said you have a performing arts degree.”
“Wyatt’s not usually such a gossip,” he said.
“I was cursing you for being such a sexist. He was taking up for you.”
“Good for him. I’m not a sexist. I’m Cajun, and Cajuns like to flirt.”
“Well, I’m Creole. I’m not used to it, so please stop.”
Slick and Lucky bounded through the open door before J.P. could respond to her comment. After removing the skillet from the burner, he opened two cans of dog food and took it out to the porch to feed the hounds.
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. It’s a cultural thing. Cajuns express themselves openly. If they like something, they tell you; if they don’t like something they tell you. It was the way I was raised, and I’m too old to change.”
Abba shook her head as she sipped the hot coffee from the metal cup.
“Why are you a homicide detective if you have a degree in the performing arts? There are plenty of acting jobs here in south Louisiana. Wyatt told me you’ve been an extra in several movies already.”
“I enjoy making movies though it’s not all I need in life. I’m a thrill freak. I like the danger and excitement that goes with detective work. I also like solving puzzles. The job is natural for me.”
J.P. turned away from her and returned to the cast iron skillet on the propane stove.
“Who taught you how to cook?” she asked.
“My mama, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and my daddy. All Cajuns like to cook.”
“A cultural thing,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“What are you cooking? It smells wonderful.”
“Eggs scrambled with crawfish, red and green bell peppers, onion, and a chopped up, seedless jalapeno, and a side of grits. Ready to eat?”
“I’d be lying if I said no,” she said.
J.P. fixed a plate for Abba and one for himself. They were soon sitting at the table, enjoying breakfast like an old married couple, J.P. doctoring his already spicy eggs with Tabasco sauce. Abba didn’t speak until she’d finished the last bite. Grabbing the coffee pot from the burner, she topped up each of their cups.
J.P. smiled when she said, “You know I’m black, don’t you?”
“You may be African-American, but you ain’t exactly black. Hell, I’m darker than you are.”
“You have a tan. You obviously spend lots of time outside.”
“I hunt and fish whenever I get the chance. Didn’t sit too well with my ex.”
“She didn’t like your hunting and fishing?”
“Hated it. She wanted me home every night before dark. Kind of hard to do if you’re a homicide detective.”
“You like black women?”
J.P. laughed aloud. “I like all women. I just haven’t found one yet that’ll put up with me.”
“I hear that,” she said.
“What about you? You have a steady boyfriend?”
“I’m in college at Tulane. I’m going to be a doctor.”
“You’re smart and will make a good one,” he said. “You’ll have to work on your bedside manner, though.”
“Will you shut up? Just about the time I reach the point where I’m starting to like you, you say something totally ignorant.”
J.P. tapped his head. “Cajun culture,” he said. “Can’t change it.”
Abba grabbed the dishes from the table and took them to the sink. He joined her when she filled the basin and began washing them.
“Thanks for your help,” he said. “I’m used to doing for myself and Lucky.”
“No problem. My mom died when I was young, and I always helped my dad with the chores around the house.”
“Sorry to hear about your mom. How old were you when you lost her?”
“Nine,” she said. “Cancer got her.”
“Bet your dad was upset. Good thing you were there for him.”
“He was crushed. It’s going on twenty years now, and he still hasn’t remarried. My dad is white. Mom was black. He didn’t know he was white when they married.”
J.P.’s eyebrows rose when he glanced at her. “You making this up?” he asked.
“Long story,” she said. “Maybe I’ll tell it to you sometime if I don’t kill you first.”
When they’d finished washing the dishes and tidying up, J.P. returned to the stove.
“Wyatt and the big boy will be waking up soon. Want to help me cook some more eggs?”
***
When Rory and I awoke and went downstairs, we found J.P. and Abba sitting on the covered veranda that encircled the house. The dogs were roughhousing over a bone, Abba giggling like a schoolgirl and J.P. laughing at some joke we hadn’t heard. Rory was gazing at breakfast waiting for us on the kitchen table and paying no attention to the two outside. They seemed startled when I stuck my head through the door to tell them we were up.
“We were wondering if you two were going to sleep all day,” Abba said.
“I slept like a baby,” I said. “Now, my stomach’s growling.”
“Abba and I already ate. You better get to the table and stake your claim before big boy eats it all.”
Despite J.P.’s warning, I needn’t have worried. There was plenty of food on the table, even for Rory’s giant appetite. He was smiling when he finally finished eating and wiped his lips with a big checkerboard napkin.
“What now?” I asked.
“Let’s sit on the deck,” J.P. said. “Sun’s out today for a change, and we can take in a few rays while you bring me up to speed about what we’re dealing with here.”
The deck jutted out over the water, and we got our first glimpse of the swamp in the daylight. At the same time, it was both magnificent and frightening. The water in front of J.P.’s camp was open. Cypress trees with bloated trunks grew in the shallow, coffee-colored water. A big gator was floating beneath us, apparently waiting for a treat from J.P. J.P. didn’t disappoint, feeding him marshmallows stuck to the end of a long pole.
“Can’t keep enough of these things around,” he said. “Them gators do love their marshmallows.”
“Who would have thought,” I said.
A big fish broke the surface, sending slow-moving ripples across the still water. Blue herons circled overhead, and a crane was busy fishing in the shallows.
“Are the alligators dangerous?” Rory asked.
“Not unless you run out of marshmallows,” J.P. said. “They ain’t the only predators in this swamp. There’s hogs, snakes, bobcats, black bear, and probably wolves and mountain lions.”
“How big is the swamp?” Abba asked.
“Seventy-thousand acres. About half is a permanently protected wildlife refuge. It’s in the middle of the Pearl River Wildlife Management Area. The whole thing is really huge.”
“It’s beautiful here,” Abba said. “And so peaceful. No engine noise; only the sound of birds, wind, and water lapping against the dock.”
“I spend as much time here as I can,” J.P. said. “This swamp hasn’t changed in a thousand years. There are places you can only get to in a boat, and others you can’t get to at all.”
“That’s what worries me,” I said.
“Better start from the beginning.”
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“Don’t matter none. We ain’t going nowhere till I hear it.”
“It has to do with a woman,” I said.
J.P. glanced at Abba to gauge her reaction to his comment after he said, “Don’t it always?”
“I was just starting to warm up to you,” she said.
“Just kidding,” he said. “Do I know this woman?”
“I don’t think so. She was the daughter of a rich client of mine. I fell hard for her. When her twin sister Dauphine committed suicide, Desire vowed to join a convent and become a nun.”
“Of course,” J.P. said. “The Vallee twins. I remember the details from the news, and Bertram filled me in on what happened to you afterward.”
“I flipped out, fell off the wagon, and went begging to an old flame. She took me in, though the relationship didn’t last long. When she kicked me out, I came to my senses and sobered up. While I was away, Bertram got me a job from a Hollywood producer filming in town. He hired me to investigate the murder of a prominent actor on Goose Island. It’s where J.P. and I met.”
“How long ago was that?” Abba asked.
“Not more than a couple of years.”
“I would have guessed you two had known each other all your lives,” she said.
“That case almost got us both killed,” J.P. said. “People tend to bond quickly when their lives depend on it.”
“What happened?” Rory asked.
The big Scot shook his head when J.P. asked, “Know what a rougarou is?”
“Neither do I,” Abba said. “I’ll bite. What is it?”
“A Cajun werewolf.”
Abba and Rory waited for the punch line. There wasn’t one. They both turned their attention to me.
“A story for another time,” I said. “We need to tell J.P. about Desire.”
“That’s right,” J.P. said. “Rougarous and Swamp Monsters can wait till later. At least rougarous. There may be Swamp Monsters running around Honey Island Swamp. I haven’t heard of any rougarou sightings.”
“We’ll tell you later,” I said when Abba protested.
“Later on when we’re sitting around a glowing campfire,” J.P. said. “Once you hear the story, it’s almost a guarantee you’ll cuddle up close to me tonight.”
“In your dreams,” Abba said. “Tell him about Desire, Wyatt.”
I repeated the tale of waking up to the ghostly funeral procession, seeing Desire in the limousine, and then finding the pendant.
“The funeral procession filled me with fear that Desire is somehow in grave danger. Abba works for Desire’s mother. We met when I visited Junie Bug to see if she shared my fears. She did and gave me the names of the two people that came for her daughter the day she left for some unknown convent. Sister Gertrude and Father Fred.”
I showed him Exethelon.
The ceremonial dagger transfixed J.P.’s attention instantly. He whistled softly.
“This is a beautiful weapon,” he said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such craftsmanship in a dagger.”
“Rory made it. We looked him up last night because we hoped he could tell us who he’d made it for.”
J.P. continued fondling the dagger as he turned his attention to Rory.
“Son,” he said. “This is the finest piece of cutlery I’ve ever held in my hands. Remind me to take back all those nasty things I said about you. What do these engravings mean?”
“That, lad, I do not know. I made the dagger for a sorceress. She showed me drawings of what she wanted to be engraved on the blade. All I know about them is that they have a magical meaning, and the dagger itself is magical.”
J.P.’s brow grew furrowed when he turned his attention to me.
“Tell me how you came to find this beautiful hog sticker?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“What kind of happy horseshit answer is that?”
“You’re a homicide detective. For obvious reasons, telling you the story presents a problem.”
“You trying to say you found it at a murder scene?”
I nodded. “Murders we discovered while searching for Desire.”
“Murders? How many and when did they occur?”
“Three victims. Last night. One of them was Father Fred.”
“Impossible,” he said. “There’s nothing on the wire about a triple homicide last night.”
“Good, then maybe Abba and I had a group hallucination.”
J.P.’s eyes narrowed as he stared at me for what seemed like a minute but was probably no more than ten seconds.
“Okay,” he finally said. “I’m pretty sure neither you nor Abba killed anybody. What worries me is why you didn’t report it to the police.”
“For the same reason, I’m having trouble explaining the situation to you. I don’t want you to arrest us and take us downtown.”
“Maybe you better explain to me why I shouldn’t do just that,” he said.
The big gator finally gave up his wait for another marshmallow and disappeared into the shallow depths of the brown water. Overhead, a pair of bald eagles circled as I racked my brain for an explanation why we didn’t call the police after discovering a murder scene.
“Our trail of information led us to an orphanage run by Father Fred. He was dead when we got there, Exethelon buried in his heart. Two guards were also dead and all the people staying at the orphanage gone.”
“So why didn’t you call the police?”
“The place caught fire and burned to the ground before we had a chance to.”
“Who started the fire?”
“It combusted spontaneously,” I said.
“I’ll buy lots of shit. I ain’t buying that,” he said. “Someone had to start the fire.”
“The sorceress,” Rory said. “She is also the person who slew the three men and allowed the prisoners to escape.”
“Prisoners? You said it was an orphanage.”
“We have it on good authority that Father Fred was trafficking in human slaves. He and Sister Gertrude bought and sold people like cattle. I believe retribution was the motive for his death.”
“And this sorceress lives somewhere in the Honey Island Swamp? How do you know that?”
“I learned as much when she commissioned me to craft Exethelon,” Rory said.
“But you don’t know where in the swamp?”
“We were hoping you did,” I said.
J.P. pulled a cell phone from his pocket and dialed someone. We listened to the one-sided conversation until he’d finished.
“The orphanage burned last night,” he said. “You weren’t lying about that. There were no bodies found by the investigators. You sure you saw three dead people?”
“Like I said, maybe Abba and I had a group hallucination.”
“Abba?”
“Now that I think about it, it seems more like a dream,” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll worry about what you just told me sometime in the future. How do we go about finding this sorceress?”
“I’ll admit, I haven’t a clue,” I said.
Abba nodded. “Me either.”
“Then where the hell do we start?” J.P. asked, looking at Rory.
“Exethelon,” the giant Scot said.
J.P. rolled the dagger in his hand. “Maybe you better explain to me how that’s supposed to work.”
“Return it to Wyatt, and you will see,” Rory said.
I felt the power of the blade once I again held it in my hand. J.P.’s expression changed to disbelief when it began to radiate a golden glow.
“What the hell!” he said.
“Wyatt retrieved Exethelon from the dead man’s heart. It is now forever his, along with all the powers it possesses. Its magic will only work for him. It will lead us to the sorceress.”
“You aren’t exactly dressed for a trek through the swamp,” J.P. said. “You and Abba look as if you’re on your way to a day of sightseeing in the French Quarter. Rory’s wearing a kilt, and none of you have boots. I can’t let you go deeper into the swamp dressed like this.”
“This is the way Wyatt and I were dressed when we left home yesterday morning,” Abba said. “Needless to say we haven’t had a chance to change.”
“What do you suggest?” I asked.
“Postpone the trip for a day or so,” he said.
“Impossible for me,” Abba said. “I can’t take off from work that long.”
“Nor can I,” Rory said.
J.P. looked at me and said, “Wyatt? You got a plan B?”
“Is there someplace close where we can buy what we need?”
“There’s a little settlement about a mile from here: a few houses, a café, a general store, and even a liquor store. If your credit card’s big enough, we can get boots, jeans, hats, and supplies, and just about anything else we need there.”
“Why not?” I said. “I just cashed a big ticket at the track. I’m flush right now, and I have a credit card I’ve only used once or twice. Let’s check out the settlement. If my plastic doesn’t ignite first, I’ll pick up the tab.”
***
Back in the pontoon boat and heading back in the direction from which we’d come the previous night, we began to see many mostly ramshackle fishing camps on both sides of the wide channel. We hadn’t noticed them because it had been too dark when we’d floated past. When we rounded a sweeping bend in the river swamp, we got another surprise.
Large, beautiful and obviously expensive houses occupied the banks of an expansive pond that had formed in the sweeping meander. They all had impressive docks occupied by luxurious boats. There was also a marina with a dockside restaurant, and a filling station, complete with a colorful Shell sign, for boats.
“Does this place have a name?” Abba asked.
“Not really, though the locals call it Richville,” J.P. said.
“Those lavish houses and their manicured lawns look out of place for a swamp,” I said.
“At least a million bucks apiece,” J.P. said. “Some rich developer must have bribed someone in power for the rights to put it here, and has made a fortune doing it.”
“Must be nice to have that kind of money,” Abba said.
As we drifted toward the public dock we heard the whomp, whomp, whomp of an approaching helicopter. It descended over the large houses and disappeared from sight behind the trees.
“Ain’t no roads into Richville,” J.P. said. “People that own these houses have to boat in like everyone else, or fly in for the weekend in their private chopper.”
“Tough duty,” I said.
“Looks like they’re planning to have a grand old Halloween party from the looks of all the decorations,” Abba said.
Abba was right. Carved pumpkins, scary witches, and frightening ghouls draped with fake blood, and spray-on cobwebs decorated the docks, luxury boats, roofs, and yards of the little settlement. A chill in the air, Spanish moss hanging from tree branches, and the mist rising up from the water helped enhance the effect of the creepy decorations.
After J.P. had moored the pontoon boat, he led us up the boardwalk, past the filling station to a grocery and general store. A young woman dressed in denim pointed to the clothes aisle.
“Hope they have jeans large enough for Rory,” I said.
“They will,” J.P. said. “The place is sort of pricey, as you might imagine, but they have a little bit of everything.”
J.P. was right about the jeans and the prices. I practically choked when I saw the sales tags. It didn’t really matter though because I had a totally unexpected thirty plus grand in my bank account. As we selected boots, clothes, backpacks, and supplies, the tab began to quickly add up.
I must have had a constipated look on my face because J.P. asked, “You okay?”
“Nothing like a little sticker shock to jolt you back to reality.”
The total bill came to almost two thousand dollars, and I strongly considered taking a shot of Rory’s Southern Comfort he’d purchased at the little settlement’s well-stocked liquor store. As we motored away from the high-dollar settlement, I drank from a jug of lemonade instead.
Clouds had begun covering the sky as we motored down the river, back to J.P.’s camp. Rory, Abba, and I arranged the packed ice chests, tents, and other equipment I’d purchased as we did. After drifting to the middle of the big pond, Abba glanced up at a flock of storks flying overhead.
“What now?” she asked.
“Wyatt must spin the blade,” Rory, looking like a giant logger in his new jeans and boots, said. “Where it points is the direction in which we should go.
They watched as I gave the blade a spin, rotating as fluidly as a gyroscope before finally stopping.
“That way,” Rory said, pointing.
Two brown pelicans took flight when J.P. cranked the engine.
“Hope this ain’t a wild goose chase,” he said.
Abba and I weren’t so sure either. Rory walked to the front of the boat, Slick at his heels. He stood gazing ahead at the water passage we followed, hefting his broadsword and occasionally stroking its blade.
The water passage we followed was more than a swamp, it was an arboreal jungle filled with giant cypress trees on both sides of the narrow waterway. Their bloated trunks, Spanish moss draping their limbs, were huge and ageless.
“It’s beautiful,” Abba said. “What caused this swamp to be here?”
“It’s a river swamp,” J.P. said. “Water level fluctuates depending on the rainfall. When the water’s high, it covers the little islands in between the meanders. When it’s not, the high ground stands a few inches out of the water and is covered with hardwood trees and aquatic plants that can tolerate occasional soakings.”
“Quite an ecosystem,” Abba said.
“There are river swamps all over the world. This one’s extra big because there are two rivers instead of just one. The Pearl and the West Pearl are miles apart but parallel each other. No way to map the damn thing because the channels change every time the place floods.”
Feral hogs peeked at us from the thick underbrush of shore, unmindful of the alligators sunning on the bank. We’d left the main channel several times, following narrow and shallow chutes through the swamp.
There was no roof on J.P.’s pontoon boat, the branches of the surrounding trees draping almost to the water’s surface. When Abba suddenly screamed, J.P. threw the motor into neutral and rushed to the side of the boat where she was kicking and squirming.
Something was moving on the floor of the boat. Lucky and Slick had it cornered and were circling it, barking and growling. I could see it was a big snake.
“Get away from it,” J.P. said. “It’s a cottonmouth.”
Brushing past the two dogs, he slid the snake over the side of the boat with the paddle he was carrying. The snake was heavy and made a big splash when it hit the water. I watched as it swam away, finally disappearing into a pile of mostly submerged brush. Abba was still shaking, hugging herself as she bounced up and down on her toes. J.P. hugged her.
“It’s gone,” he said. “No harm done.”
“It dropped out of the trees, onto my shoulders. Scared the living hell out of me,” she said.
“This thing’s got a canvas top. It’s not sunny but now’s as good a time as any to put it up.”
Rory and I helped him raise the boat’s roof, and we were soon covered with a layer of canvas.
“Do those big snakes live in trees?” Abba asked.
J.P. shook his head. “No, but they can climb. When the temperature’s cool they like to sun themselves on the low-lying branches. The roof will keep them off of us if this chute doesn’t get too narrow and hang us up.”
“What if it does?” I asked.
J.P. dug into a wooden storage box, fished out a machete and tossed it to me.
“If it gets any tighter and narrower, we’ll have to start chopping our way through and hope we don’t go aground.”
“Not to worry, laddie,” Rory said. “My sword is all we’ll need.”
To show us, he felled a sapling with one stroke of the big sword.
“Good, because I have a hunch we’re going to need you before the day is over,” J.P. said.
Rory moved his lawn chair to the front of the boat, the sword resting across his knees.
“Say no more,” he said. “Aila and I are ready for action.”
“You name all the weapons you make?” J.P. asked.
“Of course,” Rory said. “Though they aren’t all as magical as Exethelon, they’re all alive and thus require a name.”
J.P. maneuvered the boat slowly and cautiously as floating limbs, and other debris became ever more prevalent. When the passage grew tight, Rory would stand on the bow of the boat and chop down the vegetation impeding us. Still not fully recovered from the incident with the snake, Abba sat shivering near the center of the boat.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Nothing a shot of Rory’s Southern Comfort wouldn’t cure,” she said.
“I heard that,” Rory said. “Your wish is my command, fair lady,”
I caught the silver flask he tossed to me, opened the lid, sniffed the contents, and then handed it to Abba.
“Maybe this will help,” I said.
It was late in the day when we finally exited the narrow passage and entered a wider and deeper pond. J.P. killed the engine and threw out the anchor.
“I’ve never been this far into the swamp,” he said. “I’m sure that not many people other than us ever have.”
With the motor dead, the birds and other wildlife were the only sounds remaining. It felt, quite literally, as if we were in the middle of nowhere.
“Hope you know the way back,” I said.
“My phone’s GPS does,” J.P. said.
“Then please don’t drop it overboard,” Abba said. “We’d never find our way back through this watery maze of wildlife and creeping vegetation.”
The day was dreary, darkened by persistent cloud cover. Abba shivered and pulled a light sweater over her blouse. Rory helped J.P. find something to eat in the ice chest. They arranged mustard, mayonnaise, cheese, and bologna, along with a loaf of bread, on a folding table.
“Better enjoy it now,” J.P. said. “We won’t be able to carry all this food and drink when we have to start walking.”
“We’re lucky you’re with us,” I said. “Otherwise we’d be wandering around with no food at all.”
“And definitely no whiskey,” Rory said as he saluted J.P. with his flask.
“Thank Wyatt, not me,” J.P. said.
“How far do you think we’ve come?” Abba asked.
“Probably not far in a straight line,” J.P. said. “Unfortunately the chutes and meanders don’t trend in straight lines. I’d be lost as a goose if it wasn’t for the dagger pointing the way.”
Exethelon must have been listening to the conversation because it suddenly began spinning like a top. We watched until it finally slowed to a halt.
“What the hell was that all about?” J.P. asked.
“It doesn’t seem to be pointing anywhere,” Abba said.
“Give it another spin, Wyatt,” J.P. said.
I reached for Exethelon. As if suddenly welded in place, it refused to move. The golden glow turned red and became hot to the touch, smoke beginning to rise up off the blade.
“Rory, what’s it doing?” I asked.
He didn’t need to answer. As we watched in awe, the magical dagger rose up off the floor of the boat as it rotated slowly. Thick gray vapor soon completely enclosed it into a cottony cloud that increased in size as it moved out over the water. We watched it move up a tiny creek that was feeding the main channel. J.P. shut the ice chest, retrieved the anchor, and then started the motor.
“This is as far as we can go in the boat.”
“What now?” Abba asked.
“Tie up to a tree and then go the rest of the way on foot. Either that or turn around and go back to the house.”
Tony watched as Eddie unfolded papers he’d removed from Wendell Swanson’s passport wallet and then spread them out on the bar.
“What you got?” he asked.
“A betting ticket, a page someone tore from a daily racing form, and an advertisement for a horse auction,” Eddie said.
“I didn’t see anything except the passport and ticket to Belize.”
“The wallet has a hidden pocket.”
“Let me see the betting ticket,” Tony said.
Eddie handed it to him, waiting as Tony spent a moment studying the information on the square piece of paper.
“Well?”
“It’s a four-horse trifecta box from a race that took place two days ago,” Tony said. “The same race that Lightning Bolt won,”
“Makes sense,” Eddie said. “The page from the racing form is for that race. Swanson circled four horses. The same four horses in his trifecta. How much did he bet?”
“His thousand buck trifecta cost him a cool twenty-four grand,” Tony said.
“You certain about that?”
“It’s printed right here on the ticket. Swanson boxed Lightning Bolt and the top three horses based on the morning line odds.”
“He must have been pretty sure he’d win,” Eddie said.
“Well, he didn’t,” Tony said.
Eddie continued to study the page torn from the racing form.
“Another long shot finished second,” he said. “Guess who owns the horse.”
“Chuy Delgado?”
“Close but no cigar. Angus Anderson.”
“Damn!” Tony said. “Wendell’s old boss busted his trifecta. Bet that must have pissed him off.”
“And ruined his chances of retiring in Belize. He’d have won close to a million bucks if the race had ended the way he picked it.”
“He should have stuck with a sure thing and bet on Lightning Bolt to win,” Tony said.
“Leopards don’t change their spots. Wendell saw his chance to retire like a king in Belize and took a swing for the fence.”
“And blooped a stinker to short center field instead.”
“Enough already with the baseball cliches. What do you make of it?” Eddie said.
“Maybe it was Swanson’s idea and not Frankie’s to put shoe polish on Lightning Bolt’s blaze.”
“You should ask him.”
“It’s on my list,” Tony said.
“It could mean Swanson was in on Frankie’s little scam. If so, it might be the reason he was murdered. What do you think?”
Big Sam sauntered up to the bar before Tony had a chance to answer Eddie’s question.
“Thought you boys were on your way out the door. Need more beer?”
“I’m floating,” Tony said. “Got anything to eat?”
“You’ll find the best po’boys and muffulettas in town, dressed or undressed, right here at Big Sam’s.”
“That’s a powerful claim considering you’re talking about the best in all of Nawlins. Can you back it up?”
“No brag, just fact. Try one. If you don’t like it, then it’s on the house.”
“And your oyster po’boy?”
“The best.”
“Talked me into it. Bring me one of those po’boys, and I’ll take you up on your bet.”
“Make mine a muffuletta,” Eddie said.
“You won’t be disappointed,” Big Sam said.
Eddie and Tony were soon working on their sandwiches as Big Sam watched with a smile.
“Well?” he finally asked.
“Best oyster po’boy I ever ate,” Tony said. “My own mother couldn’t have made one any better. I’ll have to start coming here for lunch when I’m in the neighborhood.”
“Ditto for me,” Eddie said. “I have to admit, this is the best muffuletta I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
“Served on fresh Italian bread with sesame seeds.”
“Love the olive salad, and all the salami and provolone. It’s great.”
Tony wiped his mouth with a napkin after washing down his last bite with cold Abita. He shoved the notice of the horse auction across the bar to Big Sam.
“Know anything about this?” he asked.
“Course I do,” Big Sam said after scanning the clipping from the newspaper. “Sallisaw quarter horse sale. A big regional event that’s held every spring up in Oklahoma.”
“Ever been?”
“Lots of my customers go every year. They know how to raise good quarter horses up in Oklahoma.”
“What about Wendell Swanson? Do you know if he ever went?”
“Before Mr. Anderson fired him, the two of them never missed it. Wendell had a good eye for horses.”
“How long ago was that?” Eddie asked.
“That he was fired?”
“Yeah,” Tony said.
“About three years. Probably the same sale as the date of this notice.”
“Let me see that?” Tony said, taking a closer look. “Wonder why he was holding onto a notice of a three-year-old sale?”
Big Sam shook his head as he turned to leave them alone. “No idea on that one. Yell if you need another beer.”
“Must have been important to him to hang on to the sale notice all that time,” Eddie said.
Tony reached for his cell phone. “Let me just check it out.”
Tony spent the next five minutes on the phone. Eddie could tell by his frown that he wasn’t gleaning much information.
“What?” Eddie asked when he’d hung up.
“Secretary I talked with wouldn’t give me the time of day. She did mention one thing that’s kinda interesting.”
“What?”
“She told me the quarter horse auction three years ago set an all-time sales record. One Oklahoma bred horse went for more than a million bucks.”
“Sounds like a lot for a quarter horse.”
“Don’t know. What’s important is the name of the horse that sold for the million bucks.”
“Tell me,” Eddie said.
“Thunder Bolt.”
“You gotta be shitting me,” Eddie said.
Tony didn’t reply to Eddie’s comment, calling to Big Sam instead to bring them their tab. After handing the little man another hundred and telling him to keep the change, Tony downed the last of his beer and started for the door.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Eddie asked.
“Sallisaw.”
“Oklahoma’s a long way from here. What do you think you’ll find that you didn’t get on the phone?”
Tony was already out the door. Even though his legs were short, Eddie had to hustle to keep up as he hurried toward his Mustang in the shell and gravel parking lot.
“Well?” he asked as Tony was unlocking the car.
“The name of the person that paid a million bucks for Thunder Bolt.”
Eddie climbed into the front seat. “You don’t intend to drive, do you? If you are, it’ll take us a day to get there and another day to return.”
Tony tapped the brakes and pulled to the side of the street. “I better call Frankie.”
Frankie picked up on the first ring. “Talk to me,” he said.
“Eddie and I need to go to Oklahoma.”
“For what?”
“Answers to important questions in our investigation.”
“Oklahoma’s a long way from New Orleans. How you planning to get there?”
“Fly to the nearest airport, and then rent a car, unless you got a better plan.”
“Where are you now?”
“About a mile from the racetrack.”
“Wait for me in the infield. I’ll pick you up soon as my pilot gets the chopper warmed up and ready.”
Frankie hung up before Tony had a chance to reply.
“What?” Eddie asked, having heard only one side of the conversation.
“Frankie’s coming for us in his helicopter. Up for a wild ride through this fog?”
Eddie laughed and shook his head when he said, “Do I have a choice?”
“Get in. We’re going back to the track.”
After parking the car, Tony and Eddie hiked through the cloying fog to the middle of the racetrack. The place was deserted. At that moment, it seemed like the loneliest place on the planet.
“You’ve really been shoveling out those hundred dollar bills,” Eddie said. “Hope Frankie pays well.”
“Last case I did for him he ate my ass out because the bill I give him wasn’t high enough. Lil and I took a trip to Italy on the money I made and still had lots left over.”
“Must be nice,” Eddie said.
“Frankie’s got more money than he can say grace over. He only buys the best, and only hires the best people. I know you’ll never go to work for him. If you ever did, he’d treat you like a king.”
“I’d say he’s more likely to whack me for dating his beautiful daughter,” Eddie said.
“In case you haven’t noticed, Josie has him wrapped around her little finger. How’s your relationship going?”
Eddie laughed. “Absolutely nowhere.”
“I have eyes. I know better than that.”
“She has one hard and fast rule that’s stopping us from going much further.”
“And that rule is?”
“No sex outside of marriage and no divorce, not ever, for any reason.”
The sound of a turbocharged engine interrupted their conversation. Frankie’s Jet Ranger landed in a swirl of fog and flying debris. When the passenger door opened, Frankie signaled them to join him.
They lifted off in a blanket of thick ground fog, finally emerging into clear sky and then flying over a city that looked as if it were being engulfed by an angry cloud.
Frankie laughed when Tony asked, “Can we make it to Oklahoma in this crate?”
“And then some,” he said. “Fill me in on what we’re looking for in Sallisaw.”
“They have a spring quarter horse sale at the track every year,” Tony said. “I’ve got a buttload of questions I couldn’t get answers for over the phone. I also have a question for you.”
“Hit me with it,” Frankie said.
“Was it you that had Wendell Swanson put shoe polish on Lightning Bolt’s blaze?”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about?”
“The white blaze on Lightning Bolt’s face,” Eddie said. “Wendell covered it with black shoe polish before your race the other day.”
“Though I knew Wendell from seeing him at the track, he was just a temporary employee. If he knew about my plans for the horse, he figured it out on his own.”
“Must have, because he bet a pile of money on the race,” Tony said.
“How much?”
“Twenty four grand.”
“He didn’t bet it to win, or it would have mucked up the final odds.”
“Then maybe that’s the reason he bet the way he did. He boxed a four-horse trifecta. Another long shot busted the box. One of Angus Anderson’s horses.”
Tony and Eddie both grinned when Frankie said, “That cheating asshole. What are you two laughing at?”
“Don’t you think that’s like the pot calling the kettle black?” Eddie asked.
“At least my con was the winning con.”
“Don’t you have any remorse about all those poor bettors that lost money because of you?”
“I don’t feel sorry for any of those slobs that buy a racing form and bet on the ponies maybe once a week, or every now and then. If they’re too stupid to know the name of the game, they may as well dump their money down the toilet.”
Frankie shook his head when Eddie asked, “What exactly is the name of the game?”
Frankie didn’t immediately answer. They were already high above the clouds, flying over the rolling terrain of central Louisiana. Frankie broke out a bottle of scotch and poured them drinks before answering.
“Dog eat dog and may the best man win,” he finally said. “Enough about that. What are we likely to find in Oklahoma?”
“Wendell had an advertisement in his passport wallet for the spring quarter horse sale in Sallisaw. Problem is, it was from three years ago.”
“And?”
“We think Wendell and Angus Anderson, his boss at the time, attended the sale. One of the horses, namely Lightning Bolt, sold for more than a million bucks. We need to find out if Anderson was the bidder, or maybe even the buyer.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” Frankie said.
“No, we ain’t,” Tony said.
“Then Anderson would have recognized the horse before the race,” Frankie said.
“Maybe not, since Wendell had covered Lightning Bolt’s most prominent physical feature with a bottle of shoe polish.”
Frankie gazed out the window as they passed over the city of Shreveport, and the eastern periphery of haunting Caddo Lake.
“I’m having trouble getting my head around this,” he said.
“There already was bad blood between Swanson and Anderson,” Eddie said. “Maybe when Anderson found out Wendell had pulled a fast one on him, he had his big Mexican henchman whack him.”
“That’s just one of the questions we need answers for,” Tony said. “We still don’t have a clue if Lightning Bolt is still alive. If he is, how do we go about finding him?”
“What do you really think? Is the horse dead?”
“I don’t have any hard and fast answers. My gut tells me he’s still alive.”
Frankie turned his gaze to Eddie. “What’s your opinion?”
“I’m starting to think you need to cool it with the Mexican mob. They may not be responsible for the two murders.”
“You know something you’re not telling me?”
“We got a few things working. Some of them we didn’t figure on,” Tony said.
“How much longer till you know something concrete?”
“No investigation ever goes as fast as you think it should. We’re where we need to be. If Lightning Bolt is alive, Eddie and I will find him. If we do, Jojo will be one happy little boy. If we don’t . . .”
“And you think we’ll get the answers we need in Oklahoma?”
“Don’t know,” Tony said. “That’s why we’re on our way to Sallisaw instead of enjoying this scotch on your veranda.”
The headquarters for the yearly quarter horse sale in Sallisaw was at the track. Much as he’d done in New Orleans, Frankie’s pilot landed the chopper in the infield. Their unexpected landing must have caused a stir. A police car, its blue lights flashing, and two police officers were waiting for them as they exited the chopper.
The two officers were complete opposites, one tall and the other short. The short officer’s nametag identified him as Olsen. He had a weak chin, a pencil mustache, and a balding head. The taller officer with thick glasses never removed his hat or his hand off his revolver.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Eddie grabbed Frankie’s shoulder, looked him in the eye, and shook his head.
“Let me handle this. What’s your problem, Officer Olsen?”
“I got no problem,” he said. “You want to come down to the station and tell me what yours is?”
Eddie pulled his I.D. out of his wallet and showed it to him.
“We’re with the Federal D.A.’s office. We’re here on official business. You want to dial your superior and let me talk to him?”
“What kind of business?”
“That’s privileged information. Now, we need to get on with our investigation. Can you give us a ride to the administration office?”
Officer Olsen blinked twice before speaking. “Sure, get in.”
After dropping them in front of the administration building, Officers Olsen and his lanky partner drove away in a trail of dust.
“Pretty slick,” Frankie said. “What would you have done if he’d asked to speak to your boss?”
“I’d have called Wyatt. He would have covered for me.”
“And if Wyatt wasn’t around?”
“Guess we don’t have to worry about that, and those two saved us a quarter-mile hike.”
“You’re good,” Frankie said. “I like it.”
The administration building was a two-story, ell-shaped, flat-roofed structure that looked as if someone had built it on the cheap. Tony was almost through the building’s front door when he stopped and turned around.
“Quit stroking it, you two. It’s almost five. If we don’t hurry, we’ll have to stay here until tomorrow.”
“How do you know where to go?” Frankie asked.
“From the address on the sales notice. This building. Room 105.”
A middle-aged secretary with wire-framed glasses perched atop her head was straightening her desk, apparently in the middle of shutting things down for the day.
“May I help you?” she asked.
Eddie whipped out his I.D. again and showed it to her.
“We’re with the Federal District Attorney’s office. We have a few questions that need answers.”
Her tone was indignant when she said, “I wasn’t told of any impending investigation.”
An older man that looked enough like the woman to be her brother stuck his head out of the office.
“Who is it, Velma?”
“These gentlemen are with the Federal D.A.’s office,” she said.
“Oh? I’m Orville Pendergrass. How can I help you?”
“What’s your position, Mr. Pendergrass?” Tony asked.
“Director of sales,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Tony Nicosia,” he said, extending his hand. “The two gentlemen with me are Eddie Toledo and Frankie Smith. Can we impose upon you for a few minutes of your time?”
“What’s this all about?” Mr. Pendergrass asked.
“Nothing that pertains to you or your organization, I assure you. We just need your help in an ongoing investigation that we aren’t privy to discuss with you,” Eddie said. “Can we have a few moments of your time?”
“Of course,” he said. “Velma, you can go home now. I’ll lock up when I finish with these gentlemen.”
“You sure?”
She smiled and started for the door when he nodded and said, “I’ll take care of this. See you tomorrow morning. Please come into my office and have a seat.”
There were only two chairs in front of Pendergrass’ military-style desk.
“I’ll stand over here,” Frankie said, motioning Tony and Eddie to take the chairs.
“Now please tell me how I can help you?”
“We have a few questions about your yearly quarter horse sale, specifically the one you had three years ago. Do you have a list of potential buyers that attended the sale?”
“Of course we do,” he said. “The sale is exclusive. Buyers come from all over the world, and we have to prequalify them before letting them bid on the stock.”
“Mind if we have a look at your list?” Eddie asked.
“This will take a minute,” Pendergrass said. “I already shut my computer down for the night.”
“Sorry we’re keeping you overtime,” Tony said. “This shouldn’t take long.”
“No problem,” he said. “I’m an old bachelor and take my meals at the diner in town. No one’s waiting at home for me.”
Pendergrass didn’t respond when Tony said, “Sorry to hear about that.”
When the computer finally booted, he pulled up a program and hit the print button. In a few seconds, the old printer across the room began to whirr. After it had spit out three pages, Pendergrass removed it from the printer and handed it to Tony.
“This list is in alphabetical order. I don’t find the name of the person I’m looking for. Is it possible it got left off the list?”
“Not possible. If their name isn’t there, then they didn’t attend the sale.”
“Do you have a list of the names of the horses and who purchased them?”
“Of course,” Pendergrass said, printing the list without Tony having to ask.
“I see that a horse named Lightning Bolt was sold for a million one hundred thousand dollars.”
Pendergrass smiled. “Yes, a record that still stands.”
“And the purchaser was a man named Conrad Finston. Is it possible that this person Finston was someone else and using an alias?”
“Impossible,” Pendergrass said. “Mr. Finston is a well-known breeder of quarter horses. We’ve dealt with him many times in the past. I assure you that it was he that purchased the horse.”
“Do you have a list of the unsuccessful bidders?” Eddie asked.
“Not in this database,” Pendergrass said. “Our resident auctioneer and his staff keep those records.”
“Can we talk with him?” Tony asked.
Pendergrass glanced at his watch. “He’ll be in his office, though at this hour he may be a little . . . How should I say this? In his cups.”
Pendergrass nodded when Tony said, “So he’s a drinker?”
“The finest auctioneer in Oklahoma,” Pendergrass said. “Except for his little drinking problem.”
“We’ll muddle through it because we really need to talk to him,” Eddie said.
“His office is in the sales barn. I’ll accompany you.”
The Sallisaw racetrack had hosted horse races until a failing economy had sent it into bankruptcy in 2010. Though never really world-class, the facility appeared far more than a large oval track with a few wooden bleachers. Now, the fading structure sat unused, a diva awaiting fans that had deserted her forever for a younger voice.
The stables, paddock area, and exercise paths were also empty, looking ghostly as the sun was already beginning to set in the western sky. They followed Pendergrass to a large sales barn, the only building in the entire facility with a fresh coat of paint. The sign over the door said, Home of the Annual Sallisaw Quarter Horse Sale.
The inside of the sales barn featured steel bleachers, a dirt floor, and the smell of manure. A microphone used by the auctioneer waited on a raised wooden dais. A row of wooden holding pens fronted one of the walls. Something was inside one, kicking and trying to get out. When a woman screamed, Eddie vaulted over the fence to help.
An obviously disturbed white stallion was turning in rapid circles as it kicked at the walls with its hind feet. An attractive young woman with ash blond hair draping her shoulders, and dressed in faded denim and a red Western shirt tied in such a way as to show off her bare midriff was pinned between the horse and the gate. She’d backed up as far as she could, and there was no place left for her to go.
Eddie quickly got between her and the stallion and began waving his arms and shouting. When the horse rose up on its hind legs, Eddie grabbed the rope dangling from the beast’s neck and began easing him toward himself. He motioned the young woman with a cock of his head to get the hell out of the pen. Climbing the fence, she straddled it.
“Thank you,” she mouthed to him before dropping to the other side.
Too busy trying to rein in the big stallion Eddie had little time to react to her pretty face and winsome smile.
“Whoa, big fellow,” he said.
When he pulled close enough, he clutched the horse's bridle and began patting his neck. The white horse’s demeanor calmed immediately.
“It’s okay,” he said.
A bow-legged man of short stature raced into the pen, took the rope, and led the horse away. He shook Eddie’s hand when he returned alone. He was clad in manure-stained jeans and a torn Western shirt of unknown vintage. His leather cowboy hat was also old, oily and perched on his balding head. His clothes and breath reeked of whiskey.
“Son, you got a set of balls on you,” he said. “White Lightning is one of the meanest stallions to come through this sales barn. He’s already terrorized a couple of our handlers to the point that one of them quit.”
“Why do you put up with that kind of behavior?” Tony asked.
“Cause he’s a racing champ with a royal bloodline some buyers will pay a king’s ransom for.”
The little man smiled when Tony said, “Like Lightning Bolt?”
“White Lightning and Lightning Bolt are brothers. Makes sense to me that White Lightning’s as good as his brother and someday he’s gonna make some stud farm a bunch of money in fees. I’m betting I know right now who’ll end up with him.”
“And who would that be?” Eddie asked.
“Mr. Conrad Finston, the same person that bought Lightning Bolt.”
“What makes you think that?” Eddie said.
“He’s both a breeder and a collector. He buys every horse he possibly can that’s conceived from that particular bloodline.”
Pendergrass stepped in front of Tony. “Obadiah, these gentlemen are with the authorities.”
The little man extended his hand to Tony. “I’m Ob Stuart,” he said. “I’m not under arrest, am I?”
“Why hell no,” Tony said, shaking his hand. “Like Mr. Pendergrass said, we just have a few questions to ask you.”
Ob rubbed his chin as he assessed the way the visitors were dressed.
“You boys don’t look like cops.”
“We just made ourselves comfortable for the long flight here.”
“Where you out of?” Ob asked.
“Washington,” Eddie quickly said.
Tony gave him no further chance to continue his own line of questions.
“I’m Tony, the man that saved the girl is Eddie, and this man behind me is Frankie.”
Ob gave Frankie an assessing glance. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
“I get that a lot,” Frankie said. “Guess I got a common-looking face.”
“What’s your last name, Frankie?” Ob asked.
“Smith,” Frankie said, giving Eddie a sideways glance. “How much are you asking for White Lightning?”
“More than a cop makes in a lifetime,” he said. “That’s for sure.”
“Guess you’re right about that,” Frankie said. “Just curious.”
“Probably something like two million dollars considering what Lightning Bolt sold for as a colt.”
“Lightning Bolt is the reason we’re here,” Tony said.
“I thought as much,” Ob said. “We heard someone killed him down in Louisiana. Damn shame! One of the best quarter horses I ever seen. Believe me, I seen quite a few.”
“Mr. Pendergrass told us who bought the horse. Do you remember any of the other serious bidders?” Eddie asked.
“There was only one,” Ob said.
“You remember his name?”
“Sure do. Wendell Swanson.”
“Was Angus Anderson with him?” Eddie asked.
Ob shook his head. “He was alone. As I recall, his last bid was nine hundred fifty thousand.”
“Sure about that amount? It was three years ago.”
“I remember because we’d already passed our all-time high bid. I was waiting on Wendell to be the first person to bid more than a million bucks. It was his bid. He stopped short by fifty thousand dollars.”
“Why do you suppose that was?” Tony asked.
“Hit his limit, I guess,” Ob said. “Strange, though.”
Tony and Eddie exchanged glances. “What’s that?” Tony asked.
“Wendell was bidding for Angus Anderson. If Mr. Anderson wants something, he don’t let money stand in his way. Seems unlikely to me he’d bid nine hundred and fifty thousand and not a million.”
“What are you getting at?” Tony said.
“The reason Mr. Anderson fired him.”
“Which was?” Tony said.
“Not like some people say for giving Mr. Anderson’s horses a belly bomb in New Mexico.”
“What, then?” Tony asked.
“For my money, someone paid Wendell a wad of cash to stop bidding when he did. More than getting him fired, it might even be what got him killed down in south Louisiana.”
“You think it was Conrad Finston who bribed Wendell to throw the auction?”
Ob put his hands in the air and took a step backward. “I never said that. I’m just an old drunk. Don’t believe a word I tell you.” He glanced at the Timex on his wrist. “Hope you boys are finished with your questions cause it’s past my bedtime.”
They watched him limp away through the back door of the sales barn.
“Not only is he a sot, but he's also a crazy old man,” Mr. Pendergrass said. “Please disregard his innuendos concerning Mr. Anderson and Mr. Finston.”
Tony nodded. “I don’t believe a word he said.”
“Neither do I,” Eddie said.
“You are wise not to,” Pendergrass said.
“Say, Mr. Pendergrass, that young woman seemed familiar to me. Who is she?” Eddie asked.
“Jessica Smith,” he said. “The widow of Kenny Smith, the jockey murdered in New Orleans.”
The facility used an old Jeep to drive potential customers around the track area. It was already after dark when Mr. Pendergrass took them to the infield where Frankie’s chopper awaited.
“Thanks for all your help,” Tony said, shaking Pendergrass’ hand.
“Glad to be of service,” he said.
“Say, Mr. Pendergrass, what’s the story on Jessica Smith?” Eddie asked.
“Dirt poor, on food stamps, and mucking stables to try and earn enough money to pay the bills for herself and her baby.”
“Can’t her parents help her?”
“Both deceased. She has distant relatives in California. Kenny met her there while he was racing. That’s where she moved from after they’d married. Except for her baby boy, I’m afraid she’s all alone in the world.”
“Where does she live?”
“Kenny was an up and coming jockey and made good money while he was alive. Jessica has a little frame house not far from Main street. At least it’s paid for, free and clear, from the money Kenny earned as the winning jockey in a stakes race in California.”
Eddie fumbled for his wallet, pulled out two twenties and a ten and handed the bills to Mr. Pendergrass.
“Please give her this,” he said.
“You don’t have to do that. I assure you, she’s a strong-willed woman and resents being thought of as a charity case.”
“Then tell her it’s a gift to buy Halloween candy with,” Eddie said. “Either that or overtime money that she’s earned.”
“Thank you, Mr. Toledo. I will see that she gets it.”
Pendergrass sat watching from the driver’s seat of the Jeep as the chopper lifted off the infield and banked south, heading for New Orleans.
“I’m developing a new opinion of you,” Frankie said when they’d reached altitude.
“How’s that?” Eddie asked, holding his empty glass out as Frankie began dispensing scotch.
“You’re brave, generous, and I like the way you handled those two cops. Both you and Tony think fast on your feet. I like that. How’d you learn to handle horses?”
“No clue. I’ve never been on a horse in my life,” Eddie said.
“You’re shitting me,” Frankie said.
“Nope, I grew up in urban New Jersey. Only horses I ever saw were in parades.”
“Then how the hell did you know how to handle that big stallion?”
“Don’t know, other than I watched a million and one Western movies while I was growing up.”
“I may have to change my opinion of you again,” Frankie said. “That was dumb. You could have been killed.”
“My mom always said if I had as much between my ears as I have between my legs, I’d be really dangerous.”
“Your mother said that?”
“Not in those exact words, though that’s what she meant.”
“What about the rest of your family?”
“I have three sisters, two older and one younger. My dad died of a heart attack in his forties. I was the only male in the house growing up. It made me the man of the family, even when I was young.”
“How’s your heart?” Frankie asked.
“Solid as a rock. I must have inherited Mom’s genes and not Dad’s.”
“That’s good to know,” Frankie said. “Where’d you go to school?”
Eddie laughed. “What is this, twenty questions?”
“Just curious.”
“I have a degree in forensic science from Rutgers, and a law degree from the University of Virginia.”
“Impressive,” Frankie said.
“I worked for the F.B.I. after law school.”
“Then how did you wind up with the Federal D.A.’s office?”
“Someone there must have liked me and pulled strings to get me transferred. I’m still not exactly sure how that came about, but it’s worked out for me.”
“Did you like the F.B.I. ?”
“I like investigation, and I help Tony every chance I get.”
“What do you think, Tony? Is Eddie any good at P.I. work?”
Tony didn’t answer. He’d fallen asleep, his eyes closed and his chin resting on his chest.
“Guess he can’t handle his scotch like us,” Eddie said.
Frankie smiled, tapped glasses with him, and said, “That’s another thing I like about you.”
“Wish your beautiful daughter liked me as much,” Eddie said.
“I’m pretty sure she does,” Frankie said.
“Why do you think that?”
“She told Adele.”
Eddie had no reply for Frankie’s declaration and decided to change the subject to something not quite so touchy.
“We got lots of information today. Wish I knew more about Conrad Finston.” When Frankie made a face, Eddie said, “You know him?”
“Oh, I know him all right. He has a large horse farm in Florida. He breeds both thoroughbreds and quarter horses and owns the Finston chain of hotels.”
“Wow, then he’s mega-rich. Did you buy Lightning Bolt from him?”
“Not exactly,” Frankie said.
“Maybe you’d better explain.”
“I borrowed the horse.”
“Does Finston know Lightning Bolt is missing?”
Frankie’s wry grin melded into a grim expression. “He don’t know yet that I borrowed the horse.”
Eddie shook Tony’s shoulder until he opened his eyes. “Wake up. Frankie just told me something I think you need to hear.”
Still half asleep, Tony rubbed his eyes as Frankie repeated what he’d just told Eddie. Before he was half finished, Tony was wide awake.
“Let me get this straight,” Tony said. “Finston’s chief trainer lent you Finston’s horse for one race so you could teach some chumps in New Orleans a lesson.”
“That’s right.”
“Surely, Finston knows by now that his horse is gone.”
“He owns lots of properties including a Swiss chalet in the Alps. He’s there now and won’t be back until next week. Jensen, his chief trainer, ain’t about to tell him, and neither am I.”
“Say we find Lightning Bolt, and that’s a big if. Who you gonna give the horse to, Jojo or Finston?”
The chopper wobbled as the pilot flew it through a cloud. When they emerged, Frankie glanced out at the lights of a city below instead of immediately answering Tony’s question.
“You think we got a chance Lightning Bolt is still alive?” he finally asked.
“Earlier today, I thought he was dead. Right now, I’m not so sure.”
“And if he ain’t?”
“If Lightning Bolt ain’t dead, and that’s still a big if, I’d bet good money he’s in a stall right now at Anderson’s horse farm,” Tony said.
“What’s your reasoning for believing that?” Frankie asked.
“Want me to tell him, Eddie?”
“You’re on a roll,” Eddie said. “Go for it.”
Frankie freshened their drinks with more scotch and ice. “Yeah, Tony, tell me what I’m missing here.”
“One of the main reasons we wanted to visit the sales barn was to find out if Anderson and Swanson went to the auction together. They didn’t. Swanson was alone.”
“So?”
“Wendell Swanson bid almost a million dollars for Lightning Bolt but stopped short, letting Finston outbid him. It tells me one thing and implies another.”
“What?”
“Anderson had enough trust in Swanson to authorize him to spend a million dollars of his. It also means he wanted the horse real bad.”
“Maybe a million dollars was his top bid,” Frankie said.
“If so, then why didn’t he bid that much?”
“Because Finston went over that amount before he had a chance to.”
Tony shook his head. “You heard what Ob Stuart said. He could have bid a million but stopped short by fifty grand. Most importantly, he thinks it was the reason Anderson fired him.”
“You may be right,” Frankie said. “A few hundred thousand here and there is peanuts to a man like Anderson. His company spends billions drilling for oil in the Gulf of Mexico.”
“Exactly,” Tony said.
Even if he did fire Swanson for throwing the bid, what does it have to do with him having the horse now?”
“Anderson coveted that horse. Swanson knew it,” Tony said. “Swanson also knew he would recognize the horse. That’s why he covered his blaze with shoe polish.”
“Anderson figured out he’d been duped and decided to get even with you,” Eddie said.
“Then why did he have Chuy Delgado’s son-in-law whacked?”
“Don’t know yet. That’s still a question we need an answer for,” Tony said.
“Maybe he saw a chance to pin the murder on you,” Eddie said.
“And then stole Lightning Bolt, and had his newspapers and wire services concoct a false story about his death,” Tony said.
“And you think maybe the dead horse was a plant and not Lightning Bolt,” Frankie said.
“Maybe, though it don’t really matter,” Tony said. “Big Sam, a former jockey believes Lightning Bolt is dead, and so does Pendergrass and Ob Stuart.”
“It just don’t make sense,” Frankie said. “Why would he have someone killed for a horse that he can never breed or race again, or for that matter ever let anyone know that he has?”
“Don’t know,” Tony said. “Eddie and me intend to find out before we go making accusations.”
“How you gonna do that?” Frankie asked.
Tony held his glass for Frankie to pour him some more scotch. “Don’t know yet.”
More than two hours had passed since they’d left Sallisaw. Now, they could see the ephemeral glow of New Orleans shrouded by cloud cover in the distance. It would soon be Halloween, the moon not yet full. Frankie yawned.
“It’s getting late. Let’s call it a day and go to the farm. I’ll have the boys get your car in the morning.”
“No can do,” Tony said. “Eddie and I have one more place to visit tonight.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“Your man, Bruno Baresi’s in jail, charged with a murder you say he didn’t commit.”
“I got lawyers working on it,” Frankie said.
“Not good enough,” Tony said. “Anderson’s bodyguard, Lonzo Galvez was in a bar with Wendell Swanson the night he was murdered. We need to find out if he was also at the restaurant where Diego Contrado was killed. What’s the name of the restaurant and who is your contact there?”
“Pinky’s on Toulouse. Pinky Robinette owns the place and used to work for me.”
“Still on good terms?”
Frankie smiled. “If he wasn’t, he’d be running his restaurant in Mississippi.”
***
After dropping off Tony and Eddie in the infield of the horse track, the chopper disappeared in a vortex of rotating ground fog.
“Shit,” Tony said. “Visibility zero and the car parked a hundred yards from here.”
“I hear music coming from one of the restaurants at the track. Follow me; I have good ears.”
They made their way through the fog to the track parking lot where they finally found Tony’s car.
“Thank God for the fog lights,” Tony said as they headed toward Pinky’s on Toulouse.”
“With this soup were in, we’ll be lucky if the place isn’t shut down for the night.”
“Been like this almost a month now,” Tony said. “It’ll be open. Everybody’s pretty much got it figured out.”
“If you say so,” Eddie said.
Tony was correct. Despite the surrounding fog, several cars were parked in Pinky’s lot. The restaurant occupied an old two-storied building, a peephole in the antique front door as in speakeasy days. Light jazz emanated from the New York-style bistro when they opened it and entered. They walked down a short flight of stairs where a smiling woman greeted them.
“Two for dinner?” she said.
“Just drinks,” Tony said. “Can we sit at the bar?”
“You bet,” she said. “Have one for me while you’re at it.”
The small white tiles on the floor reminded Tony of a barber shop. Dark wood paneled the walls, and antique fans hanging from the molded ceiling moved in lazy circles. White tablecloths draped the twenty or so tables, a few of them occupied by smiling customers. The ambiance was relaxing, and Tony could see why diners would enjoy the atmosphere.
An antique wooden bar stretched across the back of the large, open room, the bartender dressed in a white tuxedo, his hair oiled and his handlebar mustache reminiscent of a bygone era.
“I’m Louis,” he said with a smile. “What can I get for you gentlemen?”
“Dalmore and water,” Tony said.
“Make it two,” Eddie said.
“Ever try Monkey Shoulder?” Louis asked.
Tony shook his head. “Nope. What the hell is Monkey Shoulder?”
“It’s a mixture of three different single malts. Most everyone likes it. Want to try a shot?”
“Why not?” Tony said.
Louis filled two shot glasses from a bottle that said Monkey Shoulder. Tony and Eddie were both smiling after downing the scotch.
“That’s great,” Tony said. “Maybe my new favorite drink.”
“Mine too,” Eddie said.
“Don’t get too attached,” Louis said. “It’s sort of hard to find.”
“Then it sounds like we’ll be coming back often,” Tony said. “Not too many diners tonight.”
“Ground fog,” Louis said. “I’ll be glad when this weather pattern passes. It’s really starting to affect my livelihood.”
“I hear that,” Tony said. “Pinky around tonight?”
Louis’ smile disappeared. “Who wants to know?”
Louis’ smile returned when Tony pulled a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to him.
“Me and Ben Franklin here.”
A sudden chill swept through the swamp as we loaded our daypacks, tied the pontoon boat to a cypress tree, and then stepped onto the spongy earth of the high ground that stood only a few inches out of the water.
Once away from the main pool, the cypress trees began to disappear, replaced by hardwood trees stunted by the swampy earth in which they grew. There was no clear path through the trees and underbrush. J.P. wanted to brief us, so we gathered around him.”
“There are no roads, and the only paths are animal trails. As you can see, it gets tight in places, so we’ll be walking in single file. Slick and Lucky will go first and be our scout dogs. They’ll alert us if there’s trouble ahead. Rory, you walk point. Keep your sword ready and widen the path if necessary.”
“Will do,” Rory said.
“Wyatt, you follow Rory. Let the dagger point the way and direct him when we need to change course.”
“What about the dogs?” Abba asked.
“They’ll sense what we’re doing and get ahead of us. You’ll see. They’re natural hunters.”
Slick and Lucky were eager to get into the woods their tails wagging when Abba knelt and hugged them.
“What about me?” she asked.
“You follow Wyatt, and I’ll bring up the rear. Any questions?” We stood there, shaking our heads. “Then let’s move out,” he said.
Lucky and Slick moved ahead of us, walking ten to fifteen feet ahead of Rory. I rested Exethelon in the palm of my hand, tapping Rory’s shoulder whenever we needed to adjust our course. As J.P. had said, Lucky and Slick altered directions every time that we did.
“We’re not going to get anywhere very quickly moving no faster than we are,” Abba said.
“It is what it is,” J.P. said. “Everybody, watch your step. It’s slick, and there’s snakes, hogs, and quicksand, hidden by the brush.”
We halted abruptly after thirty minutes of steady walking when Slick barked once and stopped in front of us. J.P. signaled for us to stay in place as he went to see what they’d found. He wasn’t smiling when he returned.
“There’s a creek blocking our path. It’s either wade across here, or else follow the bank till it narrows for an easier crossing.”
“How far out of the way would we have to go?” I asked.
“No telling,” he said. “Let’s see if we can ford this baby right here,”
We followed him to the edge of the creek, about twenty feet across and filled with rapidly moving water.
“Now what?” Abba said.
J.P. gave me a glance and said, “Cowboy, can you still throw a rope?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “It’s been a few years.”
He handed me the lariat he kept attached to his belt.
“See if you can put the noose over that small tree on the far bank.”
“Not much room to maneuver,” I said.
“Rory, use your sword and clear him some room to twirl the lariat.”
J.P. didn’t have to ask Rory twice. With a grin, the big Scot began felling the small trees until I had enough room to toss the lariat. My target was a dead tree, mostly devoid of branches. The others watched as I twirled the rope and let it fly, missing on my first attempt.
“I’m a little rusty,” I said.
“Take your time,” J.P. said. “We’re stuck here till you get lucky.”
I got lucky on my next attempt, the noose tightening around the dead tree. J.P. took the rope from me and gave it a healthy tug. After looping the rope around another tree, he handed it to Rory.
“I’ll go first. Don’t allow any slack in the rope.”
“It won’t get away from me,” Rory said.
J.P. stepped into the water, probing the bottom with his walking stick as he went. It was deeper than it looked. When he reached the center of the creek, he slipped, his feet coming out from under him. He held onto the rope. After struggling to regain his footing, he managed to crawl out on the other side.
“It’s moving faster than I thought. The creek bottom is slicker than owl’s shit,” he said. “Dogs next. Untie the end of the rope and tie it behind Slick’s front legs. I’ll pull him across.”
Rory attached the rope to Slick, and then gave him a hug and a pat.
“Swim to J.P.,” he said,
The beautiful black dog bounded into the water, caught up by the current almost immediately. Lucky was barking, and his tail wagging as J.P. pulled Slick out of the water, enduring another drenching as Slick tried to shake himself dry. He wiped water out of his eyes with the back of his sleeve before tossing the rope back to Rory.
“Now Lucky,” he said.
The big Lab made the crossing with no problems. J.P. gave him a big pat and then tossed the rope across the creek.
“You next, Abba. I’m already drenched so I’ll meet you in the center of the creek and help you across.”
“It’s cold,” she said after wading into the water.
J.P. met her halfway. When she slipped and let go of the rope, he grabbed the collar of her shirt with one hand and held on to the rope with the other. They were both wringing wet when they crawled out on the other side.
“You next, Wyatt,” J.P. said, calling to me.
As Abba had said, the water was cold and quickly filled my boots. I was up to my waist, the current at its strongest when I reached the center of the creek. J.P. extended a hand to help me out of the water.
“Okay, Rory.”
The big Scot waded into the water. Taller than all of us, he made it across with little problem. J.P. stood on the bank, staring at the rope.
“Where are you going?” Abba asked as he waded into the creek.
“Can’t leave the rope here,” he said. “We may need it down the line.”
We watched as he struggled across the creek to untie the rope. Hanging on to the loose end, he started toward us, losing his footing almost immediately. Rory was quick to react, grabbing the rope and pulling J.P. to shore. Tired and wet, he lay on the bank until he was through breathing hard and spitting up water.
There was a bit of a sandy beach, bare of trees and vegetation, where the creek made a turn. The sun was peeking through the cloud cover for the first time since we’d left J.P.’s fishing camp. J.P. sat in the sand, pulled off his boots, dumping water out of them.
“We need to build a fire and dry our clothes and boots, or we’ll be covered in fungal growths before we get back home. We all have survival blankets in our packs. You can change behind those bushes.”
After removing his shirt, he began collecting driftwood to make a fire.
Abba joined Rory and me as we pulled off our boots and dumped out the water. We soon had a roaring fire going, our clothes drying on spits around it. J.P. grinned as we sat near the fire, wrapped in our blankets.
“My hair’s a mess,” Abba said. “Wish I had a brush to get out some of these snarls.”
“You’re more gorgeous with snarls than most women are after leaving the beauty parlor,” J.P. said. “Plus, you’re sexy as hell with nothing on but that blanket.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” she said. “I still don’t like you very much.”
“You’ll get over it,” he said.
“Since we’re already situated and have a fire built, why not just stay here for the night?” I asked. “There can’t be much more than an hour or so of daylight left.”
“Because this little spit of land will be under water if it rains tonight. From the looks of those clouds, we’d better get dressed and on our way.”
“I’m starving,” Rory said. “Is there anything to eat around here?”
J.P. dug in his pack and pulled out four bags wrapped in cellophane. He tossed one to each of us.
“Trail mix,” he said. “That should hold us until we can find a place to stop for the night.”
With J.P.’s prodding, we were soon dressed and back on the trail. The creek behind us was but a fading memory.
“Thank God for the boots,” Abba said. “Every step I take I expect to have a snake jump out at me.”
“We’ll be okay. It’s been getting cooler lately, and most of them are looking for a place to hibernate.”
“Does it ever freeze here?” Abba asked.
“You bet it does,” J.P. said. “More often than New Orleans because we’re further north.”
“I went on a swamp tour once,” Abba said. “This is the first time I’ve ever left the boat.”
“Let’s hope it’s not our last,” I said.
“You could have gone all day without saying that,” she said.
“Sorry. One thing I know; we couldn’t have a better swamp guide than J.P.”
Though the weather wasn’t unusually cold, it was still seasonally cool. A flock of noisy cranes, on their way to their winter hibernation spot in the wetlands south of us, flew overhead. When a wild hog popped out of the underbrush, J.P. tapped it on the snout with his walking stick. We listened as it scurried back into the scrub.
Lucky and Slick kept most of the wildlife away from us, occasionally stopping to bark at a hog or possum. They were both having the time of their lives.
“It’ll be dark soon,” I said. “What’s your plan?”
“We don’t want to be wandering around in the dark. Let’s hope we find a little swath of higher ground where we can spend the night without getting our feet wet.”
“And if we don’t?” Abba asked.
“We choose our best option, set up camp, and then start a fire.”
“Good,” Abba said. “I don’t like sleeping in complete darkness.”
J.P. said, “I was more worried about having a place to heat up our beans.”
“I didn’t forget the Southern Comfort,” Rory said.
“I thought Scots were supposed to drink scotch,” I said.
“Never acquired a taste for it. Cyn got me started on Southern Comfort.”
“I like it too,” Abba said. “Wonder why Cyn likes it so much.”
“Janis Joplin,” Rory said. “She always had a bottle at every concert. Cyn adores Janis Joplin’s songs.”
“Me too,” J.P. said. “She had quite a voice for a little lady.”
We kept looking for J.P.’s little swath of high ground. As light grew dimmer, it started to become ever more apparent that we weren’t going to find it.
“There ain’t no good place to make camp,” J.P. finally said. “We’ll have to make do right here.”
“Right where?” Rory said. “It looks exactly like where we just came from.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” J.P. said. “We got no other choice.”
“I’m standing in an inch of water,” Abba said. “We’ll be soaked before morning if we sleep on the ground.”
“Hand me your pack,” J.P. said, holding out his hand.
He rummaged through her daypack, removing something that vaguely resembled a ball of twine. When he unfolded it, we realized it was a hammock. There was also rope in the pack. As we watched, he strung the hammock between two small trees that stood about six feet apart.
Her pack also contained a sheet of plastic. Stringing a line over the hammock and between the two trees, he draped the plastic over it so that it created a roof. Almost finished, he hung a mosquito net under the plastic and over the hammock.
“Takes a little getting used to, but it’ll keep us off the ground and free of pesky crawling bugs.”
“And if it rains?” Abba asked.
“Nothing more relaxing than sleeping suspended in the trees and staying dry as rainwater drips off the plastic roof.”
Abba was less than convinced about our sleeping arrangements as she stared at the hammock J.P. had erected for her between two trees. It mattered little. The light was waning, and dark clouds had begun gathering. A flock of geese in a tight formation honked as they flew overhead.
“How do you get in that thing?” she asked.
“I’ll help you,” he said with a smile.
“That’s okay. Like you said, I’ll figure it out.”
“Enough of me playing den mother for one night,” he said. “You two big boys can put up your own hammocks.”
Rory pulled the hammock from his daypack and held it at arm’s length.
“I do not know if this will support me,” he said.
“Trust me,” J.P. said. “It’s strong enough for even someone as big as you are. You’ve used your survival blanket already. Don’t matter how light they are. You know they’ll keep you warm. Now, let’s snap to it because it looks as if it’s going to rain.”
Rory clicked the heels of his boots together and saluted smartly.
“Yes sir,” he said.
J.P. grinned and saluted him back. “Now you got the right idea. Soon as we get our hammocks installed, we need to gather some wood. Rory, you find us some big pieces. Abba and Wyatt, you two gather the kindling.”
“Where do we go to the bathroom?” Abba asked.
“Behind a bush, no further than twenty feet from here. You each got a roll of toilet paper in your pack. Make it last.”
“And if we don’t?” Abba said.
“Plenty of leaves in the swamp to use. Just don’t grab a handful of poison ivy.”
Before long, there were four hammocks erected in a semicircle. J.P. had an even larger sheet of plastic and made a roof over all four hammocks. He arranged more plastic on the ground so we’d have a place to sit without getting too damp. When we’d finished, J.P. stood, hands on his hips, surveying our work.
“Not bad for a bunch of cub scouts,” he said. “This is our base camp. Long as we’re here, don’t ever get out of sight of it. Am I understood?”
He laughed and shook his head when all three of us came to attention and saluted him.
We’d gathered a stack of wood and kindling just in time and had a nice fire going near the edge of our plastic roof. As darkness encroached on the swamp, the clouds opened up, and it began to rain. It brought with it more than a chill. Suddenly cold from the perceptible drop in temperature, Abba hugged her arms tightly to her chest.
As J.P. had said, our survival blankets were light and warm. After eating cans of beef stew and beans, we cuddled up around the fire with survival blankets draping our shoulders. Abba, Rory, and J.P. were drinking Southern Comfort. I made do with water from my canteen. I was enjoying the solitude, and the sound of rain on the plastic when Abba made a comment that caused us all to laugh.
“If we really were scouts, and you were our den mother, you’d be telling us a ghost story right about now.”
“Wouldn’t be no story,” he said. “I’d be telling you a true tale that’d make chills climb up your spine. My hammock is barely big enough for me. Don’t matter none cause you’d be begging to crawl in beside me.”
“You’re so full of shit,” she said.
“Want to hear the story?” he asked.
“I’m not a little girl. It’ll take more than a corny story told around a campfire to scare me.”
“You grew up in New Orleans. Surely you’ve heard of the Honey Island Swamp Monster.”
“I’ve heard of lots of things. That doesn’t mean I believe them,” she said.
“You can believe this one because everything I’m gonna tell you is true.”
The little patch of high ground J.P. had managed to find for us was no more than a few inches higher than the surrounding ground. It was apparently all we needed as rainwater began flowing around our little island. Flame from the fire flickered when a clap of thunder sounded nearby.
“Hope we don’t get struck by lightning,” Abba said. “I’d hate to miss hearing your tall tale.”
J.P. had brought an extra blanket for Lucky and Slick. They’d curled up on it, not far from the fire. Both were already soundly asleep. Lucky began to snore as J.P. took a swig from the big flask of Southern Comfort they were passing around the campfire.
“Some people seem to think the Swamp Monster first appeared in the sixties. That’s not true. It’s been in this swamp since long before that.”
“Indians?” I asked.
“Not quite that far, though all the way back to when the French first began to settle New Orleans. This entire region was forest and swamps. The first settlers wanted high ground on the river, and that’s what they found at the site that is now New Orleans.”
“Lad, what are you smoking?” Rory said. “Everyone knows that New Orleans is below sea level.”
“Is now,” J.P. said. “Not then. Parts of the French Quarter are still above sea level.”
“Then may I ask what happened?” Abba asked.
“Before they built the levees, New Orleans flooded every spring. The floods brought silt from up the river. Swampy land naturally subsides but the spring silt adjusted for it. When they built the levees, the floods mostly stopped, and so did the influx of silt.”
“I thought you were going to tell us about the Swamp Monster,” Abba said.
“I’ll get to it. What’s your hurry? Got someplace you need to go?”
“Just asking,” she said.
“My point is that this whole part of south Louisiana was swampy back in those days. The mosquitoes and poor drainage resulted in epidemics of malaria and yellow fever. France was having a hard time convincing settlers to move here, so they started bringing over prisoners, prostitutes, and social misfits. Three of those misfits were the cause of the Swamp Monster.”
J.P. paused as thunder sounded overhead, heralding an even stronger influx of rain. Slick scooted closer to Lucky, the big lab who was sleeping soundly through the storm.
“Don’t stop now,” Abba said.
J.P. shook the flask Rory had handed him. “You two are drinking too fast. This baby is half-empty. We’ll have to turn around and go home when that happens.”
“Do not worry,” Rory said. “I have yet another full flask in my daypack.”
“Good for you,” Abba said.
“Thank Wyatt,” he said. “He paid for it.”
I could only shake my head. “Nothing worse than an alcoholic having to pay for someone else’s whiskey,” I said.
“Tell us about the misfits,” Abba said, ignoring my comment.
“Three brothers and the person they’d brought with them: a slave.”
“Slavery is abhorrent,” Abba said. “I don’t understand how people were able to treat other humans the way they did.”
“That’s the point,” J.P. said. “This particular slave wasn’t quite human.”
Abba was quick to take offense. “That’s a horrible thing to say. It’s just an excuse so the people enslaving them could justify their cruelty and lack of empathy.”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad. This particular slave wasn’t black. More like a creature almost seven feet tall with yellow eyes, big teeth, and brown hair over most of her body. Even on her face.”
“You mean like a bear?” Abba said.
“More like a caveman, or in her case, cavewoman.”
“How did she come to be a slave to these men?”
“These brothers would have been in prison, and rightfully so if they had stayed in France. France released them from prison to help populate the new colony. They bought this female from someone aboard the ship they arrived in.”
“And she was a slave to those people?”
“They’d found her when she was young, living in a cave in southwest France. They raised her as a slave, beating and abusing her, and keeping her chained in a basement when she wasn’t working. They named her Lucy.”
“How cruel,” Abba said.
“As bad as they were, the brothers were worse. They not only beat and abused Lucy they also used her as a sex slave.”
“That is simply detestable,” Abba said.
“The brothers dealt in human misery. They had acquired a huge black man everyone called Prince that they’d trained as a boxer. When he wasn’t fighting, they kept him caged in the same room as Lucy. She spoke some guttural language no one understood, and Prince was the only person that could communicate with her.
“Do you know why they called him Prince?” I asked.
“Because of the tribal tattoos all over his body. He was supposedly from West Africa. People that knew about such things said it was a mark of royalty. Don’t know if he was, but he answered to the name.”
“How did he get to New Orleans?” Rory asked.
“Slave traders found him wandering near the coast. He was alone, a broken and grieving man.”
“Does anyone know why?” Abba asked.
“Supposedly, a warring tribe had massacred his family and burned his village while he was away. He was still in a state of deep depression when the slavers captured him and took him by slave ship to the West Indies. He eventually arrived in chains in New Orleans.
“And the brothers bought him?” Abba asked.
“He was big, very dark-skinned, and evil looking. Gambling was big in the colony, and they saw the potential to box him. They had trouble at first because he didn’t want to fight.”
“At first?” I said.
“He finally came around. They started by starving him and then using a bullwhip and the threat of death. In those days, a fight didn’t end until one of the fighters was either dead or else beat to a bloody pulp. The brothers began making lots of money with him. Didn’t matter none because he always ended up pretty beat up himself. Lucy was there to tend his wounds and nurse him back to health. He never lost until . . .”
“Until what?” Abba asked.
“He came up against someone he knew from Africa: his own son.” Abba’s hand went to her mouth. “Prince recognized who he was in the ring against. His son did not. The giant African refused to hit him. The crowd was going crazy, demanding that the son, a man as big as Prince, though lots younger, kill him. He came close to doing just that.”
“But he didn’t?” Abba said.
“Prince was comatose in the center of the ring, blood all over the place. The crowd thought he was dead. He didn’t move when the referee threw a bucket of water on him.
“The three brothers lost their asses, and they were pissed. When they realized he was still alive, they thought about killing him themselves. Thoughts of a rematch changed their minds. Lucy was still awake, waiting for them, when they threw him on the dirt floor beside her, not bothering to chain him.”
“Oh my God!” Abba said. “What did she do?”
“Her kind couldn’t really cry. She started making a sound that sounded like chirping. It was her way of crying. She had Prince’s big head cradled in her arms. Thinking he was dead, she was rocking him like a baby. Somehow, through his stupor, he heard her, opened his eyes, and smiled. It was then that Lucy snapped.”
J.P. grew silent as rain continued to fall and thunder rocked the hardwoods around them.
“Continue with your story, lad,” Rory said.
“Lucy laid Prince gently on the floor, then reached behind her, and yanked her chains from the wall. The room they lived in was a shed behind the main house. The three brothers were drunk, still angry as hell, and licking their proverbial wounds. They were all fit men in their own right. It didn’t matter because Lucy killed all three of them, beating them to death with the chain still attached to her wrist.
“Her anger continued to rage, long after the men were dead on the floor. She tore a slat from a chair, stuffed it between her wrist and the manacle, and proceeded to twist the metal until it broke. She tossed the bloody chain on top of the men, ripped a blanket from one of the beds, and then returned to the shed for Prince.
“They escaped through the darkness, Lucy carrying Prince in her big arms. They didn’t stop until they reached the Honey Island Swamp.”
“How do you know all this?” Abba asked. “Surely you’re making it up.”
“My uncle’s best friend was an Indian that had grown up in the swamp. He’d heard the story from his family. The Indians protected Prince and Lucy until the day they died.”
“Prince survived?” I asked.
“Not only did he survive, but he and Lucy also had many children before they died. Like their mama, they were big, hairy and had yellow eyes. The legend of the Swamp Monster began when someone spotted one of these creatures.”
“You think they’re still out there?” Abba asked.
J.P. nodded. “You can’t hear them over the sounds of the storm. Before we leave the swamp, I promise that you will.”
Following a brief demonstration by J.P., we were all able to get into our hammocks with little trouble. Despite having my doubts, I’d fallen asleep almost immediately. It was still raining when we awoke the following morning.
“Now what?” Abba asked.
“We don’t have rain slickers, so we stay here until the storm passes.”
“And if it doesn’t?” she said.
“We’ll give it a few hours and then worry about it,” J.P. said.
“What about breakfast?” Rory said. “I am starving.”
J.P. grinned and said, “Want me to call room service?” Duly chastised, Rory didn’t answer. “There’s more trail mix in our packs and also packages of beef jerky.”
Abba yawned and pulled her blanket tightly around her shoulders.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” she said. “How can I do that without getting drenched?”
J.P. handed her a sheet of plastic. “Use this to cover yourself the best you can. The fire has gone out, and we got no more dry wood to start another. Get your clothes wet and they might stay that way for awhile.”
“At this point, I don’t care,” she said.
“Yes, you do. We’re in a swamp, and staying dry is a basic part of field hygiene. We have to do it or risk infections, fever, and fungal growths.”
“Surely, we’ll be back home before that becomes a problem,” she said.
“Don’t bet on it. Everything grows faster in the swamp. Get an infection, and it don’t take long for a fever to get critical.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Stay beneath the plastic as best you can, and don’t get wet,” he said.
We all managed to stay dry during our trips into the bushes. The dogs were restless, venturing into the rain briefly to do their business, and then shaking themselves dry when they’d returned. J.P. had brought them a small bag of dog food. After eating, they returned to their blanket.
It was peaceful sitting under the plastic roof, listening to the gentle sound of falling rain. I dozed off for a bit. When I awoke, I saw Abba and Jean Pierre, sitting close and smiling as they chatted. J.P. was the first to notice that I’d awakened.
“Good day for a nap,” he said. “Rory joined you. He snores louder than Lucky.”
“I’m not very alert in the morning without at least one cup of java,” I said. “Bertram always has a fresh pot brewing behind his bar. It has spoiled me.”
He tossed me a jar of instant coffee, a plastic cup, and a spoon.
“Kind of crappy tasting, but it’ll give you a jolt of caffeine. Abba and I are already on our second cup,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said as I mixed some of the powder with water from my canteen. “Beggars can’t be choosers. Think the rain will ever stop?”
“Let’s hope it’s sooner rather than later.”
J.P.’s instant coffee didn’t dissolve well in the tepid water from my canteen. It did give me the jolt he’d promised. Lucky and Slick, like Rory, were asleep on their blanket and not worried about coffee, or the rain.
“Abba’s been telling me a little about herself,” J.P. said.
“You must be a good homicide detective,” she said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever known anyone as nosy as you.”
“I’m still curious about something,” he said.
“What?”
“I understand why Wyatt is here. You seem to have as much invested in finding Desire as he does. Why is that?”
“A long story,” Abba said.
“It’s raining, and I got no place to go.”
“It’s also complicated.”
“Is that so, Wyatt?” he asked.
“Very complicated,” I said, tossing him the jar of instant coffee.
“Tell me,” he said. “I’ll try to keep up.”
“I don’t know. It’s sort of private.”
“Does Wyatt know?”
“Not because I told him. He figured it out while working on a case.”
J.P. turned and gave me a glance. “He’ll never tell me,” he said. “He still thinks he’s a lawyer. Please tell me.”
“My dad’s name is Vincent Gigoux. His real name is Vincent Vallee. Junie Bug’s husband was Gordon Vallee. His real name was Gordon Gigoux.”
“Good God almighty,” J.P. said. “Your dad is the person that was switched at birth with Gordon Vallee. Why hasn’t he ever come forward? The Vallee fortune is huge.”
“He’s a proud man. He didn’t earn it, so he doesn’t feel right claiming it. He’s also a building contractor and has done very well in his own right.”
Abba shook her head when J.P. asked, “Does Junie Bug know who you are?”
“I went to her house thinking I was going to tell her. She thought I was there to apply for a job as her assistant. I needed a job, and Junie Bug pays very well. I’ve come to like her and realized I could never tell her.”
“Damn!” he said. “That’s a big cross to bear.”
A thought crossed Abba’s mind, and she began to smile. “Know what’s funny?”
“Tell me.”
“Dad and Junie Bug have so much in common it’s a shame they’ll never meet. They are both exceptionally good-looking; Junie Bug loves the arts; my dad is an amateur artist; Junie Bug’s been in several movies; Dad acts in dinner theater and has had several bit parts in locally filmed movies.”
“Why not fix them up?” J.P. said.
Abba laughed aloud. “It would never work.”
“Because?”
“Neither of them would consider meeting the other.”
“Tell Junie Bug you want her to meet your new beau. Tell your dad the same thing. Have them meet you at some atmospheric little bistro that plays soft music beneath muted lights.”
“It might just work,” Abba said. “What happens when I don’t show up with a new beau?”
“Don’t do that. I’m an actor unless you’ve forgotten. I’ll play the part.”
Abba stared at J.P. a moment. “You’d just be acting?”
J.P. grinned. “Of course I’d be your beau. You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve met in many a moon.”
“You are so full of shit,” she said, turning away and crossing her arms.
“Stop being so selfish and think of your dad and Junie Bug. Don’t they deserve to meet each other?”
“Of course, but . . .”
“But what? You dislike me so much that you’d deny them their happiness?”
“You never stop, do you?”
“What?”
“You don’t care about either my dad or Junie Bug. You just want to get into my pants.”
“A double date’s not a lifelong commitment,” he said. “Is it?”
“I might consider going on a double date with you, but only because you’re an actor, and because except for Wyatt and Rafael, you’re the only other person in the world that knows about Dad and Junie Bug.”
“You could ask Wyatt to take you on the double date.”
I tossed my hands in the air. “Don’t get me involved in this. I’m not playing.”
J.P. put his hand on top of Abba’s, and she didn’t move it away.
“Sounds to me like this ol’ Cajun boy is your only choice. What do you say?”
Rory snorted and rolled over before Abba could answer. J.P. and I laughed, and despite herself so did Abba.
“Okay,” she said. “Sounds like a plan, if we ever make it out alive from this God-forsaken swamp.”
“Good,” I know just the place to take them.”
She wrenched her hand away from him and pointed her finger at his nose.
“It damn sure doesn’t mean I’m going to sleep with you. Is that understood?”
She almost slapped him when he said, “Hell, girl, I don’t see how I’d ever get much sleep anyway if I was in bed with you.”
***
It was early afternoon when the storm passed, and we broke camp. When we started walking, my legs were sore, and I realized how long we’d been on our feet the past two days.
Light sweaters for everyone were just a few of the things we’d purchased at the little settlement. Now, it was considerably colder than when we’d entered the swamp, and I was glad for the one I was wearing. The sky darkened, and ground fog became ever more prevalent the farther we hiked. Soon, the swamp around us took on a surreal atmosphere. When some creature howled in the distance, J.P. called us to a halt.
“What’s the dagger doing?” he asked me.
“Hasn’t moved since we left camp.”
“Let’s take a break,” he said. “We need to make sure that thing is working before we traipse around here like chickens with our heads cut off.”
None of us had a watch. We all had a surprise coming when Abba checked her cell phone.
“I’m not getting a signal,” she said.
We reached for our phones. “Nor am I,” Rory said.
“Me either,” J.P. said. “Wyatt?”
“Nope. What now?”
“Hope that the dogs know the way back to the boat,” he said.
“And if they don’t?” Abba asked.
“Wait until the clouds clear and then traverse our way out using the sun and stars,” I said.
“You have to be kidding?” she said.
“I’ve got a backup,” J.P. said. From his daypack, he pulled an old-fashioned compass and showed it to us.
“I never go hunting or fishing without it.”
“You know how to use that thing?” Abba asked.
“I was an infantry officer in the army. You can bet I know how to use it,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “I was starting to get scared.”
“Then stay scared,” he said. “It’ll keep you on your toes.” He waved off the flask of Southern Comfort when Rory offered it to him. “No more whiskey until we camp for the night. We’re deep in the swamp, and there’s no telling what we may encounter. We need to be on top of whatever comes our way.”
An eerie blue glow and dampening of sound are what came our way. They accompanied the misty haze that seemed to engulf us. The mental sensation it produced was surreal and made me feel as though I was in a waking dream. Unknown creatures suddenly began howling in the forest around us, jolting me back to reality. Once again, J.P. signaled us to halt.
“Take a look at this,” he said.
We gathered around him, staring at the compass in his palm. The dial was spinning out of control.
“That can’t be good,” I said.
“The dagger,” Abba said.
Exethelon was aglow, pulsating from a light gold aura to an angry red.
“We must be nearing the house of the sorceress,” Rory said.
Abba was clutching J.P.’s arm, frightened by the strange howls that had only grown louder.
“This is insane,” she said.
“Just a hallucination,” J.P. said. “I never heard anything like that in my life. Those howls aren’t real.”
“Then why are we all hearing them?” she asked.
“Maybe it’s a dream,” I said. “Though I’m not sure whose dream it is.”
“What creatures are making that noise?” Rory asked. “I have never heard anything like it. Not even in the haunted Scottish moors.”
“Whatever they are, they’re making my skin crawl,” Abba said. “Is it the Swamp Monster, and is it possible there’s more than one?”
The two dogs were also spooked. They’d returned from the trail and stood near, growling as they scanned the forest around us.
“Beats the hell out of me,” J.P. said. “Wyatt put the dagger on the ground and let’s see what it does.”
Exethelon continued to glow and pulsate as I placed it on the damp earth. It sat there a second and then began to rotate, slowly at first. When it finally came to a stop, it pointed at a cobblestone pathway that had suddenly appeared in front of us.
“Oh my God!” Abba said. “Was that here a second ago?”
“No, but maybe it’s the path we need to follow.”
“If we’re not dreaming,” I said.
“If we are, we’ll have to wake up sometime,” J.P. said. “Let’s move out.”
We made good time for the next hour as we traversed the pathway that had appeared from nowhere. We also began seeing other things that seemed totally out of place.
“It’s a mirage,” J.P. said.
I wasn’t so sure as I stared up at Jackson Square, St. Louis Cathedral and the Pontalba Buildings, in the sky above us.
“I’ve never seen a mirage,” Abba said. “What’s causing it?”
“Strange atmospheric conditions,” J.P. said. “New Orleans is nearby. That’s why we see it.”
“Not so fast, lad,” Rory said. “Take a look now.”
The vivid French Quarter image was gone, replaced by buildings in another grand city.
“You know where it is?” J.P. asked.
“I do,” Rory said. “It is Glasgow, Scotland.”
“Something or someone is playing tricks on our minds,” Abba said.
We were still looking at the mirage of Glasgow when Slick and Lucky began barking. We hadn’t noticed that they were ahead of us and had gotten out of our sight.
“Stay put,” J.P. said. “I better check this out before we go any further.”
He was gone no more than a few minutes when he appeared through the fog on the trail in front of us.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Wait and see for yourself. You’re not going to believe it,” he said.
Music in Pinky’s bistro segued seamlessly from the Roaring Twenties to early New Orleans jazz as the bartender named Louis took the hundred-dollar bill Tony held out to him. After twisting the end of his handlebar mustache, he stuffed the money into an inner pocket of his white tuxedo.
“Hate to disappoint,” he said. “Pinky’s not here tonight. Maybe I can help.”
“When’s he coming back?” Tony asked.
“Not till tomorrow,” Louis said.
Seeing Louis wasn’t going to return the hundred he’d given him, Tony decided to ask him a few questions.
“Did you know the man who was killed here the other night?”
“You cops?”
“Do we look like cops?”
“Off-duty cops, maybe.”
“We ain’t cops, off-duty or otherwise. Eddie and me have a few questions, and I got more bennies for you if you can answer them. Capiche?”
“Pinky don’t like the help talking about the customers.”
Tony fished another hundred from his wallet and held it on the bar in front of Louis.
“Pinky ain’t here,” he said.
Louis took the money, stuffing it into the same pocket as before.
“Like I said, business has been slow for the past month, and I need to pay some bills. What was your question again?”
“Did you know Diego Contrado?”
“Yeah, I knew Mr. Contrado. Came here a lot. Sometimes in the middle of the day. Always sat at the bar, same place as you two.”
“Was Angus Anderson ever with him?”
Louis hesitated a moment before answering. “Sure. They were business associates and met here all the time.”
“Associates and not friends?”
“They talked business. Horses, mostly.” Louis grinned. “Every now and then they’d talk about women.”
“But Anderson wasn’t here the night Contrado was killed?”
Louis hesitated again. “I didn’t say that. They were here earlier. They argued. Mr. Anderson was mad as hell. Stomped out of here like a crazy man. Didn’t even bother clearing his tab.”
“What did Contrado do?”
“Just laughed. Called Mr. Anderson a loco gringo.”
“Did you tell this story to the police?” Tony asked.
“I never talked to the cops,” Louis said.
“Oh? How did you get out of that?”
“Pinky spoke to them for me.”
Eddie gave Tony a glance. “What about the cook, the waitresses, and the rest of the staff? Did the cops question them?”
“They only talked to Pinky. He told them what they needed to know. You fellows need another Monkey Shoulder?”
“Keep them coming,” Tony said.
“This bottle’s empty,” Louis said. “I’ll get another from the back.”
When they were alone at the bar, Eddie pulled out a notepad, writing something in it.
“What?” Tony said.
“The names of the cops that interviewed Pinky. Making a note to remind me to call Tommy and find out who they are.”
“On the take,” Tony said. “You can bet on that one. Sounds like they already knew who they were going to charge for Contrado’s murder.”
“Tommy’s going to earn his keep before this one’s over with,” Eddie said. “Oh, and remind me to tell Frankie about Monkey Shoulder.”
“The best decision you ever made hiring Tommy,” Tony said.
“Hope you’re right, and I hope you don’t run out of hundreds.
Tony had no time to reply as Louis returned with a fresh bottle of the exotic scotch, pouring each of them fresh drinks. Music in the bar had changed again, this time to ragtime piano. Fog wafted through the front door when a handsome man in a blue pinstripe suit and an attractive woman in a black designer dress entered the bistro. Tony and Eddie didn’t notice.
“What was Anderson and Contrado arguing about?” Tony asked.
When Louis held out his palm, Tony crossed it with another hundred-dollar bill.
“I didn’t catch the entire conversation,” Louis said. “Just bits and pieces.”
“Then give me the gist of it.”
“They were arguing about a horse. Apparently, Mr. Contrado had sold one to Mr. Anderson. For some reason, Mr. Anderson wasn’t too happy about it. He wanted his money back. Mr. Contrado wasn’t having none of it and laughed at him. If you know Mr. Anderson, then you know he don’t like to be laughed at.”
“I’m half starved,” Tony said. “Can we get something to eat here at the bar?”
“You bet,” Louis said. “I’ll get a couple of menus and be right back.”
When they were once again alone, Eddie asked, “What’s your take on this pile of shit we’re stepping in?”
“Don’t know. I wouldn’t think someone would kill a good bud, but then there was Cain and Abel, so you can’t rule it out.”
“Hell, Tony, it didn’t sound to me like they’re buds. Like Louis said, more like business associates.”
“Hard for me to believe a man with Anderson’s stroke would be involved in any way with the Mexican Cartel.”
“Why not?” Eddie asked. “Their money spends like everyone else’s.”
“Right about that.”
“Who’ll we ask about the horse?”
“Frankie, I guess,” Tony said.
“Or Josie, in case we’re talking about quarter horses. She seems to know more about them than Frankie does.”
Tony was soon eating a French dip, Eddie a Reuben. Louis was polishing a glass nearby in case Tony had more questions and more hundreds. He didn’t have long to wait as Eddie held up his empty glass.
“I only have a few more bennies left,” Tony said. “Can you answer a few more questions.”
“Hit me with them,” Louis said, holding out his hand.
“You know Bruno Baresi?”
Louis nodded. “In here most every night.”
“You think it was him that killed Contrado?”
Louis twisted his mustache as he shook his head. “He didn’t do it.”
“How do you know that?” Eddie asked.
“Couldn’t have done it because it was one of the rare nights he wasn’t here.”
“The police report says Contrado was killed with Baresi’s pistol. How do you explain that?”
“Police must have got it when they arrested him. They didn’t find it here.”
“Sure about that?” Tony asked.
“Like I said, Mr. Baresi was someplace else.”
“You seem pretty sure about that. How do you know?”