8

 

Monday evening, April 8

Wes called Jordan to arrange a ride. No answer.

As he packed, his mind raced from confidence to doubt. Jess’s interpretation of the post made sense. Or did it? Tony’s earlier comment about Bethany’s involvement in a conspiracy with two unknown cyber identities against her father held little weight, but nagged him. Like the Hearst heiress, Patty. Daughter hates daddy, so she conspires with her kidnappers and robs banks. No. Cole was due an update. That thought would be absent.

Moving shop to Louisiana risked what? Time and money. The move made sense. He tried to call Jordan again. Went to voicemail. He disconnected and it rang. “This is Wes.”

“This is Jordan.” The pilot didn’t sound like his chipper self.

“I’d like to bum a ride to New Orleans if you’re available.”

“Hate to say it, but I’m ill. I normally fly with an attendant. She’s been off sick. Now I know what she’s got.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll leave you be. I’m going to arrange a commercial flight on the first thing smoking.”

“Sorry. I’ll call you when I’m on the mend. I’ll call Cole too. You might warn Tony. This bug is not amusing.”

“Yes, sir, I will. Thanks.” Wes hung up.

He plopped down in the chair at the desk and opened his computer case. Never bounce until you hit a bump. He just had.

 

~*~

 

Tuesday morning, April 9

Meshach woke, kicked off the sheet, and rolled out from under the covers. The clock on the nightstand displayed 5:32. He stood and stretched then dropped and started a set of pushups. One, two, three…Seconds lapsed, a minute, two minutes…ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven. At one hundred, in a swift, fluid motion he moved into a crouch and stood.

Gray dawn provided the light for him to make his way down the hallway without turning on a bulb. As he passed the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of his movement in the wall mirror and stopped. He didn’t need a light to appreciate the reflection.

The fans in the kitchen cooled the sweat on his bare chest and back. He started the coffeemaker, grabbed his laptop from the counter, pushed open the French doors, and stepped onto the large deck overlooking the docks. During the previous evening, three boats had joined his twenty-five-footer in the slips. Two of similar make and a fancy, sleek beast that looked like it would take a cool million just for the down payment.

Contentious gulls squawked and fought with each other over a scrap of trash. Their noisy bickering grated on his nerves. A snowy egret winged south into the humid breeze like it couldn’t stand them either.

He decided the normal smell for the area leaned toward a mower bag full of wet grass. When the wind blew out of the southeast he got a whiff of the abnormal, a raucous stench from a fish processing plant a mile away. He wondered what useable product man had discovered from the source of such a foul odor.

White, lightly constructed steel and aluminum patio furniture was arranged around the deck. He placed his computer on the glass tabletop, pushed the power button, and left for the kitchen and a cup of black coffee. After returning, he logged onto the net. Nothing new from his admirers, but they’d want to know his status. He posted patience?? then searched for New Orleans news sites, opened WWL-TV, clicked on the heading Crime, and scrolled down. Man killed baby daughter who wouldn’t stop crying. Man charged with raping four-year-old. Reward offered for information leading to…Arrests made in a string of burglaries. The list went on, forty items total, ending with Nevada man found dead on Baronne. Seeking information…He opened the story and read. Lane Woodard, 25, of Las Vegas, Nevada…homeless man in custody…lacking motive. The article didn’t mention a cause of death or missing wallet. The police chose to omit those tidbits. They always left something out of the public disclosure, so some moron could hang himself with his loose tongue.

Lane’s driver’s license and credit cards lay on the table inside, next to the couch. The missing formal ID didn’t stop the NOPD from identifying the body. They either canvassed area hotels for absent patrons and put two and two together, or Lane’s fingerprints were on file. No matter, he would be another cold case gathering dust with a thousand others in a dingy basement somewhere if the old drunk Meshach planted the knife on wasn’t convicted of the crime first.

A door slammed. The neighbors to the west, three men in light shirts, shorts and boat shoes walked down the cypress steps to the dock carrying coolers and bags. Two of the men liked to eat. Their shirts hung over their bellies creating an eave to shade their feet. The third guy looked buff, at the very least physically capable. The key was his will to succeed, to win at all costs. Attitude made small men formidable adversaries.

They turned down the first slip and approached the fancy boat. Someone yelled a greeting and stepped out of the cabin. Owner, guide, or both? The men boarded. After a minute, its engines started with a low rumble.

Meshach didn’t want or need a guide. His boat had all of the electronic GPS guidance equipment he needed. Navigating the gulf would not be a problem.

Looking at the weather forecast, he had two days, maybe until noon on Saturday. Then, the gulf would be rough with twenty-knot winds, seas five to eight feet, and a forty-percent chance of thunderstorms.

The big boat’s engine tone changed pitch. Water boiled around the stern. She backed out of the slip and made her way through the watery streets dredged through the marsh, toward the open water of the Gulf of Mexico. Goin’ South adorned the stern.

He sipped the coffee and pecked at his computer. He opened a blank Word document and typed Mars, Nakika, Ursa, Devils Tower, and Thunder Horse. Of the many deep-water oil production facilities, these had made his short-list. After a second, he typed Ace of Spades in bold and underlined it. Then, he closed the file without saving it and opened Chirp again. Lamech had posted ur isle of choice.

Perfect.

 

~*~

 

Avoiding contact with his neighbors would make life easier. That meant leaving before sunup or after they left to fish. Darkness suited Meshach, but he’d be nuts to navigate the watery streets through the marsh when he couldn’t see, at least on his first trip out. Once the GPS logged his initial excursion, he’d be able to follow the stored track and use the instruments to come and go as he pleased at any hour.

He stepped away from the window, opened the freezer, and removed the cash he’d tossed in the night before. Three large bills would pad the seven in his pocket. He stuffed them away, then tucked the remaining Franklins behind a package of fish in the back of the freezer.

He grabbed his small backpack, an ice chest he’d prepared with water and snacks, and made his way out the door, down the steps onto the dock. He’d yet to pilot the twenty-five-foot ShearWater Bay boat and looked forward to the experience. The 300 horsepower Yamaha, V6 outboard mounted on the transom of the V-hulled craft promised to be nothing less than exhilarating.

Before reaching the boat, he scanned the two houses east of his place. The nearest one sat empty. The second one had four male tenants, a night-going, noisy lot who didn’t leave the slip in their boat until after eight o’clock. Seemed like a late departure for fishermen. Their labored trudge down the dock to load and board the boat hinted at a long night in a bottle of something stronger than soda pop. No surprises at either house. Nothing moved. The fourth place, the westward one closest to his, housed the men who’d boarded the baby yacht at dawn. A red car, parked in the small graveled area behind the fifth and last abode, hinted at an occupant, but Meshach hadn’t seen anyone stir.

He stepped aboard the ShearWater, set down the cooler, and took a seat at the center console. The four-stroke engine hummed the second he turned the key. The navigation gear booted. He opened the backpack, removed a handheld GPS device, and turned it on. The coordinates displayed by each matched. He marked both with his waypoint, and titled them camp.

“Good morning.”

So much for avoiding the neighbors. The brunette approached from his left, his blind side. She stood on the dock, at the bow of the boat, one hand on her hip. She was barefoot and bare from head to toe except for a camouflage bikini her shapely curves wore well. She seemed more than comfortable, half-dressed and approaching a man she didn’t know.

“Good morning back,” he said. He gave her just a hint of a smile to acknowledge her teasing pose.

“So, nice boat. Are you going out this morning?” She shifted her weight, moving her hips from one side to the other like a willow swaying in a gentle breeze. Actresses earned hard cash for worse performances. She was good…real good. She purred in a low, barely discernible whisper, forcing a man to lean close to hear only her. He knew the type. The kind who should have a tat on their forehead that read woe-man.

“I am. It’s a cool, beautiful day. Seas are calm.”

“Where’s your fishing gear? I’ve never seen a guy come here who didn’t want to, uh, catch something nice.”

The hint didn’t slip by him and why not? He’d just be another man boating with his girl. With what she displayed, no one would notice his presence. “I’m not much of a fisherman. Just trying to get away from the rat race and relax a bit.”

“Would you like some company? I’m Shanteel.”

She strutted the length of the slip then leaned over to offer him the back of her slender hand. He took it, but not as the prince she might have expected; he squeezed gently and glanced at the naked ring finger on the left hand she’d planted on her knee as she reached for him across the small gap.

He smiled. “Call me Meshach. Come aboard.”

Her tongue swept over full lips, leaving them moist and redder. “Meshach? Cool name. Baby, give me two minutes. I’ve got a lunch and drinks packed.” She spun and trotted toward the end house. A red and yellow butterfly tattoo rode the tanned, smooth skin on her right shoulder.

He placed the GPS inside the backpack. Still in the pack, out of sight, he eased the action back just enough to expose the chambered round in the .45, then holstered it and zipped the pack.