27

 

Wes sat at a table on one side of the breakfast area in the hotel. Two hours and ten minutes had passed since Jess walked out the door for her jog. He’d beat himself up every second since. Meshach or his handler had found them once. What made Wes think the man couldn’t find them again? Changing cities had not minimized the risk one degree. He’d lost his edge and made a critical mistake. He’d let Jess down.

He and Tony had searched for her. First in a methodical circular pattern, expanding outward from the hotel, street-by-street, then lineal, across the grid, north to south and east to west. They hoped and prayed, but they both knew the notation on the back of the card, in pencil, in the same block letters as on the cards Cole had received, meant she was in deep trouble. Come get her was an obvious indication of what had transpired on a dark street not far away and a personal invitation Wes had every intention of accepting…if he could find the man.

Bubba, FBI Special Agent, Trent Carr, and two Mandeville police officers conversed near the hotel’s front desk.

Like the evening before with Bubba, Wes’s account of his investigation took little time to relate. The agent had jotted notes on a pad but never said a word. Wes wondered if the guy’s mother knew her son’s whereabouts so early on a Sunday morning. He looked like he should be home studying his spelling words. His lack of questions, especially with what little evidence Wes had to offer, did little to bolster that lack of confidence. Did the guy grasp the thread linking a single suspect to the string of coincidences, as Bubba called them? Was he convinced to act?

Someone in the FBI thought he rated a badge, and they’d backed it up by issuing him a gun, so maybe.

The city police seemed more interested in Jess’s status than Meshach’s, and Wes appreciated the fact. The second Wes finished with the descriptions of Meshach and Jessica, one of the officers relayed the info to their dispatcher. Wes’s gut told him Meshach had ditched the Chrysler 300 they’d seen him driving in New Orleans, but he gave them a description of it anyway.

There was only one problem with the entire episode: by the time Wes met with them, she’d been gone close to an hour and could have been in Mississippi.

Wes signaled Tony who stood at the counter doctoring a cup of coffee. “It’s close to six in Nevada. Call Liz for me. Ask her to check the pic for a name. I’m sure she’ll understand, but apologize for the early hour.”

Tony nodded and walked away, poking at his cell phone.

Bubba lumbered to the table. “Can you think of anything else?”

“No, I can’t. Tony’s calling to inquire about a name on the picture.” Wes’s answer sounded more like a retort, but Bubba took it in stride. Wes nodded at the uniformed cops and the Fed. “What are their thoughts?”

“Jess isn’t a child, and she hasn’t been missing long, but they’re onboard. It’s obvious she hasn’t disappeared of her own volition. Both agencies have issued alerts.” Bubba thumbed the card Meshach had left on the car from his shirt pocket and gave it back to Wes. “This cat has made this personal. You’ve hit a nerve. Try to think of which one. That might be the key to finding Jessica.”

Meshach had hit a nerve too, and the man was going to find out just how personal Wes was willing to make it.

Tony paced the sidewalk just outside the hotel’s entrance. He was animated, but subtle, lacking his usual sharp hand movements. Looked promising. Bubba followed Wes’s gaze then clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s going to be fine. We’ll find her. Keep a tactical mind, and don’t be too hard on yourself.”

Wes stood. “Too late.”

Bubba shook his head yes and no. “Because that’s the way you are, but I had to say it.”

Tony shuffled through the door and raised clenched fists. “Got it. Elgin Fairchild.”

Special Agent Trent didn’t hesitate removing his phone from his pocket and dialed as he stepped away from the counter. One of the policemen moved the other direction before he spoke into his radio.

An iPhone held Tony’s attention. Wes knew he was doing his own search. “Any meaning in the names?” Wes asked.

“I’ll check right quick. You know the kid to the right of Meshach in the picture was Lane, Liz’s boy. The guy killed a childhood friend. Liz is still not good, by the way. She had questions about Meshach I couldn’t, wouldn’t answer.”

Men like Meshach had people they used, not friends. “She needs closure, Tony, and she’ll get it soon.”

Tony took several more seconds. “His names, together, means high-minded, fair-haired child. Doesn’t seem to fit, does it?”

“Sounds like the high-minded part is applicable.” Bubba’s quick reply matched Wes’s first thought.

Trent approached. “Gentlemen, turns out we have some interest in visiting with Elgin Fairchild, your Mr. Meshach, late of Las Vegas. Most of his interests, until he dropped off the grid two years ago, slanted toward environmental concerns to the extreme. He’s marketed himself as a hired gun. He’s a suspect in the kidnapping and brutal beating of an Oregon man who owns a logging company.”

Wes indicated his eye, and Trent’s head bobbed once. “I can confirm he has only one eye, the right one.”

“Looks like Las Vegas social services knew his parents well,” Tony added. “Abusive father likely caused the loss of the eye. Both mother and father are deceased. No next of kin I can find. His record is full of offenses from public disobedience to animal cruelty. Ten years ago, he looked like a troubled, misguided teenager except for the animal link. The dude is sick.”

Tony made a quick slight-of-hand move to conceal his phone as Trent leaned to look at the techie’s source of information. If Tony wasn’t more discreet, he would find himself being interviewed by the FBI…and not for a job.

“Here’s another interesting tidbit,” Tony said. “Father and son took a weekend trip to the Valley of Fire State Park, outside of Vegas, and only the son returned. They never found dad’s body. Meshach was twelve.”

Eyebrows rose at that info.

“Bet I can guess what happened there,” Tony whispered to no one in particular.

One of the city officers left. The other one had a short, quiet word with Trent and followed his partner.

Wes had enough. “Bubba, Trent, this is not only about Meshach or Elgin, whatever his name is. Special Agent, I hope I don’t have to explain this. How did he find us, me, my team? Who’s helping him? How did he find out about my investigation and my location in New Orleans, then again here? Someone other than Meshach stinks to high heaven, and you,” Wes indicated the baby-faced agent, “might draw your paychecks from the same bank.”

Bubba nodded at Trent. “Wes is right.”

Wes had to pack, and he wanted to get Jess’s things to take with him. They’d already had the hotel give them access to her room. She lived out of her bag instead of a hotel chest-of-drawers, so she was all but packed. They found the bathroom mat draped over the rim of the tub and a used towel hung from the shower curtain bar. She’d made the bed. He found himself wondering about things he knew shouldn’t be on his mind. Things a proper mate wouldn’t know about a person until after they were married. Would she approve of his thoughts, knowing he’d been given access to her personal items and space?

The only thing that disappointed Wes: her iPhone was plugged into a charger next to the television. It could have been tracked. Though now, Wes didn’t believe Meshach would have overlooked a cell phone on her person.

The phone was password protected, so he couldn’t check her contacts for like-named relatives. Tony had offered to work his magic, but Wes declined. He prayed no one would need to be contacted. He had to keep that mindset.

He regretted now that they hadn’t talked more. He’d wanted to from the moment he met her, but as her employer…Just asking her out to dinner took all the courage he could muster.

“You’ve got something in mind,” Bubba said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“I do. This guy is on the other side of the lake, south of here, ‘in joan’ he’d said. That’s where we’re going. I’m not sitting here another minute. You both have my and Tony’s cell numbers. Call when you have something.”

Bubba caught his elbow as he walked by. “Are you armed?” he whispered.

“Of course.”

“Keep it handy, brother.”

 

~*~

 

Sunday, noon

Meshach rubbed his watery eye. He had enough problems with inaccurate depth perception and dealing with dust and other pollutants without the broad trying to gouge it out. Who would have thought? She didn’t weigh one-twenty, but she fought like a tiger. She went for his eye immediately, as if she knew he only had one.

Did she? No way.

He glanced in the rearview mirror and wiped his eye again. Driving into a bright morning sun didn’t help.

Twice in only a few days, he’d misjudged a female. He was going to drag Shanteel and this blue-eyed beast offshore and leave them there.

He screamed and shook the steering wheel, “ Don’t fall asleep back there.” He grinned at the thought of her distress.” We’ll be home soon, sweetie. You’re going to love your new digs.”

Louisiana had plenty of sheriff deputies. He’d passed two-dozen marked cars since leaving New Orleans. They’d all missed their chance to be the hero and save the damsel. Oh, the secrets a man could possess.

Poor girl.

His car died. Quit at sixty-five miles an hour. The steering went dead and stiff, all the warning lights lit. The gas gauge hovered just above half. He herded the car to the right, onto the shoulder, then onto the grass, well off the roadway, near a lot where an old trailer house stood on concrete blocks. Once stopped, he slammed the transmission into park and punched the start/stop button. The dash lights went out. He stepped on the brake and hit the button again to restart it. Nothing. Then again—button, brake, button. The starter whirled but the engine refused to respond.

Now what? A short in the electrical system, something mechanical, or dirty fuel? He could take the time and look, and he might find the problem, but not at eight o’clock in the morning, with a woman in the trunk. Granted, he’d trussed up the wildcat with a roll of three-inch-wide duct tape, but without background noise, she could stir around enough to rouse suspicion if someone took an interest in helping with his car.

He was a good two miles from his turnoff.

The car moved. She stirred.

He got out, locked the doors, then reached and gave the trunk lid a hard thump with his hand. “I’ll be back for you, darling. It’s going to be awhile though. Get a nap if you can. Save your energy. You’ll need it to survive the heat today. Sure is sunny. When you and I get done, I’m going to make your boss wish he’d stayed out of my business. His family, all of them will know me.” He laughed. “But not for long.”

The trailer was neglected. Weeds and deep grass grew in the yard.

He jogged up the levee and looked offshore. Perfect. Tonight, he could get his boat within a quarter mile of where he stood. He’d have to carry her. He knew she wouldn’t go willingly. The one time he’d left his backpack and he needed his GPS. He marked the spot using a two-story, red brick house tucked back against the opposite levee across the highway for a landmark. That one he would be able to identify at night.

A black pickup and a small red car appeared rounding the corner on the highway in the distance. He trotted back to the blacktop, waved, and a guy in the Dodge pickup shut it down and pulled over. Mississippi plates, oversized front bumper, and not a scratch on the paint.

Meshach opened the door and hopped in.

“Where you headed? Going to a heliport?” the guy said. He quickly ran the pickup through the manual gears to seventy-five, ten over the limit and too fast for Meshach’s liking.

“No,” Meshach said, taking in the man’s camouflaged cap, jeans, Duck something T-shirt, and the smell of smoke from a pungent cigar of some kind. He was a bull. Hairy arms and hands like a catcher’s mitt. A Globe and Anchor tattoo on his forearm screamed jarhead. The interior of the pickup was clean. The guy liked his ride. He dipped snuff. A peppermint something, from the smell of it, filled his lip and pointed to the purpose for the cup on the seat between his legs. “You can drop me off up the road. It’s not far. Are you going to a heliport?”

“Yeah, I’m headed to Boothville, to PHI. Going out to the Deepwater Nautilus for Shell.” He raised the cup, gave it a quick, noisy squirt from between the noticeable gap in his teeth, and peeked at his watch. “I’d help with your car, but I’m running late.”

Meshach leaned forward a little to look back in the side mirror. A semi rounded the corner a mile behind them. His Altima was out of sight. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got someone who can help. Up here on the right.” He pointed. “You can let me out at the next power pole.”

Meshach hopped out and scaled the driveway up the levee. He had a problem now: no wheels and sixty miles from New Orleans. He scanned the camp houses and empty parking area behind them.

First things first.

He eyed his boat as he walked to the house and let himself in. He gathered his things again, including the cash he’d replaced in their hiding places. After a hurried count, he stuffed thirty-eight grand and change into his backpack. He looked around. He’d missed something, but what? Pistol tucked into his belt, computer, phone, he was done. Then he saw Lane’s wallet and I.D. on the table next to the couch. Those he stuffed into a pocket in the bag. He grabbed his gear and stepped to the door.

Unbelievable, Shanteel’s cop, on the porch in front of the door, like poof, the elephant in the magic show. No use in wasting time wondering where he came from. He’d missed seeing or hearing the cruiser drive up.

Meshach walked straight toward the man. That obviously stumped him. The cop stepped back. Meshach reached behind his back and palmed the Kimber. The danger appeared in front of the cop, but he didn’t move. The brain took a second to register what the eyes saw then another moment for a thought of disbelief before the body reacted. He moved quicker than Meshach would have believed, bringing a Glock to bear, centered on Meshach’s chest.

Like a slow-motion replay, Meshach saw the flash and a small hole appeared in the screen in the door between them. The action on the service piece slid back, and the spent casing sailed up and away to the cop’s right.

Meshach’s .45 bucked a blink in time after the cop’s gun chambered the second round. He felt it, hard in the palm of his hand, but too hard. Something wasn’t right.