35

 

Wes scurried through the ankle-deep water to the far side of the small island thick with reeds and cane, into the densest, tallest growth, and stretched out on his stomach. The direction he traveled took him toward the glow of lights along the levee and the highway, away from the last known location of his enemy. He’d put his back to another wide area of open water. If forced, he’d slither into the murky soup and disappear like he’d seen the gators do.

He strained to listen. What sounds were normal? Water lapped behind him. Frogs croaked, each one in its own cadence. So many crickets sang their grating screech sounded like one. Other moans and creaks penetrated the din from far and near. He couldn’t determine their source.

Movement was easier to pick out than shapes, but he’d never seen a darker night. Again, he gave thanks for it. If Meshach had survived the carnage with his eye intact, the man wouldn’t be able to see a thing.

An eerie quiet settled over the marsh as if the local population suddenly got a feel for an impending event or listened for the boogieman’s approach as Wes did. It was a strange night in Louisiana when the bugs were silent.

A sky full of stars had faded to black along with the gray of dusk. Clouds. Moving fast. If he wasn’t already wet, cold, and miserable enough, now the wind picked up. His hair, ears, and nose felt like icicles stuck to his head.

It was just as well that he’d lost his wristwatch. Negotiating the water and marsh to the levee was going to make one mile seem like fifty before the night was over. No use checking the time every five minutes and making two hours seem like ten. He prayed he could make it in two hours.

He put his mind back on the inky night around him. Grass and stalks of cane rustled and thrashed in the wind. Who was he fooling? He wouldn’t hear a herd of buffalo coming now.

A deep rumble drew his focus offshore. Lightning flashed high above, giving depth to the darkness, followed by another ominous rumble and a clap of thunder. A tumultuous roar rolled down on him. The temperature dropped like he’d opened the refrigerator door and rain hit. The reeds and cane around him looked like they’d turned their backs to the wind and bowed into the shallow water. Big drops hurled to the ground by a driving gale pounded and beat him until he couldn’t stand it any longer and had to push himself out of the marsh grass into the shelter of deep water. He pulled his shirt over his head. Submerged and out of the wind he felt like he’d slipped on a coat.

Men had died of hypothermia in warmer temperatures. The chills hadn’t hit him yet, but he knew they were coming. He looked toward the levee. He preferred to do this in the daylight, but…Thank God he didn’t have far to go. He struck out using a sidestroke, pulling with his right arm and scissor kicking. He pushed with his cupped left hand, working his arm at the elbow, careful not to move his shoulder.

How far? How long? Too far and too long. The wind, rain, and waves beat at him without rhythm so he didn’t know when to breathe or hold his breath, and he couldn’t see. He reached with his right hand for another stroke at the water, grasped a handful of mud and worked his way onto another island. He stood and slogged on. Meshach or no Meshach. He recalled an admonishment from Bubba from long ago. “You stop, you die. Get mad! Get mean! Survive!”

The wind drove him across another long section of marsh and back into the roiled water. He pushed thoughts of meeting an unfriendly critter out of his mind. Reptiles and rodents had more sense than to be out on a night like this.

He swam and swam. He must have entered the water in a curve, and he was swimming down the middle of a channel. He angled left and crawled out on his hands and knees onto steep, muddy ground. The levee!

He caught his breath and set out again. Scaling the thirty yards of mud to the top of the levee was like trying to climb a slide in his socked feet. His wet shirt and jeans stuck to him and hindered his movements. The jeans were stretched three inches longer than when he’d put them on and weighed him down with water and mud. The rain had let up, but the wind stole body heat. His feet grew in size and weight as mud stuck to his shoes, adding layer upon slick layer with every step.

He didn’t hold much hope for what lay ahead. He’d like to see the glow of light somewhere, the high beams of a car on the highway in the distance, something to give him direction and something to shoot for. He peered into the night from the top of the levee, overlooking the highway. The storm must have knocked out the power. An all-night convenience store shrouded in darkness lay just below. A Louisiana State Patrol car was parked at a pump.

He opened his mouth to scream for joy, but the wind snatched the breath away.

 

~*~

 

Wes approached the cruiser. The officer had his head down. Two men talked to the clerk at the counter inside the store. The officer glanced up, down, back up, then opened the car door and crawled out. The guy was all man and there was a lot of him. The black officer probably stood six-five and weighed two-sixty, if Wes had to guess.

He looked Wes up and down. “Wes Hansen?”

“That’s me.”

A big smile flashed white teeth. “I been praying you’d turn up.”

“I hope you don’t mind. I’m going to sit right here for a minute.” Wes started to plop down on the concrete in front of the patrol car, and the officer moved to grab him and lighten his fall. The officer walked to his cruiser, leaned in, and retrieved his coat. He placed the black jacket over Wes’s shoulders.

As soon as Wes felt the warmth, the shakes hit him.

“I’m Officer Lucas Jamison, Mr. Hansen. What can I do for you?” He knelt next to Wes and placed a big hand in the middle of his back. “Are you injured?”

Wes looked at the officer and then at the entrance into the store.

The two men inside opened the glass door and stepped out. The guy behind the counter stared through the window.

“Hot coffee would go a long way. Something to eat. I’m not wounded, but my left shoulder is a wreck. It’s been a long day.”

Lucas looked toward the two men and yelled, “Bring a cup of coffee, black. Something to eat, anything hot. A bottle of water too.” He addressed Wes. “The power hasn’t been out long, so hot shouldn’t be a problem.” He eyed Wes and canted his head. His big teeth flashed again. “Your shoulder isn’t the only thing that’s a wreck. You look like you tussled with a gator.”

“I feel like the gator won. Can you do me a favor? My tech guy, Tony Moran, Meshach shot him, and…Can you call the FBI? Ask for Agent Trent Carr.”

Lucas nodded. “He’s OK. He’s fine, your guy. I worked the scene this morning, yesterday morning now. He’s got a head wound. It’s serious enough, but he’s going to be fine. He’s at West Jeff. The Lord looked after him.”

Thank God!…yesterday? “What time is it?”

“Just after one.”

The Lord was gracious. He’d lived to see another day after all.

One of the men from the store brought out a cup of coffee and two large pieces of sausage pizza. With help, Wes stood and walked around the officer’s car to the back door. He sat in the back seat and sipped the coffee. Then he tasted the pizza. He couldn’t remember tasting better pizza.

Lucas stepped to the front of the car and talked into his radio mic. He returned and squatted on his haunches beside the door. “Mr. Hansen, I’m taking you to West Jeff. Any objections?”

Wes fumbled with the shoulder strap and clicked the seatbelt. “Not a one. Could I borrow your cell phone?”

Officer Lucas pulled his phone out of his pocket and handed it to Wes. Then he pulled onto the highway and turned on the car’s strobes.

Wes held up the cell phone. It was bigger than his iPhone. A Droid or some other brand he was unfamiliar with. He eyed the blank screen and realized it didn’t matter whether he knew how to turn it on or not. His mind was just as blank. He couldn’t remember Jess’s phone number.