by Jim Riley
Along the wall was a stereo player with stacks of CDs piled on top. Next to the stereo, a bookshelf stood with dozens of paperbacks and magazines. Flavia, not an avid reader, recognized a few of the more famous authors, but not many.
After investigating the den, the teenager searched the kitchenette. Small refrigerator, table with three chairs, sink, stove with an open. When she opened the door to the refrigerator, the cheerleader was pleasantly surprised to find the makings of various types of sandwiches; ham, turkey, bologna.
There were even some soda pops. All the condiments she could want. Mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup, pickles, onions, tomatoes, lettuce. Two jugs of milk and bottled water.
When Flavia inspected the small pantry, she was again surprised to find cereal, pop tarts, oatmeal, potato chips, candy, cookies, and various canned food.
She had no idea what all this meant. Someone had placed her in the middle of the swamp and had not harmed her. Her captor had furnished everything she needed to survive. Why?
Flavia, deciding not to stick around and find out, ran to the front door, yanking it open. She stepped out onto a small front porch, her mouth agape.
Expecting to see a road or at least a driveway, there was nothing but water. Swamp water in every direction she looked. No dry land in front, on either side, or as far back as she could see.
Flavia went back inside and grabbed a broom. She took it back to the porch and turned it upside down. When she stuck the handle and the water, she found it was between two and three feet deep.
Could she wade out? Where was the next isle of safety? How far would she need to go to get help? What could go wrong if she tried?
The answer to the last question was answered when a slithering water moccasin swam by a foot from the front porch. A single bite from the venomous reptile would kill her. She watched its flickering tongue probe for the next meal. The teenager went back inside and sank onto the sofa. She could not stem the tide of tears.
What would happen to her? Who was responsible? Why did they bring her here? These and other thoughts continued to flood her mind until she emitted uncontrollable visceral sobs.
71
Central
Billy Bailey was going stir crazy. He felt cooped up in the house with Sara Sue. The television continued to emit flowing images with accompanying sound.
But Billy neither saw nor heard the emissions. He paced back and forth, his mind racing with only two days of freedom remaining before the hearing in front of the judge. It was a dark cloud that followed him to the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen. Wherever he went, the cloud engulfed his very being.
Sara Sue, unable to cope with the increasing anxiety, left to go back to her temporary agency. She claimed she was behind on the paperwork. The truth was the business was in financial trouble. Almost everyone in town knew Billy was her husband and did not want to support a child molester or worse.
Sara Sue went to the office to find a way to keep the business open. When Billy was the winning a coach at Central High School, she had trouble keeping up with the demand. Recruiting candidates to fill the flood of openings was her primary objective. Now, finding openings for her stable of temporary workers became her focus. She expanded the scope of potential clients, from Baton Rouge to Denham Springs to Gonzales to Port Allen. She sent brochures to the purchasing and human resource departments with every company in every direction. Sara Sue emailed key contacts in the oilfield industry, the refining industry, the chemical plants, the retail associations, the shipping industry, and the tourist companies.
She offered deep discounts in her fees to a point she was making little money and working twice as hard. She feared if she could not provide opportunities for her temporary workers, they would flee to other agencies.
Billy was not aware how deep the troubles were at Sara Sue’s company, but he understood there were problems. He also realized her woes were a result of his predicament, as if he needed additional pressure heaped on his shoulders.
Niki could not have been more adamant about him staying home, out of the glare of publicity and away from any more potential pitfalls. But after an hour of pacing, he could stand it no longer it. He needed to get outside of the shrinking walls.
Billy drove straight to Linda's Chicken & Fish in Watson. He left at almost nine o'clock and many of the locals had already eaten when he entered. Most of the tables sat unoccupied. A group of high school boys surrounded two pretty girls at one table. A family of four finished a bucket of fried chicken at another.
He took a seat in the back corner after placing his order for chicken livers with sides of gumbo and fried dill pickles. He figured those were part of the local cuisine he would miss the most imprisoned.
When the young girl brought his tray of food to the table, she hesitated.
"You're Coach Bailey?" More of a question instead of a statement.
Billy nodded, dreading what might happen next. He was trying to escape the cloud that followed him everywhere, and this girl was about to darken it.
"Can I tell you something?"
Billy nodded, knowing there was no escape.
"Most of us over here think you're getting the shaft for all this junk. We don't believe you did anything wrong."
At first, Billy could not respond. The girl’s words were the last thing he expected to hear. He had guarded his thoughts for abasement.
"Why—uh, thank you."
"Most of us know Flavia," she continued. "We don't believe anything she says. Our guys on the football team say you're a stand-up kinda guy."
"I don't know what to say," Billy replied, looking up at her tender face for the first time. "You’re right. I didn't do anything with Flavia or any other student."
The girl nodded toward the counter. "The manager said to tell you the meal is compliments of Linda's. We all want you to know we respect you."
Billy was speechless. He wanted to hug the young lady, but did not dare touch her. He sat there, a confused expression evident to all around. He finally uttered an unintelligible thanks.
The girl left the table. Billy sat in stunned silence. Then he realized two of the high school boys stood by his table. When he focused on them, they looked nervous, unable to stand still.
"May I help you?" He asked.
"We wanted to tell you you're the best. Our coach talked to us yesterday. He said you were a role model to look up to."
"He said he didn't know all the facts," the other teenager interjected. "He said when all the facts come out, everyone will respect you for the man you are."
Billy was overcome with emotion. On an impulse, he rose and gave a firm handshake to each young man. Then he gave both a big hug.
"Please tell your coach I appreciate his words," Billy said. "I don't know how long it will take for the truth to come out, but I know one day it will."
The two boys ambled back to the other table. The two girls gave them a hug and a kiss on their cheeks. Billy gave them a thumbs-up.
The food suddenly became appetizing, like every other time he had eaten at this restaurant. The black cloud has some holes in it. As he placed a scrumptious liver coated with ketchup and Tabasco sauce in his mouth, he thought about what a fool Niki Dupre was to tell him to stay within the confines of his house.
Billy savored every liver, every dill pickle with lots of salt, and every spoonful of gumbo spiked with the hot condiment. He did not want to be reminded this might be the last time in his life he would enjoy this type of seasoned cuisine. From what he heard, prison food was not something to which he would look forward.
When he finished the food on the table, the young waitress appeared at his side. In her hands was a mountain of ice cream with chocolate syrup dripping down the sides.
"Compliments of the manager," she said. "Us too."
Billy took the bold of deliciousness and gave her the biggest smile of his life. The night was one he would remember for a long time. The coach took his time, savoring each sweet bite, the choco
late soothing the edges of his nerves.
When he finished, he went to the front and thanked the manager. He was shocked when the workers came from behind the counter. A cashier held a long stick with her phone on one end. After taking several selfies, they each patted him on the back and affirmed their support for him.
He could think of nothing else but the kindness of the staff at the restaurant on the drive back to Central. Before he realized it, he was in his own driveway. Sara Sue's car was not in the garage. Maybe he would not have to tell her he broke his promise to Niki to stay home. He saw no reason to cause an additional source of tension when no harm happened during his brief excursion to Watson.
The coach whistled, the boatload of chocolate boosting his mood. He put the door key into the lock and twisted. He heard the lock click open and then heard another soft sound.
He saw nothing but a hand across his face. A rag closed around his nostrils and an acrid odor attacked his senses. Billy grabbed the arm of the hand holding the rag, but despite his powerful muscles, he could not budge it. The arm was too strong. Blackness closed in about him. His last thought of consciousness was Niki Dupre was right.
72
Central
"He's not here." Sara Sue's voice exposed the panic she was feeling.
"Slow down," Niki responded, trying to collect her own thoughts of the early hour.
"He's not here," Sara Sue repeated.
"Are you talking about Billy?"
"Yes. His truck is here and there's blood everywhere. Billy is gone."
"I'll be there in a minute." Niki gathered her wits and her clothes. "I'll call Samson and get him to meet me there."
"Hurry. Please hurry. Something's happened." Sara Sue was now fanatic.
73
Home of Billy Bailey
"When did you last see your husband?" Samson asked after inspecting the garage.
"Tonight. I mean last night. He was here when I left for work. I had to catch up some small stuff there." Sara responded.
"What kind of mood was he in when you left?" Niki asked.
"He—He was antsy. With the hearing coming up, he's feeling the pressure. Me too." Sara Sue could not sit. She placed in the confined living area like a caged tiger.
"Did he say anything about going anywhere?" Samson kept his voice calm.
"No. He wouldn’t go anywhere. Billy promised Niki he would stay home until the hearing on Friday. He never breaks a promise. I can swear to that."
“When was the last time he ate at Linda's in Watson?”
"I—" Sara stopped pacing. "We went there a week ago. Why?"
"There's a soda cup from Linda's in the car. It still has some liquid in it." Samson paused. "No way it's been in his truck for a week."
"But he was staying home."
"How did the cup get into the truck?"
"I don't know," Sara shrugged. "He might have swung by there to pick up some livers. He loves them."
"Was there an empty box in the trash? I didn't see one."
Sara ran to the garbage disposal in the kitchen. After a brief inspection, she raced to the garage and lifted the lid to the garbage can. There was no box in either.
When she came back inside the house, she flopped down in the rocking chair, all energy drained. Sara folded her arms across her chest, a move Niki recognized as a protective reflex, trying to shield out the world.
Niki moved her chair next to the rocker. She reached a hand over to Sara's shoulder.
"We'll find him. Samson is the best in the business. If anyone can find Billy, then Samson can."
Tears rolled down Sara's cheeks onto her folded arms. When she spoke, her voice cracked.
"What—About—The—Blood?"
"He might have cut himself," Niki replied. "He could have gotten a ride to the hospital. Samson has his guys checking the emergency rooms to see if he showed up at one."
"The blood is in an irregular pattern," Samson interjected. "It seems to be strewn in a random manner. I'm not sure what to make of it."
"It means Billy is hurt," Sara Sue wailed. "What other meaning could there be?"
Samson motioned for Niki to follow him to the garage. Bright red splatters splashed against the truck, the walls, and the floor. He pointed to each display of blood.
"Look here," he pointed at the truck.
Niki did as he said, but saw nothing that stood out except the blood was fresh.
"Now, look here." Samson pointed at the blood on the floor.
"Now here," the chief motioned to the wall.
"What are you seeing that I'm not?"
"Three separate instances of blood splatter. Nothing in between," Samson paused. "If Billy was bleeding that much, what caused him to stop bleeding all the way from one place to the other?"
Niki looked again. She saw the spaces on the floor without a speck of blood. But there was plenty of it everywhere else.
"He could have wrapped the cut and then took the bandage off," Niki suggested.
"Okay," Samson nodded. "Where does the blood trail lead?"
"To the truck." Niki did not understand the significance of the question.
"Where does it lead after the truck? Where did he go from there?"
Niki realized what the seasoned chief of police was seeing. Or rather, not saying.
"It doesn't go anywhere. There is no trail away from the pickup."
"That's right," Samson nodded. "And we know he didn't take the truck. It's still here."
"If someone picked him up outside, there should be a blood trail from the truck to the driveway."
Niki searched the ground outside of the garage before continuing. "There is no blood anywhere out here."
Mayeaux retraced his steps from the door to the outside of the garage. Niki waited until he completed his the renewed search.
"What do you make of it, Samson?"
"The only logical reason I can come up with," another pause for the chief to re-calibrate his thoughts, "the blood evidence is planted."
"But there's so much of it," Niki protested. "Nobody could lose that much blood and still be alive."
"It only looks like a lot," Mayeaux responded. "But if you look closely, it's a little blood spread across three areas."
"Looks like a lot to me." She gave another glance at the three separate patterns.
"Have you ever had blood drawn for health reasons?"
"Sure," Niki replied.
"How much did they take?"
"Five or six of those little vials."
"There is more in each of those then you realize," he said. "Each vial could amount to enough to account for one of those splatters, at least."
Niki caught the implication of where Mayeaux was going with this theory.
"You think Billy planted the blood and took off?"
“Yep.” Mayeaux nodded. “I don't see any other logical explanation.”
"But why? Why would he do something so foolish?" Niki asked, although she already knew the answer.
"Because your client is guilty."
Niki's knees quivered. Her stomach roiled. She had believed in Bill Billy Bailey. She had given him her time and money to prove his innocence. Now he was on the run. The only reason to go on the lam was to avoid the hearing on Friday. The only reason to avoid the hearing was because Billy Bailey was guilty. He had molested Flavia. He had killed LaDonne. He had killed Earl Washington. He had killed Jimbo Wax. He had killed Flavia and blown up her car.
The facts hit her harder than a punch to the stomach. She found herself leaning over the flower bed, throwing up on the beautiful plants.
"I would say," Mayeaux chuckled, "that you are contaminating the scene of the crime."
Niki gave him a brief glance, then bent over one more time.
74
Baton Rouge Courthouse
"But, Your Honor, the primary witness has also disappeared. The defendant is not the only one missing." Durwin Kemp desperately tried to get an extension for the Friday hea
ring.
"If I am to understand the testimony from Chief Mayeaux, there was much too much blood at the scene of the car explosion for anyone to live with that kind of loss. Is that correct, Counselor?"
"The alleged victim has not been located. We can't assume she is dead. In either case, my client has the right to face his accuser. We have the right to cross-examine any testimony she may give." Kemp countered.
The judge leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses. He seemed to be weighing the logic of the attorney’s argument.
"Your Honor," the prosecutor jumped to her feet. "You cannot allow this travesty of justice. You cannot allow the defendant to kill the key witness and then fake his own death to get away from spending time in jail. This is a mockery of our system."
"How do you know the killed the witness? How do you know he faked his own death?"
"Because there is no other logical sequence of events, Your Honor." The counselor said.
"Then why haven't you brought charges against the defendant for the murder of Flavia Foster?"
"We—We are considering that possibility, Your Honor. We haven't gathered enough evidence to file yet."
The judge broke into a slight smile.
"Do you have enough evidence showing Mr. Bailey faked his own death?"
"The police," the prosecutor began, "they are still collecting evidence from the crime scene. We hope to have the report no later than Friday."
"Then tell me, Counselor," the judge stared at the prosecutor. "Why is this a one-way street?"
"I don't get it," the prosecutor mumbled. "I mean, I don't understand what Your Honor is saying."
"The let me be perfectly clear," the judge fingered the glasses in his hand. "You say the only scenario is the defendant killed the key witness, who was supposed to subject herself to a paternity test. And then he faked his own death and disappeared."