City of Secrets

by O'Neil De Noux

  “Got a lotta food,” Dillard says.

  “We gonna need it,” says Carlos.

  Ace and Oscar let Carlos think he’s in charge after they all ate. They talk him out of a frontal attack. Dillard, who was an army sergeant is coming out of the funk of his dead cousin’s death, adds what he can. Oscar takes the lead in the plan.

  “We can’t set up before dark. We’ll be spotted. He’s a night rider so he’ll come home around dawn. I think we should go in around three in the morning. Just like the cops do in a raid.” Oscar points to Axel’s crude drawing. “We set up next to the boats on both sides. Catch him in a cross fire when he comes home.”

  “Not right across from each other,” Dillard adds, “or we’ll shoot each other.” He points to the drawing of boats on one side closer to the land. “Here and on the other side of the dock, here.” Points to boats closer to where they think the cop lives. “Wait’ll he gets between us and open up.” Dillard leans back in his kitchen chair. “He can’t run either way.”

  Everyone gets up and goes load their guns except Carlos. He picks up another piece of fried chicken and eats it alone in the kitchen. Terez comes for him a few minutes later and he goes out into the living room with her, stands in the doorway and waits for Oscar and Ace to look at him.

  “Y’all still ain’t found Donna Fuckin’ Elena, have you?”

  •

  Beau dabs the perspiration from his eyes, knowing he’s smudging the face paint but the heat and humidity won’t let up. He covers his watch with his right hand and pushes the light button, which stays on for five seconds. It’s almost ten p.m. No back ups. Not that he expected them to actually show. Felicity went to make sure around six but the only company Beau has is the black cat, sitting aboard Dome Patrol, while Beau’s atop the middle boat, Tiger Melon. He’s on his stomach, tactical bag with extra magazines rest against his back, like a backpack, its strap across his chest. His Glock lies next to his right hand, the baby Glock in a holster on his right hip. Four magazines for the Glock line his left hip, two magazines for the baby Glock are on his belt on either side of the holster. The air’s so thick, it’s like a sauna. He’s used to this, but can’t help perspiring.

  Before battle, a Sioux warrior prepares himself, painting himself, chanting the ancient songs, hardening all the soft places within, thus denying his enemy a spot to wound him. Beau smiles to himself. Ancient songs? No one taught him any of those. He remembers nights on the reservation when the men would paint themselves and dance and chant around a fire. He asked his grandfather what they were singing and the old man said, “Only they know.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means they make it up as they go along.”

  Calixte Beau laughed about it later, alone with his son. “Gibberish. Sioux are a great tribe, son, but dey were a stone-age people when the Europeans came. Even after centuries of French and English and Spanish here, de great plains warriors still used de travois to move tings. They never figure how to use a wheel.”

  Laurie Beau pointed out books to her son. “My tribe has no written language. Everything is handed down by word of mouth. The white man, the Chinese, Indians from India, Arabs all have libraries. Millions of books are out there, son. A single brain can only hold so much.”

  Beau waits tonight, steeling himself, hardening his heart for this task. A voice deep within tells him this will be an important night in his life because the white eyes will come for him, bringing their hatred and vengeance, their high powered weapons. They will have him outnumbered. It will be a contest between good and evil. No. It will be a contest between two different breeds of warrior. One whose heart is black with killing rage and one who kills because he must.

  The lights at the beginning of landing and near Sad Lisa and the warehouse are brighter since he replaced the yellow forty-watt bulbs with hundred-watt white bulbs. He unscrewed the bulbs just this side of the landing, left three bulbs between that dark area and on while the three before Touché, Tiger Melon and Dome Patrol are unscrewed, leaving his area in darkness now. He keeps watching the landing.

  Shortly after eleven he sees an armadillo sniff around the entrance of the pier before going back where it came from. The baying of a coyote off to the east is answered by coyotes much closer. The black cat is undisturbed by the coyotes.

  Beau takes a bottle of water from the ice chest, rubs it across his neck, the cold feeling so good, then opens the bottle and takes a sip. It’s a sixteen ounce bottle and he drains it slowly. The black cat jumps off the next boat and casually moves to the nearest food dish and eats some of the dried food he’s left out.

  Beau moves his legs and arms around, one at a time, flexing them, keeping them limber. He forces his mind from drifting, concentrating on each moment. The next hour creeps past, then the next. He sits up, then stands and goes down to the wheelhouse. The bathroom, the head, is just inside and Beau relives himself of the water he drank. Standing on deck, he stretches the kinks out of his back, readjusts the tactical bag, then goes back up top to lay on his stomach again.

  Shortly before four a.m. a low growl turns Beau away from the landing. A hiss is followed by a higher pitched growl. He sees them, the black cat and the tabby, two tomcats posturing, backs arched as they cautiously approach one another. The tabby is much larger but the black cat’s not backing down.

  Beau reaches into the cooler, pulls out another bottle of water, twists off the cap, takes a long drink before sitting up and tossing the bottle at the cats. Water mists from the open spout on the way down and it’s a great throw, the bottle crashing to the pier about two feet from the cats and spraying them with water and they scatter. Beats having blood on the dock.

  He looks at the landing again and sees it’s as blank as it’s been all night. He turns to Sad Lisa and sees one of the tomcats near it. The black cat. It slips through the iron gate and jumps aboard his houseboat. It’s probably going to spray the boat, mark it. He’ll have to hose down the deck in the morning.

  I should have let them fight it out.

  When Beau looks back at the landing he sees two men moving carefully through the light, each carrying an AK-47. White men wearing dark clothes. They reach the first dark area as two more men come, both black and wearing lighter clothes, one with an AK, the other with a Tec-9. They are quickly followed by two more white males and two men who could be Latino. No, one is a woman. She carries a Tec-9, the men with AKs.

  The first two men move through the second lighted area and closer until they are in the darkness of the three boats where Beau lies. One climbs aboard Touché, the other board Tiger Melon, just below Beau lying atop the wheelhouse. The two black men move to Dome Patrol and go aboard, while the other four continue up the pier to set up on the this side of the lights illuminating Sad Lisa.

  The white male aboard Tiger Melon lies on his belly near the bow, AK pointing to the pier. He’s only about twelve feet from Beau who carefully lifts his Glock, points it at the man. Beau moves his head slowly, from side to side, looking at the man sitting at the bow of Touché, then the two men aboard Dome Patrol. None has thought of climbing atop a wheelhouse.

  They’ve set up an ambush for Beau.

  The man beneath him breathes hard as Beau pushes himself as flat as he can, controlling his own breathing. He has eight targets. Eight against one. The bastards are waiting for him to come home. Beads of perspiration tickling their way down the sides of his face. The humidity seems denser, the air stuffy as if he’s in a closet. He waits as the long minutes tick by.

  The man aboard Touché is still sitting up, leaning forward now, chin on his chest, AK-47 across his lap. Sleeping. The man below is not, his head moving from side to side, then facing the landing, readjusting himself, making scraping noises. Waiting.

  How do I work this?

  Don’t think. Don’t plan. Just wait and watch and –

  Beau reaches for the battle calm, relaxing to a tranquility so when the battle is joined the warrior’s co
ol hand strikes true, while his enemies, particularly the white-eyes, will let their blood rise to levels to make their aim unreliable. The patient warrior waits, alert, ever ready.

  The minutes drag, the tension as thick as the humidity.

  The man below him sits up, looking toward the landing now and Beau follows his gaze and sees her moving slowly, purposefully. She’s in the white Apple tee-shirt and jeans, white sneakers, her hair back in a pony tail again.

  Beau feels his heart slamming in his chest. He leans up, sees the man on Touché is still asleep. The man below raises his AK, moving it toward Donna Elena, bathed in bright light now and still coming.

  “Donna! Run!”

  Beneath Beau, the man’s head snaps around and he swings the AK and Beau shoots him twice in the head. He rolls and levels the Glock at the man aboard Touché who starts to stand up. aiming his AK-47 at Donna Elena running and Beau fires four rounds, two, then two and the man crumbles, AK-47 firing into the air on his way overboard.

  Ack! Ack! Ack! Pow! Pow! Pow! Ack! Ack! Ack! Pow! Pow! Pow! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack!

  Ack! Ack! Ack! Pow! Pow! Pow! Ack! Ack! Ack! Pow! Pow! Pow! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack!

  The others open up, rounds peppering Tiger Melon and Touché and the pier as Donna Elena disappears into a dark portion. Beau scrambles down to the deck of Tiger Melon and spots one of the men aboard Dome Patrol moving his way and spraying Tiger Melon with his AK. Beau kneels, aims and fires four quick rounds and the man staggers, his AK firing downward now – Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack!

  Beau takes careful aim and sends two more rounds into the man who falls forward tumbling into the water.

  Beau leaps off Tiger Melon to the jetty and reloads his Glock. There’s still a round in the chamber and now seventeen in the magazine. The air is thick with burned gunpowder, Beau’s ears ringing as the shooting suddenly stops. He goes down on his stomach, pointing the Glock toward the bow of Dome Patrol, sees a movement.

  “Ace?” It’s a faint call. Then a little louder, “Ace?”

  It’s too dark to see and Beau listens. He needs to calm himself as his heart beats in his ears. He takes in long, quiet breaths, hoping to slow the heartbeat. He hears running feet ahead and to his left, coming from the area of Sad Lisa. The ensuing quiet is eerie as the sound of the gunfire still echoes in Beau’s eardrums.

  A slight noise draws his aim to the bow of Dome Patrol again as something flies across to Tiger Melon and crashes aboard. That works in movies, tossing something so someone will shoot at it. It doesn’t work here. Beau waits. The jetty is wooden – boards nailed tightly together, about four feet wide and just above the waterline. It extends a couple feet beyond the stern of the boats up to the pier where there are three steps. Tiger Melon is tied to the jetty where Beau lies. Dome Patrol is tide to the jetty on its far side. Beau’s hands are so wet, perspiration drips from them. He squeezes the grip of the Glock, feels the tackiness of the pinion coating on the grip.

  “Where is he?” the voice echoes up the pier, gets no answer.

  “Where the fuck is he? Did we get him?”

  “He was on the boat next to us.” This voice comes from the bow of Dome Patrol. “Fucker was there all along!”

  “Did we get him?”

  “I don’t fuckin’ know. Ace, you back there?”

  “Bubba? Billy?” This is another voice from down the pier.

  What to do now, douche bags? You don’t know where I am and you have to pass by me to get out. Beau remains motionless, waiting, listening, straining to see. He’s in a dark pit but there is a slight ambient light that shows the pier, even the front of Dome Patrol.

  The seconds drag into minutes and even longer and the quiet returns. Without wind, the lake water is too still to move in the harbor to even trickle against the boats. It’s as if the world is holding its breath.

  Beau isn’t sure at first but then he’s sure he sees the crown of a head inching around the wheelhouse of Dome Patrol. Moving to get a eye out to see all of Tiger Melon, maybe to see that happened to Ace. In the shootout there was no way they heard him splash in the water. Beau inches the sights of the Glock around. The sights are reflective white and stand out against the blackness. The head inches out a little more.

  It’s maybe twenty feet away. He aims carefully squeezes the trigger slowly, too slowly. Even with the standard two-handed police grip, the Glock wavers. If he misses, he’s dead. The AK will spray the area, can’t miss him this close. Beau re-acquires the target and squeezes again just as the head pulls back.

  “Ace?” A harsh whisper.

  “Ace? A little louder, coming from where the head pulled back.

  Beau sees the boat rock slightly, knows the man is moving. He rolls on his right side and waits. The boat moves again and a scrape draws his attention to the wheelhouse. The man’s climbing up the other side.

  Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack!

  The bullets strike Tiger Melon as it’s sprayed bow to stern, glass and wood splinters fall on Beau as he raises the Glock and aims at the top of the wheelhouse. He sees the muzzle flashes but not the shooter. It isn’t until the magazine’s empty does Beau realize the shooter is screaming.

  He doesn’t stop screaming as he jumps down the front of the wheelhouse and Beau is up and moving quickly, keeping low. The man leaps off Dome Patrol, loading the AK-47 as he runs and Beau fires six quick rounds, sending the man tumbling to the pier, the AK sliding into the light. Beau huddles at the end of the jetty against the pier as the others open up.

  Ack! Ack! Ack! Pow! Pow! Pow! Ack! Ack! Ack! Pow! Pow! Pow! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack!

  Ack! Ack! Ack! Pow! Pow! Pow! Ack! Ack! Ack! Pow! Pow! Pow! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack!

  Ack! Ack! Ack! Pow! Pow! Pow! Ack! Ack! Ack! Pow! Pow! Pow! Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack!

  Beau crawls along the cat walk abutting the pier and moves past Tiger Melon and Touché, both getting peppered, rounds slamming into the boats, debris falling around Beau as he continues toward away from them, toward the landing. They stop shooting and the quiet again rings in his ears as the gunfire echoes as if the firing is still going on, but it isn’t.

  How much ammo did they bring?

  He moves rapidly now along the catwalk as the lights are on here, the entire area bright. He cringes, waiting for the bullets to strike. He grabs a white metal guard rail, pulls himself up, slips through the railing that runs along the concrete walkway the width of the marina. Beau slips behind one of the wide, brick and cement pillars that supports the high aluminum awning over the pier.

  What’s that? The wind? A almost cooling wind comes in from the lake along with the scent of rain.

  Ninety yards away, Dillard leans close to Axel and whispers, “How many you think?”

  “Just fuckin’ one.”

  “One?”

  “Him! The killer cop. Mother-fucker. I think that’s Oscar lying over there.”

  Axel lays his AK-47 down on the pier. He pulls the Beretta nine-millimeter out of the waistband of his jeans and slides it between his belt and the jeans, hoping it’ll say there. He looks down at the water, realizes there’s a catwalk and steps down on it.

  “Where you going?”

  “I’m swimmin’ outta here.”

  “What? Wait.” Dillard leans down. He’s on his belly up on the pier. “I can’t swim.”

  “I can,” Axel says, dangling his feet off the catwalk. He does not hesitate, pushing away and plopping into the water. He goes under, comes right up, doesn’t look back as he swims away. Breaststroke. Causes very little wake, makes very little noise.

  The water rises and falls with the wind and Axel has a choice. He can go to the point at the tip of Lake Pontchartrain, climb up the rocks and he’ll be along Lakeshore Drive, or he can go straight across the small harbor to the ruins of the restaurants. Most of the pilings stick out of the water and he knows they are creosote coated with nails and he might cut himself. He opts for the point and big rocks that protect
the levee.

  Dillard watches until Axel is out of sight and slowly crawls across the pier to where Carlos and Terez are hidden. He sends a harsh whisper, “It’s me. Dillard. Don’t shoot.”

  It’s not until he’s almost on them to realize Carlos and Terez are on the far side catwalk, their foreheads and eyes looking over the pier at him.

  “Where’s Axel?”

  “He swam outta here.”

  “What?” Carlos’s voice is too loud and Dillard cringes, waiting for a round to hit him.

  Beau hears a voice, knows it’s a distance away. He’s sets up on his belly again, peeking around the brick base of the pillar, the entire pier in his line of sight. They’ll have to go through two lighted areas if they’re that far away and the closest area is very well lit. He reloads the Glock, back to eighteen rounds, and waits. Looking down the pier, he’s relieved that Donna Elena isn’t lying there.

  A wave slaps Axel, fills his mouth with brackish lake water, part salt, part fresh water, some swamp water. Nauseating. He abandons the breaststroke, pulling and kicking as waves come in from the lake. He hears the rain closing in and pushes harder. Damn it’s further than he thought. Is the Beretta slipping? Another wave washes over him and he goes under a moment, comes up spitting out water.

  There’s a rope ahead and he reaches for it, grabs it and a wide white mouth curls back at his hand and the snake bites him. He lets got and shakes the arm and the snake falls off and bites him again, this time on his left arm and Axel screams and thrashes, pounding the water with his hands, kicking his legs and feels a sting on his left side, sees another white mouth flash as a snake bites his neck. Another white mouth bites his right arm again and he knows he’s swum into a nest of cottonmouths.

  Axel shoves himself up and swims as hard as he can, kicking and pulling and doesn’t feel any more bites but his body burns and his hand hits something hard before he crashes into a boulder. It’s the breakwater and Axel pulls himself out. He crawls between two huge rocks and over another and another until he feel grass and rolls over on his back. Another sting on his side and he sees a cottonmouth pull away and he cannot move now. The long, black snake slithers past Axel’s face he turns his head to the side to vomit. He’s dizzy. Manages to pull his head back up as the rain arrives. Cool rain falling on his burning body, putting the fire out but it’s too much fire. It’s like rain falling on a hot tin roof. He can’t breathe and tries but he just can’t.