by B J Bourg
The Friday night parade in Mechant Loup was a raucous and well attended event. Men, women, and children of every age and maturity level stood shoulder-to-shoulder and a dozen bodies deep along every inch of the route just waiting to catch something special. Unlike the children’s day parade that had rolled last Sunday, alcohol was the drink of choice at the night parade. Based on some of the dance moves Achilles and I had witnessed, there were a lot of drunks out here. Despite the large volume of alcohol consumption, we hadn’t had any fights or disturbances so far tonight, which was unusual for our night parades.
Susan was two floats ahead of me and—since she was the chief of police—she was leading the parade, so she would reach Grace before I did. This was Grace’s first parade and my mom and Susan’s mom had argued about who would be there to watch her. Unable to reach a compromise, they decided they would both be there, and they had joined Melvin’s wife and daughter, who were catching the parade in front of the police department. I could imagine the wrestling going on between the women as they tried to get the most time with Grace. They each wanted to be her favorite grandmother and it was obvious there was a competition going on between them. I grunted at the thought. I wasn’t the least bit intimidated by Susan. I knew I was Grace’s favorite dad, just as I knew Susan was her favorite mom—no competition necessary.
I steered my Tahoe toward the left side of the road and strained to see around the floats, but couldn’t. The float directly in front of the band was occupied by women dressed as super heroes. They were dancing and throwing beads and other goodies like it was their job. The float rocked with the rhythm of their dancing and their voices nearly drowned out the music from the giant speakers that were strapped to the overhead compartment of the float. Suddenly, the float lurched to a halt and some of the women fell forward, drunk and off balance.
I knew Susan had stopped the parade so she could get out and kiss Grace, who was nine months and fifteen days old today. I smiled at the thought of our mothers fighting over something Grace wouldn’t even remember. My smile turned to a scowl when I saw some of the drummers shrugging out of their harnesses. I wanted to stop them, tell them to stand ready, that I wanted to hurry and get this over with so I could go home, but I just sat there.
“You know, Achilles,” I said out aloud, “if I ever find the man who invented Mardi Gras, I’ll kick his ass from here to Bourbon Street. Sure, it might be fun for the party-goers, but what about those of us who have to sit in these damn cop cars and watch everyone else live the life? It’s not fair, I tell you.”
He blinked, but didn’t say a word. I preferred to believe he agreed with me and I was about to get on the radio to tell my wife to finish kissing Grace so we could get moving when it scratched to life without me touching it. I cocked my head to the side when our dispatcher, Lindsey Savoie, called for any available unit to head for the east side of town as soon as possible.
“A Donald Boudreaux called from 3602 Cypress Highway to say there’s a vicious dog in his yard and if someone doesn’t come get it soon he’s going to shoot it.”
My head snapped down to regard my radio, waiting to see if any of our officers were close. Aside from Susan and me, who was the chief of detectives, there were four patrol officers working for the town: Melvin Saltzman, Amy Cooke, Takecia Gayle, and Baylor Rice. They were all working the parade route and were somewhere behind me. As I listened, they all called out their locations and I realized I was the only one in a position to escape from the parade.
“I’m en route, headquarters,” I called, hitting my siren and waving for the crowd to my left to move away from the cross street they were blocking. “Make a hole so I can access the cross street,” I said loudly. “I need to answer an emergency call.”
Some drunk at the front of the crowd smiled and waved a hand eagerly. “Throw me something, mister law man!”
Not amused, I switched to my PA system and addressed them in an authoritative voice. “Move away from the cross street so I can get through. This is an emergency.”
One or two people moved, but the rest of the crowd just stood there talking amongst each other, waiting for the rest of the parade to lumber through and throw them something.
“Someone’s about to kill a dog,” I hollered. “So get the hell out of the way!”
That got their attention and they all scrambled to the right or left, making a path wide enough to fit two vehicles. I waved my thanks and eased through the gap that had formed, being careful not to run over any toes or other body parts. Once I was clear of the crowd, I sped up and turned right on Grace Street—no relation to my daughter—and then headed south on Back. Once I’d crossed the bridge that connected the west side of town with the east, I made my way to Cypress Highway and headed south. There weren’t many homes along this stretch of highway and the few neighborhoods in the area were separated by large patches of sugarcane fields, most of which were bare this time of year.
I had travelled a few miles when I saw a mailbox that read 3588. I tapped the brake pedal and Achilles looked up when we began to slow. “Sorry, big man,” I said idly, “you won’t be getting out on this one. I’m trying to save a dog, not feed one to you.”
He cocked his head to the side, but didn’t respond. I kept driving and nodded when I saw the right address. I pulled to the shoulder and shoved the gearshift in park. After snatching Achilles’ leash from the floorboard and stepping out into the night air, I ordered him to stay. I couldn’t be sure, but I could’ve sworn he flipped me off just as I turned and walked away.
The house was about twenty yards from the highway and a dirt driveway led from the shoulder of the road to the side of an old colonial house, where an old pickup truck was parked. The front yard was lit up like the daytime, and I could see that the saltbox roof was covered in rust and the wooden siding was weathered and rotting in some places.
“Back here, officer!” called a voice when I announced my presence. Light was shining through the door and the only window at the front of the house, and I glanced in that direction as I walked around the southern side of the house. A pair of large brown eyes filled with curiosity and fear peered out from behind the window at me. I smiled and waved, and the kid waved back.
When I reached the back yard, I had to lift an arm to shield my eyes from a spotlight that hung off of an old shed. When I took in the scene before me, I lurched to a stop and almost reached for my pistol.
CHAPTER 4
“Put that damn gun down!” I said, snarling as I stepped toward the middle-aged man who had the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun planted on the snout of a medium-sized German shepherd. The light above was shining brightly on the dog and I could see its tail wagging as it looked up at the man with innocent eyes, completely oblivious to the danger it faced. “Do it now!”
“He’s trespassing on my private property,” the man countered, refusing to lower the gun. “I have a right to defend myself and my family.”
I was close enough to jerk the man off his feet, but I was afraid I’d startle him into pulling the trigger. “And if you shoot that dog, I have a right to arrest you for aggravated cruelty to animals, which is a felony punishable by up to ten years in prison.”
The man’s head jerked around. “Prison? For defending my family?”
I shot a thumb over my shoulder. “If that young man in the window is part of your family, then I’d say he doesn’t need defending.” I then pointed to the black and tan saddle back German shepherd with the black mask. “And there’s nothing mean about that dog. Now, for the last time, lower your gun.” My voice was low, but deadly. “I won’t tell you again.”
The man grunted and let the shotgun dangle at his side. “If I get bit, I’m suing the piss out of your department.”
“Understood.” I extended my hand. “I’m Clint Wolf.”
“Donald,” he mumbled, shaking my hand. “This is the third time this mutt’s gotten loose. The last time he showed up here, it scared my wife half to death. I’m
sick of it. I mean, how hard is it to keep your damn dog on a leash?”
I walked past Donald and squatted beside the dog. It was a female and, according to the gold tag hanging from the red collar, her name was Coco. She shoved her nose into my armpit, whining softly. “What’s wrong, girl?”
Donald mumbled something behind me and I attached Achilles’ leash to the collar and straightened. “What’s that?” I asked Donald.
“Tell that man to keep his dog off of my property.” He hefted the shotgun in his hand. “Or next time, that dog’s gonna snap at me and I’ll have to do what I have to do to defend myself.”
I stepped closer to him. “If you ever shoot this harmless dog, I’ll make sure you rot in jail.”
Donald gulped and stepped aside as I pushed my way forward, Coco walking obediently beside me. She kept whining, and I stopped near my Tahoe to squat and examine her. She didn’t seem to be injured. “What’re you crying about, little girl?”
I heard some scratching at the glass above me and looked up to see Achilles sniffing aggressively at the crack in the window. He wanted to come out and play. Coco noticed him and tried to put her paws on the side panel of the door, but I stopped her. I stood and glanced north along Cypress Highway, from whence we’d come. The address on the dog tag was 3588—the mailbox I’d driven by a few minutes ago. It was too far to walk, so I’d have to put Coco in my Tahoe with Achilles and me. I just didn’t know how I’d keep them apart.
After telling Achilles to stay in the front seat, I let Coco into the back cargo area and told her to sit. She did and I told her to stay. I hesitated before closing the back gate, watching her and Achilles carefully. They were staring intently at each other and it appeared they were falling in love across several feet of open car space. I slammed the gate and hurriedly moved into the driver’s seat. I stole a glance at Achilles. “Give it up, big man. We’ve got to bring her back.”
Achilles didn’t even acknowledge my existence. I shrugged and headed back north. As we neared the address, Coco began whining incessantly and she scratched at the inner panel. I cocked my head sideways as I stared through the rearview mirror at her. “What’s wrong, girl? What’s going on with you?”
She let out a shrill bark when I turned into the driveway and my headlights lit up a white picket fence and the front of a tan home with maroon shutters. Like Donald’s house, this structure was an old Colonial home with a saltbox roof, but it was in much better condition. Someone had put a lot of time and effort into restoring this old house, and it was something to see.
I followed the S-shaped shell drive, which curved around an ancient oak tree that stood proudly in the front yard, and then stopped abruptly when I saw an unmarked police car parked at the top end of the S. The car was oddly familiar. Coco was going crazy now and I had to give her several commands before she would sit and settle down.
Meanwhile, Achilles’ ears had perked up and he had turned his attention forward, staring intently into the darkness toward the northwestern corner of the house. An uneasy feeling began to grow in my belly as I studied the unmarked cruiser. It looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember why. The license plate was a public one, but I couldn’t tell from which department it came.
“Stay,” I said quietly as I opened my door. Achilles squirmed in his seat, and I knew he wanted out. Whatever he was sensing, it couldn’t be good. I didn’t click my door shut. Instead, I left it slightly ajar in case I needed him to come to my rescue.
Dropping my right hand close to my pistol, I pulled out my flashlight with my other hand and aimed it around the exterior of the home. Other than Coco whining behind me, everything was still—deathly still—and there was no sign of life. I walked toward the back of the car and shone my light through the rear windshield. The car was empty. I glanced back at Achilles and he was still staring off into the darkness. I took a breath and stepped forward to head in that direction when I kicked something that jingled underfoot. I glanced down and saw a set of keys in the shells.
I squatted and examined the ring, which contained a keyless remote, what appeared to be a key for the cruiser, a house key, some kind of office key, and a handcuff key. Grabbing the inside of the metal ring with my pinky, I retrieved the keys and shoved them into my pocket.
I was about to stand up when something else on the ground caught my eye and made me suck in a breath. There—resting inside an upturned shell in the driveway—was a single drop of blood, and it was fresh. It was a small drop, but it was blood, and blood was never a good thing when it was outside of the human body.
I turned the beam of my flashlight toward the driver side of the detective car and closely examined the paint. Everything seemed clean. I moved higher on the door panel, checking it carefully and scanning the entire surface of the windows. Nothing. I was about to turn away when the light illuminated a thin mist of blood along the edge of the roof. It appeared to have been cast off of a bloody object.
I frowned, glanced around. What in the hell is going on around here?
CHAPTER 5
Feeling a bit alarmed and on high alert, I continued forward, my gun hand at the ready as I moved stealthily through the darkness. The floodlights on the house were off, as were the lights inside of the home, so I got no help there. Additionally, the umbrella of thick leaves from neighboring oak trees didn’t allow light from the moon and stars to filter through, so I was forced to consult with my flashlight often. Frequent checks of the ground didn’t reveal more blood drops, but it was possible I could’ve missed some, thanks to the darkness and my unwillingness to turn my attention away from my surroundings for too long.
The shell drive gave way to a concrete slab that led to a double-car garage, the door of which was closed. A large green trash can was positioned to the right side of the garage door, and there was an opening that allowed access to a back patio. I was about to make my way in that direction when I heard a muffled sound from somewhere to my left, which was where Achilles had been staring. I hesitated and looked toward the area of the sound.
A clump of bushes seemed to be the dividing line between the property on which I stood and the neighboring property, where two old sheds were positioned one behind the other. The shed toward the back of the property was weathered but seemed to be in decent condition, while the one closest to the highway was dilapidated and in ruins. It appeared someone had begun demolishing that shed, stopped to take a lunch break, and then forgot to come back and finish the job. There was a large stack of wood piled up beside the first shed, and it was possible one of the weathered planks had shifted and made the noise I heard.
I waited a minute longer and glanced toward my Tahoe. I couldn’t see Achilles or Coco, but I could hear the vehicle shift and I figured one of them was moving around. Probably Coco, because Achilles usually obeyed my order when I told him to sit—well, unless he thought I was in danger, at which point he would eat his way through the door and come to my rescue.
I shrugged and turned back toward the back of the house. I took a quick glance in the garbage can—it was empty and free of blood—and stepped through the opening between the corner of the house and the corner of the garage. Right at that moment, I heard the muffled sound again, but this time I could tell it was coming from the area of the second shed. Not sure what to expect—a small varmint, perhaps?—I abandoned the patio area, crossed the driveway in front of the garage, and slinked along the plush carpet of grass.
When I reached the property line, I slipped between two of the shrubs and squeezed out the other side, careful not to let the branches slap back in place and announce my presence. I kept my flashlight off, preferring to move by feel and sound, rather than sight. While my light was an asset in that it allowed me to see my surroundings, it also made me a target. Until I knew what was going on around here and could explain the blood, it was better that I remained invisible as much as possible.
I hadn’t gone ten feet past the shadows of the shrubs when I heard the muffled sound again. It so
unded like a low moan and it was definitely emitting from inside the shed. My heart thumped in my chest. What in God’s name had I stumbled upon?
I paused for a long moment to ensure that I was alone and to consider my next move. I wanted to call for backup, but I could hear the sirens in the distance and knew that all of our officers were still occupied with the parade and they wouldn’t be able to break free to come out here. Waiting would be the prudent thing, but if a life was in danger, I needed to act quickly. Once the parade was over, Melvin would be working the remainder of the night shift to offer Amy backup and he could join me, but I knew I couldn’t wait that long. After all, I’d located blood, which could mean someone was in trouble—and that someone might be on the other side of that rough and weathered wall just a few yards away from me.
“To hell with it,” I whispered, “I’m going for it.”
Saying a silent prayer that Grace—I’d taken to calling her Gracie—wouldn’t be fatherless so soon in her young life, I quickly closed the distance between me and the shed and felt my way along the wall until I reached a door. The knob was small and round and felt ancient. I just knew if I turned it the damn thing would squeak.
Why couldn’t I have a can of WD-40 in my back pocket like every good Cajun? I wondered, taking a breath and holding it. With my left hand wrapped firmly around the knob, I began turning it as slow as I could. It didn’t even feel like my hand was moving, but I could hear the old metal protesting as it gave way under my gentle force.
When I couldn’t turn it anymore, I eased my pistol from its holster with my right hand and took a breath. After running through a mental countdown, I shoved my shoulder into the door and rushed inside. I cleared the doorway in a hurry and shuffled toward the left, keeping my back pressed against the wall as I moved. My boot made contact with something metal and it clanked noisily across the hard-packed dirt floor, causing whoever—or whatever—was in the shed to gasp out loud.