by B J Bourg
Melvin was right. Other than an occasional snort of an alligator, a splash of some marine life, or birds singing, everything was deathly still. It was a bit unnerving. I tried to imagine a party of young Kamakic Indians gliding across the water in canoes made from hollowed-out cypress logs, revenge on their minds and rage in their hearts. They had gone after a band of heartless heathens who had murdered women and children. I swallowed hard. We, too, were going after heartless heathens who had murdered women and children, but we were bound by a different set of rules and we couldn’t just go off killing—
A mosquito suddenly sank its tiny syringe into the left side of my face and broke me from my thoughts. In a deft motion, and making no sound, I smashed the mosquito to my face. It would be the first of many I would kill, of that I was sure.
Grabbing onto nearby branches, Melvin, Mallory, and I began guiding the boat toward the hiding spot. I heard Mallory suck in her breath and turned to see her standing frozen, with her eyes closed. Inches from her face, coiled around a tree limb, was a large snake. It was facing her and seemed agitated.
“It’s okay,” Melvin whispered, taking a step closer to Mallory. “It’s non-venomous.”
I studied our surroundings as Melvin used a push-pole to swing the boat around and create some distance between Mallory and the snake. I thought I’d heard a noise that didn’t fit into the normal swamp sounds, but I couldn’t place it. I cocked my head to the side and listened intently. Mallory’s attention was still on the snake that was now about five feet from her, and Melvin was trying not to let the boat hit the fallen tree and make noise.
The sun was slowly rising to the east and shadows were starting to take shape now, but the fog was still thick and our visibility was only about twenty feet. The breeze that had been blowing softly slacked off somewhat and the sound I’d heard a few seconds earlier carried across the water. From the corners of my eyes, I saw Melvin stop what he was doing and turn toward the open lake. He then glanced at me and our eyes locked briefly. He indicated the north and I nodded.
Shifting my feet very carefully, I turned until I was facing the direction of the noise. It was only then that I recognized the sound. It was the humming of a trolling motor. Someone was coming!
CHAPTER 41
Susan wasn’t especially thrilled about having to babysit Chuck Duval, but she understood the importance of keeping an eye on the grieving father. The ex-detective was nice enough and he seemed to be willing to do whatever she needed him to do, so she put him to work entering traffic tickets into the computer. It only took a few minutes to teach him the computer program, and then he was off on his own, sitting at the extra computer in the dispatcher’s station and working so intently that it was obvious he was trying to keep himself busy.
Knowing Chuck would be busy for a few hours, Susan strode to Clint’s office and began reviewing the lab reports more closely, trying to do her part to help solve the case. There were hundreds of items of evidence and she began analyzing each one carefully. She glanced often at the time on her phone, wondering if Clint, Melvin, and Mallory had made it to the island on Lake Berg. She was worried sick about Clint, so she also wanted to keep busy to keep her mind preoccupied.
She had just finished going through the results of the evidence on the first page when Clint’s desk phone buzzed.
“Chief, are you in there?” asked Lindsey. She had been a constant in the police department for many years, and she was as good at her job as any.
“Yeah, I’m here.” Susan picked up the handset. “Is it Chuck? Is he giving you problems?”
“No, he’s fine. It’s the crime lab. They’re calling about the gun that was used in the murder.”
“Put it through.”
Susan hung up the handset and waited. When it rang again, she picked up. “It’s Susan Wolf, what’s up?”
“Oh, I was looking for Clint Wolf.”
“Yeah, I’m his wife, and I’m also the chief of police here in Mechant Loup. What’d you find out about the gun?”
There was a moment of hesitation, and then the lab tech said, “Well, if you give me a fax number, I can send along the ATF trace form.”
Susan provided the number and the tech said she was sending it over now. After thanking her, Susan walked to the dispatcher’s station and waited impatiently. That the crime lab had raised the serial number was a miracle on its own, but now that they had a registered owner’s name, this could be the big break Clint had been waiting for.
As the report slowly spat from the fax machine, she leaned close to read what she could of it. “Huh?” she said as she snatched the form from the paper tray. “Who in the hell is Patrick Carville?”
The address was for Brandon, Mississippi. She groaned. She didn’t have time to drive to Mississippi to speak to the man, so her only hope was to find a public service number registered to him. She fired up Clint’s computer and ran a name inquiry on Patrick Carville. She crossed her fingers when his current address and cell number were displayed.
“Please don’t be disconnected,” she said of the phone number as she dialed, “or dead.” According to the printout, the man was north of eighty years old and she didn’t know if he was still around or how much help he would be. And what if the number wasn’t registered to Carville?
“Who is this?” came a gruff voice. “If you’re one of those damn telemarketers, you’d better save yourself some time and hang up. And while you’re at it, go hang yourself!”
“No, sir, I’m not a telemarketer—and I hate them as much as you do.”
That brought a satisfied grunt from the man. “Who are you looking for? Mary’s at the grocery store and won’t be back for at least another hour. When she starts shopping, she doesn’t know when to stop.”
“No, I’m actually looking for Mr. Patrick Carville. My name is Susan Wolf and I’m the police chief for Mechant Loup, here in Louisiana. I needed—”
“Is it Dennis? Is he okay?”
“Dennis?”
“He’s my son. He lives in Mechant Loup. Is everything okay?”
Susan scowled as her mind began to work. It suddenly made perfect sense how a shotgun from Mississippi could’ve gotten to Louisiana. “It’s not about Dennis,” she said idly, as she tried to remember where she’d heard that name recently. “It’s about a shotgun that used to be registered to you. It was a twelve-gauge double-barreled shotgun. It was purchased about twenty-five years ago from a gun shop in Jackson.”
“Oh, yeah, I know the one, but I don’t have it anymore.”
“What happened to it?”
“I gave it to Dennis. He’s been using it for a few years now. I gave it to him for protection against alligators when he moved down into the swamps. He said alligators will come right up out of the water and into his back yard.” He shuddered on the other end of the phone. “I’m more scared of alligators than I am of Mary when I forget to put the toilet seat—”
“Is Dennis a mechanic?” Susan asked, interrupting.
“Why, yes, he is. Do you know him?”
“No.” Susan’s eyes had narrowed. “Not formally. Well, you’ve been a big help. If I need anything more, I’ll give you a call.”
“But wait, what’s wrong with the shotgun?”
“Um, we’re not sure just yet. We located a shotgun and it had the serial number scratched off. The lab was able to lift the serial number and it came back to you, so I was calling to see if it had been stolen.”
“Well, if it was stolen, Dennis would have to speak to that, because he’s the one who owns it now.” There was a brief pause and then he asked if he was in trouble for giving his son the gun.
Susan told him he was not in trouble and thanked him again, then returned the handset to the cradle. She quickly ran a criminal history check on Dennis Carville and frowned. He was clean.
Susan wanted to call Clint, but she didn’t want to ring his phone while he was trying to track down a murderer in the swamps. He should’ve turned off his ph
one, but she didn’t want to call it just in case he’d forgotten. She’d hate to be the reason his position was given away. Another thought came to her and she hurried to the jail cell at the back of the police department building. “Philip, do you remember your rights?”
He lifted a disheveled head and squinted against the light in the hallway. “How long are you going to keep me locked up?” he demanded to know.
“You’ll go before a magistrate this afternoon and the judge will set bail on your current charges,” Susan explained. “Whether or not you’re charged with murder will depend upon what happens in the next few days. Now, do you remember your Miranda rights, or do I need to read them to you again?”
“I remember them.”
“Are you still willing to talk to me and answer questions?”
Philip nodded his tired head.
“How do you know Dennis Carville?”
Philip’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Carville? I’ve never even heard of that name.”
Susan frowned, believing he was telling the truth. And if he was, it might mean he had nothing to do with the murders. She turned slowly and began walking toward the front of the building, wondering what she should do.
“Hey,” Philip called after her, “who in the hell is Dennis Carville?”
She ignored him and a plan formed in her mind as she walked. She picked up speed and hurried past the dispatcher’s office, trying not to attract Chuck’s attention, but she had no such luck. The man didn’t seem to miss a thing. She was just reaching for the doorknob to her Tahoe when she heard Chuck clear his throat directly behind her. She spun around. “Mr. Duval…I didn’t hear you walk up.”
“I couldn’t help but notice you left in a hurry, as though you were on a mission.” He shot a thumb toward the police department. “Did that bastard give you a lead?”
Susan hesitated, not wanting to waste time. She sighed and quickly told him to get in her Tahoe. As she drove to the Bayou View Pub, she explained to Chuck what she had learned. He nodded and listened.
“So, are you thinking Philip Crenshaw stole the map but didn’t kill my family?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid so.”
“But he admitted to breaking into Carl’s house with a key he stole while working for him,” Chuck protested. “And whoever killed them probably used a key to enter the house. I know he had something to do with it.”
“Or the killers knocked on the door and were invited inside.” Susan slowed as she reached the parking lot to the bar. “The biggest question I’ve had is this: if Philip and Nathan stole the map, then why would they kill Carl’s family in front of him? What were they trying to get out of him? Think about it, Mr. Duval, they already had the map—they stole it and got away clean—so they had no reason to go after Carl again.”
He grunted and opened his door when Susan shut off the engine. It was still early in the day, but the bar usually served lunches and someone was always there by six in the morning. A car was already parked in the driveway.
“Don’t say a word,” Susan cautioned Chuck. “Let me do all of the talking.”
As their boots crunched across the driveway, Chuck asked if he could intercede if she needed backup. Susan chuckled, then nodded her head. “Sure, but only as a last resort.”
Although it was a bright day outside, the bar was dark and Susan had to blink a few times before her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the place. When she could make out the shadows inside, she saw a man with white hair bustling about behind the bar. A cigarette hung from his lips and he glanced up, squinting through the smoke.
“Chief Wolf,” said Ed Brody fondly. He was the owner of the establishment and Susan had met with him numerous times over the year.
“Ed, how’s it going?” Susan wanted to be polite, but she didn’t have time to waste, so she continued before he could respond to her greeting. “Where’s Dixie?”
“She called me first thing this morning and said she wasn’t feeling well and asked if she could have the day off.” He grunted. “It seems like I’m on my own today.”
Susan chewed on her bottom lip, thinking. “Do you know a man named Dennis Carville?”
“Yeah, that’s Dixie’s boyfriend. He’s the first good one she’s had since I’ve known her. That poor girl is a magnet for scum.”
“Of course!” Susan slapped her head as she spun and stormed out of the barroom, with a bewildered Chuck following behind, asking what was wrong.
“Dixie was in the bar when Nathan was running his mouth about the treasure map, she was also in the bar the night he was killed, and her boyfriend’s gun was used to kill your son and grandkids.” Susan shook her head and slipped into her Tahoe as she called Clint. “Those are not coincidences. That bitch lied to us so she could protect Dennis.”
CHAPTER 42
Melvin, Mallory, and I all stood deathly still. It had been about twenty minutes since we first heard the trolling motor, and the sound came and went on the wind. Out on the lake, on a quiet day, sounds could be deceptive. Something a mile away could seem to be a hundred yards out, while something nearby could seem to be far off.
An alligator was floating on the water just to my left, about ten feet from the boat. There were two more to my right—one of them at least nine feet long—and they were about fifteen feet away. They had appeared while we stood like statues, and the slightest movement would probably send them scattering—unless boaters had been feeding them. We were always handling complaints of alligators coming too close to boats and swimmers, and this was a direct result of irresponsible people intentionally feeding the gators or negligently discarding scrap food and bait from their boats. We tried to educate the public with brochures, lectures, and signs at every boat launch that read, “A fed gator is a dead gator,” but it seemed we were fighting a losing battle. Still, we pressed the fight.
The fog had thinned somewhat with the approaching sunrise, but our visibility was only about thirty feet.
I lifted a hand to signal for Melvin, and the alligator nearest the boat suddenly disappeared.
“Anything?” I mouthed.
He shook his head slowly, trying not to rock the boat. “Getting closer,” he mouthed. “Anytime now.”
He was right. The humming of the trolling motor seemed to be almost upon us. I turned my attention back toward the open lake and my eyes strained to penetrate the wall of mist, but it was no use.
We must’ve waited for another five minutes when there was a slight plop of water and the two alligators to my right disappeared. My heart started to beat a little faster as the sound of wood softly bumping wood carried to us from where the trolling motor was whining.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Melvin’s hand had drifted to the pistol on his belt and Mallory had tilted the muzzle of the shotgun slightly upward, in the direction of the approaching boat. My own hand was wrapped around my Beretta 92FS semi-automatic pistol and my index finger was pressed against the release button on my holster.
My senses were heightened and everything around me seemed amplified. Tiny waves from the approaching vessel lapped loudly against the hull of our boat. A heavy bead of sweat dripped down my face. A mosquito drank thirstily from the back of my neck. The gases from the swamp water stung my nostrils—
And then, appearing out of the fog like a ghost, the bow of a flatboat came into view. Milliseconds later, a human figure started to take shape as the trolling motor continued to push the flat boat forward. It was on a collision course with our boat and would make contact within seconds.
Suddenly, the human figure gasped audibly and I knew we’d been spotted. I recognized the voice to be that of a woman. As the boat continued forward and her face and body broke through the last shades of mist, I recognized her with a start. She recognized me in that very instant as well, and exclaimed loudly.
Several things happened simultaneously, all of them with lightning speed and a potential for a deadly outcome. From the opposite side of the boat
, I saw Melvin’s pistol come up to bear on the boat. Closer to me, Mallory’s shotgun lifted to her shoulder and she peered down the rail at Dixie Boudreaux. And from the front of the approaching boat, Dixie screamed for help and—quite unexpectedly, and taking all of us by surprise—then threw herself headlong into the alligator-infested water.
CHAPTER 43
Dixie was screaming for help and thrashing around in the brackish water. Without thought, I kicked off my boots and was diving into the water long before I’d had the time to talk myself out of it. As I was in midair, I heard a boat engine roar to life and I caught sight of the guy named Dennis, whom I’d met at the Bayou View Pub, working the till frantically in an attempt to turn the boat around and get the hell out of Dodge.
Although the morning air had been cool, the water was warm and inviting as it enveloped me, but I was not fooled. The scenario in which I found myself—of my own doing, no less—was a precarious one. I had acted on instinct out of a desire to save Dixie’s life, but I was now wondering why I hadn’t simply thrown her a rope.
“Help me! Please, God, someone help me!” she screamed, her head bobbing up and down like a fishing cork. It seemed that each time she went under the surface of the water it took a little longer for her to resurface.
I kicked my feet strongly and paddled with my hands, heading for her as fast as I could swim. I could hear the roar of Melvin’s boat motor coming to life as the other boat’s engine puttered and struggled to fire up. It finally turned over and started and I heard Dennis give a shout of triumph.
Although I was scared to death I’d be eaten by an alligator and I was focused on trying to get to Dixie before she drowned, my mind was working overtime wondering how in the hell the mechanic named Dennis had gotten involved with the treasure murders, and I was also wondering why Dixie was with him.