The Shoal of Time

by J. M. Redmann

  It was still a slog though them, but I was near now.

  The sirens were closer.

  My arms were getting tired from slapping away vines and weeds, my breath rasping as I struggled to push through the tangled brush.

  Get into the car, away from the mosquitoes. Just do it, I told myself.

  I could see the pitted driveway.

  Another step.

  And another.

  My car. It was about twenty feet away.

  I ripped my feet free from the matted weeds, stumbled on the rough gravel, gained my footing, and raced for my car.

  I didn’t bother with a seat belt, just gunned it into gear, did a sloppy three-point turn, one that scraped the bottom and undoubtedly left mud in places there shouldn’t be mud.

  But I needed to get out of there.

  I jounced around the worst of the potholes. There is never a good time to break an axle, but this would be an especially bad time.

  The road loomed before me.

  I paused before pulling out, listening for the sirens. They were coming from my left, which was the direction I wanted to go.

  At least at some point.

  I turned right.

  Hit the gas.

  Was at sixty mph in about six seconds. Then seventy, faster than this road allowed, but this was a straight patch and I was taking advantage of it.

  I slowed as I came to the first curve.

  In my rearview mirror, I saw flashing lights.

  I took the curve and slowed to the speed limit. As of now, I was just someone who grew up in the bayous and was taking a drive to visit old friends.

  Except I had been gone from here a long time. Taken to the suburbs when I was ten after my father died. Lived with my pious Aunt Greta and resigned Uncle Claude. It was thirty-plus years since I’d lived out here. I kept my father’s shipyard, but it had been destroyed in Katrina. Now it was just a wild patch of land that I didn’t know what to do with. Everything that held memories—the house, the patch of garden my mother had planted, the docks on the bayou—had all been washed away, replaced by wild debris that housed memories of strangers.

  I had only a past here; I didn’t have connections.

  But I still drove on, a leisurely pace. This was the only highway in or out, so I would have to go back the way I came and pass right by that hidden driveway. Much as I wanted to get back to the city—and decent cell service—I also wanted to delay being that close again. I drive a nondescript gray car, a little Mazda that looks like just about every other small car, but if anyone paid attention—and I was sure they couldn’t have missed it parked on the driveway—they might notice it on the way back.

  I had to wait long enough for the police to have mostly cleared out, but not long enough for the bad guys to come back.

  Chapter Seven

  I let about forty-five minutes pass before heading back. I stopped and got gas, indulged myself with a sugared, caffeinated soda, then hit a seafood place and picked up some oysters and crabs, less because I was hungry and more as a plausible excuse for being out here if I should need one. Seafood right off the dock. Was out on the Westbank, ran down to the family’s favorite seafood place.

  I’d never been there before, but they didn’t need to know that.

  I had turned my cell phone off. I hadn’t brought the car charger, and constantly searching for a signal had drained its battery.

  I was more than annoyed at being left behind. If Ashley was trying to reach me—which she’d better be doing—payback was that I wasn’t going to make it easy. I also didn’t want to talk to her while driving, especially on a narrow, unfamiliar road.

  I tried to keep my eyes on the road as I drove by the slight notch of the driveway, as if I was out here for the reasons I claimed to be with no awareness that anything had happened there. But I glanced quickly as I went by. It was a bare gap in the trees and brush, a flash of gravel and then gone. As if nothing had happened here.

  I headed back via the main bridge. I didn’t have a toll tag, since I didn’t cross the bridge often enough to need one, so there would be no record of my car. Plus I had the seafood—and its receipt—as an excuse for being on this side of the river. Ashley and her crew’s paranoia was infecting me. I hadn’t broken any laws. Well, technically breaking and entering, but they had the authority to do so. I was just along for the ride.

  By the time I got back to civilization, or at least stoplights and burger joints, I was starving. It was long past lunch, sliding into the early part of rush hour. Plus, I had burned up a few calories crawling through the woods. I ignored the siren call of orange and yellow signs promising greasy relief. I wanted to be home, safe on my territory before I could relax enough to eat.

  Even though I was going against the main flow of traffic, it was still an annoying mess coming into the city and through the CBD when everyone else was intent on getting out. I saw two left turns from the right lane.

  Cordelia and I used to joke that every day a new traffic memo went out—“today is jaywalking day—just meander out in traffic, if you don’t see the cars, they can’t hit you,” or “it’s wrong-way Thursday,” or as today, “left turn from the right lane day.” On Fridays all memos were in effect.

  But Cordelia was gone and she wasn’t coming back.

  I laid on my horn to suggest to the person in front of me that the traffic light was as green as it was going to get.

  I didn’t bother going to my office, instead headed straight home.

  The first order of business was food.

  It might as well be the oysters and crabs. It was still cold enough to eat the oysters raw. The rule is only in months with an R in them. I usually skip September as well just to be on the safe side. A little ketchup, horseradish sauce, lemon, and garlic, and I had a quick cocktail sauce.

  Only as I was slurping down bivalves did I turn my cell phone back on and check it.

  Ashley had called four times. She left three messages.

  I got a beer out of the refrigerator and finished the oysters. Never call a woman when you’re hungry.

  The crabs could wait. They’re too messy to crack while talking on the phone.

  She answered on the first ring.

  “Micky! Are you all right? I’ve been so worried about you.”

  I almost smiled at her concerned tone, but I wasn’t letting her off that easily.

  “What the hell happened? You tell me you’ll be back in a minute or two and the next thing I know a tattooed goon is shooting at me.”

  “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. This shouldn’t have happened.”

  “So how did it happen?”

  “We don’t know yet. Really bad luck…or they were tipped off.”

  “Are you accusing me?” I asked.

  “No, oh, no. Please don’t think that. No, we have some idea who might have done it. You’re nowhere even near the list.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “It happened so fast. I was talking to Cara, then Jack said everyone in the car, now. I started to call you to warn you but remembered you left your cell phone in your car.”

  That was true, I had. I hadn’t stuffed it in my pocket as I didn’t think I’d need it.

  She continued, “We pulled out and ducked into another driveway, waiting for them to come by.”

  “But it was only a few minutes after you left me that Mr. Tattooed Goon showed up.”

  “Damn. He must have come in some other way. We saw a big truck drive up a good ten minutes after we pulled out. It left almost immediately after.”

  I hadn’t heard the truck come in, although I had heard it leave. Of course, I hadn’t heard the SUV drive away either. Maybe because I was all the way in the back. Or maybe it had arrived while I was running through the woods and I couldn’t hear it over my rasping breath.

  “How could he have gotten in the front door without you seeing him?”

  “He probably came in the back way.”

  “I didn’t see a ba
ck way.”

  “It’s pretty well hidden.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We came back. To look for you.”

  “Oh. Did you call the local cops?”

  “Yes, I did that, Jack didn’t want me to, but I did anyway. We had to scare them off and that was the only way to do it.”

  “Why didn’t Jack want you to call?”

  “He wanted to bring in our team to really check the place out. And to avoid all the repeated questions and checking and double-checking the local cops would do when we came back. That’s how I found the back door, wandering around while they were questioning Jack and Cara. We only got back to our hotel a short while ago. I called you every chance when I had a signal.”

  That mollified me. That and the concern in her voice. “Okay, but let’s try to avoid these kinds of situations in the future.”

  “Yes, absolutely. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  “I must have been a cat in a previous life. Nine lives and all that.”

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she repeated. “Look, I need to make this up to you.”

  “Not necessary. Things messed up, but that’s not your fault.”

  “I got you into this. Besides…I’d like to. I’ve got piles of paperwork and meetings all day tomorrow and probably tomorrow evening, but in the next day or two let me take you out to dinner, one of the really good restaurants here.”

  I smiled as I hung up. Yeah, I’d be eating alone tonight, but it was nice to have an evening out with Ashley to look forward to.

  I finished the crabs, eating about half and saving the rest for crab cakes. I wondered vaguely what it would be like to cook for Ashley. I contented myself with two more beers to ease into the night. After my day, I felt I deserved them.

  Of course what I didn’t deserve was the headache in the morning. It wasn’t the beer, I decided as I looked at my sleep-tousled hair in the bathroom mirror. The seafood place had put a little too much cayenne in the crab boil. Or maybe it was the changing weather. Or that I hadn’t slept well. Even three beers hadn’t been enough to keep me from waking at every noise wondering if some tattooed giant was breaking in.

  Back to real life, I told myself as I stepped in the shower. Today would be a nice, relaxing day of boring paper chases. Nothing more strenuous than filing.

  As I got out of the shower, I noticed that my knees and elbows were bruised from my crawl in the woods yesterday. Proof that it had really happened.

  And that Ashley wanted to make it up to me.

  I didn’t bother with breakfast, instead grabbing a big travel mug of coffee, a bagel, and a banana. I’d eat at my office while checking email.

  I had slept a little late, so I didn’t get to my office until around 9:30.

  As I pulled up, an unmarked car pulled in right behind me. It had that look to it. A big black boxy car. It could be mob, but I checked in my rear view mirror and made out the radio and some official-type parking sticker.

  Good times. I took a sip of my coffee, then dialed Ashley. I angled my head slightly to conceal the cell from them.

  “Hey, Micky, what’s up?” She sounded far more awake than I did.

  “Some of your compatriots have joined me outside my workplace. An unmarked car just pulled in behind me.” They could want something unrelated to our adventures yesterday, but my money was on the most obvious.

  “Not our team. You might want to be careful. We’re pretty sure we have a mole. Do your best to not reveal anything.”

  “If I need, will you come bail me out?”

  “Of course, but I doubt you’ll need that. It’s your word against a bunch of crooks that you were even there.”

  The driver’s door opened.

  “Gotta go. Time for the third degree.”

  “Good luck,” I heard her tinny voice say as I shut my cell phone.

  I quickly stuffed it into my pocket and took a leisurely sip of my coffee. Using my side mirror, I looked at the person stepping out of the car.

  Hot. Not my coffee. The woman staring at me in the mirror. She’d caught that I was checking her out and she was looking right in the mirror and therefore at me.

  She was tall, broad shoulders that indicated muscles and time working out. Her hair was dark, almost black, cut short and in the spiky style favored nowadays. Her eyes were hidden by sunglasses and her skin was pale, that of someone who worked overtime in the office instead of heading out to the beach early on Friday. Her clothes were as unmarked as the car: tailored black slacks, a conservative blue button-down shirt, and a gray blazer large enough to easily hide the gun I knew she had to be packing.

  She stared at me in the mirror. It was my turn.

  I considered sitting in my car, forcing her hand, but that wouldn’t improve what would undoubtedly be a less-than-fun experience.

  I shoved open my door and got out.

  “Top of the morning to you,” I said.

  “I’m looking for Michele Knight. You her?”

  Her voice was definitely in the dyke range and her accent from somewhere not at all local. It sounded Mid-Atlantic newscaster, as if she’d taken speech lessons.

  “Who’s looking?” I asked.

  “I ask the questions.”

  I wondered if she knew how clichéd that line was. To make the point I glanced at my watch.

  I was silent long enough—about two seconds—for her to ask, “Can I see your ID?”

  “You’d have to show me your ID to prove that you have the authority to ask to see my ID.” I took a sip of my coffee.

  She took off her sunglasses and stared at me. Stunning blue eyes.

  “You’re going to make this hard, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “I’m going to make this legal. Right now we’re just two strangers standing on a public street.”

  “Your car,” she pointed at my license plate, “was seen at the location of a crime.”

  “We haven’t even established I’m the person you’re looking for.”

  “You’re either Michele Knight or her evil twin.”

  “She’s back? I thought she’d left for Eastern Europe about a decade ago and agreed to never return.”

  “You want to talk in the street or somewhere more private?”

  “Actually I don’t want to talk. You have a good day.” I turned and headed for my building.

  Of course she followed. Of course I had to fumble with my key, almost dropping it, giving her plenty of time to position herself to push through the door behind me.

  “I take it your answer is more private,” she said as I started up the steps.

  “Wrong. My answer is that I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “That, I’m afraid, is not an option.”

  I ignored her as I hastened up the stairs. Maybe three flights would slow her down.

  Her long, athletic legs easily kept pace.

  I tried not to huff and puff as I put the key in my office door. Gym, every day next week, I vowed.

  After catching a breath but before opening my door, I said, “I have not committed any crime. If my car was in the vicinity of a crime scene, it was coincidence. I’m sorry you had to waste the gas to come down here, but that’s the whole story.”

  “Mind if I ask a few questions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t we go in your office and make ourselves comfortable?” She smiled at me. Of course, she had perfect white teeth. “This is going to take a while.”

  Do it. Jump through the hoops. Get it over with. Resigned, I sighed as I opened the door to my office.

  “Sorry, I don’t have any coffee. Except for this,” I said lifting the travel mug in my hand. “Ran out last week and haven’t had time to get more.” Not true. I never run out of coffee. I had some tucked away in the cupboard. I drink good coffee and I didn’t want her to feel welcome.

  “Not a problem. I prefer tea anyway.”

  “Don’t have any of that either.” Also a lie. A friend brought
me back tea from Australia with kangaroos on the box. So cute. That was also stuck somewhere in the cupboard.

  I crossed my office and sat at my desk, leaving her to find her own seat. I was trying to decide how to play this. Clearly someone had tipped off the crooks that law enforcement had been sniffing around their hideout. Was this dark and handsome stranger part of that? No way to know. The way to play it was safe. I knew nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing, and forgot it even if I did.

  “So what’s this about?” I asked as she made herself comfortable in the chair closest to my desk. “Oh, and before I answer questions, can I see some ID? Can’t be too careful these days.”

  “You are Michele Knight, aren’t you?”

  She probably had already reviewed my driver’s license and passport photo, so I said, “Yes, I am.” I didn’t tell her most people call me Micky; she’d have to earn that. “And you are?”

  “Special Agent Emily Harris.”

  “ID please?”

  She pulled out the fancy FBI badge and waved it under my nose. Could it be a fake? Yeah, but even if she’d let me look at it for ten minutes I probably wouldn’t be able to tell. It’s not like I’ve spent a lot of time examining FBI papers.

  “So, what’s an important FIB like you doing tracking down a peon like me?” I smiled as I said it. We both knew she was probably low on the totem pole and been assigned the grunt work. I rarely crossed paths with the FBI, but I knew they didn’t like their initials inverted to FIB.

  Her look told me she knew exactly what I was up to. I reminded myself she didn’t get to be an FBI agent by being dumb.

  “Following up on leads. Where were you yesterday?”

  “In the morning I met a client over on the Westbank.”

  “Can you give me the name of the client?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “We can subpoena, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. My clients pay me for confidentiality. That means I’m legally obligated to make it as hard as possible. Even if it’s a total waste of your time.”

  She nodded, not agreement, just acknowledgment, then said, “Where on the Westbank?”

  “Over in Harvey, past the canal.”

  Another nod, but it didn’t look like she knew where I was talking about. “And then what?”