by David Aslin
“Okay, let’s get out of here.” E said.
“Yeah.” Ian replied, then gulped down the remainder of his drink.
E motioned to the cocktail waitress who came right over to their table. E handed the waitress a hundred dollar bill. “This should take care of our last drinks, and put a couple coins in your pocket.” The waitress smiled bright as she exclaimed, “Oh, goodness, thank you!” She then glanced at Ian. “Thank you both!”
The two men then got up from their table. Ian walked in front of E. He glanced back at E before they exited the place. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you back at the hotel in about an hour or so?”
E replied, “Sounds about right.”
CHAPTER 8
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
Ian continued trudging through the French Quarter, Bourbon Street, upstream through the pandemonium of unbridled, debaucherous bacchanalia. Just when he’d thought he could take no more of being pushed, prodded and tussled about; as well as having a rainbow of colorful libations liberally sloshed all over him, he spotted his destination. Nearly defaulting to survival instincts, Ian shouted its name, “Madame Zulie’s Voodoo, Magic, and Psychic Reading.” As if by doing so it would somehow miraculously cause the mob all about him to part like Moses’ parting of the, Red Sea, allowing his final fifty yards of passage to be markedly easier than the last three blocks had been.
Ian made his way to the front door, but upon his arrival he was nearly instantly discouraged. There were no lights on in the place. And then he spotted a sign in the window that said, closed. Just as he started to turn to leave, the door slowly opened. Ian’s curiosity as always immediately became his body’s driver. He stepped forward towards the front door and peered inside.
“Well, you juz gonna stands dare or is ya come’n in?” Ian heard the decidedly female Jamaican voice from across the room proclaim, regarding his peering inside. Ian cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and then crossed over the doorway’s threshold into the darkness of the shop. All at once the plethora of various odors of the place invaded his nostrils in a full on assault. Suddenly one after another candles began to seemingly light themselves. Within seconds, the entire shop was illuminated by sufficient candlelight making further navigation throughout the place relatively easy.
“I see yer Scout dog not whit cha, I know’d he’s taken by powerful dark, Loa’ Deez days, some’ed say, bad juju, some’ed say udder tings. But dat not zactly propa’r but, none’lest powerful dark magic, means juz da seem.”
Ian now more concerned about Scout than ever blurted out, “What do you know about my dog? What’s wrong with, Scout?”
Madame Zulie stepped out of the darkness of the back room of her shop, into the candlelight where Ian could see her. “You and da mission-man fella gotta be a go’n it a lone ‘gainst powerful dark voodoo magic. You Scout dog can’t help neither o’ ya’z now. You listen to the mission-man he yer only hope. You and he, all our only hope. And one more. But the bones don’t see hims face. Him’s got no face and him’s had so many. So many face ‘n so many names, so many names. Him’s not no man, him’s Loa’ but him’s both good and him’s bad. Him’s walks mainly in darkness, but him’s wants ta walk in da light. Hims wants you to show him da way. No questions. You go now. Go to, Ile des Morts. Mind you, mind the mission-man, ‘n may-haps you juz may’t live. May-haps, we all juz may’t. ‘Cept da bones say, one will fall along da way. One will fall along da way.” All at once Madame Zulie tossed Ian a small doll made of wax and straw. But when Ian caught the doll, its left arm broke-off in his hands. “You be keep’n what’s important left of that there doll on you all times, maybe times right, you’ll know what it fo’, Misser Ian.” The instant Madame Zulie was done speaking, all of the candles blew out from what appeared to be a sudden gust of strong wind that lasted no more than a couple seconds; it seemed to blow in through the open front door. Ian spooked by having seen what he’d just seen and heard, turned swiftly towards the door stuffed the main body of the doll into his shirt pocket, and made a swift exit from the shop never looking back. He thought to himself, Wow, that was some parlor trick with the candles, and what’s this in my pocket, some sort of voodoo doll? And mission-man, that describes E to the T. She calls my dog, my Scout dog. Coincidence…? I’ve got to check on him, right away.
Within a second of exiting Madam Zulie’s, Ian spotted a taxi parked directly in front of the shop; one that under the circumstances (hundreds of people all around but nobody hailing it) seemed almost curiously to be waiting there just for him.
Ian stepped up to the cab, the driver looked up from his smart phone and motioned for Ian to climb aboard.
“Where you be head’n suhr?” The young handsome ebony skinned cab driver asked Ian.
Ian noted straight away that the cabbie was Haitian from the gris gris bag the young man wore around his neck, and the various talismans suspended from his rearview mirror and on the dashboard of the cab. “Take me, if you would, to my motel, the Château LaRiviere.” Ian spoke with noticeable fatigue in his voice.
“Have’n a long day, sir?” The cab driver asked Ian as he pulled away from the curb and headed into traffic.
Ian replied, “Yeah. It’s been a long one, that and my…”
The cab driver interrupted, “Your dog is sick.”
Ian very startled fired back, “How’d, how’d you know my dog was sick?”
The cab driver didn’t reply right away. But after a few seconds, which seemed to Ian to be an eternity of silence regarding his question, the cabbie replied, “Oh, no reason suhr, you just look like a man who’s got a sick dog.”
Ian didn’t speak anymore to the cabby the rest of the ride. He arrived to his hotel in very little time, the traffic seemed to be fairly light on the streets, as Ian mused to himself, Everybody is downtown walking Bourbon Street.
Upon reaching his destination Ian paid the driver and tipped him well.
Before he turned to walk away from the cab, the driver opened his passenger-side window and nearly shouted to Ian, “Take care now. There be a storm brew’n, big storm. Can you feel it? It comes for you!” Then without hesitation the cab pulled away from the curb and sped off. Ian, a little taken aback about what the cab driver might have been referring to, turned and rapidly began walking up the steps of the grand home transformed to hotel. Suddenly the old mansion struck Ian somewhat as a metaphor for all of New Orleans as he silently mused, Nothing in this town seems to be exactly as it appears.
The moment Ian entered into the chateau, he was greeted by Madame Ruth LaRiviere the owner. She appeared to Ian to be organizing brochures of the area, getting ready to return them to their appointed sleeves in the display rack from where she must have gathered them for straightening.
“How do, Misser McDermott?” Madame LaRiviere spoke the moment she first laid eyes on Ian.
“Why how do you do, Ma’am? Ian replied.
“Oh, I do ‘bout as good as most women my age, I ‘spose.” Madame LaRiviere sweetly replied.
“Suhr, your business partner, Misser E, he be wait’n for you up’n yo room. Not long now, maybe twenty minute. Oh, and you also got a visit today to your room a few hours ago from Misser Collins. Misser Collins. I know’d he was alright to let up in yer room for a bit, he and I go way back. He said he’d be back in a day ‘er so, and ‘till then he wants you to, what was that he said, now? Oh, yes, yer to mind the, mission-man.” Ian was becoming more than a little muddled by the overwhelming feeling beyond the mere sensations of déjà vu; circumstances and any initially perceived coincidences, he thought to himself while climbing the stairs. Coincidence? As if that plays into any of this.
Ian retrieved his room key from his jeans pocket and unlocked the door to his room. He immediately opened the door and entered. The lights were on. Ian instantly spotted E seated at the small desk table.
“Got done early?” Ian half-heartedly asked. E said nothing.
Untypical for Scout, he didn’t instantly get up and b
ound over to Ian. He just laid at the foot of the bed. He did wag his tail just a bit upon seeing Ian. Without saying another word to E, Ian rapidly approached Scout. Scout was breathing hard and growled as Ian bent down to pet him. Instantly Ian stood up and looked directly at, E. “What’s, what this? He’s never ever growled at me before. Not even when he was attacked and in what had to be great pain. What can I do for him, he looks terrible! Ian looked across the room at Scout’s food and water dishes, it was apparent that neither had been touched all day.
E, removed his dark glasses. “You’re dogs rapidly becoming like me, but, it’s like I told you before, on the cellular level he, it’s doubtful that he can adapt to it. I truly wish I could tell you different. The truth is, I believe he’s dying. Ian, there’s nothing that can be done for him. He’s going to turn all Cujo on you, before much longer. I got a call from Clayton. He says he was here earlier and checked your dog out. He told me there isn’t much time before, well, like I said. He’s got to be put down, Ian.”
Ian became wobbly-kneed as he tried to make it to the bed to sit down, but his legs betrayed him. He fell down onto his knees in the middle of the room. Ian McDermott, a man who recently had the physical and internal strength to do battle with, and prevail against real monsters; had suddenly become completely overwhelmed. Overcome by the return of the dark specter known by only some as ultimate sorrow, which he had experienced in spades, after the deaths of his wife and daughter at the hands of a drunk driver. A condition, which not long ago had almost proven terminal, as it had sent him into a cavernous depression so deep, that it almost spelled his demise, by grief stricken, grief driven madness.
E spoke. “Listen … I know this is a terrible time for you. But according to my sources we’ve got to make our move and make it tonight. Clayton did come through for us in a huge way. Somehow, with all of his connections he was able to score us a couple of orderly uniforms along with name badges that have barcode scanner I.D.’s. Their hanging in the closet. Knowing Clayton like I do, I didn’t bother asking him how the hell he pulled that off. Not sure I’d even want to know. All he told me in a note that was hanging with the uniforms is that the two orderlies we will be replacing are supposed to be on shift tonight. And we fit their general description quite neatly. The place employs dozens of orderlies besides the guards and they seldom work with others beyond their two person partner-teams. We’re supposedly a B-wing team, but our I.D. cards will get us to all three sections, wings A, B and, C. Including, hopefully the basement, where I’m told much of the truly exciting stuff happens. The basement is referred to by the staff as the dungeon, or the torture chamber. That’s so cliché it’s almost laughable. But in this case, completely appropriate, I surmise. We should be able to walk around the graveyard shift with relative impunity; without much concern about being buggered out.” Ian didn’t reply. Still on his knees on the floor, he just looked at E with totally glossed-over eyes. As if he couldn’t believe that E was seriously considering that he leave Scout, so they could proceed full steam ahead on his mission.
Ian finally managed to get his feet under him. He stood up slowly as he began to speak with a shaky voice. “I’m not, I’m not going anywhere. Not with you, not with anyone. I’m staying right here with my dog. With, Scout. Maybe get him to a vet.”
E, almost shouting, suddenly blurted out, “Have you not heard one word I’ve been telling you. Your dog is way beyond the help of any veterinarian. Your dog is dying Ian and there’s nothing in heaven or hell that can change that. Now, I suggest you let me put him out of his misery. Or, we wait until we return, if we return. This situation going on at the Island is far beyond just you and me. But we may be the only chance to stop this before it spells Armageddon, do you understand me? Do you comprehend the gravity of what I’m telling you? From what I’d heard before from sources combined with additional information that I received not an hour ago, I’m convinced that the threat is real and I, and hopefully we have got to take action before these madmen are given the time required to reach their Machiavellian machinations. Ian I swore an oath albeit many years ago to protect my country at all cost, regardless of what countries soil I might be residing. This problem, if left unchecked will go global mark my words. And I for one am not going to stand by and let that happen.” E paused to see if any of his words were making any impression on Ian, if any of this was getting through, and they were. “So I’ll ask you just this last time, are you in, or are you out?”
Ian wiped his tear filled eyes as he stood up tall. Somehow his demeanor changed all at once as he spoke. “If my wife and daughter were still with us and I now had the ability to do something, anything that would insure their security. If Scout here was human, he’s already as much as laid down his life for my miserable soul…” Ian took a deep breath, then continued, “E, you remind me in a way of the two best men I’ve ever known. Bud O’Brien and Charlie Redtail. Bud laid down his life in service of his town. And Charlie would do the same without a second’s hesitation. Well, I’m nothing by comparison to you or them, but such as I am… yes. I’m in. Let’s take down these fuckers.”
E smiled. Which was a rare thing for him. Ian then continued. “Just one thing. We, you must figure out a way for us to take Scout with us. Maybe he’ll get better, maybe not. One things for sure we can’t leave him here and I’m not yet ready to give up on him. He pulled through once before against pretty much all odds. I say we give him the chance to do it again. My money says he’ll do it.”
E let out a sigh, but then looked as though he had an idea. “No worries, I’ve got an air-pistol and some tranquilizer darts in my truck. Hey, doesn’t everybody?” E
It almost sounded to Ian as if he was making a joke, almost.
“Alright, I’ll shoot him…” Ian suddenly looked concerned, E continued, “Just to sedate him; once he’s under we’ll carry him out, and put him in the back of my truck that’s parked out back. Anyway, the truck has a lockable canopy. We’ll make him a bed, he’ll stay warm enough and be under for hours.”
Ian shifted his attention from E back to Scout, who seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, as he nodded his approval of the plan, “Why’d I think you’d drive some sort of a sports car? An, Aston Martin, if memory serves…?”
E, with a cheeky Cheshire-cat smile replied, “Don’t be ridiculous, I haven’t driven one of those since, 1964. Ah, the DB5. No, tonight, for reasons that will soon be obvious, I’m driving my Toyota truck. But, just to be straight forward with you, I more frequently, drive a BMW Z3, for its fuel economy. And, when weather permits, as you Americans so colorfully say, I enjoy hauling-ass on my Harley.”
CHAPTER 9
Acquainted
Ian very laboriously managed to carry the sedated Scout out of the hotel. He stood wobbly kneed and spaghetti-armed in front of the hotel waiting for E to pull around the block to pick them up. The night sky had grown even darker than expected. It was now totally void of moonlight and stars. The wind was beginning to pick up; all signs indicated that there may be another significant tropical storm heading this way. Just when Ian thought he couldn’t hold his friend any longer, E pulled around the corner and quickly pulled his truck and boat in tow, up in front of him, next to the curb.
E climbed out of his truck and immediately came to Ian’s aide. E relieved Scout from Ian’s grasp. Ian was somewhat embarrassed, noticing the apparent ease that E handled his nearly one hundred pound dog.
“Ian, kindly open the canopy door, mate. I anticipated this possibility. That you’d insist to take your dog here. I’ve stowed some blankets in the back. You might want to arrange them into a bed of sorts for him. He should stay comfortable enough.”
Ian did as E suggested as he replied, “Um, E, thanks.”
Once Ian had Scout laying on his make shift bed, Ian closed the canopy door and he and E climbed into E’s truck. “Say, that’s a nice boat you’re towing, it’s called a, zodiac, isn’t it?”
E smiled as he pulled awa
y from the curb out into traffic. “That’s right, Ian. Are you familiar with boats like this?” Ian shook his head no, “No, not really, I’ve just seen the type, mostly in movies, and…”
E interjected, “Well, this ones the genuine article. It’s an F470 C.R.R.C., which stands for, Combat Rubber Raiding Craft. Its name, the part referring to it being a craft made of rubber, isn’t completely accurate, it’s comprised of many materials besides rubber, including most importantly, heavy laminations of Kevlar. It’s rigged for near silent running, with a heavily baffled fifty-five horsepower two-stroke pump jet. I picked it up at a military auction. It was retired, and that it once belonged to Seal team five.”
Ian was impressed by the boat and its history. But his mind, his concentration was on Scout. It didn’t occur to him to ask E why he had a boat in tow in the first place.
“It’s going to take us the better part of two hours to get to a suitable area to launch and conceal the truck.”
Ian was mentally slapped into reality by E’s last words. “Launch?” Ian said with a rapidly developing knot in his gut.
“That’s right, did you think we were going to swim to the Island? It’s six miles from the mainland, just north of the mouth of the Mississippi, which creates a hell-of-a strong current; not to mention storm surged waves, and shark infested waters. Look around Ian, there’s a storm brewing, and it looks to be a whopper! We’ll be lucky to make it to the Island alive by boat as it is.” E laughed, “Swim! I had no idea you were such an animal!” Ian knew that E understood what he meant. He knew that E was just messing with him.