Murder on a Saturday Night

by K. C. Sivils

  Eager to be paid and free of his tormentor, the driver nodded and pulled the keys from the van’s ignition, opening the driver’s door as he did so. He stepped down from the van and tossed the driver’s keys to the older man who caught them with his left hand in a smooth, graceful motion.

  “Inside,” the man said, nodding at the entrance to the decaying home.

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  He allowed the young man three steps before he drew the .22 from his windbreaker. The bark of the .22 was just loud enough for the girls in the van to hear. The low-velocity round entered the back of the driver's head at an upwards angle without the energy necessary to exit a human skull, instead ricocheting off the inside of the forehead. The driver was dead before he hit the ground.

  Disgusted, the older man checked his weapon and then returned it to his windbreaker. Perhaps now his employer would listen to him. He always worked better alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Nick Devereaux wasn't a man who looked back. Whatever regrets he felt about the life he'd led had more to do with past bad acts causing him difficulties in the present. It wasn't that he didn't care for other humans. Nick did, in fact, love his children, and to a small degree, he even loved Anna for more than just her money or the fact she was a magnificent trophy wife.

  Sitting alone in the room he found himself confined in, Nick found he'd spent more time considering his past misdeeds than he'd ever spent before. And what he'd considered disturbed him. Of all the things he'd done wrong or been involved in, Nick was sure he'd identified the sin his captor referred to in order to torment him.

  It had to be. The others had died or simply vanished from Nick's circle of friends. Sitting alone in his prison, Nick felt the anger growing within. He'd kept his mouth shut like he'd promised. Making matters worse, it hadn't been his idea. He'd even tried to dissuade the others from carrying out their nefarious plan.

  Living ever in the moment, Nick heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside his tiny prison. He sat up in the lone chair in the room and leaned back, tipping the chair up on its two back legs like a schoolboy. Keys rattled in the door lock, alerting Nick to his tormentor's imminent arrival.

  Stepping in through the door, the man looked around the interior of the cell. Saying nothing, he shut the door behind him, locking the door and pocketing the keys. Ignoring Nick, the man strolled over to the cot, turned around, and sat down.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Nick quipped. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

  "Always the funny man, aren't you, Devereaux?"

  Nick smiled and shrugged. “Life’s short, you know. You need to enjoy the time you have in this life, not be all grim and uptight all the time.”

  “Have you figured out what the sin is that brought you here?”

  “I was thinking about that very thing just before you so graciously paid me a visit.”

  “And?”

  Nick studied the man sitting on the cot, trying in vain to place the man and if he knew him. Admitting what he'd surmised could be dangerous, Nick thought as he studied the darkness of his tormentor's eyes.

  “To be honest, sir, I have a long list of sins to contemplate. It would help a bit if you narrowed things down for me. For starters, what is your name?”

  A smile spread across the man’s face. He fished in his shirt pocket and extracted what Nick surmised was a photograph. Standing, the man leaned over, offering the small photo for Nick to take.

  “I figure this will help you narrow things down a bit.” He smiled as Nick took the photograph and extracted the keys from his pocket. “I’ll be back later after you’ve had time to take a look at that and think about things a bit more.”

  Unwilling to give his captor the satisfaction of watching him examine the photograph, Nick waited until the click of the deadbolt engaging sounded and the rattle of the keys told him he was alone again.

  Holding the photograph at arm's length, Nick squinted to take a look at the image. Dropping the picture, Nick lunged to his feet, barely making it to the bucket that served as his toilet, violently vomiting the contents of his stomach, knocking the bucket over in the process.

  Kneeling in his own waste and vomit, Nick gagged, fighting to control the heaving in his stomach and the waves of nausea sweeping through him.

  "You touch a hair on her head," he whispered through clenched teeth, "and I will make sure I take my time ending you."

  ---

  Sam Arceneaux slid into the booth opposite Heat and looked around, taking in his surroundings in the dimly lit bar.

  “Where’s Boucher?”

  “Around.”

  “Look, I don’t have long. What is it you have?”

  Heat reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a carefully folded piece of paper. He took his time opening the document up and smoothing it out before sliding it across the tabletop to the detective.

  “My client got this.”

  Arceneaux turned the piece of paper around and glanced at the image printed on it. His expression changed rapidly as his eyebrows turned downwards and his mouth and cheeks formed a scowl.

  “Your client’s daughter.”

  “With her best friend.”

  “You sure this is related to my case?”

  “Must be,” Heat mumbled, looking towards the entrance, his attention unfocused.

  “Must be? Heat, you have to do better than that. I can get in huge trouble if I let you look at the file.”

  “I’m sorry,” Heat replied, turning his gaze back to the piece of paper on the tabletop. “This guy Smith was Nick’s running mate. Nick goes on an adventure. This guy goes with him. I figure whatever trouble Nick gets into, this guy got into it with him.”

  Arceneaux shook his head and let out a big sigh. "Not a lot I can tell you. If Nick and this Smith don't have any open warrants on them in East Baton Rouge Parish or Louisiana. I can't tell you much."

  “Autopsy results?”

  “Guy was a boozer by the look of his liver. Old needle track scars from what had to have been a nasty heroin habit he kicked years ago. The tox screen came back negative for everything except alcohol, but, as you know, they’d been to the game.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Smith’s hands had been broken a few times along with his nose.”

  “Think maybe he was an enforcer?”

  “Maybe,” Arceneaux answered. “Thought he was a tough guy, that much is for sure. His face had some scars, the kind you see from bar fights.”

  Heat and Arceneaux sat in silence, both men lost in thought.

  “Might have been protection for Devereaux,” Heat suggested.

  “Maybe.”

  Arceneaux nodded at the picture on the table. “Tell me what you can about the picture.”

  “Anna got it in a text. No message, just the picture.”

  “So, she didn’t know her daughter was missing?”

  "Her daughter was staying with the other girl's family. Evidently, the pair snuck out in the middle of the night to go to Anna's house. Somebody was waiting and grabbed the girls." Heat looked away again, staring at the front entrance. He tensed as the door opened, and Boucher stepped inside and removed his sunglasses. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Spotting the booth Heat and Arceneaux were seated in, Boucher took his time making his way to the booth. He grabbed a chair at a neighboring table and pulled it over to the booth, turning it around and straddling it as he sat down.

  “Sam.”

  “Elijah.”

  Heat stared at Boucher with an expectant, focused intensity.

  “Well?”

  “Nothing I can say at the moment,” Boucher replied, looking away from Arceneaux, allowing his eyes to settle on an underdressed young woman sitting at the corner of the bar, nervously twirling a loose strand of hair around her left index finger.

  He nodded in the young woman’s direction. “Know her, Sam?”

  Arceneaux leaned to his
left to take a look at the woman. “Yeah, working girl. She’s got a long sheet. Nothing serious, just solicitation, public intoxication, minor drug possession, that sort of thing.”

  Heat turned his head at an angle and made eye contact with Boucher, who raised his eyebrows and then looked back at the working girl. Heat took the hint and looked back at Arceneaux.

  “Thanks, Sam. I appreciate your time.”

  “Sure,” the detective replied, looking at first Boucher and then Heat with suspicion. “Sorry, I couldn’t be of more help.” Arceneaux slipped out of the booth and stood up, maintaining eye contact with Heat the entire time. “Heat, don't do anything stupid in my parish. I know we go back, but…just don't do anything stupid that you can't defend." Arceneaux turned his glare to Boucher and stared in silence for a second or two. "Same goes for you, Elijah."

  Without another word, the detective turned and made straight for the entrance. He left without looking back.

  Looking Boucher in the eyes, Heat leaned forward over the table. “What did you just find out?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “In here,” the gruff voice ordered. “To your left.”

  Katie looked at the door and hesitantly reached for the doorknob. She opened it, pushing the door back into the room.”

  “Light switch is on the wall to the left.”

  Nodding she'd heard, Katie took a step forward and ran her left hand gingerly along the smooth surface of the wall, searching for a light switch. Her fingers touched a straight vertical ridge, making her think of wallpaper. A few inches further, she felt the smooth surface of the plastic plate that covered the electrical components of the light switch. With an easy flick of her finger, Katie turned the light to the room on.

  “Oh,” she muttered, stepping back in surprise.

  "Go on," the voice ordered from behind. "It's just a bathroom. You'll find some clothes that should fit. You get cleaned up and get into those. The stuff you're wearing is getting a bit rank, I'd imagine. Later on, you get your clothes back after they've been cleaned. Now go on. Everything the two of you need to get cleaned up is in there. Y’all got one hour.”

  Katie turned, hoping to get a glance at the source of the voice only to see a large form moving away in the shadows of the dark hallway. Standing behind Katie was Becca, her face devoid of expression.

  "It's okay, Becca," Katie whispered, taking her friend by the hand. "I don't know about you, but I could use a hot shower, brush my teeth." She smiled at Becca, who stared back, not blinking. "It's going to be okay, Becca. They haven't hurt us or tried anything. Our parents will get us back."

  Becca blinked and looked at Katie with a curious glance. “I’m tired, Katie.”

  “I know,” her friend answered. “You can take a shower first. Just leave me some hot water, okay?”

  Katie entered the bathroom and looked around, uncertain of what exactly she was looking for. Sitting on the vanity was a small stack of neatly folded clothes. Katie examined each item, noting the sizes and the fact the price tags were still attached by the plastic tags. The t-shirts were too large for either girl, but the shorts and white cotton underwear were the correct sizes.

  Noting Becca was still standing in the hallway, staring straight ahead with vacant, unblinking eyes. Katie went to her friend and, taking her gently by the hand, guided Becca over to the toilet and helped her sit down.

  “You just sit right there while I run the water.”

  Becca's response was a single nod. Katie pulled back the old plastic shower curtain, noting the rust stains from the metal shower curtain rings that supported it in place. The shower was old. The tub was stained and had faint black lines from cracks in the surface. Rust stains marred the surface beneath the showerhead and the faucet where the hard water had dripped for years. Light pink tiles made up the shower walls with spots of black mildew and mold staining the grout in places. To Katie's surprise, the pungent smell of cleaners and bleach met her nose as she leaned over to turn on the water. The shower and tub were devoid of dust and soap scum. Somebody had taken the trouble to clean the shower as best as possible.

  It took both hands for Katie to twist the hot water on. Her reward was for a loud groan to come from the walls, frightening Katie. The groan was followed by a rattling sound and spitting from the tub faucet. Drops of water began to fly from the faucet's mouth just as the groaning and rattling stopped. Brown, dirty water spewed forth, splashing about the drain beneath.

  “Gross,” Katie yelped, stepping back quickly. “No way am I taking a shower in that.”

  In seconds, the water ran clear, flushing the foul, dirty water down the drain. “Whoa,” Katie muttered, looking at Becca. “Look at that.” The words seemed to register somewhere in Becca’s mind, her eyes following in the direction Katie pointed.

  Becca blinked twice; her expression confused. “It’s just water.”

  Worried, Katie smiled at her friend. “You’re right, Becca. It’s just water, nothing to be afraid of.”

  Cautiously, Katie touched her fingers to the water and withdrew them quickly. She inserted them a second time, noting the water was lukewarm and growing warmer by the second. When the water began to feel hot, Katie tackled the cold-water faucet, which opened with ease. In a minute, Katie had the water temperature just right and turned the shower on.

  Turning to face Becca, who was still staring at the tub faucet, Katie watched her friend and prayed a silent prayer.

  "Let's get you undressed and into that shower, girl. I need to get clean something awful, and the longer you take, the longer I have to wait to get all this nasty off me."

  ---

  Slamming the door to his SUV, Heat grabbed the seatbelt harness and yanked it across his waist and torso, and jammed the latch into its catch, locking it into place with a loud click.

  “What is it you couldn’t tell me inside?”

  Boucher swallowed, looking straight ahead in an effort to avoid eye contact with his friend. “I got a call from a friend in Wildlife and Fisheries.”

  His pulse raced, and the weight of the world plummeted to the pit of Heat's stomach.

  “Please tell me…”

  “Not the girls,” Boucher answered. “Dead body in the Atchafalaya. Looks like a .22 through the back of the skull.”

  “An execution,” Heat observed. “What’s it to us?”

  "The body's fresh," Boucher replied. "Just been dumped. My friend saw a boat he didn't recognize back in the basin. You get lost easy back there unless you know your way. So, he poked around a bit, spotted some gators moving where there usually aren't. After he deterred the gators, he dragged the bottom a bit, and the body floated."

  “Should have perforated the bowels,” Heat commented.

  “Yeah, well, I’d passed the word to a few friends I still have in law enforcement, regardless of the agency. Gave ’em a hint of what we were up to, you know? This body has no ID but the guy was wearing a brand-new t-shirt from a truck stop outside San Antonio. Close to where the girls were grabbed."

  “You think this guy was in on it?”

  "Maybe," Boucher suggested. "Something went down, and his partners put him down hard."

  Having delivered the news, Boucher leaned back and waited in silence. If the dead body was related to their case, his own imagination was bad enough regarding the implications it might have. He braced himself for Heat's response.

  “This could be anything.”

  "Yeah, it could be some poor sap who was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

  “Timing’s strange, Elijah. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Then again, could be related, boss.”

  Heat sat in silence, his mind churning. Boucher took a chance and glanced at his friend, noting the bloodshot eyes and reddened face. Heat's jaw was clenched, his muscles in his cheeks working as he ground his teeth in frustration and anger.

  “We need to go see the body.”

  “Um, boss, I was thinkin’ more in lines
we go to the landing where my friend thinks its most likely whoever dumped the body put their boat in. Might give us more to go on.”

  “I-10 West it is,” Heat replied, putting the Honda Pilot into drive.

  ---

  He didn’t know who he was angrier with, himself or his employer. The man had insisted the young idiot be allowed to accompany him on his trip to obtain one of the Devereaux children, ignoring his protestations that he worked best alone. As events had turned out, the idiot had left the pro with no choice but to put an end to his meddlesome, irritating existence. It has been easy to lie to his employer, justifying the execution of the young fool by telling the man it had been necessary to prevent the girls from being molested.

  His employer had insisted the body be disposed of in the Atchafalaya instead of allowing him to bury it deep in the woods surrounding the rundown plantation home, and it angered him that he'd agreed to follow the order.

  Vowing to never comply with another order from an employer that carried unnecessary risk in carrying it out, the pro wondered about the Wildlife and Fisheries agent he'd spotted in the swamp. There was little doubt the man was qualified to catch poachers and deal with hunters and illegal fishing. But would the agent find the body that had just been dumped and be able to piece together what had really happened.

  There was nothing that could be done about it now, the pro pointed out to himself. He could only hope the alligators and other creatures of the swamp had not wasted any time in enjoying the tasty meal he’d left for them to devour.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Keeping an eye on the door to the women's restroom, Sharon picked at her salad. She could feel her blood pressure from the stress, further aggravating the stress headache that four Advil had not conquered. A glance at Anna's salad confirmed her daughter had not eaten anything. The door to the restroom opened, and a frazzled Anna appeared, wearing dark sunglasses and a baseball cap along with baggy clothes, all in an attempt to hide her identity. Ignoring the looks of the other dinners, Anna slowly made her way to the table she shared with her mother and sat down.