by K. C. Sivils
"I was worried you weren't going to get here soon, Elijah," Lejeune commented as Boucher exited the Pilot. The pair shook hands like long-lost friends. Boucher extended his hand towards Heat, who watched the two greet each other in silence.
“Pete, this is James Heatley. It’s his case we’re working on.”
"Bout that, I can't wait much longer, Elijah. I've called it in already, and I need to be gettin’ the body down to the morgue. I shouldn’t have waited for y’all to come and take a look.”
Boucher nodded at Heat and rubbed the thumb and forefinger of his left hand together in a circular motion. With a blank expression on his face, Heat pulled out his wallet and extracted a hundred-dollar bill. Lejeune's eyes grew wide, and a smile spread across his face.
"Then again, it took me a while to get out of the swamp and get the boat tended to."
Lejeune made the bill disappear as fast as Heat had produced it. Motioning for the pair to follow him, Lejeune made his way over to his truck and pulled back a dark green tarp covered in stains. Reaching down, Heat picked up a thick stick and used it to turn the corpse slightly towards its side.
“Yep, .22 LR in the back of the head.”
“Pro did that,” Boucher replied, nodding in agreement.
“A pro? You mean this ain’t a hunting accident?”
"No," Heat answered curtly. "This was an execution. The killer dumped the body so the gators would take care of it, and whatever was left, the crawfish would finish off."
Lejeune dropped the tarp. "Humph. Learn something new every day. Makes sense, though. A .22 wouldn't leave the skull, but it would do the trick. Less mess to clean up. I imagine the weapon is somewhere out there." Lejeune motioned towards the swamp with his head.
---
"He's not answering his office phone," Anna snarled, flinging her phone back into her purse. Sharon flinched, causing the SUV to swerve slightly. Despite knowing she'd be better served by keeping her comments to herself, Sharon found her tongue had a mind of its own.
"I swear, Anna, of course, he doesn't answer it. He's not there. James is somewhere here in Louisiana, looking for Nick and Becca. Where did you think he'd be, Anna?"
The two women gave each other withering looks, daring the other to speak. Buzzing from inside Anna’s purse brought the stare-off to a sudden end. Fishing her phone out, Anna hurriedly thumbed her screen and answered the phone.
“Yes.”
Sharon slowed the SUV and watched Anna from the corner of her eye. Her daughter’s face was ash grey. Anna’s brown eyes were bulging from their socket as she listened to the caller.
“You hurt one hair on my daughter’s head, and you’ll regret it,” Anna promised, her voice breaking with emotion. The caller broke the connection, causing Anna to stare at the screen in frustration.
"No callback number."
Desperate, Sharon pulled over to the side of the interstate and let the SUV slow to a stop. “Who was it?”
Tears ran down Anna’s face. She shook with fear and rage while staring at the screen of her phone.
“I don’t know who it was, mother!” Anna shouted, her voice echoing in the confines of the SUV. She dropped the phone and began sobbing uncontrollably. “I can’t take this.”
No sooner did the phone hit the floor than the buzzing resumed. Sharon ignored her daughter, grabbed the phone, and entered her daughter's passcode. Anna's phone had received a text message. Not waiting for her distraught daughter, Sharon opened the text. There was no message, only another photograph of Becca and Katie. Taken outside, the photo depicted the girls sitting on the ground with an old, pink towel spread between them. Resting on the towel appeared to be sandwiches and a large bag of off-brand potato chips. Neither girl was smiling as they stared into the camera, each looking exhausted but unharmed.
“It’s the girls,” Sharon whispered. Her hand shook so badly she dropped the phone into her lap. “They’re okay, baby girl.” Not one to ask for permission, Sharon leaned over and wrapped her arms around her daughter. The two mothers sobbed, letting their pent-up emotions out. One eighteen-wheeler after another whizzed past, shaking the SUV in the process.
Neither woman noticed the flashing lights of the Louisiana State Trooper who had pulled off the interstate and parked behind the SUV.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Sharon merged into the traffic with uncharacteristic recklessness, ignoring the hostile glares and obscene gestures of the drivers she'd cut off. Sharon didn't like being uncertain about decisions she made, and the conflict raging within her wasn't helping her present driving.
Her daughter, who was understandably terrified, insisted they obey the kidnapper's order not to contact the police. Sharon trusted Heat, but she also liked the odds better that the girls would be found with the resources of multiple police agencies. The ringing in her ears from their last argument was just starting to subside, making Sharon hesitant to contest Anna's demand they travel to Louisiana to meet with Heat. Such a fool decision would only make things worse, and it worried Sharon that her daughter was so far beyond reasoning that Anna couldn't understand such a simple fact.
The traffic on I-10 eastbound began thinning out, allowing Sharon to relax slightly and maintain a constant, fixed speed as she blew past the other drivers. Spotting a cop car in the distance, Sharon took her foot off the accelerator, allowing Anna's SUV to slow to within a few miles of the speed limit. With the officer firmly in her rear-view mirror, Sharon realized she'd been holding her breath. A sense of fatigue and heaviness came over Sharon's arms, drawing her attention to the steering wheel. So hard was her grip on the wheel, Sharon's knuckles were white, and the muscles in her forearm could be seen.
“This is insane,” Sharon whispered.
---
Never a sound sleeper in the best of circumstances, Becca found herself waking at the slightest sound beyond the walls of their tiny prison. Scurrying sounds in the walls, no doubt rodents of some sort, gave Becca the creeps. Occasionally a long, protracted groan from somewhere in the old structure announced water had been used in some capacity as the pipes complained. As she lay curled up in a tight ball on the musty-smelling army cot with her eyes closed, Becca focused her senses on the steady, gentle, rhythmic sounds of Katie's breathing.
Becca envied her best friend’s ability to sleep. Without opening her eyes, Becca knew Katie would be sleeping on her right side, with her legs drawn up slightly and both hands resting near her face. At most, Katie would move her hands a bit while she slept and once or twice would turn on her back for a brief period before resuming her preferred sleeping position.
Lacking an immediate threat to her safety and that of Katie, Becca’s mind turned inward with guilt bubbling up to the surface of her thoughts. Always the more responsible of the pair, Katie had pointed out the folly of going to Becca’s home in the middle of the night.
“Becca, we can stop on the way home from school.”
"But then we have to explain why," Becca had objected. "Plus, we won't have as much time as we need or want. You know how adults are. What if your mom comes inside with us? How do we explain what we're doing?"
Katie had considered Becca’s half-baked reasoning and shrugged. “Why not? We’ll chalk it up as an adventure. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? We get caught breaking into your own home?”
Becca remembered giving her friend a big smile and hugging Katie. “An adventure! That’s exactly what I need to help me forget this for a while.”
Not noticing the silence that filled the room and the old house, Becca's eyelids became heavy, and she drifted away. Her dreams would be filled with images and sounds that frightened Becca and filled her with shame and self-loathing.
---
Shifting his weight on the cot in a vain attempt to get comfortable, Nick considered his present circumstances. Smith's death troubled him only so far as it served as proof his captor would kill if the demands being put forward were not met. There was little doubt Anna knew
their daughter had been kidnapped. What troubled Nick was the lack of threats and taunting that Anna had better pay up. It seemed his tormentor was serious about this confession of sin he kept harping about.
Money was something Nick Devereaux understood. On the occasions he'd exacted revenge on another person, the sense of satisfaction had been fulfilling, but not to the extent Nick spent much time plotting to get even with those who slighted him. The exertions required for such a thing were simply too much unless the end game made it all worthwhile. Namely, money and fun were to be had as a result. It wasn't that he had no feeling in his heart for Becca. More it was the simple fact Nick cared about himself more than he cared for anyone, or anything, else in his life.
Turning on to his back, Nick stared up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns that the peeling paint and cracked plaster made. Confessing to a sin, whether he'd committed it or not, meant nothing to Nick. Counting the cost such an act would cost him was the only concern Nick weighed on the rare occasion he could be compelled to take ownership of a bad act. Unfortunately, more and more, the present situation seemed to indicate the price was becoming higher than Nick could afford to pay.
The end game was what mattered. What did Nick's captor expect to obtain from the current state of affairs? Money didn't seem to matter as there had been no financial demands made. Taking the girls hostage hadn't led to any orders that he had to pass along to Anna. He’d not been forced to plead for their release, extracting from his wife a promise to do whatever the captor wanted.
Getting roughed up was not something Nick enjoyed, but it sometimes went with the territory with the kind of games he chose to play. Even that had stopped shortly before the arrival of the girls.
His captor’s lone consistent act was to repeat a vague demand for Nick to confess his sin. Not just any sin, but a specific act his captor couldn’t bring himself to mention despite Nick’s best attempts to pull a description out of the man.
With the failure to get a specific demand from his captor, Nick was left to his memories to determine what was to be confessed. From the collection of stunts he’d pulled in his youth before meeting Anna, Nick had assembled a short list of illegal acts that would generate the sort of anger in a man that could drive him to act as his captor had.
Confessing to the wrong sin wouldn't be helpful. Nick instinctively understood it was important he confessed to precisely the right sin. Acknowledging the wrong, bad act could easily set off his captor, the act of confession to the wrong sin somehow belittling or lessening the man's grievance against Nick. As he lay and stared at the ceiling, the only thing Nick was confident of was the idea of enraging his captor was not a good one.
Ever the gambler, Nick considered his short list of prior bad acts worthy of revenge, calculating the odds of each in an effort to determine which was most likely to be the sin for which his captor sought Nick’s confession.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Well, don’t just sit there,” Sharon barked at her daughter.
“Mom, enough, okay!”
"It's bad enough I just got a ticket that is going to cost me hundreds of dollars and drive my insurance up. I can't wait to try to explain that to your father. Now you won't do something as simple as sending a text?"
Exasperated, Anna looked out the window of her SUV and watched the cypress trees flash by. Her mother had a point, but Anna couldn’t express the fear and hopelessness she felt, the emotions that overwhelmed her to the point of incapacitating her.
Sharon cleared her throat as she counted to ten to calm herself. “Anna, if James doesn’t have all the information, he can’t find the girls.”
“You’re right, mom,” Anna replied, resigned to the fact her mother was not going to relent. She picked up her phone from her lap, and a few seconds later, the latest picture had been sent along with a message explaining the sender had demanded nothing and blocked their number.
The photo sent, and her mother mollified, Anna turned her gaze back to the swamp and its eerie beauty. Exhausted, Anna's mind began to wander, thinking first of plans for the future followed by dreams from the past. The sight of moss hanging from a cypress brought back a long-forgotten memory.
---
“If you don’t slow down, you’ll get a ticket.”
“If I slow down, we’ll be late for the start of the concert.”
“James, slow down.”
Heat had frowned at her from behind the steering wheel. “Need I remind you, Anna, why we’re running late?”
Anna’s face felt flush, the way it always did when Heat managed to turn things around on her. “Okay, so I took a little too long getting ready.”
Her admission of guilt earned Anna a grin from Heat. The sly, crafty grin that could make Anna laugh or infuriate her to no end. “Why is it so important we get there on time? I mean, we’d just be missing the warm-up band.”
Heat turned on his blinker and took the Ambassador Caffery exit that would eventually take them to the Cajun Dome. “It’s not the warm-up act I want to see.”
"Then what is the all-fire hurry," Anna protested.
The grin returned, irritating Anna even more.
“I got you a pass to the pre-concert party. We aren’t going to watch the warm-up band at all.”
In that instant, all was forgiven. Anna leaned over against Heat, glad his old clunker had bench seats. She wrapped her left arm around Heat’s right and rested her head on his shoulder. “I knew there was a reason I liked you,” she informed him.
Heat laughed, kissing her on the top of her head. “You do more than just like me,” he teased. “You love me. Now, say it.”
Anna smiled and looked up at her man and kissed him on his jaw. “If you insist.”
“I insist, say it.”
“I love you,” Anna whispered sweetly before kissing Heat’s jaw a second time, ever so slightly running the tip of her tongue along his jawline.
A hard jolt brought Anna back to the present, forcing her to shift in her seat.
"That must have been a pleasant memory. You're smiling," Sharon commented cautiously.
“Just a memory, mom, just a memory, that’s all.”
---
Boucher watched Heat jump as if stung before he began patting himself down. “Your phone is in your back-left pocket,” Boucher commented dryly.
"Thanks," was Heat's mumbled reply. He fished the device out and, within seconds, was staring at the screen with a frown.
"Let me see," Boucher asked. Heat handed the phone over to his friend, who stared at the image.
“They look okay,” Boucher commented. “Any demands?”
“Anna says no demands, nothing. Just the picture.”
Boucher handed the phone back to Heat, who promptly began staring at the photo again. "They have to be around here somewhere. First, the murder at the game, Nick's disappearance, the girls, and now this guy shows up," Heat announced, pointing at the dead body.
Lejeune spit as he pushed his Wildlife and Fisheries cap back on his head. “Sounds like you fellas got a world of trouble.” He spit a second time, removed his cap, and scratched his head before returning the cap to its rightful place. “I’d much rather do my job. This here is a strange day for me. Usually, the worse I got to deal with is poachers.”
Heat glanced up, first looking at Boucher and then Lejeune. “Pete, take a look at this photo.”
Lejeune stepped forward and took the phone. His forehead furrowed as he concentrated on the image. “That’s the old South Breezed plantation,” he announced, handing the phone back. “I caught two poachers there, oh, ‘bout a month ago. That there is the road to the place, what with them old live oaks and all the weeds, I’d recognize it anywhere.”
“You can’t see the plantation house. Are you sure, Pete?”
“Yeah, Heat,” Lejeune adjusted his cap yet again and grinned. “That’s where I used to take my wife to neck afore we got married. Somethin’ about them live oaks always would get Lynn in the
mood.”
“Pete, you’re the best,” Heat replied, dialing on his phone.
“Anna. Heat. I think we know where the girls are.”
---
Nick didn't open his eyes or startle when the door creaked open. He lay perfectly still with both hands behind his head, and his right leg crossed over his left at the ankles. When the light turned on, he flinched and began the process of sitting up.
“That was a bit rude,” he commented dryly. “Bright lights in the eyes, even if you’re asleep.”
“Too bad,” was his captor’s reply. “I’m not here to have a friendly beer.”
“I figured as much,” was Nick’s dry response. He put both feet on the floor while still sitting on the cot. “I guess you are here to listen to my confession.”
“Well, finally,” the man replied, moving the lone chair in the room closest to the cot and taking a seat. “I’m listening.”
“Not so quick,” Nick informed the man. “First, I want you to answer some questions.”
Nick felt his gambler’s thrill course through his veins the instant his captor frowned. “I don’t believe you are in a position to make any demands, let alone insist I answer questions.”
“Well, sir,” Nick answered smoothly, enjoying the start of his game, “that is something you and I are going to have to agree to disagree about.”
---
Heat’s steady drumming to the drum intro to Honkey Tonk Women was starting to get to Boucher. Waiting in a car while sitting on hot information was not Boucher's idea of a good time. However, his silence was only because Heat was on edge from needing to get to the South Breezed place and waiting for Anna's arrival. The argument whether to stay and wait for Anna and her mother or hurry off to South Breezed had been loud, short, and after Boucher's initial comments, one-sided.