Murder on a Saturday Night

by K. C. Sivils

Becca’s smile slowly disappeared. “I don’t think so, Katie. I just know something bad is going to happen.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Not me, Heat. No way.”

  “It’s the safest way, Boucher. For everybody involved.”

  “You know I can’t do that, Heat.”

  Heat glared at Boucher, shaking his head in frustration.

  “This again? I thought you were over this.”

  “This ain’t fear of the darkness, Heat. This is fear of being trapped in a tight space, underground, and the walls cavin’ in. You can forget it.”

  A sense of panic filled Anna as she watched Boucher storm off down the single-lane road in the direction of the old plantation home.

  “What’s wrong, James? Elijah is going to help, isn’t he?”

  Heat watched his friend pace back and forth from one side of the narrow road to the other, muttering curses Momma Boucher would never approve of.

  “He’ll help, just not the way I would want.”

  “Then talk sense to him, James. This is my baby girl we’re talking about!”

  Heat pushed Anna away from him. He hissed through clenched teeth in a guttural tone. "You need our help, Anna. Don’t forget that! You came to two damaged individuals for help, so you have to take what you get!”

  Undeterred, Anna stepped as close as possible to Heat and stood on her toes.

  “That’s my baby girl they have. They have my best friend’s daughter, too.”

  Disgusted, Heat stepped away from Anna. “What about Nick?”

  Anna lowered herself down flat on her feet and turned her back to Heat. “Him too.”

  On edge, Heat yanked Anna around, forcing her to face him.

  “Boucher got trapped in a tunnel in New Orleans when we were kids. He was down there for two days. He’s been afraid of the dark and claustrophobic ever since.”

  "Elijah said he wasn't afraid of the dark anymore. I heard him tell you that."

  "Lots of money and time spent with a shrink to get that far," Heat grunted. "In case you forgot already, Boucher said he's still got issues with the confined in a closed-in space thing."

  Anna bent at her knees and then straightened her legs, making a first-rate impression of a frustrated child.

  “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “My assistants found plans to the plantation house. It’s a historic site,” Heat explained. “Turns out there’s an old tunnel dating back to Civil War days.”

  “But my directions said I have to approach the house in this stupid red dress,” Anna snapped.

  “Those same directions also said come alone,” Heat pointed out. “There will be more than one individual at this house. They’re killers, Anna. Nick has truly pissed off the wrong people this time.”

  Heat watched as Anna crossed her arms over her chest and looked away. Tears were welling up in her eyes, and it was breaking Heat's heart. She looked more beautiful standing there with her hair up and strands of hair poking out, her makeup smudged, and little splatters of mud on her red evening gown. He was never able to say no to Anna about anything.

  "I'm going to go through the tunnel and get in the house that way. Boucher is going to go around back and try to get in that way. You will walk up to the front of the house, and listen to me carefully, you are not going inside. Do you understand?"

  “I have to get my baby girl and Katie,” Anna protested. She paused and looked down at her feet. “And my husband, too.”

  "No," Heat snapped, grabbing Anna. "Nick caused all of this. Do you understand? Nick! We're here to get Becca and Katie. If we can get Nick too, that's a bonus, but he is NOT the priority."

  Anna pulled away, ashamed and confused. She walked quickly towards her SUV, where her mother was pacing frantically back and forth. Heat's mere presence was unnerving her. Nick had never been passionate and forceful about anything except what he wanted or when he'd been thwarted in some way. Behind her, Anna could hear Heat and Boucher talking in muted voices.

  “Well, when are we going to go and get Becca and Katie?”

  “The text said 7:30, mom.”

  “7:30, thats two hours from now.” Sharon resumed pacing, running the fingers of her left hand through her hair, over and over.

  ---

  "You have two hours," his captor informed Nick. "Then, it is as they say in your line of work, Mr. Devereaux. It's showtime."

  “Showtime, indeed,” Nick replied. “The show must go on.”

  “You will confess your sin at 7:30 p.m.”

  “7:30 p.m.” Nick considered the time for a moment and then spoke. “Why 7:30? What is so significant about 7:30?”

  “You should know,” his captor snapped. Nick watched the man’s face and noted his captor’s eyes had a wild appearance, bulging in their sockets as if pressure from within the man was about to explode, launching the two eyes out into space.

  It all made sense at that moment. The man's anger over the exact time eliminated all other possibilities from the short list of sins Nick Devereaux might have committed that could push someone to the edge of insanity. The plantation house, the kidnapping of Becca, and the refusal to demand money from Anna. The murder of Charlie.

  Nick was going to have to play his best game of poker ever to come out a winner. He could feel the adrenaline rush through his veins at the thought of what lay ahead.

  "One way or another, Nick Devereaux," his captor informed him, "this will all be settled before the sun comes up tomorrow morning." The man stood up, walked to the door, and opened it. Nick's captor glanced back, a sad expression on his face. "I'm not an evil man, Devereaux. But justice must be served. I hope you do the right thing. Your daughter and her friend seem like they are extraordinary young ladies." The man tilted his head as if thinking. "But that says more about your Becca's mother than it does you."

  The window to the room rattled when the man slammed the door shut, no doubt driving home what he believed to be a salient point. Nick began to consider the options that lay ahead for the hand he had to play when 7:30 finally arrived.

  No doubt, Anna would be involved somehow. It would only be fitting, Nick supposed. The kidnapping of Becca made complete sense now. It was too bad Katie had been grabbed as well.

  “Too bad about Katie,” he mumbled aloud as his mind played out the possible hands that could be dealt. “She’s a good kid.”

  Nick didn’t believe in luck as such. What he did believe in was thinking ahead, knowing what you were willing to gamble. Just how much were you willing to risk.

  Things like money were easy come, easy go, to Nick. That was what Anna was for. She made for great eye candy on his arm, and her celebrity had opened many a door for him. But Anna could be replaced, and Katie meant nothing to him. Nick considered that realization for a moment.

  Winning didn't even really matter. It was the thrill of the game. The risk of betting it all on the turn of a card or a roll of the dice. Could he sink the putt or not? Nick had never gambled with human lives as the stakes before, and he found he rather liked it.

  Becca would be a pawn, or a chip, in the game that would start at 7:30. With great anticipation, Nick eagerly awaited the arrival of 7:30 that evening.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Patience was not Sharon's strong suit. She also knew Heat was dead serious when he said not to call the cops unless she heard gunfire or nine o'clock rolled around, and she had not heard from any of them. Heat had given her a list of phone numbers to call with strict instructions regarding the order in which to call them. The first was the Louisiana State Police. The second was a detective in the West Baton Rouge Parish Sheriff's office. The third number was for the parish ambulance service. Fourth on the list was the West Baton Rouge Parish Sheriff himself, followed by the number for Detective Arceneaux from East Baton Rouge Parish. In all four instances, after informing the party involved there had been gunplay, the name Elijah Boucher was to be mentioned, followed by James himself.

 
The mention of Elijah’s name was no doubt meant to increase the speed with which the party she called responded. Heat’s instructions were puzzling but no doubt to be followed to the letter.

  Sharon found herself wondering what Elijah had done to warrant Heat’s directions.

  Nervous and fearful, Sharon pressed the automatic lock on the SUV for the fifteenth or sixteenth time and closed her eyes. Her lips moved, but no words came out as Sharon prayed for the safe deliverance of her baby girl and granddaughter.

  ---

  “Right where the map said it would be.”

  Heat looked up from the iron door he’d uncovered, smiling at Boucher.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Boucher told Heat, looking away as he did so.

  “It’s okay, Elijah,” Heat said softly. “Just give me a hand getting this open.”

  It took several minutes of grunting, straining, and the occasional profanity in Cajun French, but the iron door eventually gave in and swung open, its hinges screaming in protest.

  “Take this with you,” Boucher ordered, handing the crowbar they’d used to open the door. “Never can tell when you might need it.”

  Emotion welled up inside Heat, and he extended his hand towards his friend. Boucher put the crowbar in Heat's hand only for Heat to drop it immediately and wrap his arms around the Cajun, whispering in Boucher's ear.

  "No matter what happens, I want you to know you've been a loyal friend, Elijah."

  Boucher patted Heat on the back as his own emotions began to twist and turn inside. “Right back at you, Heat.”

  "It's 7:00," Heat informed Boucher. "I figure it'll take me twenty minutes to get inside the house, and then I'll wait before I exit the tunnel."

  “Got it,” Boucher answered. “I’ll begin my approach on the back of the house at 7:28.”

  “Let’s hope Anna times this right,” Heat said as he flicked on his flashlight, aiming its bright beam into the inky black darkness of the tunnel.

  “Gross,” Boucher said, spitting in disgust. “Spiderwebs and lots of them. Fo’ sure there ain’t no way Momma Boucher’s baby boy is going in there.”

  Heat watched his friend vanish into the shadows of the surrounding bushes and trees. He wasn’t fond of spiderwebs either. Taking the crowbar Boucher had given him, Heat began clearing away the sticky white webs as he cautiously entered the tunnel.

  ---

  From his room, he watched the four monitors he'd carefully positioned on two sturdy tables. Each of the four monitor screens displayed four images, each from one of the sixteen cameras he's installed, giving him a 360-degree view of the house and the lands surrounding it. From his laptop, he could control each of the cameras and monitors. If he so desired, he could select one camera and track a moving object or zoom in on something requiring closer examination. It was state-of-the-art equipment, all of it purchased by his current employer, and all of it would be his once the job was completed.

  Like all jobs, he'd learned some things while carrying out his duties. The most important thing was to spell out up front with a potential client that he worked alone, or he would not take the job. If additional help was required, he would hire the professional needed himself, and the client would absorb the cost.

  Also worth remembering was never taking a job in Louisiana again during the hot part of the year, which was for all intents and purposes nine months in duration.

  Movement in the upper left image on the second monitor caught his eye. With a click of the mouse, the other three images disappeared, allowing the image from the camera that had detected motion to fill the screen. He noted the time stamp in the upper right-hand corner. It was 7:29 p.m.

  He nodded in satisfaction. He liked people who were on time, not early or late, but on time. Standing in the middle of the long, tree-covered road to the front of the house stood Anna Devereaux, dressed in a red dress, exactly as she'd been told.

  He had no idea why his employer had insisted on Devereaux wearing a red dress, but the idea of requiring her to do so amused him. Whatever his employer had planned for Nick Devereaux, the man certainly had it coming to him. To have a lady in red deliver Devereaux to his employer’s justice was fitting.

  He watched Devereaux as she walked gracefully towards the entrance to the old house, noting her strides were measured and purposeful. He shook his head in disgust. Anna Devereaux might be a fool for marrying the man she did, but there was no doubt the actress was a classy lady.

  Another click of the mouse and his headset was activated, allowing him to speak to the others on the property.

  “Anna Devereaux is on time.”

  His employer’s voice answered over the headphones.

  “Is Mrs. Devereaux appropriately attired?”

  “Yes. She’s wearing a full-length red evening gown.”

  “Describe her appearance.”

  "It's a strapless gown, quite elegant. Mrs. Devereaux does not appear to be wearing jewelry of any kind, but the resolution in this light is such I could be wrong. She has her hair pulled back. I can't tell if it is in a ponytail or if she is wearing it up."

  "Excellent," his employer replied, the man's tone of voice indicating he was pleased. "Have Mrs. Devereaux shown to the library."

  ---

  Anna Devereaux was going to pay Heat a big bonus, and that bonus would go directly into one Elijah Boucher's bank account. From his vantage point behind the rubble of what had once been a detached, outdoor kitchen that had burned down long ago, Boucher clawed at the fire ant bites on his arms.

  To avoid being seen by whoever had been assigned as the lookout for the rear of the old plantation house, Boucher had found it necessary to crawl on the damp, weed-covered ground until he reached the remains of the old detached kitchen. In the process, he'd crept over a fire ant mound. No alarm had been sounded, and shots had not rung out, leaving Boucher to hope he'd not been spotted while he'd madly brushed the angry ants from his arms and given himself a quick once over for any additional fire ants bent on doing him harm.

  A glance at his watch told Boucher it was 7:35. Anna being Anna, he was sure she'd arrived at the front door at precisely 7:30 as she was ordered. There was no doubt in Boucher's mind Anna was inside the house. He blocked out the burning sensation emanating from the bites on his arms and rose in a crouch to begin his approach to the rear of the house.

  Boucher took his time, moving slowly and staying in his crouch. The black clothes and baseball cap he’d donned combined with his nerves and the heat of the evening sunset had covered Boucher in sweat. The camouflage paint Heat had applied on him made things worse as the sweat clung to his face instead of running down and dripping off in a steady stream.

  His heightened senses made Boucher stop. Tilting his head slowly as the hairs on the back of his head stood up, Boucher realized what was wrong. The incessant noise made by the crickets had stopped. As Boucher started to sprint towards the back of the plantation house, a sledgehammer slammed into his shoulder, slamming him flat on his back. He stared up at the overcast sky, noting the lone gap in the clouds, allowing the light of the moon to shine down on him. He blinked once and then slipped into unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The smell alone was enough to make Heat reconsider his decision to enter the house through the tunnel. An odd combination of mildew, musty odor, and the peculiar stench of gumbo mud, along with who knows what had died in the tunnel, was starting to make Heat feel sick to his stomach. To make matters worse, Heat's jaw was growing sore from holding the small flashlight in his mouth, allowing him to illuminate the tunnel and clear cobwebs away with the crowbar he held in his left hand while having his Sig Saur at the ready in his right hand.

  Ten feet ahead, the tunnel took a sudden turn to the right. Heat stopped and listened. He could hear the steady drip, drip of water. He took the flashlight from his mouth and clutched it in his left hand along with the crowbar. Then, with increased caution, he placed one foot in front of the other unti
l he reached the turn in the tunnel. Heat held his breath, counted to three, and then peeked around the corner, flashing the light for just a second.

  Relieved, he exhaled, making a puffing sound in the process. A chill ran down his spine as he felt a soft breeze brush over his forehead. Heat took a step backward and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his right forearm. He took a step forward and stood still. Again, he felt the faint current of air moving against his clammy skin.

  Taking a quick step around the corner, Heat illuminated the passageway with his light, stepping into a puddle of water at the same time. He could see a mound of dirt and rubble fifteen or twenty feet in the distance where the left wall of the tunnel had collapsed. The air current was stronger, making Heat turn around and look behind him. He was standing in a cross junction perpendicular to a second tunnel.

  Coming from the other side of the tunnel was the breeze. Heat relaxed, realizing there had to be another entrance to the tunnel open to the exterior. Relieved to have discovered the source of the air current, Heat turned back to face the original direction he'd been heading in.

  High pitched squeaks and the sound of creatures in flight greeted Heat, causing him to lose his balance and fall backward into the pooled water he stood in. His left hand struck the water first, causing Heat to drop his light and the crowbar. He managed to keep his pistol out of the water while he screamed in terror.

  Heat could feel as well as hear the invisible creatures whose domain he'd invaded. He shielded his face with his right forearm and waited for the impact of the heavy blow that was sure to come. Seconds passed, and Heat moved his forearm in order to aim at his assailants. In the faint light provided by his flashlight, he saw a flash of brown and black fly overhead.

  “Bats.”

  Sitting up, Heat realized his ears were ringing, making his face flush with embarrassment. He’d been screaming his fool head off in fear.

  “Glad Boucher wasn’t here to see that display,” Heat muttered, feeling about in the water for his crowbar and flashlight.