by K. C. Sivils
Soaking wet and smelling foul, Heat continued his way through the dark passage. Finally, another fifty feet down the tunnel, he came to another junction. One sniff of the air emanating from the side passage and Heat was certain he'd found where the bats roosted during the day. Ignoring the smell of guano and rot, he shuffled slowly along the tunnel, watching for anything that could be dangerous.
Heat stopped and looked up at the roof of the tunnel and immediately wished he hadn't. There was nothing between him and the dirt above his head save a few roots dangling down and rotten timbers every ten feet or so. He could feel the ceiling lowering itself down to flatten him. Reaching out to touch the walls on either side did nothing to help matters. Instead, Heat began to have a sense of dread that the tunnel would cave in on him, sealing him in a grave not of his choosing.
---
Her knees locked, nearly causing Anna to fall when she stopped in front of the steps that led to the entrance of the once grand home. Shaking, she gathered her skirt in her left hand and pulled it up high enough to allow her to climb the steps with the aid of the ornate railing. Anna focused her attention on the door, telling herself over and over that this was real, not one of the low-budget horror films from early in her career.
Reaching the top of the steps, Anna allowed her skirt to fall. She adjusted the shiny material, smoothing it as she would before any red-carpet walk, absentmindedly checking her hair and earrings. Before she could take another step, the door opened, and a man stepped out.
“You are right on time, Mrs. Devereaux.”
Frozen in place, Anna said nothing as she stared at the man.
“It will be okay, Mrs. Devereaux,” the man informed her. “You have complied with all of my employer’s requests. Becca and Katie are unharmed.” A scowl appeared on the man’s face for a brief moment then vanished. “I can’t say the same for Mr. Devereaux.”
“Is he alive?”
"Yes, just a bit worse for the wear. He seems to like to play mind games, and the habit has provoked my employer beyond his patience."
“Sounds like Nick,” Anna mumbled, causing the man to chuckle.
“This way, if you please, Mrs. Devereaux.”
Anna stepped through the front door and stopped several steps inside. The height of the ceiling in the grand entranceway drew her eyes upwards towards the ceiling. Long, wide cracks ran through the plaster, and in places, entire sections of the ceiling had fallen. Anna's gaze shifted to the elaborate wood molding.
"It was beautiful once," the man told her. "If you'll note the wallpaper, it is a hand-painted mural from Paris. But, unfortunately, mold has ruined parts of it which is a shame."
Footsteps announced the hasty arrival of another individual. A man appeared through a door; his face flushed as he looked about before spotting the man who had greeted Anna.
“I just shot someone,” the man stammered. “He was by the ruins of the old kitchen.”
---
Sharon stopped and looked down at the ground, noting she’d worn a narrow path in the weeds where she’d been pacing back and forth next to Anna’s SUV.
“Oh, my,” she said to herself, brushing the damp locks of her hair from her eyes.
She stopped and leaned against the driver's door of the SUV, staring down the now dimly lit one-lane road Anna had departed on twenty minutes earlier. Unable to help herself, Sharon watched the horizon as it turned an orangish pink color as the sunset in the west. It was a beautiful sight, she told herself as she watched the tops of the old oak trees sway back and forth in the faint breeze.
A tiny black apparition appeared, flitting across the panoramic view, startling Sharon. In seconds, more of the tiny demons appeared, fluttering as they zipped to and fro, diving and swooping through the air. Sharon's heart quickened at the sight of the creatures, and they zoomed past her, making their high-pitched squeaking sounds. Panicked, Sharon waved her hands around her head, trying to drive the tiny monsters away.
As quickly as the apparitions had appeared, they were gone, leaving Sharon clutching her chest and panting heavily.
“Bats,” she gasped, realizing finally what the creatures were. Sharon glanced about nervously, but the bats were gone, headed elsewhere to hunt for insects as they began their nightly foraging.
"That's it," she told herself. Sharon glanced at her phone to make sure all the numbers Heat had given her to call were ready to use. Satisfied, she returned the phone to her pants pocket and started walking slowly down the same road Anna had.
The road made a broad, gentle turn to the left. As Sharon rounded the bend, leaving the parked vehicles behind, she noted the large pond on the left. The edges of the black water were covered with green algae, and insects could be seen skittering across the water. On each end of the pond, a narrow, black stream could be seen. An old log floated several feet from the side of the pond where Sharon stood, taking in the scene. She decided it would be a beautiful location to visit were she not so stressed and in a hurry.
A bullfrog jumped into the pond. The resulting splash sent tiny waves across the pond’s surface, reaching nearly halfway across the water before petering out. Sharon turned her back on the pond and continued her walk towards the old plantation home.
A cloud darted across the sky, blocking the remainder of the sun's rays, illuminating the surface of the pond for a brief moment. Had Sharon been looking, she would have seen two luminescent eyes atop the log, watching her as it slowly sank into the water and vanished.
CHAPTER FORTY
Rough hands pushed Anna through the door. Her face stung from where the man who’d greeted her had slapped her. He’d not spoken another word to her but had ordered the frantic man to go and retrieve the body and drag it to the back entrance and await further instructions.
In silence, Anna had shed tears for whoever had been shot. It could only have been Boucher as Heat would be in the old tunnel on the map his assistant Amy had sent. She hadn't asked Elijah for his help, only Heat, and now their old mutual friend lay dead or dying in a weed covered yard in the heat of a south Louisiana evening.
Seated on the far side of the room by the window was Becca. Next to her, sitting on the same old threadbare couch, was Katie. Both girls looked terrified but otherwise seemed to be exactly as the man had described, physically unharmed.
On the right side of the room, standing with his back to her, looking out the room's other window, was a man who exuded an air of authority. He was, no doubt, the employer the man who'd greeted Anna had mentioned.
“Took you long enough to get here.”
Anna didn’t even turn to her left to see who had spoken.
“Nick, you don’t need to push it right now.”
“Anna, this is all a big misunderstanding.”
For years, she had kept her humiliation and anger pent up and hidden when either of her children was present. The wall Anna used to hold it all in crumbled. Nobody in the room moved as Anna turned, and spotting Nick sitting in a chair, his legs and arms duct taped firmly to the chair, rushed to her husband and launched a wild roundhouse swing at his jaw.
A crunching sound announced to all in the room that Anna had connected. The blow sent a tooth and some blood flying from Nick’s mouth and left Anna doubled over, clutching her right hand and gasping as the pain from the broken bones radiated up her arm.
“I see your wife doesn’t think this is a misunderstanding.”
Anna stood up straight and turned to face the man on the far end of the room.
"Why am I here? Why are my daughter and her friend here?"
Unflustered by Anna’s questions, the man took a few steps away from the window and sat down in an overstuffed chair.
"Perfectly understandable, rational questions, Mrs. Devereaux," the man responded. "Of course, your husband would disagree. It is his fault that you and your daughter are here." The man nodded at Katie and sighed. "And, of course, your daughter's friend."
The man bit his lower lip as if in tho
ught and then smiled. “I would like you to know, Mrs. Devereaux, your daughter, Becca, and her friend have been polite, well mannered, and not the slightest bit of trouble. In fact, they have been perfect young ladies, a fact that speaks well of you and the parents of Becca’s friend.”
His smile was replaced by an ugly frown.
"I am quite certain Becca's manners were learned from you and not that sorry excuse for a man that you married."
Anna glanced at Nick, who looked confused as he stared at her. Blood trickled down his face, emanating from the corner of his mouth.
“At the moment, I believe I agree with you, whoever you are.”
“Ah, yes,” the man replied. “Who am I? Mrs. Devereaux, that is indeed the question of the day. A question your husband has refused to answer. It is also the question that caused your daughter and her friend to be brought here and for you to be summoned.”
“Sir.”
The man’s eyes darted towards the other man in the room, the one Anna thought of as the employee.
“Yes,” the employer snapped.
“It would seem Mrs. Devereaux did not obey your instructions to the letter.”
A look of surprise flashed on the man’s face only to be quickly replaced by a frown.
"That's a shame," he replied. "Mrs. Devereaux appeared on time and dressed as instructed."
“She didn’t come alone,” the man informed his employer. “Vinnie shot someone by the old outdoor kitchen.”
"I'm disappointed," the man told Anna after a few seconds of thought. He shook his head like a disapproving adult would before chastising a small child who had betrayed the adult's trust. "But, then again, you married Nick Devereaux, and that, I am afraid, speaks poorly of you, Mrs. Devereaux."
"Shut up, you, you, turd," Becca shouted, coming to her feet. Katie wisely yanked her friend back down onto the couch.
“Young Miss Becca, mind your manners,” the man said firmly. “I didn’t say your beloved mother was all bad. Even you must realize her choice of whom she married was a lapse in judgment.”
“What do you want?”
"What do I want, Mrs. Devereaux? Ask your husband."
Anna's throat tightened, and her pulse became rapid. "Nick, what is he talking about?"
Nick groaned as if pained by the question. “Nick, tell me!”
“He’s got this idea in his head that I have to apologize for some sin I’ve committed in the past.”
Nick flinched the instant he finished speaking, bracing for the blow that didn't come. He looked up at Anna, her cheeks were red with anger, and she was panting like a wounded animal cornered and ready to strike. His eyes noted she was clutching her right arm to her chest with her left, the back of her broken right hand already swelling.
"Yes, that's right, Mrs. Devereaux," the man told her, drawing Anna's attention away from Nick. "Everything could have been handled, and the matter resolved had you simply followed directions."
---
He’d never shot anyone before. Vinnie was still shaking from the adrenaline rush as he dragged the body by its legs to the back entrance. The dead man wasn't as heavy as he'd thought, and there certainly wasn't as much blood as he'd expected. Vinnie noted the shoes the man wore were the same size as his own. He could tell they were nice, even with the inch or so of mud caked on the shoe. If nobody cared, Vinnie decided he'd keep the shoes for himself once it was time to dump the body.
Satisfied the body was close enough to the door to make the crazy man who worked for the boss happy, Vinnie fished out a pack of smokes. He shook one out and, using his lips, pulled it from the box. Then, using his cheap lighter, Vinnie lit the cigarette, enjoying the sensation as he inhaled. Vinnie knew the habit was a terrible one and that he needed to quit. The problem was, Vinnie was confident he looked cool, like James Dean, with a smoke dangling from his lips.
Vinnie was a tough guy now. He'd killed a man. It hadn't been what he'd expected. In the movies, when you shot a man with a sniper rifle, there was a lot of blood. The dead guy should have a gaping wound where the bullet impacted. Vinnie frowned at the thought.
There wasn’t a lot of blood. Not like in the movies.
Curiosity was not a trait Vinnie was noted for, but in this instance, he wanted to know why the real thing hadn't measured up to what he saw in the movies. There were few things in life Vinnie was as sure about as things he learned watching movies.
The crazy man had told Vinnie the silencer on the rifle would only reduce the sound so much. What would reduce the sound was the subsonic bullet the gun was loaded with and the fact the man had positioned Vinnie well back from the window. The field of fire was good because the sniper position was on the third floor, and the monitoring system told Vinnie exactly where to look for his target.
“Maybe it went right through him,” Vinnie wondered aloud. “A through and through.”
Vinnie stared at the body while he smoked his cigarette. The orange ember glowed brightly as he took a final drag before flicking the butt away into the weeds.
“Dude, you should have bled a lot more,” Vinnie informed the stiff.
He moved close to the body in order to see better in the failing light. Leaning over, Vinnie grabbed the shirt with his right hand and yanked, ripping it open as buttons popped off.
“A vest?”
The stiff groaned and spoke. “That was a two-hundred-dollar shirt you ruined.”
Vinnie stood up straight, his mouth open in shock as he stared at the pistol aimed directly at his face.
"Make a sound, and I'll end you," the apparently not-so-dead stiff informed him.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Sharon would have enjoyed strolling down the long, straight avenue leading to the front of the plantation home had the circumstances been different. The live oaks were old and beautiful, opening up like giant hands, the north sides of which had long strands of grey Spanish moss hanging from their branches. In its heyday, the plantation had to have been an enchanting place to live.
She stood in the shade of one of the old live oaks, hiding behind its wide trunk while she peered at the front of the house. Every muscle in Sharon's body felt weak, and she resented the sensation. Shadows were growing longer and reaching out like long arms of ghosts in search of a victim whose soul was in danger. The sun slipped behind the horizon, lighting up just enough of the sky to let Sharon see through the shadows.
Frightened and unsure of what to do, Sharon turned around and sat down on one of the giant oak tree roots protruding from the tree's base. Leaning back against the tree's trunk, Sharon wished she'd done as Heat had asked and remained at the SUV. But, instead, she pulled out her cell phone and looked at the numbers in her contacts.
Heat had said to wait and call if there was trouble. Sharon's hands shook as she contemplated the numbers. Then, slipping from her grasp, the phone fell and bounced off the root at her feet and fell a foot or so away in the weeds growing around the big oak.
“I can’t take this anymore,” Sharon said aloud as she crawled out from behind the protection of the live oak tree’s trunk and grabbed her phone. She crawled back and sat down on the root again. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Sharon pressed the button for the detective Heat had said to call from the East Baton Rouge Sheriff’s Department.
“Detective Arceneaux.”
“Detective Arceneaux, you don’t know me,” Sharon whispered. “But James Heatley said for me to call you.”
---
Vinnie stared at the corpse that had come back to life in disbelief.
“I shot you.”
“I get that,” Boucher replied through clenched teeth. He could sense the idiot was going to try something despite the fact Boucher was aiming directly at the man’s forehead with his sidearm.
“You should be dead.”
“Probably, but if you don’t back up and do as I say, you’re going to be the dead body lying on the ground.”
Behind Vinnie, Boucher sensed movement. H
e blinked twice to better focus, and by doing so, he was able to make out the outline of Heat as he slipped silently through the open back door. Vinnie seemed to realize Boucher was looking at something behind him and began to turn. Heat brought down the crowbar on Vinnie's head with a resounding whack that could be heard from quite a distance. Vinnie dropped like a sack of potatoes on the ground and didn't move.
“You might have killed him,” Boucher observed.
“So what,” Heat snapped while leaning over to examine Boucher’s shoulder. “Good thing you were wearing your vest. I can just see the round in the wound. It’ll be easy to get out.”
Heat stood up and glanced at the motionless Vinnie. “Was he the one who shot you?”
“Yep,” Boucher groaned, extending his left hand up to Heat. “Help me up. I doubt I can get up on my own.”
Heat pulled Boucher to his feet with a groan of his own and stepped back to take a better look at his friend. Then, unable to help himself, Heat started chuckling.
“What’s so funny?”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you this dirty! Your hair is a mess too.”
With a grimace, Boucher brushed his hair back into place with his left hand and began a visual inspection of his person.
“My shoes!”
Heat had to cover his mouth as Boucher staggered over to the body lying several feet away and launched a brutal kick at the man’s back, eliciting a groan.
“That’s what you get for shooting Momma Boucher’s baby boy,” Boucher snarled, launching a second kick. “That’s for dragging me on the ground and ruining $800 worth of clothes.”
Boucher leaned over the unconscious shooter, poking him with the end of his pistol. “He ain’t dead, Heat. But he’s gonna have a nasty scar from where you hit him." Boucher stood up and blinked several times, deciding against launching a third kick at the man. Instead, feeling weak and a bit nauseous, Boucher took a good look at Heat.