He smiled. “But we have been talking.”
“Are you always this difficult, Mr. LaFevre?”
“Call me Jackson.”
“Can we get serious for one second here?”
“By serious, I assume you’re referring to the Florida abductions.”
She was caught off guard, but tried not to show it. “That’s right, I am.”
He pulled a slim cigar from his shirt pocket, clenched it between his teeth, and lit it. Silvery smoke clouds drifted from his mouth into the stagnant air. “Let’s discuss it over a civilized glass of port, shall we?”
She fanned the smoke away from her face. “Wine gives me a migraine. I’ll settle for a cold beer and some air conditioning.”
“You’re an unusual woman, Teddi McCoy. Blunt, but intriguing.”
“That’s what my ex-husband says. Now about that beer . . . “
He bowed slightly. “Of course. Please follow me.”
Teddi trekked behind him further along the path and hoped that he actually was Jackson LaFevre, and that his brute of a guard dog learned to tolerate her. Fast. Because right now, they both gave her the willies.
Until she had those answers, she would remain chary.
Chapter 17
Teddi didn’t have any pre-conceived notions about what Jackson’s bayou home would look like, but she certainly couldn’t have imagined the ramshackle dwelling propped up on stilts that slid into view as they rounded the final crook in the path. Badly weathered shingles covered the small house, the front door sat crooked on orange rusted hinges, and the high-peaked tin roof was a nasty greenish brown. All the windows were painted black. She was tempted to end to her assignment then and there if he forced her to enter it.
He chuckled when he noted her revulsion. “It’s much more agreeable on the inside,” he remarked.
“Promise?” she asked skeptically. It couldn’t be any worse, could it?
He blew a smoke ring. “On my honor.”
Jackson led the way up the warped steps to the lofty front porch. He took a remote control unit from his pocket and pressed in a code. The leaning front door swung out, revealing a shiny white steel door. He inserted a key, twisted, and nudged the white door inward.
“After you,” he said, extinguishing his cigar in an old milk can lid behind the warped door.
Teddi stared into the blackness and hesitated. “Sure it’s safe?”
“One hundred percent sure.”
“Okay.” Teddi reluctantly entered the house where she was greeted by a cool draft. Jackson flicked up a bank of light switches, and the brass and ceramic table lamps and the lone ceiling fan snapped to life. The interior was stylishly decorated with posh white leather furniture, cane and mahogany tables, extravagant paintings, including one Van Gogh, and an entertainment center consisting of a LCD television, home theater system, stereo components, and an array of speakers. Persian rugs with green and burgundy designs dotted the polished oak floor that appeared clean enough to eat off.
“Satisfied?” he pressed, with a facetious grin.
“Who’d have guessed that the inside looked like this!” she exhaled, relieved.
“That’s the whole point. Camouflage. It keeps the bayou burglars away.” He depressed another button on his remote, and the far wall slid apart in two sections, exposing a considerable bay window. The sight beyond the glass was picturesque. Teddi stared out at the scenic waterway meandering a hundred feet behind the house. Alligators dotted the sandy banks, while long-legged cranes fished the lazy current.
“I get a bit claustrophobic if I can’t look outside,” he mentioned. “This place was actually built for one. One bedroom. One bathroom. I added the second bedroom for guests.”
“The ultimate bachelor pad, huh?”
“You might say that.”
Teddi noticed that the rustic-shingled doghouse beside the waterway was also elevated on five-foot stilts with a wooden ramp leading up to it. Zeus lay with his head resting on his crossed paws inside the screened deck. A doggie door discouraged mosquitoes and snakes from entering. Another doggie door led into the doghouse and provided shelter from storms and stifling hot weather.
“You forgot to mention the single doghouse,” Teddi joked. Her uneasiness was gradually melting away.
“Don’t tell Zeus,” Jackson replied, from the open kitchen. He emptied a bag of twisted pretzels into a bowl, filled a fluted glass with port wine, and popped the tab on Teddi’s beer. “Want a glass?”
“Sure, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Jackson placed their refreshments on a silver tray and set it on the small cane dinette table with a full view of the bayou. Teddi sat on one of the two chairs.
“Thank God for two chairs,” she ribbed him.
He nodded and raised his glass. “Here’s to first impressions.”
Teddi’s eyes became slits. “Very funny.”
They clinked glasses, and then Jackson said earnestly, “Now to business. I take it that you’ve hit a few snags in your investigation of the South Florida kidnappings.”
Teddi downed a couple swallows of beer. “Try a dead end.”
“Ah,” he said, as if that explained it all. “And Charlie Simmons asked you to come all the way out here alone to solicit my help. Who’s heading your investigation?”
“I am.”
He seemed pleased. “And what do you know so far?”
Teddi described the paltry clues they had uncovered to date, but lamented that they were still in the dark as to the identity of the kidnapper and his possible motive.
“His?”
“We figure our perp is a man. Most women couldn’t physically handle three hundred pound women.”
“That’s logical.” He sipped his wine, while Teddi threw back another swallow of beer. It tasted great. After her brief trek into the steaming bayou, she was parched.
“Would you mind telling me exactly how you can help me on this case? Charlie didn’t fill me in on that minor detail.”
Jackson smiled. “That surprises me, because he can certainly tell a whopper of a fish story.”
“I didn’t know he fished.”
“Now and then.”
It suddenly dawned on her. “Charlie fishes here.”
“Every so often,” he answered vaguely. “Now to answer your question. I sense things. The closer I am to the scene of a crime or someone intimately involved with it, the more I sense.”
She gnawed a pretzel. “You mean like visualizing pertinent details?”
“Sometimes impertinent details, too. My senses aren’t that fine-tuned.”
“You mind explaining that?”
He wrinkled his forehead. “Let’s just say that there are many presences at a crime scene, both human and inert. Not all of them pertain to that particular crime, but it’s impossible for me to filter them out. It’s your job to sift through my findings for the relevant information. I’m not a detective. Does that answer your question?”
“I suppose so, but it’s difficult for me to understand your powers when I’m sort of a skeptic myself.” She paused, waiting for his reaction. When there was none, she continued. “Will you help me find our kidnapper?”
“Can I have some time to think on it?”
Teddi emptied her glass. “Don’t take too long. As I explained, if it stops raining, our perp stops abducting. At least that’s what happened in 1856. So, we don’t know how much time we have left. The rainy weather could break any day.”
“I see.” He stroked his jaw. “And your new friend Dex Lowe is assisting you?”
Teddi’s brows shot up. She’d never mentioned Dex. “How do you know about him? Is this some kind of parlor trick?”
The psychic ignored her impudence. “Is he?” he persisted.
“Okay, he’s the police chief of Gator Creek where four of the abductions occurred. Yes, I’ve been working with him.” She studied his grave expression, and out of the blue wondered why he wasn’t married. After
all, he looked to be in his mid thirties. “How come you’re not married?” The question flew out of her mouth before she could stop it. Jesus, Teddi, the guy probably thinks you’re another ditsy blonde!
“You’re a rather frank person, aren’t you?”
She felt her cheeks flush. “I don’t beat around the bush, if that’s what you mean.”
He smiled. “Since this obviously has some bearing on whether you accept me into your investigative fold or not, I’ll satisfy your curiosity. I simply haven’t found the right woman. I spend most of my time out here, and as you might have noticed, the bayou isn’t exactly Daytona Beach teeming with scantily clad, eligible women.” He appeared amused. “And why, may I ask, did you divorce Ryan Wilkerson?”
She didn’t falter. “Because he’s a pompous ass.” Now how did he know that?
“Fair enough. Give me a few moments to consider your request.”
“Hold on. Why did you want to know about Dex?”
“I’ve made my decision,” he announced swiftly, dodging her curiosity. “I’m going back to Gator Creek with you.”
Teddi’s enthusiasm was tempered by Jackson’s mysterious inquiry about Dex. She stood. “If we’re going to be partners on this investigation, we have to be honest and open with each other. No holding back. Now, why did you want to know about Dex?”
Jackson folded his hands. “If we don’t reach Gator Creek before nightfall, your friend will be murdered.”
Chapter 18
The sleek blue bow-rider’s inboard engine growled as Jackson deftly guided his speedboat through the bewildering labyrinth of bayou channels at full throttle. He and Teddi were headed for Baton Rouge, the closest city where they could catch an early flight to Fort Lauderdale and arrive in time to save Dex. After docking at a friend’s home along the Mississippi River, Jackson arranged for a local taxi to take them to the airport.
“Where’s your friend?” Teddi asked, as she brushed her windblown hair inside the bathroom of the expensive house. Her hair had that freshly electrocuted look.
“He and his wife are spending the weekend up in Shreveport for a family reunion. His wife’s side of the family, I believe he said. Stewart hates those get-togethers, but he goes because his wife loves them. Keeping the peace, you know.”
“Yeah, I do.” She shoved the brush back into her purse. “I don’t know much about the bayou country, but I thought the swamp water would be too shallow for speedboats,” Teddi remarked. “I was thinking more of airboats.”
“Normally I use my bow-rider for short hauls, but we’ve had nearly as much rain as South Florida, and all the rivers and creeks are flooded. Hell, the channel depths are running about ten to twelve feet deep, and they usually run three to four.”
“Wouldn’t three to four feet give your prop plenty of clearance?”
“Not where stumps and sunken logs are concerned. When the marshland’s that shallow, I put the bow-rider into storage and use my airboat.”
Now how could a psychic afford those expensive boats? Maybe he was born rich, or used his psychic powers to locate old pirate treasures. Teddi covered her fleeting grin with her hand as Jackson passed by the open bathroom doorway.
As she was putting the finishing touches on her eyeliner, Teddi thought about Dex again. Who’d want to murder him? The kidnapper? Her nerves were fireworks, and Dex wasn’t helping. She’d called his cell and office several times, but he didn’t answer. Were they already too late? God, she hoped not. Dammit, where was he?
Three elongated car horn beeps blared from the driveway announcing their taxi. Twenty minutes later, their driver turned through a gate and onto a private airfield.
Teddi studied the modest facility as the taxi parked in front of a blue hanger. Must be Jackson’s favorite color. “I thought you got us seats on a commercial airliner,” she noted suspiciously.
“No, I never said that. I usually charter my flights so they fit my schedule. This time, it was the only way I could guarantee we’d arrive at Fort Lauderdale before sunset,” he responded.
“Charlie’s going to hit the roof when he sees the charter plane’s bill,” she groaned.
“No he won’t.”
Teddi studied Jackson’s expressionless face. “And why’s that? Because you two are fishing buddies?”
“No. This flight’s on me.”
She stood outside the yawning hanger entrance. This guy was certainly full of surprises. And money.
Ryan took Teddi’s fifth call that afternoon. She was beginning to royally piss him off. “No, that old coot’s not around here – for the fifth time, Teddi! Look, I’m extremely busy, as in I can’t waste time talking to you!” he growled, but Teddi ignored his discourtesy and kept on talking. “You’re on your way back here by plane? Good for you, Teddi, but I could really give a shit, you know.” He paused. “Do what? I’m short enough on manpower as it is without sending an agent out to search for another . . .” He stopped and listened. “All right, I’ll have someone check-out his house and have Dex call you if he’s there. Fair enough? Good. Don’t bother me again!” Ryan slammed down the receiver, and the three nearby agents jumped.
Ryan stormed out of the police station into the parking lot where Carlos Fuentes sat in his patrol car, windshield wipers going intermittently to clear the rain. Carlos was Dex’s lone patrolman, and he preferred spending his down time in the patrol car rather than listening to the FBI gringos crack jokes about Teddi McCoy and Dex.
Ryan knocked hard on the window, and Carlos slowly rolled it down. “Hurry up, for chrissakes. It’s raining out here!”
“What is it?” Carlos asked coolly.
“Teddi McCoy wants you to get a message to your boss. Tell him that Teddi wants him to call her right away. Got that?”
“Where’s Dex?”
“How the Hell should I know? He’s not my boss. Why don’t you try his home? Do I have to do your thinking, too?” he retorted. God, this guy’d fuck up a wet dream!
Carlos rolled up his window and watched Ryan sprint through the endless rain into the station. Dex’s place was ten minutes away. Carlos wished it were ten hours. That way he’d be free of Wilkerson’s sarcasm for the rest of the day. The hotshot bastard!
Carlos Fuentes was a birthday shy of thirty. His olive skin and black hair and eyes displayed his proud Chilean heritage. He sent part of his salary back to his family there, so they could someday afford to join him in America. At eighteen, he got lucky and escaped Chile’s poverty on a baseball scholarship from Miami University. But he threw out the rotator cuff of his pitching arm his junior year, and that squelched his lifelong dream of playing major league baseball. Fame, fortune, and fun – all flushed with a single pitch against Notre Dame in a NCAA Super Regional playoff game.
He then switched majors from Foreign Studies to Law Enforcement, met Dex who lectured at Miami twice a year, and the rest was history. Job offered. Job accepted.
Carlos had vowed that he would explore more lucrative big city cop jobs while working in Gator Creek, but Dex was the best boss a guy could have. So he stuck around. Lower pay, fewer headaches, great weather, and an unlimited supply of gorgeous babes. Hispanic babes. The best.
Dex’s house was nestled on ten acres at the outskirts of civilization, the eastern edge of the Florida Everglades. His white stucco ranch house sat at the end of a long gravel drive amid a stand of live oaks and towering cypress trees. As Carlos navigated the storm’s gloom along the driveway, clumps of dangling Spanish moss resembled fiendish ghosts threatening to assault all trespassers.
Carlos disliked visiting Dex out there unless the sun was shining brightly. The shadowy isolation gave him the creeps. A ground mist swirled around his ankles, as he abandoned the patrol car and marched up to his boss’s front door. Fence lizards scattered in all directions, scrambling to safety among the overgrown shrubs flanking the small porch. He rang the bell.
“Hey, boss, it’s Carlos. You here, man?”
No response. Carlos
waited impatiently. Birds squawked and sang, locusts droned, and two dogs carried on a distant barking conversation.
Carlos knocked this time, but still there was no response. He peered into the windows, but there was no sign of Dex. Finally he hiked around the house to the detached two-door garage out back and glanced through the grimy side window. Spiders scampered away from his rain-soaked face.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed, wildly ripping the strands of the invisible web from his hair, nose, and chin. Man, he hated it out there.
Against his better judgment, he peered inside again. He had to be sure Dex wasn’t home. After all, he could be lying on the floor dying of a heart attack or something.
Sheets of hurricane plywood were stacked against the other side of the window frame, blocking his view. Suddenly, he stiffened upon hearing unexpected footsteps. They came from the direction of the swamp. But were they just his imagination?
A wooden walkway built a foot above the marshy land ran the entire depth of Dex’s flooded backyard. The final section that led to his dock disappeared beyond a misty jungle marsh of cabbage palms, vines, saw grass, and tall reeds.
Carlos’s hands quivered. He crossed himself and stepped onto the rain-slick walkway. If Dex was out there working on his fishing boat without his cell on, the patrolman was going to give him a piece of his frazzled mind!
Mosquitoes buzzed around his ears and dived at his face. He frantically swatted them away until he reached the palmetto scrub. Oddly, the ravenous mosquitoes abandoned their vampire quest and retreated back toward the house.
A light breeze rustled the stiff green palm swords, and the earlier downpour now slowed to a sprinkle. Low black clouds raced westward as if enticing him to follow. He brushed the clammy perspiration from his brow and advanced toward the swamp dock. He relentlessly scanned the algae-green water for snakes and alligators, and his legs grew shaky, but he willed them to go on. If Teddi McCoy needed to speak with Dex pronto-hasto, then it must be urgent.
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