An Evil Shadow - A Val Bosanquet Mystery

by A. J. Davidson

  Kellerman checked both guns and took up position at the window.

  Nothing happened for what seemed like a very long time. It was probably only minutes, Val imagined. The pilot must be expecting Lausaux to come to him.

  Kellerman started to check his watch repeatedly. He strode across to the side window and moved the drape aside a minute amount.

  “What the hell’s keeping him? Didn’t he see Lausaux’s Jeep out front?”

  As if in reply, there was a shot from outside and the window crashed in around Kellerman. He ducked down and shook shards of glass from his hair.

  “What the hell is he playing at?” Kellerman whispered, not quite to himself.

  “Lausaux, you double-crossing bastard. Show yourself,” a voice hollered from outside.

  Kellerman looked across at Val. There was confusion in his face. “Who the hell is that?”

  “Gilett, one of Moncoeur’s FRAPH buddies. He’s Lausaux’s partner. Donny had nothing to do with any of it.”

  Color drained from Kellerman’s face. He wiped a trace of blood from his temple with the back of his hand.

  “What does he mean about Lausaux double-crossing him?”

  “I guess Lausaux didn’t tell Gilett that he had brought the payoff forward by twenty-four hours.”

  There was a fusillade of shots and windows on three sides of the room disintegrated. Kellerman raised the revolver and blindly returned fire. He loosed off four rounds.

  Once the reverberations of the firing died away, Gilett called out to the house. “You shouldn’t have exploded the car, Lausaux. The newsrooms had the story on the air before the fire fighters were through putting out the flames.”

  “I wouldn’t waste many more rounds like that,” Val cautioned Kellerman. “From the direction of the shots, there are at least three of them and your ammunition is limited.”

  “Shut up! I’m trying to think.”

  “Maybe you should try talking. Tell them Lausaux’s dead and offer them the money. It’s what they’re here for; otherwise they would have doused the walls of the house with aviation gas by now.”

  Kellerman looked at Val as though he had suggested the unthinkable. He picked empty shells from the revolver’s cylinder and, his hands shaking, he reloaded with loose rounds from his pocket.

  Val counted each one Kellerman inserted. One empty chamber.

  “Talk to them,” he urged.

  “No way. I’m a dead man the moment I open my mouth.”

  “I expect they’re still pissed at you for expropriating the Tonton Macoute retirement fund?”

  “What do you know?” Kellerman spat back him. “If it was just that, don’t you think I’d toss Gilett the briefcase?”

  “Then what the hell is it?”

  Another burst of semi-automatic gunfire raked the house. Gilett and his companions would know that they could shoot all day and the chances of it being reported were practically zero. Gunfire in the wetlands was far from an unusual occurrence, and the local inhabitants knew better than to go poking their noses in the business of strangers.

  “There’s a cell phone in the car,” Val said. “Gilett shot up the only phone in the house last time he was here.”

  “Be my guest. Take a walk outside and fetch it.”

  That was one offer Val had no intention of accepting. “What makes you think Gilett has it in for you?”

  Kellerman didn’t answer he was staring at the door. “Give me a hand with the dresser.”

  Together they lifted the heavy dresser across, blocking the door. Val was marched into the kitchen at gunpoint and made to upend the kitchen table and wedge it against the back door. Kellerman had Val pull the kitchen blinds. They returned to the living room. Kellerman took up position next to one window. Val stood at the other.

  “How long before Gilett starts to wonder why Lausaux isn’t shouting back at him?” Val asked.

  “Not long.”

  “Then let me talk with him first. I’ll toss the briefcase out and explain that Lausaux’s dead. We can lower his body through a window if he wants proof. He’ll take the money and leave.”

  “It wouldn’t work. Once he gets his hands on the money, there’s nothing preventing him setting fire to the house.”

  Kellerman’s assessment was spot on, Val conceded. But there had to be something they could do. Angie was in desperate need of medical attention. He racked his brains for a solution. Tell him that MacLean shot Lausaux, and the explosion destroyed the payoff? No, Gilett would never buy it. What were they doing here if they hadn’t collected?

  “Give me one of the guns, at least,” Val said. If they decide to come at the house from two directions at the same time, you’re finished.”

  “No way. You would shoot me in the back first chance you had.”

  “What chance would I have on my own? Besides, I’m a law enforcement officer. It’s my sworn duty to protect you, no matter how much I may dislike it. If they knew there were two of us inside, they won’t be in any hurry to rush us.”

  Kellerman cocked the revolver and pointed it at Val. “And if I were to put a hole in you now, I would have one less problem to deal with.”

  Gilett stuck his head out from behind a tree. “You have three minutes, Lausaux. Then we’re coming in.”

  A trickle of sweat broke free from Kellerman’s hairline and trickled down his temple. “Okay, talk to them. But one word about me and you’re gator bait. If I didn’t shoot you first, they’d kill you to get at me. Either way, you would be signing your own death warrant.”

  Val picked up a table lamp and used it to knock out a section of glass. The rain had finally eased off. He ripped down one side of the drapes and edged his head as close to the window frame as possible and shouted, “Gilett. It’s Val Bosanquet here.”

  There was no response for twenty seconds. Then Gillett yelled back at him. “I remember you, Mister Chiefman. Where’s Lausaux?”

  “He doesn’t feel like talking right now. He’s asked me to negotiate.”

  “There’s nothing to negotiate. I want the money and I want Lausaux. You get in the way of that, then that’s your bad luck.”

  “I’m a cop, Gilett. You’d be stupid to kill a cop.”

  “I’m already a fugitive wanted on three counts of murder, Mister Chiefman. One more isn’t going to change things.”

  “What about the men with you? Are they prepared to risk the chair as well?”

  A bullet whacked into the outside edge of the window frame. A long splinter of wood split off and landed at Val’s feet.

  “There’s your answer, Mister Chiefman. I should have killed you when I had the chance. My boys aren’t going to allow me to make the same mistake twice. The three minutes start from now.”

  “Come one step closer and I begin burning Treasury Bills.”

  “Let Lausaux speak. I want to hear his voice.”

  Val waited a few moments, then shouted, “He says he doesn’t want to talk.”

  “We think he’s hurt bad or maybe dead, Mister Chiefman. From where I’m standing there’s an awful lot of blood on the back seat of the Jeep. You’re in there all by yourself.”

  “You think so. Just watch this.”

  Val signaled to Kellerman. “Throw me a gun. Take the clip out if you have to, but do as I say,” he said, keeping his voice down to a whisper.

  Kellerman pressed the release button and removed the magazine. He pulled back the slide and ejected the bullet from the chamber. He pocketed the magazine and the spare round, then tossed the empty gun to Val.

  Val caught it one handed. “Now, let them see two guns at once. Okay.”

  They each displayed a weapon at their respective windows, and then quickly withdrew them before Gilett caught on that both the hands holding them were white.

  “That proof enough?” Val yelled out. “Lausaux caught a bullet in the throat. He’s okay, but he’s not talking too good.”

  “So there’s two of you. You have two minutes; then we
’re coming in.”

  “Say goodbye to the money.”

  There was no reply from the semi-circle of live oaks.

  “Any more bright ideas?” Kellerman demanded. “With two of them to give covering fire, the third should be able to make it to the Jeep. Then the steps. Once he’s under the house, we’re finished.”

  Val didn’t much like the idea of Kellerman firing at the Jeep, or of hot rounds coming up at them through the floorboards.

  “You’re going have to trust me and hand over the magazine. There’s no other way. Two against three, we just might make it.”

  Kellerman took the magazine from his pocket. He rubbed his thumb along the black metal as he deliberated.

  “Make your blasted mind up,” Val said. “There isn’t much time.”

  “Okay. You can have the revolver. Throw me the Beretta.”

  Val tossed it across the room. Kellerman caught it neatly and inserted the clip. He pulled back the slide.

  “Quick, give me the revolver,” Val hissed.

  The priest released the hammer with his thumb and lobbed the gun across the room.

  What was left of the glass in the windows came in around them as the Haitians opened up. For a split second Val seriously considered putting a bullet in Kellerman, but put wistful thinking aside and peeked his head around the edge of the window frame.

  Two of the Haitians broke from the shelter of the oaks and started a crouching run towards the Wagoneer, their handguns held rigidly in front of them, blasting rounds wildly at the house. Their feet splashing and skidding on the rain-soaked ground, slowed their charge. Gilett had elected to remain behind his oak, presumably because of his earlier wounds.

  Val realized the Haitian had handed them the advantage. Gilett could only keep one of them pinned down at a time. He stepped in front of the window and took careful aim at the man in front. The bullet struck him in the center of his chest and dropped him. Momentum bulldozed his face into the ground, pushing up a little ridge of mud.

  Val shifted his attention to the second man. He fired two quick shots, and missed with both. A bullet fired in reply plucked at the sleeve of his jacket. He resisted the impulse to take cover, steadied his aim and fired once again. His target took a bullet in the thigh. It wasn’t enough to stop him. He kept coming on, hobbling drunkenly like a racehorse which has shattered a leg mid-race. Val’s final round caught him in the side of the head.

  The odds had swung to their favor, but the defenders were reduced to one gun. Val looked across the room. Kellerman was leaning against the dresser, his forehead drenched in blood. He started to buckle.

  Val stepped over Lausaux’s body and moved quickly across the room to catch hold of Kellerman and lay him down on the couch. A bullet had clipped the priest high on the temple, the thick sticky blood made it appear worse than it was. The wound was a little more than a graze, a two-inch swath of silver hair shaved from his scalp. It wasn’t life threatening, but he would have one hell of a headache when he came to.

  Gilett stopped firing and the sudden silence was overwhelming.

  Val slipped the Beretta from Kellerman’s fingers. He checked the magazine. Three rounds left, plus the one in Kellerman’s trouser pocket. He had no time to hunt for it now.

  “Good shooting, Mister Chiefman,” Gilett yelled out. But you’ve been holding out on me. It’s been Kellerman the whole time. How is the bastard? I think I managed to nick him.”

  Val went back to his window. “He’ll live.”

  “Now it’s one on one, Mister Chiefman. How’s your ammunition lasting out?”

  “I have all I’ll need.”

  “Glad to hear it. Give up Kellerman and you can walk away from here.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can. A murdering bastard like that isn’t worth dying over. You can keep the money, all I want is Kellerman.”

  “You want him? You come and get him.”

  “Maybe you’ll change your mind when I tell you why I’m not leaving here without him.”

  “I’m listening,” Val shouted back.

  “My real name’s Raoul Duval. Marie Duval is my half-sister. I was reported killed along with my father in eighty-six. His body and that of another man were burnt beyond recognition. Things in Haiti were very confused at the time. Mistakes were made.”

  Val popped his head out. The Wagoneer’s battery had finally died; the headlights no longer shining. Gilett was lying stomach down in the lee of an oak. All that was visible was one leg and an ankle. The early morning sun had come out and the damp ground was steaming.

  “Who made the mistake?” Val asked.

  “The Haitian that Kellerman hired to kill my father and me. He was a small time crook, and a rapist who had fled Port-au-Prince while Baby Doc was still running things, but returned to carry out Kellermen’s orders during the early days of the dechoukaj.”

  Val allowed the news to sink in. Small wonder that Gilett wanted a chance to reciprocate. “How can you know for sure that it was Kellerman?”

  “My father’s killer took a long time to die. When it was done, I swore a blood oath that one day I would come to America and kill the man who sent him.”

  “Why did you wait until now? Because of your mother?”

  “Correct, Mister Chiefman. I bided my time until I had all their names. Every single one of them would pay for what they had done to her. No one would be allowed to escape the consequences.”

  “How did you find out about Donny Jackson? Lausaux tell you?”

  “Right again, Mister Chiefman. He had chanced on my true identity from a contact of his in Haiti, though it meant nothing to him until Roy Jackson told him about Marie.”

  “Roy and Rita Jackson didn’t deserve to die. They tried to help your mother. They were trying to help your sister.”

  “They used their silence to shield their son and Kellerman.”

  “Kellerman will stand trial for what he’s done.”

  “He’s a priest and an old man. Your American courts will be lenient on him. They won’t sentence him to the chair.”

  “Living out the rest of his life in Angola prison farm would be a greater punishment.”

  From further up the bayou came the hacking cough of an aero engine kicking into life. After idling for a minute to circulate the oil, the roar increased as the seaplane turned into the wind and started its take-off sprint. Val watched it rise free of the trees about a quarter of a mile to the east. It soon became a dot in the sky.

  “Looks like neither of us is going anyplace,” Gilett shouted across.

  “Suits me,” Val yelled back at him. “Can’t be long now before somebody starts to wonder what’s happening at the Jacksons’s. All I need do is sit tight and wait. Plenty of good clean water to drink, and all the tinned food I can eat.”

  “Ain’t nobody for miles.”

  “These bayous are crawling with fishermen. I’ll wager you this twenty million that right now several are making for town and the sheriff’s office.”

  There was another shot and a bullet slammed into the set of bleached gator jaws the Jacksons’s had mounted above their fireplace. It tumbled to the floor.

  Returning fire at the oak Gilett was behind, Val saw bark and wood chips fly from it. Two rounds left.

  Val checked his watch. A quarter past six. Angie had ingested the neurotoxin ten and a quarter hours previously. Was she still alive? Lausaux could have given her too strong a dose. Maybe it wasn’t too late for the doctors to pump her stomach. Why not do as Gilett asked and give him Kellerman? No one would ever know or care. Angie was worth a hundred of Kellerman.

  The priest stirred. His eyes blinked open and quickly shut again.

  A wave of tiredness swept over Val. He had averaged less than three hours of sleep per night for the last six days. He yawned and rubbed a hand over his eyes. How long before Gilett decided to make his move? If he wanted Kellerman bad enough, nothing would stop him from torching the house. But to do tha
t he would need gasoline and the only place he could now lay his hands on that was from the Wagoneer’s tank.

  What were his own options, Val wondered? The Wagoneer couldn’t be started with a flat battery. He could try making a break for Lausaux’s cell phone, but Gilett would pump round after round into the vehicle. He could set fire to the house himself, a controlled fire. Maybe somebody would report seeing smoke. Too risky, Val decided.

  An hour ticked by.

  Val’s eyes hurt from the constant strain of focusing on the oak tree. His hand ached from holding the gun. His trigger finger had stiffened. Why hadn’t Gilett made his move? What was keeping him? Was he still hurting too badly from his earlier injuries to chance it? Or was he out of ammunition? Maybe the seaplane hadn’t deserted him. Gilett was bluffing about going nowhere, and had sent the pilot for reinforcements. Val listened for the sounds of an engine in the distance, but could hear nothing other than the chirping of crickets and the rasping croak of bullfrogs.

  The temperature inside the house was rising; the air was that still it made little difference that most of the windows were out. Val licked his lips and imagined what a glass of fresh cool water from the kitchen faucet would taste like, knowing he couldn’t abandon his vigil at the window.

  “Mister Chiefman,” Gilett called out. “Now you’ve had plenty of time to think about it, can’t you see how dumb it is to protect Kellerman? He’s not worth dying for.”

  Then Val heard it. At first it was so faint, he thought he was imagining it. But there was no mistaking that sound. A police siren in the distance, growing louder by the second.

  For one brief moment, Val rested his forehead against the bare wood of the wall. He pulled back and looked out the window. Gilett had heard the siren too. He was up on his feet. Val braced his arm against the window frame as he tracked Gilett in his sights. Still too far away for Val to have any chance of hitting him, the Haitian was moving to his left, dodging from tree to tree. His intention was clear; he wanted to put the Wagoneer between him and the house when he made his charge.

  Val reacted quickly. With help coming, Gilett wouldn’t expect him to go on the offensive. He moved Lausaux’s body and heaved the dresser away from the door. Then, sucking in a deep breath, he swung open the door and hurled himself over the railings of the porch. Although the ground was soft and he hit with his left shoulder, it still knocked the wind out of him. He rolled across the ground to the overturned pirogue. Bullets tore up the earth around him.