Orb

by Arp, David E. ;

  “Yancey is a cool name. I’ve never heard of it before.”

  “You can’t be serious. Men think alike. Josh likes it too. I’m going to insist upon Levi. Different websites have a mix of meanings, but from what I’ve found, Yancey is Native American for Yankee. He also likes Kylee if it’s a girl, but that’s Aboriginal for boomerang, so she won’t be called that name either.”

  She surprised him. She’d done her homework. “Why Levi?”

  “Josh and I have had our problems, my problems mostly. Levi has united us. That’s what the name means—‘united’ or ‘connected’.”

  “So, you think it’s a boy?”

  She placed her hands on her stomach again. “I know this moving, living person inside of me is a boy.”

  “Well, I’m not going to argue. Your mom knew you and named you before you were born.”

  She searched his face, glanced at her watch again and opened the laptop. “Dad, I have to go. I have a class in forty-five minutes.”

  “You’re going to college?”

  “To Denver University. You already know that if your nose sniffed into my life as deep as I suspect. College is hard. For me it’s hard. I’m starting to wonder why I’m there.”

  That was one tidbit he didn’t know. “Can I help? With tuition, with—”

  “Josh takes care of me.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He stood when she did.

  She grabbed her backpack, a small one that looked all but empty. When the screen went black, she closed the computer and shoved it into the pack. “I really have to go.”

  “Can I walk you out?”

  She nodded.

  He opened the door and then stepped out behind her into a cool gust. The wind had shifted to a northerly direction, driving clouds into the area. The forecast had called for snow the past couple of days. So far, they’d been spared. Might get a dose after all.

  His daughter didn’t waddle. The baby still rode high. He’d guessed seven months. Close. He realized he’d missed an obvious detail. She wore green bibs, like the Oshkosh brand young kids wore. She’d had a pair as a child. They were cute on her. Today, she wore a yellow long sleeve shirt, something she would have never done five years earlier. Even in freezing weather she would have worn short sleeves to display the tattoos on her forearms.

  At the curb she stopped and faced him. “Dad, e-mail me, text me. I’ll write back. I’ll let you know how Levi is doing. He won’t be here until the first week of July. Can we go slow?” Her eyes searched his face again. This time, pleading for the right answer.

  He held out his hand and she took it. “As slow as you need to, Mrs. Bell.”

  Her lips hinted at a smile to show pleasure at the mention of her title. She kissed his cheek and walked away. Her lips left a small spot of moisture just below his cheekbone on the right side. It felt cold in the breeze.

  6

  Monday, April 8

  Meshach stayed right on the I-10 loop when the highway forked toward downtown New Orleans. High-rise banks, hotels, and assorted office buildings loomed ahead. Beyond the city proper, the Greater New Orleans Bridge spanned the Mississippi River. Cranes, ship-loading facilities, factories, and warehouses lined both sides of the lazy, muddy river.

  Traffic moved at every speed but the posted sixty miles an hour. He set the cruise control at sixty-two and planted the black sedan in the center lane. The car had 4,000 miles on it. For all practical purposes, a brand new vehicle, but he’d checked the taillights and turning signals before he left the drop. He wanted to stay under the radar in every respect. A cop with nothing better to do than critique signal lights would be a problem.

  The same with obeying the speed limit—never exactly on the number and never under it. A guy his age drove under the limit when he had car problems or something to hide. He’d heard stories about southern, good-ole-boy towns where issuing tickets funded Christmas for the sheriff’s passel of kids. One mile an hour over the limit: speeding. One mile an hour under: drunk.

  Once across the river, he took Highway 23 southeast through Belle Chase. The highway was the only route along the Mississippi River to Venice. He paid particular attention to the massive ships on the river. Towering vessels, some seven hundred feet or more in length, sat in their moorings or traveled the river road.

  Sixty miles later, he saw the sign Fish Camps 4 Rent. He turned right onto a graveled track, ascended the levee toward the ocean and stopped when he topped out. The levee he parked on protected the population who lived along the highway from the ocean to the south. Its twin to the north held the river at bay. The middle cabin of the five in front of him would be his home for the next few days.

  He followed the gravel road as it looped across the back of the houses. He stopped in a turnout behind cabin C and got out with his computer bag and backpack. A pleasant seventy-five degrees greeted him. The wind couldn’t make up its mind what direction to blow. A puff from the right smelled like the grass left in a mower bag for a week, a puff from the left like rotten fish mixed with shrimp. He wondered which odor was normal.

  He preferred desert. Arid rock and dirt didn’t smell like anything unless it rained or the spring flowers and cacti bloomed.

  Like most of the structures along the coast, all five of these places were built on poles twelve feet or so above the marsh to keep a hurricane from washing them away.

  Water lapped at the arc of wooden walkways, docks and boat slips in front of the cabins. The only boat rocked gently in the middle slot across from his house. If he had to guess, the craft came with the place and was his to use for the week.

  He trotted up the steps. After a minute of searching, he located the key in the hidden groove along the edge of the jamb and let himself in. Now, he’d see just how far Lamech’s sphere of influence reached.

  The kitchen and living room combo with sweeping French doors led to a large deck and made the place airy. Two big fans hung from the ceiling. The white sink, black microwave, matching dishwasher and stove made for a simple kitchen. The sink sat in an island with four padded barstools on the opposite side. Three bedrooms and one bath made up the rest of the house. Like the outside, all the woodwork was cypress.

  He placed his cell phone and computer on the island and walked into the back bedroom to drop his backpack on the king-size bed.

  His phone chirped. He trotted back into the kitchen, glanced at the number, and snatched the phone off the counter. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t stutter. No phone calls. If you have something you want to say to me, use the net.” Meshach walked to the couch and dug behind the cushions until he felt cold steel.

  “I’m paying the bills.”

  What arrogance. Meshach pulled the .45 Kimber semiautomatic pistol from behind a cushion. It was clean and smelled like gun oil. The butt held a full clip of jacketed hollow points. He eased the slide back to reveal the round in the chamber. “I don’t care. I’m doing the job, risking my life. We’ve never met in person, but if you call me again, we will.”

  “That’s funny. You’re threatening me, and you don’t even know who I am.”

  “You keep that line of thought. Make yourself feel safe. Who you are means nothing to me, but don’t ever make the mistake of assuming I can’t find you. I’ve got an area code to start searching. Listen to me. Are you listening?”

  A hard breath sounded in his ear. He held the phone out and pushed end.

  You’d better get the message.

  Heat rose in his face. That moron might be paying the bills, but Meshach was no one’s employee, period. If Lamech didn’t have enough sense to know not to use the phone, he’d better find some, quick.

  Meshach didn’t know the man’s true identity, just as Lamech didn’t know Meshach’s, but the seed had been planted. Lamech would have trouble sleeping now. He’d be looking over his shoulder at every turn wondering if the boogieman was about to pounce.

  A new box of
.45, ACP ammo lay under the right cushion. He tossed it on the island, stuffed the pistol in his belt and pulled down his shirt to cover it.

  He eyed the kitchen drawers. Monty Hall came to mind. Let’s Make a Deal. Mom’s favorite. Which door do I want? He jerked open the middle drawer next to the sink and ran his hand along its bottom. Wrong door. He pulled open two more before he found the bundle of cash. He sniffed the banded pack of fresh bills, peeled fifty Ben Franklins off the top, and stuffed them into his pants pocket. The five grand remaining, he tossed into the freezer. Another forty grand was stashed in the house. He’d locate the rest later.

  He locked the door on the way out.

  7

  Monday, April 8, 11:00 AM

  Wes walked into his room, and Jessica looked up and smiled. She sat at the little desk in the corner, eating yogurt from a small container with a plastic spoon.

  He turned one of the chairs next to the couch toward her and plopped down. “Where did Tony run off to?”

  She finished a bite and pointed over her shoulder with the spoon. “In search of a burger and fries. He’s been gone ten minutes. How was your outing?”

  “All well. I guess you’re up to speed on our employer, who we’re looking for and why?”

  “I am. Strange case, or at least it seems so to me. I don’t feel productive. I mean I’m working, looking, I just can’t identify a specific item I would call completed.”

  “You’re correct about the strange part. Don’t worry about your progress. This type of thing takes time. Anything new on our man or the points I mentioned this morning?”

  “We inquired about the dog at SPCA, the Humane Society, and various animal shelters. Even looked through the pet classified on various lists. You wouldn’t think describing a dog to someone would be so difficult. One lady wanted to know what kind of personality the ‘dog in question’ had. I think the root word in personality was lost on her. We may need a mug shot of him. No pun intended. On the police side, Tony talked to a detective who seemed willing enough to share information, but he didn’t have much to share. He said no DNA or prints were found anywhere at the scene, including on the glass bottle.” She closed a laptop that had to be hers because Tony wouldn’t own a PC, and sat back in the chair.

  Wes grabbed his pad and a pencil. “What are your first thoughts about the posts?”

  “Off the wall. The name Anjali is foreign and foreign to me. The post is random, like Lamech just grabbed names out of the air and plugged them into the sentence.”

  “Tony thinks they’re communicating. A code of some kind with no good end in mind.”

  She nodded. “I would agree. The names are too random for it not to be a code, and based on that assessment, I think we should include Sullivan and Lamech in our searches. This is a conspiracy of some kind, and we might identify and locate Meshach through those contacts.”

  Spot on. Wes was impressed. “Did you mention that to Tony?”

  She shook her head. “He’d already left, but I was in the process of looking up J. Sullivan. Even with the J for the first letter of the first name, if that’s legit, the individuals are endless. Plus, other than the Meshach angle, what do I look for? I’m afraid I’m Internet challenged compared to Tony. It takes me longer to go through the lists.”

  Jessica moved her handbag from next to her computer to the floor by her chair. A small tag with her name printed on it hung from a side pocket. Seemed like every convenience store had a rack of them on the counter next to the cash register. Jessica’s resembled a Colorado farm vehicle license plate: white letters on a forest green background.

  Could Meshach’s code be that easy?

  “Jessica, do me a favor and help me chase an idea. Are you online?”

  She opened her computer. “I am. Shoot.”

  “Search for popular baby’s names and definitions.”

  She held the yogurt in her left hand and typed with the other. “Got it. An A to Z compilation.”

  “Check for the name Levi. Give me a definition.”

  She typed. “United or connected. It’s Hebrew. Oh, I know the origin of Levi. That was Leah’s third child. I don’t think she was Jacob’s favorite because her dad deceived him and sneaked her, the ugly older sister, into his tent on his wedding night, instead of Jacob’s real love, Rachael. Some real strange marriage rituals in those days. But anyway, after Levi…Oh, sorry, I’m off track.”

  She seemed to know the Bible well. “Try Meshach,” he said.

  She typed, paused, typed again and looked up. “‘Draws with force’.”

  Before he could suggest another one she said, “Lamech is Hebrew. It means ‘strong or powerful’. Hang on, Joan, Joan means ‘gracious’. Sullivan means…one second…‘dark-eyed one.’ Jordan means ‘flows from a river.’”

  He wrote down the definitions. “What about Oleos?”

  “Is it a name? I think of butter.”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  She set aside the yogurt and engaged the other hand. Wes sensed they were onto something, but what?

  “Oleos isn’t listed on this site. Let me check somewhere else. One second…ah, it’s Spanish for holy oil. My niece looked up names for her kids. Is this code as simple as the meaning of names?”

  “Maybe, but where’s the key? What about the other two names, Anjali and Hemmingway?”

  After a minute she looked up from the screen. “Anjali means ‘proposing’ and Hemmingway is ‘someone who lives by or near Hemming’s Way.’ Not really a definition, but…” She shrugged. “Hang on. Let me search each name by itself.”

  As she concentrated on her computer, Wes wrote out Lamech’s post, inserting the literal meaning in place of each name and underlined each meaning. Proposing to see gracious for holy oil with man who lives near hemming’s way. Unbelievable. He rearranged them in his head. Proposing man who lives near Hemming’s Way to see gracious for holy oil.

  Nuts.

  “Are you ready?” Jessica asked.

  Wes nodded.

  “Lamech is a company in Houston in the metal building business. Cedric Lamech is a Frenchman who produced some videos about...who cares. I can’t read it. Janet Lamech wants you to follow her blog.”

  “Next. Pick another one.”

  “OK, Meshach. An actor. Meshach Taylor. A hunter, Meshach Browning, lived in the 1800s and wrote a book about hunting. And, of course, the Meshach of Bible fame.”

  “Look at Joan.”

  “Joan, Joan is Joan, wait…Joan Jett, Joan Crawford, Joan Collins, Joan of Arc, and Joan Baez. Movie stars, singers and another French national. All women. There are millions of references to search.”

  Maybe he was off track. With no second name, something had to give. He unlocked his phone. He needed to call his old friend, Bubba, thank him for the reference, and pick his brain. A federal prosecutor would have access to other databases too.

  He’d never been to Lubbock, Texas. Might be time to fly down for a visit and snoop around.

  “You know.” Jessica held up a finger. “Lamech posted to see Joan, like a person, but Meshach posted he was in Joan. I’d say I’m at the supermarket, but in Denver or in Houston. Meshach is either in or at somewhere, a place, not with a person. Joan of Arc laid siege to Orleans, in France, in the 1400s. Ernest Hemmingway wrote The Old Man and the Sea. I’m just guessing, but do you think he’s talking about New Orleans, Louisiana?”

  Wes set his phone onto the coffee table. “Girl, you’re brilliant. You know what else? The name Oleos doesn’t have a thing to do with holiness. I hope you brought a suitcase. We’re leaving.”

  ~*~

  Monday evening

  Meshach counted his chips once more—eleven hundred dollars—and then let them slide through the fingers of his right hand into the palm of his left hand over and over. The dull, rhythmic clunk played to him like a soothing melody.

  Bet inside or outside, even or odd, red or black, or straight up on one number?

  Six gamble
rs and a dozen onlookers stood around the roulette table. One broad eyed his chips and leaned toward him to say something in a raspy voice. Smoke emanated from her red lips as she spoke. She used the hand with the red lipstick-stained cigarette between the fingers to wave and accent her point. Whatever that was. She’d been looking him over since he’d started playing. He thought of her as the painted lady. More like war paint. Lashes, brows, lids, and lips, not a spot of bare skin visible. The thick layer radiated cracks like a dried riverbed. Twenty years and a thousand packs of smokes earlier, she might have landed a high roller. Now, she looked like she’d settle for anything breathing.

  The dealer spun the wheel and thumbed the white ball along the groove in the opposite direction. Nothing in, nothing out. Meshach placed the chips on thirteen just as the man called, “No more bets” and waved his hand over the roulette table.

  Thirty-seven to one. Meshach liked long odds.

  Gamblers and spectators watched the wheel. Their heads wallowed consciously or unconsciously as they followed the wheel one direction or the ball as it traveled in the opposite direction. The marble fell from the slot and bounced over the numbers, finally resting on black twenty-six.

  Four grand lasted long enough for him to drink two cocktails and weak ones at that. His luck at the tables had been running thin lately.

  A skinny man sporting a wife-beater T-shirt and bibs held a lighter to another menthol cigarette for the painted lady. Looked like a good match.

  Meshach exited the casino, strolled down Canal, and hung a right onto Bourbon Street. The place didn’t know Mardi Gras had ended two months earlier. Vaudeville, burlesque, a traveling circus with a tin man, a clown, a midget, and a fat lady performed on every corner. Some had talent and some did not.

  The blare of a trumpet drew him into a small, open-air establishment. He found a spot to lean against the bar where he could see the street and then ordered a Hurricane to drink. The trumpeter gave it a good effort. His cheeks puffed up with air like a chipmunk’s full of acorns.