“Hi, darling, what’s your name?”
He glanced right. A scantily dressed waitress had slipped up beside him and posed with her back against the bar, arms up, elbows propped on the bar top behind her. “Hey. My name’s Paula.” She held out her hand.
The little tuft of white feathers she wore in her hair reminded him of Gamble Quail. Meshach took the slim fingers then stared at her, eye-to-eye. “I’m Meshach.”
Her gaze wandered over his face, but like tinted windows of a car, he knew his dark glasses wouldn’t allow her to see who was looking back. He stared her down for a long six-count before she pulled her hand back and turned her head away.
He left her there, leaning against the bar, stepped onto the sidewalk, and gazed down the street. Paula, she said her name was. Didn’t take long to ditch her.
Meshach saw his old school mate first, turned too quickly, and bumped into a lady who made it an issue when her drink spilled. The commotion drew Lane’s attention. “Elgin, is that you?”
Meshach ignored him and walked away.
“Elgin, it’s me. Lane, Lane Woodard.”
The crowd provided perfect cover. Meshach weaved in and out at a ground-eating pace, trying not to be too obvious in his escape. Lane had approached from the Canal Street side, forcing Meshach to walk farther down Bourbon. He entered another establishment at the first intersection and cut across a large, open area in the corner of the building. Once out of view, he shed his red jacket, draped it over an empty chair on the way out the other side, and turned his hat around backwards. He circled, walked to the opposite side of Bourbon, and moved in behind three thirty-something women. He spotted Lane fifty yards ahead. One of the two guys with him stood well over six feet tall, wore a yellow ball cap, and made them easy to follow. They crossed the littered street, changed course, and proceeded down the sidewalk toward Canal. Lane looked back twice. Not a casual glance, but an obvious search of his back trail.
The absence of the red jacket changed the game. The human eye always picked up the last visual cue. Whether shape or color. He’d be harder to single out. Now, he was a dutiful husband in a white shirt tagging along behind his better half.
Barriers blocked traffic at the corner of Canal Street and Bourbon Street and every intersection northward, making the street the sidewalk. Music blared. No pattern to the flow of human traffic. A group of sweaty black kids beat out a tune on plastic buckets while two kids in wife-beater T-shirts and low riding jeans break-danced on the sidewalk. A handful of admirers gathered and clapped. Small change littered a plastic trashcan lid on the pavement in front of them.
A woman in tall heels and fishnet hose strutted along in front of the Hustler Club. A burley bouncer in a black suit watched the oglers with a wary eye in case someone decided to quit gawking and handle the merchandise.
Leaving the rental house was stupid. He’d been safe, out of sight, and unknown, but he couldn’t have guessed that fifteen hundred miles from home, he’d bump into a guy he went to junior high with. Dumb luck.
He thought of himself as a professional, but professionals didn’t make mistakes. Not if they wanted to stay employed or under the radar and out of prison.
Twelve years had passed, but he’d recognized Lane. Worse yet, Lane had recognized him. They’d been buds once. Meshach liked him. He’d wished his old friend would have walked away and he did, but then Lane looked back. He shouldn’t have looked back.
When Lane and his two buddies reached Canal Street, where Bourbon ended, the taller man turned left, east, and was quickly absorbed by the noisy crowd. Lane and the third man waited for the light to change, crossed, and continued west on Canal.
The sun had set. Crowds thickened. People emerged from the dark outlying areas like bugs drawn to the lights of the big city.
Meshach walked close to the curb, using light poles, signs, and people for cover.
Lane’s companion talked a lot. He was the animated type who’d have trouble communicating with his hands tied behind his back. At Baronne, a one-way street south, they turned left down the east sidewalk.
Meshach crossed to the west side of the street and increased his pace to pull even with them.
At Union Street, Lane clapped the other man on the shoulder, shook his hand, and they parted ways. The deep rumble and pop of a motorcycle passing through the intersection drowned out their dialogue. The second man crossed the street in front of Meshach and entered the Wyndham Hotel.
Lane strolled like he had nothing to do, but in the middle of the next block, a neon sign glowed Comfort Inn and Suites. If the hotel happened to be his destination, the time had come. His old friend was alone and approachable. Another sixty feet and Lane would pass a recess in a building. Meshach checked both directions. Not a soul. The stars were lining up.
He removed the glasses, put them in his pocket, and crossed the street, walking straight at Lane. Timing meant everything. If Lane saw him short of the dark alcove, he’d have to regroup. Thirty feet, twenty feet, ten, a shoe scuffed on the sidewalk, and Lane glanced back and stopped.
Just right.
White teeth in the darkness. A smile. Expression didn’t matter. Whether recognition or question, he didn’t want to know. The wide, four-inch-long blade went in with ease at the base of the throat. No way for the man to scream. Meshach grabbed him in a headlock with the crook of his arm across Lane’s eyes, turned him, and shoved hard, forcing him into the recess, against the rough brick wall, in the dark corner. Lane’s grip felt like iron. He struggled, valiant, but much too late.
Meshach held on and squeezed him like he had the birds and rabbits he’d caught as a kid, so the chest had to work to expand, until the heart beat its last. Death wouldn’t be long. If the tip of the blade reached a gap in the spine and severed the cord, only seconds. If not, then maybe a minute.
Patience, but not too much, someone would walk by soon. Removing the blade or slicing the throat would be stupid, too much blood. Hard to explain bloody clothes.
The stench of a fleeting life drifted up as the bowels and bladder turned loose, and he knew the soul had left. Tension eased and the hands gripping his forearm fell away. He let the body slide into a sitting position and removed the knife.
Now, the wallet and cell phone. No phone. He tried to think back. Had he seen Lane with a phone? Everyone had a Smart Phone. He remembered Lane as geeky. He’d have one, but where? He did another quick search. Too dark. Nothing. Voices. He jerked the wallet from Lane’s hip pocket and then stepped out so he could see down the sidewalk. To the right, a couple, arm-in-arm, ambled toward him forty feet away. He turned to face them, staggered and made a show of zipping his fly. Their conversation ceased. They were wary. He’d created doubt. They didn’t want to be near him, not now. They crossed the street, creating distance between themselves and the unapproachable.
He grinned then bit his lip. He’d just made a big mistake.
8
Monday evening, April 8
Wes called Jordan to arrange a ride. No answer.
As he packed, his mind raced from confidence to doubt. Jess’s interpretation of the post made sense. Or did it? Tony’s earlier comment about Bethany’s involvement in a conspiracy with two unknown cyber identities against her father held little weight, but nagged him. Like the Hearst heiress, Patty. Daughter hates daddy, so she conspires with her kidnappers and robs banks. No. Cole was due an update. That thought would be absent.
Moving shop to Louisiana risked what? Time and money. The move made sense. He tried to call Jordan again. Went to voicemail. He disconnected and it rang. “This is Wes.”
“This is Jordan.” The pilot didn’t sound like his chipper self.
“I’d like to bum a ride to New Orleans if you’re available.”
“Hate to say it, but I’m ill. I normally fly with an attendant. She’s been off sick. Now I know what she’s got.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll leave you be. I’m going to arrange a commercial flight on th
e first thing smoking.”
“Sorry. I’ll call you when I’m on the mend. I’ll call Cole too. You might warn Tony. This bug is not amusing.”
“Yes, sir, I will. Thanks.” Wes hung up.
He plopped down in the chair at the desk and opened his computer case. Never bounce until you hit a bump. He just had.
~*~
Tuesday morning, April 9
Meshach woke, kicked off the sheet, and rolled out from under the covers. The clock on the nightstand displayed 5:32. He stood and stretched then dropped and started a set of pushups. One, two, three…Seconds lapsed, a minute, two minutes…ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven. At one hundred, in a swift, fluid motion he moved into a crouch and stood.
Gray dawn provided the light for him to make his way down the hallway without turning on a bulb. As he passed the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of his movement in the wall mirror and stopped. He didn’t need a light to appreciate the reflection.
The fans in the kitchen cooled the sweat on his bare chest and back. He started the coffeemaker, grabbed his laptop from the counter, pushed open the French doors, and stepped onto the large deck overlooking the docks. During the previous evening, three boats had joined his twenty-five-footer in the slips. Two of similar make and a fancy, sleek beast that looked like it would take a cool million just for the down payment.
Contentious gulls squawked and fought with each other over a scrap of trash. Their noisy bickering grated on his nerves. A snowy egret winged south into the humid breeze like it couldn’t stand them either.
He decided the normal smell for the area leaned toward a mower bag full of wet grass. When the wind blew out of the southeast he got a whiff of the abnormal, a raucous stench from a fish processing plant a mile away. He wondered what useable product man had discovered from the source of such a foul odor.
White, lightly constructed steel and aluminum patio furniture was arranged around the deck. He placed his computer on the glass tabletop, pushed the power button, and left for the kitchen and a cup of black coffee. After returning, he logged onto the net. Nothing new from his admirers, but they’d want to know his status. He posted patience?? then searched for New Orleans news sites, opened WWL-TV, clicked on the heading Crime, and scrolled down. Man killed baby daughter who wouldn’t stop crying. Man charged with raping four-year-old. Reward offered for information leading to…Arrests made in a string of burglaries. The list went on, forty items total, ending with Nevada man found dead on Baronne. Seeking information…He opened the story and read. Lane Woodard, 25, of Las Vegas, Nevada…homeless man in custody…lacking motive. The article didn’t mention a cause of death or missing wallet. The police chose to omit those tidbits. They always left something out of the public disclosure, so some moron could hang himself with his loose tongue.
Lane’s driver’s license and credit cards lay on the table inside, next to the couch. The missing formal ID didn’t stop the NOPD from identifying the body. They either canvassed area hotels for absent patrons and put two and two together, or Lane’s fingerprints were on file. No matter, he would be another cold case gathering dust with a thousand others in a dingy basement somewhere if the old drunk Meshach planted the knife on wasn’t convicted of the crime first.
A door slammed. The neighbors to the west, three men in light shirts, shorts and boat shoes walked down the cypress steps to the dock carrying coolers and bags. Two of the men liked to eat. Their shirts hung over their bellies creating an eave to shade their feet. The third guy looked buff, at the very least physically capable. The key was his will to succeed, to win at all costs. Attitude made small men formidable adversaries.
They turned down the first slip and approached the fancy boat. Someone yelled a greeting and stepped out of the cabin. Owner, guide, or both? The men boarded. After a minute, its engines started with a low rumble.
Meshach didn’t want or need a guide. His boat had all of the electronic GPS guidance equipment he needed. Navigating the gulf would not be a problem.
Looking at the weather forecast, he had two days, maybe until noon on Saturday. Then, the gulf would be rough with twenty-knot winds, seas five to eight feet, and a forty-percent chance of thunderstorms.
The big boat’s engine tone changed pitch. Water boiled around the stern. She backed out of the slip and made her way through the watery streets dredged through the marsh, toward the open water of the Gulf of Mexico. Goin’ South adorned the stern.
He sipped the coffee and pecked at his computer. He opened a blank Word document and typed Mars, Nakika, Ursa, Devils Tower, and Thunder Horse. Of the many deep-water oil production facilities, these had made his short-list. After a second, he typed Ace of Spades in bold and underlined it. Then, he closed the file without saving it and opened Chirp again. Lamech had posted ur isle of choice.
Perfect.
~*~
Avoiding contact with his neighbors would make life easier. That meant leaving before sunup or after they left to fish. Darkness suited Meshach, but he’d be nuts to navigate the watery streets through the marsh when he couldn’t see, at least on his first trip out. Once the GPS logged his initial excursion, he’d be able to follow the stored track and use the instruments to come and go as he pleased at any hour.
He stepped away from the window, opened the freezer, and removed the cash he’d tossed in the night before. Three large bills would pad the seven in his pocket. He stuffed them away, then tucked the remaining Franklins behind a package of fish in the back of the freezer.
He grabbed his small backpack, an ice chest he’d prepared with water and snacks, and made his way out the door, down the steps onto the dock. He’d yet to pilot the twenty-five-foot ShearWater Bay boat and looked forward to the experience. The 300 horsepower Yamaha, V6 outboard mounted on the transom of the V-hulled craft promised to be nothing less than exhilarating.
Before reaching the boat, he scanned the two houses east of his place. The nearest one sat empty. The second one had four male tenants, a night-going, noisy lot who didn’t leave the slip in their boat until after eight o’clock. Seemed like a late departure for fishermen. Their labored trudge down the dock to load and board the boat hinted at a long night in a bottle of something stronger than soda pop. No surprises at either house. Nothing moved. The fourth place, the westward one closest to his, housed the men who’d boarded the baby yacht at dawn. A red car, parked in the small graveled area behind the fifth and last abode, hinted at an occupant, but Meshach hadn’t seen anyone stir.
He stepped aboard the ShearWater, set down the cooler, and took a seat at the center console. The four-stroke engine hummed the second he turned the key. The navigation gear booted. He opened the backpack, removed a handheld GPS device, and turned it on. The coordinates displayed by each matched. He marked both with his waypoint, and titled them camp.
“Good morning.”
So much for avoiding the neighbors. The brunette approached from his left, his blind side. She stood on the dock, at the bow of the boat, one hand on her hip. She was barefoot and bare from head to toe except for a camouflage bikini her shapely curves wore well. She seemed more than comfortable, half-dressed and approaching a man she didn’t know.
“Good morning back,” he said. He gave her just a hint of a smile to acknowledge her teasing pose.
“So, nice boat. Are you going out this morning?” She shifted her weight, moving her hips from one side to the other like a willow swaying in a gentle breeze. Actresses earned hard cash for worse performances. She was good…real good. She purred in a low, barely discernible whisper, forcing a man to lean close to hear only her. He knew the type. The kind who should have a tat on their forehead that read woe-man.
“I am. It’s a cool, beautiful day. Seas are calm.”
“Where’s your fishing gear? I’ve never seen a guy come here who didn’t want to, uh, catch something nice.”
The hint didn’t slip by him and why not? He’d just be another man boating with his girl. With what she displayed,
no one would notice his presence. “I’m not much of a fisherman. Just trying to get away from the rat race and relax a bit.”
“Would you like some company? I’m Shanteel.”
She strutted the length of the slip then leaned over to offer him the back of her slender hand. He took it, but not as the prince she might have expected; he squeezed gently and glanced at the naked ring finger on the left hand she’d planted on her knee as she reached for him across the small gap.
He smiled. “Call me Meshach. Come aboard.”
Her tongue swept over full lips, leaving them moist and redder. “Meshach? Cool name. Baby, give me two minutes. I’ve got a lunch and drinks packed.” She spun and trotted toward the end house. A red and yellow butterfly tattoo rode the tanned, smooth skin on her right shoulder.
He placed the GPS inside the backpack. Still in the pack, out of sight, he eased the action back just enough to expose the chambered round in the .45, then holstered it and zipped the pack.
9
Meshach entered open water and pushed the throttle to the stops. The 300hp engine romped. The Kevlar-reinforced hull planed out on the glassy ocean surface immediately, like cruising a sheltered lake. The boat handled well, responding to the slightest movement of the wheel.
The craft wasn’t a Rolls Royce, but it had a hood ornament. Shanteel was perched upon the bow, her lithe, tanned body gleaming in the sun she seemed not to get enough of. So far, he liked her. She was a display, eye-candy for any man who wished to gander, and not a talker. Give her a smile and she’d preen and pose as though pageant judges were critiquing her movements.
He steered east toward the mouth of the Mississippi. The muddy highway held freighters, fishing boats, oilfield workboats, crew boats, tugs, barges, and the occasional cruise ship whose home berth lay adjacent to downtown New Orleans.
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