Orb

by Arp, David E. ;

  The Laurel Lee, a small freighter, as freighters go, had her bow pointed out to sea. He pulled in behind her and slowed to match her speed, keeping five hundred feet between them. The ship travelled steady at twelve knots—a little over thirteen miles an hour.

  He turned the horses loose again, pushing fifty-eight miles an hour, what looked like max for the boat, and sped toward her stern. The six-foot wake from the steel beast rose slowly on each side as he neared. He eased in close, into the edge of the turbulence produced by the twin screws churning just below the surface on each side of the massive rudder. The bay boat wallowed in the roiled water.

  Shanteel faced aft, away from the freighter. She seemed oblivious to the change in wave motion until the shadow of the freighter engulfed them. Then she twisted in the seat and raised her eyebrows at Meshach.

  He shrugged and turned right, scaling the moving wave with ease. As the ship’s bridge loomed above them, he slowed again to match her speed. The hull was slick, no ladders, nothing to get a toehold on between the sea and the handrails skirting the outer edge of the ship. The deck stepped down in height from a good thirty feet tall at the bow to the lowest point aft, behind the bridge, no more than eighteen feet. Closer to fifteen. Loaded, those heights would be significantly less.

  The deep, vibrating bellow of the ship’s horn shook the air. Shanteel gave her best wave to three men standing on the uppermost landing. Goofy broad thought they’d honked at her, and maybe they had, but Meshach knew his boat was close, too close. The bay boat would splat against the hull of the Laurel Lee with no more notice than a bug hitting the windshield of a speeding car. No one would feel the impact or notice a scratch on the paint.

  The men outside the bridge looked official. Blue coveralls, blue ball caps with white patches on the crowns, and all three stood at ease, military style. The ship’s crew compliment ranged from eighteen to thirty persons of various responsibilities. Chief engineer, able-bodied seamen, electricians, motormen, mechanics, and the most important in Meshach’s mind, at least one certified radio operator worked twelve-hour shifts.

  He edged the boat ahead and veered right, angling south away from the vessel. A siren penetrated the wind and engine noise. From the left side of the freighter, a Coastguard boat moved to cut him off. Where had they come from? He could kick himself. He’d missed them.

  Running would be dumb. Shows guilt and there was nowhere to go. He might outrun the much larger boat in the narrow lanes in the marsh, but out here, no way. They had a chopper at their disposal, only a radio call away too.

  They’d seen him approach the freighter, or someone had reported him. In either case, they had him. He pulled the throttle back to neutral. The bay boat settled. A second later the siren stopped.

  He made a mental note of the location of the lifejackets in the compartment under his seat and the two fire extinguishers mounted on each side of the center console. They would ask. Safety was always first and missing lifesaving equipment would warrant additional snooping. He had nothing to hide physically. The gun was legal. Everyone carried firearms. They could give him a ticket if something was missing. An Internet search would reveal the citation, and he’d be a blip on the radar screen.

  Shanteel took her seat in the front and eyed the large white boat speeding toward them.

  The boat slowed then turned and stopped two hundred yards away. A small crane lowered a rubber-craft with four puddle pirates dressed in blue coveralls over the side. It sped Meshach’s direction. A woman’s voice blared over a bullhorn, “Sir, please turn off the engine. We’re coming alongside.”

  Two coasties moved to grapple the bay boat.

  Meshach gave his best smile to their commander, a short attractive woman with her hair in a perfect bun topped with a blue USCG cap. “Something wrong, officer?”

  Shanteel leaned back against the side of the boat, spread her arms wide across the top railing, and stretched her long legs out in front of her. She didn’t hide her head-to-toe assessment of the other woman.

  All four wore side arms. A stocky kid who looked like he’d played his last high school football game a week earlier put one leg over the gunnel, resting his foot on the rail of the bay boat. “Sir, you took a chance approaching the Laurel Lee the way you did. Do you have mechanical problems that need to be addressed? Or a steering or throttle malfunction?”

  “Nope.” Meshach gave Shanteel—who had yet to give the female coastie a break from her evaluation—a sideways glance. “I was distracted, if you know what I mean, and I let the moment interfere with my judgment.”

  The kid’s gaze followed Meshach’s to Shanteel and lingered a long moment before coming back. He gave the knowing smile of a worldly eighteen-year-old.

  Meshach grinned. “Yeah, I’m testing this boat. Thinking about buying it. Thought I’d take my girl for a short cruise this morning.”

  As the three men glanced at Shanteel again, he assessed them. Pistols secured, but handy. One man had his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his coveralls. All three distracted. Easy to get the jump on. Not the woman. She watched him. She’d been around.

  To her credit, Shanteel grinned and, most importantly, kept her mouth shut.

  Meshach nodded at the tallest man. “How’s your golf game?”

  The guy blinked and patted his chest. “You talking to me? It’s OK. Have we played together?”

  “No, but I see you’re a lefty and you play quite a bit.” Meshach pointed to the man’s hands. “The back of your right hand is white, with a brown V from the gap in your glove. The other is tanned.”

  The coasties exchanged looks as the guy scanned the back of his hands.

  The female nodded toward the center console of the bay boat. “Could I see your preservers, please? Show me that your fire extinguishers are charged?”

  Meshach raised the seat cushion revealing half a dozen orange lifejackets and waited for her nod of approval before dropping the seat back in place. Then he opened the clips holding the ten-pound extinguishers and held them out so she could see the needles hovering in the green, charged area.

  She tilted back her head far enough to look at him under her sunglasses. The stitching on her coveralls read Moore. “Very well. Thanks for your cooperation. Please try to observe the Rules of the Road. It’s a good practice anytime, but especially between the sea buoys. Big vessels can’t leave the lane, might run aground, and well, as you can imagine, it can take them several miles to stop. I’d hate for one to ruin your outing.”

  “Yes, ma’am, as would I.” Meshach gave them a mock salute as they pushed away. He started the bay boat and engaged the motor.

  Shanteel rose and moved in beside him as he opened the throttle again. She slipped her hand under his shirt and let her long nails scratch their way up his spine to the middle of his back. She said something, but the wind snatched it out of her mouth.

  He leaned into her. “Darling, that little purr isn’t going to work at this speed. You’ll have to speak up.”

  She looked back at the coastguard boat. The smaller boat had already been retrieved. “I said that was interesting, and you’re a big fat liar.”

  He pulled his glasses down and peered into her deep green eyes. “Do you care?”

  She seemed to wander his face then focused on his bad eye and flinched. “Where are we going, sweetie?” Her fingers slid down to the small of his back.

  He looked ahead and replaced the glasses. Smart girl. Get closer and change the subject. “Not far. Maybe go out fifteen, twenty miles, goof off, see the sights, have lunch and enjoy the day.”

  “Cool.” She glanced to their left. The Laurel Lee’s hulk had turned eastward. “I’ve never been so close to one of those big ships. What’s it carrying?”

  “Nothing, she’s empty. Look at her, riding high, the top of the screws nearly out of the water. See the change in color about halfway up the hull, from dull to bright red, that’s the waterline when she’s loaded.”

  “What does it carry?”


  “Who knows? The ships leaving here are usually loaded with grain, soybeans, sulfur, coke, any number of things.”

  “Coke? Like cokes you drink?”

  He knew she was going to ask. Clueless. “No, an oil refining residue. It’s those huge black mounds you see stacked along the river here and there, near the refineries.”

  She nudged her shoulder in front of his arm, one of those let’s-get-cozy moves. “You know a lot about ships. Are you a captain?”

  “No, but I’m going to pilot one soon.”

  “You are?” She sounded surprised, like they’d known each other for years and she’d never heard such an absurd idea.

  “Yes, I am. Only bigger.” He looked toward the northwest where the Marathon refinery loomed. “Much bigger. Hopefully, one that’s full of crude oil.”

  She leaned into him this time. “I didn’t hear you, baby.”

  He smiled, eased his arm around her bare shoulders, and squeezed. She melted against him.

  No, and for your sake, it’s a good thing you didn’t.

  10

  Tuesday afternoon, April 9

  Wes stepped out of Louis Armstrong International Airport into a sauna. In two hours they’d flown from the threat of snow to a humid, musty-smelling eighty-five degrees. He preferred the former. Donning a coat smothered the chill, but nothing short of an air-conditioner relieved heat.

  Jessica dragged her bag up beside him. Wes had noticed the lack of a wedding ring. She’d stated she was single. He’d missed that she didn’t wear any jewelry, period, and no makeup. Not a puff of powder to be seen. With her complexion, she didn’t need it, but the thought crossed his mind she might abstain for religious reasons.

  “Woo, I bet Tony sheds his hoodie in this,” she said.

  He smiled. As long as he’d known Tony, the man had worn a black hoodie like a ritual robe, winter and summer. Wes had Jessica at a disadvantage but for fun. “How much?”

  “Really? A bet? I was kidding.”

  He held out his hand to shake. “I wasn’t.”

  She looked back as Tony plodded through the automatic doors. “OK, a dollar.”

  “A, as in one?” he said. Her eyes really were mesmerizing, but he got their message and made a fist. She tapped his knuckles with hers.

  Tony approached with two hard-sided cases in tow. “Our guy is chirping again. Posted one word, patience, followed by a couple of question marks. And whether it’s an answer to Meshach or not, Lamech posted ‘your isle of choice.’ It’s nuts. They’re nuts.” He heaved a big sigh and looked around. “Where’s the taxi stand?”

  Wes pointed down the street to their right. “The hotel is two hundred yards that way, across the street. It’s an easy stroll. I’ve been there before.”

  Tony looked left through the covered drive. “It’s hot. Too hot. If you’re walking, I’ll meet you there. I’m not dragging these anchors any farther than I have to.” Before he shuffled away, he zipped the jacket and flipped the hood over his head.

  Patience. A question accented with two marks. Isle of choice. None of it made any sense. Nuts? Yes. But no more than chirping. Who would have thought? Wes glanced at Tony again, then at Jess, and held out his hand, palm up.

  She looked at his open hand then to his face. Azure eyes, or a mix of turquoise and teal, he didn’t know how to describe them. “What?”

  “The bet. See the hoodie.” He pointed at Tony.

  “You are kidding me. One dollar?”

  “A bet is a bet. Every penny. I can take it out of your first check if you’d like.”

  “I’ll have to owe you.” She smiled and swiped at a dark strand of hair blowing across her face. “You’re hard.”

  “Business is business. Come on. This way.” He winked and then led her down the sidewalk to the traffic light, across Airline Drive, and left toward the hotel.

  Tony strolled through the front door in time to meet them at the elevators, the hoodie still in place.

  Wes handed his employees their keycards as they waited for the lift. “We’re in a row, three-thirteen, fifteen, and seventeen. I’m in seventeen. Relax tonight. We’ll get started in the morning.”

  They entered the elevator—Jessica with one suitcase and a computer bag first, then Tony and his anchors, as he referred to them. Wes held his arm across the door and stepped in last.

  “I meant to ask you about something before I fell asleep on the plane,” Tony said. “That epiphany you had about the names; that just occurred to you out of the blue?”

  “No…” In a way, Wes and Cole Blackwell were a lot alike when it came to their personal lives. Wes had never mentioned his daughter to Tony. What was there to tell? Oh yeah, she hates me. Doesn’t want to see me again, ever. With his computer skills, Tony would have gathered his own dossier on his occasional employer long ago. He’d know about Teri and Lisa, but to his credit, he’d never uttered a word.

  Wes swallowed the urge to keep his mouth shut. “My daughter, Lisa. She’s expecting. When I asked her about names, she told me what they’d come up with. She’d researched the origins and meanings of a dozen or so, for boys and girls. That got me to thinking about our guy and his code.”

  The ding of a bell and the slide of elevator doors opening interrupted Tony’s look of contemplation, air-filled cheeks and half-closed eyes.

  “So,” Tony continued as they strolled down the corridor, “you’re going to be a papaw, eh, Papaw?”

  Wes had been thinking about Levi’s arrival all day, and not once had he felt the excitement that coursed through him when Tony mentioned Papaw. He smiled and gave Jessica a quick glance. “Yes, I guess I am, but I think I’ll ask him to call me pops.”

  They arrived at room three thirteen. Tony fished out his card from the hoodie pocket. “I’m glad you’re talking. Must have been good to see her again after so many years.”

  Jessica pushed by without a word, inserted the keycard, opened her door, and disappeared inside her room. The door clicked shut leaving heavy silence.

  Tony’s comment and Jessica’s actions shocked Wes. Tony knew a lot more than he’d suspected, and Jessica just acted like a spoiled teenager. Not so much as an excuse me. What in the world had set her off?

  Tony’s cheeks filled with air again; then he let it escape out of the corner of his mouth. He shrugged and opened his room door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Wes found himself standing in the corridor alone. Was it something he’d said?

  After opening his door, he pushed into the room and shoved the travel bag against the wall. He plopped down on the bed with the computer case on his lap and looked around—television in the center of an oak armoire, matching desk and swivel chair next to it, suitcase caddie against the wall, pint-sized closet with an ironing board and iron next to wooden hangers and plastic laundry bags, two green cushioned chairs, and a small coffee table. Hotels were all the same, and yet again, he occupied one alone. What scared him the most: he was becoming comfortable with the solitude.

  He shuffled to the desk and removed his brown leather day planner from his computer case. Tony chided him for not having all the info entered into his smartphone or computer, and maybe he should, but he could lose the phone. Or one day it would spontaneously combust and all the info would go up in smoke. He could misplace the book too, but barring that, his notations would not disappear into cyberspace or wind up on some hacker’s computer.

  Over the next hour, he chronicled his team’s activities and drafted an e-mail to Cole, citing what he hoped was a big step in finding their man. He included the supposed code names and their meanings and why they’d moved office to New Orleans. He stopped short of conjecture. He still didn’t know if they were on the right track.

  Invoicing the billionaire would be next, but he’d have to think about the sum for a day or two. His rate for finding a runaway teen for a single mom and finding—maybe confronting—someone willing to do what Meshach had done, were two different things.

>   He drew out a simple flowchart on a white legal pad. Below the box titled Meshach and associates, he branched out to three additional blank boxes, then three more lines to empty boxes below the first three. Twelve boxes total. In the upper three, he entered their names. In the first box below his own name, he wrote law enforcement. In Tony’s he added backgrounds and in Jessica’s, definitions. The rest of the boxes remained empty. He looked at the scribbling a second then tore the sheet off the pad, wadded it up, and missed the trashcan in the corner with his toss.

  He went over their next steps in his head, but those thoughts tumbled like clothes in a dryer. Where should they look now that they were in New Orleans? He needed to call Bubba, pick his brain, and catch up. Too many years had passed. He needed to pay a visit to the NOPD and establish a rapport. Let them know why he was in town. They needed another break, another revealing social media post or a mistake, something to point them in the right direction.

  His cellphone chirped. “What do you have, Tony?”

  “Nothing about the case, but I’ve been thinking about what Jessica did. Something I said about your daughter hit a nerve. You and I have never talked about Lisa or your late wife, but I know what happened. I know you’ve been estranged from Lisa a long time. I know, too, Jessica’s ex-husband is some kind of high-powered lawyer and, as it turns out, a wife beater. She’s said some things in the past, the whole story isn’t clear, and I’ve never searched it out, but she still carries some old feelings around.”

  Seconds ticked. So she had an ex. What about children?

  “Boss, don’t hold it against her.”

  “Thanks, Tony. See you in the morning.” He clicked off, stood, and looked out the window. Below, a surge of traffic sped down Airline Drive when the traffic light turned green. Another jet took flight. The intensity of the power it took to hurtle the aircraft into the air shook the hotel.

  He tried to remember Tony’s exact words. Something about seeing Lisa again, or how good it was to see her. Did Jessica think he’d abused his daughter?