Orb

by Arp, David E. ;

  Wes let Jess take the lead. She stepped out at a brisk pace. Before they’d walked a hundred yards, he’d made up his mind to hit the gym more often. The girl was killing him. Sweat rolled. He was melting.

  A quarter of a mile later, they topped a rise and stopped. The reason for the name White Dome lay ahead. The red sandstone hills in front of them looked like God had accidentally picked up the white when he mixed the shades of red then just left it as it was, like two different colored taffies twisted together.

  Jess took a deep breath and let it out. “Isn’t this beautiful?”

  “I can’t disagree. It’s a wonder.”

  She stood on a rock at the edge of the trail, gathered her hair behind her head and slipped on a tie to hold it in a ponytail. They were eye to eye now. “What’s next? For us I mean. In Las Vegas.”

  “We need to locate the pawnshop and interview Marlin. After that, unless Marlin has a revelation, back to New Orleans. Let Tony do his thing. Look at the pictures we took. I’d like to talk to the NOPD detective who talked to Liz. It’s time to bring them in. And Bubba. I have to figure out a few things there.”

  “You think he had something to do with Meshach finding us?”

  Jess scanned the scenery and didn’t catch him looking at her. Or she knew and didn’t care. The beads of sweat on the smooth skin above her lip glistened in the light. She seemed to relish the heat.

  She knew something was fishy with Bubba but didn’t mention her concerns. Smart and perceptive.

  A young couple walked by holding hands, giving him an excuse to delay his answer a minute. Or not answer. Wes nodded at them. Jess and the girl said hi. As before, he didn’t want to think about Bubba, but Cole was right too. It had to be done. He prayed there was a simple answer.

  He watched the guy and his girl until they rounded the corner in the trail fifty yards away. When he looked back, Jess stared at him.

  “You like campfires?” he said.

  “That’s off the wall, but yes, why?”

  He feigned disbelief. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not wise to tell your boss he’s off the wall? It’s not conducive to career advancement, salary increases, that type of thing.”

  She rolled her eyes and let a sly “Nope” slip out.

  “Well, as to my question. People stare at campfires, at the glow, the pulse of heat, the flicker of light and flames. It’s the warmth, a draw they can’t help but gaze into.”

  “And?” she said.

  “Your eyes are like a campfire.” He stared. She stared back. Her cheeks flushed. Oh yeah, he got her. A wordsmith lost for words. He loved it.

  She looked away.

  He smiled.

  Wes had more questions in mind, but the time wasn’t right, not yet. He gave her a playful slap on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Come on, girl. Let’s get to work.”

  He led the way back to the car.

  23

  Friday, early afternoon

  Wes approached the counter of Easy Pawn. Another man stood there, hands on top of a glass display case full of watches, peering at an open doorway of an office and the source of a mumbled conversation from an unseen party. Wes nodded when they made eye contact.

  A man’s voice drifted out of the office, one side of a phone conversation.

  Jess stood at Wes’s side a second then strolled around the store. Guitars, amplifiers, one set of drums, hand and power tools, watches, cameras, rings, knives, guns, name it, anything and everything was stacked against the wall, displayed behind glass or hung from the ceiling.

  The merchandise ranged from junk to Rolexes. It looked like most of the store’s goods leaned heavily toward the former.

  Stickers and signs advertising payday loans with no credit check, offers to buy and trade coins, cash paychecks, and brand name cameras and watches splattered the front windows. He’d seen an episode of Pawn Stars once. This wasn’t the place.

  Jess stopped her window shopping and leaned forward, hands on her knees, and squinted from the guitar rack, past Wes. Wes did a double take when he looked back. The guy who walked out of the cubbyhole looked like the gas tank on the Harley parked on the concrete walk just outside. Or his head did. It was shaved and tattooed with bright yellow and red flames.

  The flames seemed to fit on the black gas tank of the motorcycle.

  Wes stepped away to let the customer barter and finish his business in private. He winked at Jess. She rolled her eyes.

  Flame held up a gold ring. He told the man the price the store would pay and stuck to his guns when the owner countered. The guy accepted, took his money, and left. Flame placed the ring in a small case and set it just inside the office door.

  “What do you need?” He addressed Wes.

  “I’m looking for Marlin Sands. Does he work here?”

  Flame’s eyes narrowed over his hawk nose. The tats on his head dominated his looks and could not have been more distracting than if he’d stepped out of the office in his underwear. “I’m Marlin. What do you want?” If the direct question wasn’t enough, the reply had a defensive edge to it.

  Jess moved to the counter. Marlin gave her an appreciative and obvious onceover. Wes knew the look was anything but welcomed. She smiled back at him, but her eyes told a different story.

  Wes tried a conversational tone. “My name’s Wes Hansen. This is Jessica Wahl. I’m an investigator. If you have a minute, we’d like to ask you a few questions about Lane Woodard.”

  Marlin shook his head, looked down, then back up and locked on Wes. “I’ll tell you just like I told a New Orleans cop yesterday, I don’t talk to the fuzz. You might as well take your babe and find someone else to bother.”

  Wes matched Marlin’s stare. He was a punk and spoiled rotten. The Marine DI’s he knew loved to get their hands on guys like this. “I’m a private investigator, not a cop.”

  “I don’t care. Same thing in my book.” Marlin looked away first and waved off Wes. “I’m busy. Get lost.”

  Wes stood his ground a long moment. “We understood you and Lane were friends. He sent you a text just before someone cut his throat. He knew his assailant, and we believe you know him too.”

  Marlin messed with an item in one of the cases and never looked up. “I haven’t seen Lane in years. Suddenly I get a text from him. Big whoop. Can’t help you. Beat it.”

  Wes nodded at the exit, hinting to Jess. He thumbed a business card from his shirt pocket, tossed it on the counter, and followed her out into the bright sunlight. He stopped next to the motorcycle. Ape-hanger handlebars, leather strings dangling from the grips … and flames on the gas tank. “Marlin just boosted my ego. Suddenly, I feel…normal.”

  Jess eyed the bike, studied the tank, and then glanced at the tinted front glass of the store before looking back. “They did a better job of painting the bike. I wonder if the gas tank influenced the tats, or the other way around?” Jess shaded her eyes and peered down the street. “Well, we went nowhere fast with him. What’s next?”

  Wes turned and looked at the madhouse of cars and people on the main thoroughfare a block away—casino-generated chaos. “First, fast-food, I’m starved. Then back to New Orleans. Time to arrange a dinner out with a federal prosecutor.”

  Jess nodded. “Yeah, and see if the match-head inside and our man from fire have a connection.”

  ~*~

  Friday afternoon

  Meshach stood on the bow of the boat, facing a stiff southerly breeze. He’d motored into a little cove in the cane breaks to get out of the waves. The low-pressure system and associated thunderstorms stirred the shallow Gulf and inland waters into a muddy mess. No one had a line in the water today, no matter how avid the fisherman.

  He faced the marina two miles away. He needed gasoline, but was hesitant to enter a public area to buy it. What were the odds of meeting Scott, Shanteel, or the cop? A gambler who fanned open his hand one card at a time and uncovered the ten, jack, and queen of spades wouldn’t go all in before he
checked if the next two were the king and ace of spades.

  Too many coincidences had piled up on the wrong side of the scales lately.

  It all started with the decision to gamble at Harrah’s. Then bumping into Lane. Really too bad about him. Meshach remembered a scrawny, buck-toothed boy. At least he’d grown into his teeth like a dog grows into his paws. A strange feeling he’d only experienced a couple of times in his life tugged at his soul. If he didn’t know better, he’d call it guilt. He did know better. Guilt held no meaning for him. He never had the urge to apologize for anything he’d done, ever.

  The Hilton trio still had him baffled. He’d push that issue just for fun if the time dragged out. He’d love to see how far the old man would go to protect the blue-eyed looker.

  Two short, deep, blasts of a ship’s horn followed by two high-pitched toots fought the wind for dominance. Two vessels signaled each other that they’d pass portside to portside on the Mississippi a mile away. Part of Rules of the Road for ship traffic that dated back to a time when a bell was the only means of making noise.

  A tanker headed upstream. Little or no load on her and riding high in the water. In a couple of days, she’d be loaded and traveling back out to sea. If Lamech would give him the word, she’d be a perfect candidate. Not too big to board at sea and a smaller crew to contend with.

  The needle hovered just under the halfway mark on the fuel gauge and presented a conundrum. Go or don’t go. Toward the north lay other options to fill his gas needs, but they held the same risks as bumping into Scott or the cop at the marina. Though, he wasn’t so sure the cop would recognize him. He wasn’t going to take the chance.

  Then the northern option wouldn’t put Meshach in a public venue, and he’d be in complete control. If he had to, he’d trade boats with an unsuspecting fisherman.

  Then again, maybe he had enough gas.

  He started the boat motor and headed back to the camp house.

  24

  Saturday morning, Mandeville, Louisiana

  Wes selected the Broken Egg Restaurant, an old house-turned-eatery, located one block off the northern shore of Lake Pontchartrain. The residential neighborhood dated back to the turn of the twentieth century. Now, some of the more unique houses had been transformed into a mix of Cajun bistros, small eateries, and formal restaurants. Residents preserved their southern heritage with fine cuisine served in refurbished, well-aged but unique architecture. The result drew a fair tourist following.

  Paved trails led bikers and hikers along the lakeshore under some of the largest oak trees he’d ever seen. The lake provided a wide array of watersports ranging from the Yacht Club to Bubba’s Jet-skis. Fishing charters and bicycle rentals ranked somewhere in between.

  He parked the car Tony had rented when the techie left New Orleans, and got out. He pointed the fob at it, pressed the lock button, and shook his head. He’d never driven a Chrysler 300, much less one painted canary yellow. The thing looked like the pants Tony wore to pick him and Jess up at the airport last night.

  The morning sun laid out a perfect setting for a table on the veranda. He sat down with his pad and cell phone and requested a cup of coffee from his waitress. When she brought his coffee, she quizzed him about breakfast. His stomach ordered for him. He didn’t need the calories in a side of pancakes along with eggs, hash browns and sausage, but he was hungry.

  Wes hoped the air travel ceased for the near future. The past few days reminded him of his frequent trips during his stint in the Corps. Except for the speed and comfort of his current mode of transportation. To find a similarity between a wooden bench in a lumbering C-130 and luxury seats in a swift corporate jet took imagination. Either way, it seemed like the older he got the harder it was for him to adjust to time changes and jet lag.

  They didn’t arrive at the hotel until a little after one, but this morning, somehow, he was wide-eyed and ready to go by six.

  He unlocked his phone and sent a text to Tony—going to be out awhile this morning. if jess sleeps in, let her. look over pix. see what you can find. any news???

  Evidence of the late evening thunderstorms covered the city. Broken tree branches littered yards and high water from substantial rainfall left its mark in a line of leaves, pine straw and manmade debris. The cool, humid morning generated a layer of low fog over the lake.

  He grabbed his pad and pencil. Jotting down his thoughts was something he’d done since high school. Looking at his written ideas evoked more ideas and sometimes, game changing revelations.

  Tony replied to his text as the waitress placed his meal in front of him. Wes thanked her and checked the message. no problem. no news. found connection n posts—2 spaces before code words (names) or so it appears. jess & i in a small meeting room on the 2nd floor. call when u get back 4 direction.

  Spaces, that was different. Meshach thought he was smart. Jess and Tony had unraveled his childish code in no time. Though the conversation with his daughter had set the ball rolling in their direction. Speaking of. He needed to touch base with her again. Maybe the first of the week.

  A sudden thought about Levi gave him a good fatherly feeling. If Jess knew the Bible well enough to recite the story about the namesake, then maybe Lisa did too. He prayed his daughter had made some soul-changing decisions.

  His phone buzzed again. Tony. spaces might b fat fingers texting 2. do it all the time. we’ll c. Wes put his phone aside. He hoped they’d see sooner than later.

  Over the next hour, he managed to drink four cups of coffee, eat his breakfast, and scribble three pages of notes on the legal pad. Then, he sat back in the chair, with the warm sun on his face, and studied each item again. Meshach’s cryptic messages, Lane and his mom, pictures, Marlin, Cole and his daughter, Bubba and lastly, Jess. Though, he didn’t have notes written about her.

  Only thoughts…lots of them.

  She was definitely her own person. A self-starter. On the flight back, she’d poured over the pictures they’d taken at Liz’s house. She kept her own notes. She took the job seriously, and all personal feelings he was beginning to develop aside, she earned every dime he paid her.

  Somewhere over Texas, he’d looked up, and she’d nodded off to sleep, her head back against the chair. A lock of dark hair had fallen across one eye and cheek. She was, she was…

  He flipped the page on the pad. Concentrate.

  Bubba weighed heavy on his mind and his heart. He’d about decided to tell his friend what happened. Wes could let his imagination run wild and assume the worst. Look into a dark alley for the boogieman, or shine a light and see who or what lies in wait. Communication was the best tool. His gut told him Bubba had nothing to do with the leak. His gut had never lied to him. At least not yet.

  He’d know soon enough, he hoped. Last night he’d sent Bubba a query about getting together for dinner. So far, no reply.

  His phone chirped. Tony. He answered. “Hey, what you got?

  “Dude, where are you?” He sounded excited.

  “Near the lake. Sitting. Thinking. What’s up?”

  “Come to the hotel. Jess might have found our man.”

  ~*~

  Wes entered the small conference room, more the size of a large office. Something the hotel would use for intra-company meetings. One long, black Formica-topped table with a dozen rolling chairs took all the available space.

  Tony stood behind Jess, hands in the pockets of his black hoodie, looking over her shoulder at her computer. Two broad smiles greeted him. “All right,” he said, sitting next to Jess and pulling himself up to the table. “Let’s see what you’ve found.”

  She turned her computer toward him. “See what you think about this picture.”

  The image was one from out of the shoebox of old photos of the Scout Troop he’d taken at Liz’s. “What am I looking at?”

  Jess reached up and touched the computer screen with a glossed nail. “The kid in the back, in the middle. With his head canted to one side.”

  The kid lo
oked like the other eleven squint-eyed boys in the picture—blue short-sleeve shirt, blue cap, tan shorts, tan arms and face and knobby knees. The picture was in color, but pixilated and of poor quality. The desert around them was bare. Obviously hot with all the canteens visible. The kid in question was a little taller than the rest of the boys. He wore a pair of binoculars around his neck and wore mirrored, aviator sunglasses, but then three other kids had on sunglasses too.

  Wes looked at Jess. “OK, if this is a stump-the-boss conspiracy between you two, it’s working. What am I missing?”

  “Look at the kid’s binoculars,” Jess said.

  Wes did, again. They were black and looked like they weighed ten pounds. Then he saw what she meant. “Un…believable. There’s only one lens cap open, the right one.”

  Jess nodded. “Came to me the same way. Like wow, so obvious, but, but, it just hit me. The other cap is either broken off, he hasn’t opened it yet, or this kid can only see out of one eye and flipping down the cap just doesn’t make sense.”

  Wes sat back and took a deep breath. Then he turned to Jess. “Great job. What a catch.” He held up his fist for her and Tony to tap. “Now, before we get too confident, we have to put a name to him and confirm whether or not he’s blind in one eye. So far, we’ve assumed he has vision problems. We have to put the two together.”

  Tony sat down at his computer and nodded. “We’re fixing to catch this dude.”

  Wes had the warm and fuzzy again, but then he cautioned himself. “We need a name. Liz has already said she didn’t know anyone who fits the description, and Marlin won’t talk to us.”

  “I think I’ll call Liz anyway,” Jess said. “I want to see how she’s doing. I’ll ask her to check the picture. Maybe someone wrote all the names on the back. You know, front row, middle row, that type of thing.”

  Wes tried to think. He didn’t remember looking at the backs of the pictures. Good idea. He really hoped he didn’t have to fly back to Las Vegas.