Orb

by Arp, David E. ;

  35

  Wes scurried through the ankle-deep water to the far side of the small island thick with reeds and cane, into the densest, tallest growth, and stretched out on his stomach. The direction he traveled took him toward the glow of lights along the levee and the highway, away from the last known location of his enemy. He’d put his back to another wide area of open water. If forced, he’d slither into the murky soup and disappear like he’d seen the gators do.

  He strained to listen. What sounds were normal? Water lapped behind him. Frogs croaked, each one in its own cadence. So many crickets sang their grating screech sounded like one. Other moans and creaks penetrated the din from far and near. He couldn’t determine their source.

  Movement was easier to pick out than shapes, but he’d never seen a darker night. Again, he gave thanks for it. If Meshach had survived the carnage with his eye intact, the man wouldn’t be able to see a thing.

  An eerie quiet settled over the marsh as if the local population suddenly got a feel for an impending event or listened for the boogieman’s approach as Wes did. It was a strange night in Louisiana when the bugs were silent.

  A sky full of stars had faded to black along with the gray of dusk. Clouds. Moving fast. If he wasn’t already wet, cold, and miserable enough, now the wind picked up. His hair, ears, and nose felt like icicles stuck to his head.

  It was just as well that he’d lost his wristwatch. Negotiating the water and marsh to the levee was going to make one mile seem like fifty before the night was over. No use checking the time every five minutes and making two hours seem like ten. He prayed he could make it in two hours.

  He put his mind back on the inky night around him. Grass and stalks of cane rustled and thrashed in the wind. Who was he fooling? He wouldn’t hear a herd of buffalo coming now.

  A deep rumble drew his focus offshore. Lightning flashed high above, giving depth to the darkness, followed by another ominous rumble and a clap of thunder. A tumultuous roar rolled down on him. The temperature dropped like he’d opened the refrigerator door and rain hit. The reeds and cane around him looked like they’d turned their backs to the wind and bowed into the shallow water. Big drops hurled to the ground by a driving gale pounded and beat him until he couldn’t stand it any longer and had to push himself out of the marsh grass into the shelter of deep water. He pulled his shirt over his head. Submerged and out of the wind he felt like he’d slipped on a coat.

  Men had died of hypothermia in warmer temperatures. The chills hadn’t hit him yet, but he knew they were coming. He looked toward the levee. He preferred to do this in the daylight, but…Thank God he didn’t have far to go. He struck out using a sidestroke, pulling with his right arm and scissor kicking. He pushed with his cupped left hand, working his arm at the elbow, careful not to move his shoulder.

  How far? How long? Too far and too long. The wind, rain, and waves beat at him without rhythm so he didn’t know when to breathe or hold his breath, and he couldn’t see. He reached with his right hand for another stroke at the water, grasped a handful of mud and worked his way onto another island. He stood and slogged on. Meshach or no Meshach. He recalled an admonishment from Bubba from long ago. “You stop, you die. Get mad! Get mean! Survive!”

  The wind drove him across another long section of marsh and back into the roiled water. He pushed thoughts of meeting an unfriendly critter out of his mind. Reptiles and rodents had more sense than to be out on a night like this.

  He swam and swam. He must have entered the water in a curve, and he was swimming down the middle of a channel. He angled left and crawled out on his hands and knees onto steep, muddy ground. The levee!

  He caught his breath and set out again. Scaling the thirty yards of mud to the top of the levee was like trying to climb a slide in his socked feet. His wet shirt and jeans stuck to him and hindered his movements. The jeans were stretched three inches longer than when he’d put them on and weighed him down with water and mud. The rain had let up, but the wind stole body heat. His feet grew in size and weight as mud stuck to his shoes, adding layer upon slick layer with every step.

  He didn’t hold much hope for what lay ahead. He’d like to see the glow of light somewhere, the high beams of a car on the highway in the distance, something to give him direction and something to shoot for. He peered into the night from the top of the levee, overlooking the highway. The storm must have knocked out the power. An all-night convenience store shrouded in darkness lay just below. A Louisiana State Patrol car was parked at a pump.

  He opened his mouth to scream for joy, but the wind snatched the breath away.

  ~*~

  Wes approached the cruiser. The officer had his head down. Two men talked to the clerk at the counter inside the store. The officer glanced up, down, back up, then opened the car door and crawled out. The guy was all man and there was a lot of him. The black officer probably stood six-five and weighed two-sixty, if Wes had to guess.

  He looked Wes up and down. “Wes Hansen?”

  “That’s me.”

  A big smile flashed white teeth. “I been praying you’d turn up.”

  “I hope you don’t mind. I’m going to sit right here for a minute.” Wes started to plop down on the concrete in front of the patrol car, and the officer moved to grab him and lighten his fall. The officer walked to his cruiser, leaned in, and retrieved his coat. He placed the black jacket over Wes’s shoulders.

  As soon as Wes felt the warmth, the shakes hit him.

  “I’m Officer Lucas Jamison, Mr. Hansen. What can I do for you?” He knelt next to Wes and placed a big hand in the middle of his back. “Are you injured?”

  Wes looked at the officer and then at the entrance into the store.

  The two men inside opened the glass door and stepped out. The guy behind the counter stared through the window.

  “Hot coffee would go a long way. Something to eat. I’m not wounded, but my left shoulder is a wreck. It’s been a long day.”

  Lucas looked toward the two men and yelled, “Bring a cup of coffee, black. Something to eat, anything hot. A bottle of water too.” He addressed Wes. “The power hasn’t been out long, so hot shouldn’t be a problem.” He eyed Wes and canted his head. His big teeth flashed again. “Your shoulder isn’t the only thing that’s a wreck. You look like you tussled with a gator.”

  “I feel like the gator won. Can you do me a favor? My tech guy, Tony Moran, Meshach shot him, and…Can you call the FBI? Ask for Agent Trent Carr.”

  Lucas nodded. “He’s OK. He’s fine, your guy. I worked the scene this morning, yesterday morning now. He’s got a head wound. It’s serious enough, but he’s going to be fine. He’s at West Jeff. The Lord looked after him.”

  Thank God!…yesterday? “What time is it?”

  “Just after one.”

  The Lord was gracious. He’d lived to see another day after all.

  One of the men from the store brought out a cup of coffee and two large pieces of sausage pizza. With help, Wes stood and walked around the officer’s car to the back door. He sat in the back seat and sipped the coffee. Then he tasted the pizza. He couldn’t remember tasting better pizza.

  Lucas stepped to the front of the car and talked into his radio mic. He returned and squatted on his haunches beside the door. “Mr. Hansen, I’m taking you to West Jeff. Any objections?”

  Wes fumbled with the shoulder strap and clicked the seatbelt. “Not a one. Could I borrow your cell phone?”

  Officer Lucas pulled his phone out of his pocket and handed it to Wes. Then he pulled onto the highway and turned on the car’s strobes.

  Wes held up the cell phone. It was bigger than his iPhone. A Droid or some other brand he was unfamiliar with. He eyed the blank screen and realized it didn’t matter whether he knew how to turn it on or not. His mind was just as blank. He couldn’t remember Jess’s phone number.

  36

  Tuesday morning

  Wes opened his eyes and looked around the dark, windowless room. At lea
st his eyelids didn’t hurt. They were about the only two parts of his body to escape the abuse, and then just barely. His right cheek and that side of his head was black and swollen where Meshach had clubbed him with the pistol. He’d ignored the pain until he looked in the mirror. If he’d ever looked worse, he couldn’t remember when.

  He’d been in the hospital twice as a kid. Those memories smelled like disinfectant and alcohol and sounded like the control bridge in an episode of the old Star Trek series: bleep-bleep, bleep-bleep, bleep-bleep. Not much had changed.

  He turned on the light, sat up on the edge of the bed and worked his limbs. All of them but the upper left arm and shoulder anyway. A dozen small wounds covered his forearms and hands. The latter were swollen and sore. Humans weren’t meant to be wet for prolonged periods. Water weakened skin, making it easier to puncture and tear.

  Agent Carr stepped into the open doorway. He smiled. “Good to see you, Wes. Can I come in?”

  “Good morning, Trent.” Wes waved him in. They shook hands.

  Trent brushed back the bottom of his lightweight, tan jacket at his waist and pulled his khaki pants up his wiry, hipless frame. “Did you get some rest?”

  “I got to sleep about three or so. After the doc poked me all over, and I’d had a hot shower.”

  Trent checked his watch. “It’s seven twenty. That’s not much sleep. How are you feeling?”

  “Like one of Saddam’s SCUDs hit me. I hurt in places I forgot I had.”

  Trent pointed at one of two small, padded, blue armchairs at the foot of the bed. “Mind if I sit down?”

  Wes shook his head. “Of course not.”

  An orderly walked in carrying a brown plastic tray holding a large covered plate, a small bowl full of fruit, and small plastic containers of milk and apple juice.

  “Thanks,” Wes said.

  The guy left the tray on the rolling bedside table and took his leave.

  Trent removed his trademark pad and pencil from his shirt pocket. “Talk to me.”

  Where to start? Facts? He had few, but he could make some educated assumptions. “Meshach planned to hijack a large vessel, tanker, freighter. I don’t think it mattered which, and use it as a weapon to hit an offshore oil facility. The anchor rope on the boat had knots tied in it at useful intervals and blue cloth was wrapped at strategic points to silence the anchor. A makeshift grapple, if you will. His target might have meant more to him than his weapon of choice because of his obsession with Cole, but who knows. If you’ll remember the file Tony and your agent found on his computer, he had many options in mind.”

  Wes took a deep breath. “I think you can close one missing person, slash murder case, and one first degree murder. Meshach didn’t come out and say it, but he killed his dad. His only admission to anything I asked came when he compared me to his father. He threatened his dad if he didn’t leave him alone. His dad should have listened. He told me I talked too much and implied I didn’t take him seriously, like his dad. Looking at that situation from the outside, ten, twelve years ago, you might have let Meshach walk and called it self-defense.”

  Trent scribbled on the pad for another moment and looked up. “The murder?”

  “Yeah. Lane Woodard, last week, here in New Orleans. He and Meshach went to school together. They had a chance meeting that got Lane killed. Dig around and I’ll bet you’ll find confirmation.”

  “I remember Lane’s name from your notes. His mother got us Meshach’s real name from the picture. I’ll need to call her.”

  Wes didn’t tell Liz he’d get her son’s killer. He didn’t have anything to apologize for, but he felt obligated to her. Maybe because he’d met her, witnessed, and empathized with her grief. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to her first. Jess and I will fly to Vegas tomorrow and sit down with her.”

  Trent eyed him a long second and nodded. “Meshach’s character?”

  “None. His feelings are cold, numb, and hard as a brick. What drives him? Again, who knows? Ideology, money, revenge, or just because he likes what he does. It’s anyone’s guess.”

  Wes picked out a grape from the bowl, then put it back. “Did you find his boat?”

  Trent nodded. “We did, early this morning, right where you told Officer Jamison it would be. I’m afraid we didn’t find our man, though. I’ve got a team headed out there to drag the area for his body. I’ll let you know what we find, if anything.”

  Wes knew it. There was always a glitch. No body, dead or alive, no closure.

  Trent looked up from his pad and blinked. “How did you get away?”

  “God sent a stinkbug to help me.”

  Trent’s head canted to one side. His nose crinkled, hinting at a subconscious thought about sniffing at a bug. “What?”

  “We left our little hideout and cruised down the middle of the channel. I can only guess at our speed, but we clipped along at a good pace. I noticed a small loop of the anchor rope sticking out from under the hatch where the anchor was stored. I was mulling that over when I looked at Meshach. He leaned to look around the windscreen, and a big bug hit him in the forehead. I grabbed the rope and dove off the boat with the anchor. The rest is a blur. The anchor must have buried up in the mud and when the rope pulled tight, the boat flipped. The last time I saw Meshach he was airborne and at the mercy of speed and gravity.”

  “What made you think of something like that?”

  Wes had been wondering that very thing. “I didn’t think. It just happened.”

  Trent wrote on his pad again.

  Wes doubted the scribbling referenced the lack of forethought as to why Wes did what he did.

  “What else? Did he mention Lamech or Sullivan?”

  “No, but I threw their names at him. He never blinked. Speaking of, he doesn’t blink…ever. Tears run from his eye like a leaky faucet. He wears the dark glasses for a reason. He has to. And he’s wounded. His right hand was wrapped in a bloody cloth. I’d say he’s right handed too. He was awkward using his left.”

  After a moment, the agent shook his head and said, “He’s crazy if he thought he could pull off something like hijacking a ship alone.”

  Wes knew that was where he’d made his biggest mistake in evaluating Meshach. “Be careful. You and I think people like Meshach are crazy. He is not. He’s insane, possessed, or both. If you don’t find his body, assume he’s planning his next whatever. Don’t confuse him with crazy. He’s calculating and void of emotion. Another thought. He was armed with a 1911 frame .45. A fancy piece, like a Kimber maybe, with rose-colored wooden grips, and he’s got my Springfield .45. We know he took the cop’s service piece, though I never saw it. How is that guy, by the way?”

  “He succumbed to his wounds yesterday afternoon.” Trent flipped his pad closed and stood. “I wonder why he kept you alive.”

  “The one time I tried to draw him out and get him to talk, I nearly got perforated in the forehead. He picked up the pistol, pointed it my direction and pulled the trigger. Like wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He didn’t care if I lived or died, so who knows. I didn’t complain.”

  “I’ll bet not. Wes, go home. We’ve got this from here. You’ve done good work and deserve a rest. Do me one favor, though. The next time you’re down this way on business, call me so I can put on extra agents.” He smiled again. “You’ve got my thanks and my number. Call me if you think of anything else.”

  They shook hands again and Wes said, “No, actually, I don’t have your number. I don’t even have clothes.” Wes pulled at the backless gown he wore. “I think I know where my cell phone is, but Meshach has my wallet. My travel bag and computer case are in my rental car and Cole or Bubba has it.”

  “I’ll call Bubba for you. Tony has my info. He’s, well, he’s…”

  “He’s what?”

  “You’ll see. It’s crazy, plum crazy. Go see him. He’s in room 117.” Trent waved and walked out.

  ~*~

  Wes didn’t let the suspense build very long
before he chose the only option available and peeked under the stainless lid covering his breakfast: a broccoli and cheese omelet. It went down well, even without his usual dose of salt and pepper the hospital dietary staff conveniently failed to provide, probably by design. The bowl of fruit and the drinks proved to be apt additions.

  As he finished and pushed away the tray, Cole knocked. “Hey, are you up for some company?”

  “Come in here. You brought my suitcase. Did Trent call you?”

  “No. I thought you’d need it.”

  “We must have ESPN then. I’m threadbare. Actually, I’m worse. I’m bare. Set that up here for me.”

  Cole placed the bag on the foot of the bed. “That’s good humor—ESPN.” He had on the same Wranglers, cowboy boots, and camo cap but had changed to a white, vented, Columbia fishing shirt.

  Wes unzipped the travel bag, removed a change of clothes and his shaving kit, then eased off the bed. “If you’ll excuse me a minute, I’m going to get out of this airy garment and brush the fuzz off my teeth. Then, I want to go see Tony.”

  Cole held out his hand.

  Wes stopped and grabbed it. They shook.

  Cole’s eyes held Wes’s a long moment. He said, “You went above and beyond.”

  “I didn’t plan it that way, Cole. It just happened.”

  “Your kind never plans it, but when you’re forced into a tough situation, you don’t shy from the task either. Go on. Get dressed. Jessica and Bubba are on their way too.”

  Wes eased into the bathroom and changed. He wished he had an extra pair of shoes. His were soaked. He put them on anyway and stepped out.

  Cole scanned him from head to toe. “You look rough, my friend. Are you OK?”

  Wes tossed the gown on the bed. “I did something to my left shoulder. They want me to have an MRI today, but I’m going to wait until I get home. After that, I’m well. How about you? Business as usual? How’s your daughter?”