by Nobody, Joe
“If I remember correctly, you said you were from Morganville, Louisiana. Is that right?”
Now suspicious, Pearl nodded. “Yes, that’s true. Why? Something wrong?”
“Oh, nothing is wrong, ma’am. I was wondering if you would be willing to do a job for me? It pays pretty well,” Allison offered.
“What’s the job?”
Allison began explaining the task at hand, Pearl nodding occasionally but never interrupting.
“That’s all?” the Smokers’ matriarch asked. “That’s all you want?”
“Yes, and I’ve been authorized to pay you $200 cash, Alliance. And provide enough gasoline for the trip.”
“Okay. I’ll do it,” Pearl agreed. “I wouldn’t mind a little visit back home and getting to see how some old friends are doing.”
Pearl smiled as her nephew piloted the old Ford into Morganville. Pointing to a building barely visible through a thick grove of cypress trees, she announced, “That was your Great Uncle Bill’s hardware store back in the day.”
“Did the apocalypse cause him to close up shop?” the young man asked.
“Oh, no, sweetie. It was the Internet that drove him out of business. Everybody started ordering their goods online, and he couldn’t compete with the price and assortment. That, and the fact that he drank all his profits spelled the end. He died a few years before everything fell apart.”
After a few more blocks, Pearl commented, “Nothing much has changed. Still a bunch of downtrodden souls either too frightened or too stupid to leave.”
They approached the only business still operating in the declining community, the Quick Stop corner store.
Originally a combination gas station and convenience store carrying essential grocery items, The Q, as the locals called it, had been the social hub of Morganville. People had been gathering there for years, loading up on cigarettes, lottery tickets, beer, and most importantly, the town’s gossip. It was the only place with free wireless, the satellite TV over the slushy machine the main source of cable news for many of the poorer residents.
Even after the shelves had been stripped bare and the fuel pumps no longer offered gas or diesel, the enterprise had remained the epicenter of the struggling community. When a fisherman caught a few extra catfish, he took them to the Q. If one of the farmers slaughtered a cow, he would drive to the Q and sell some of the beef from the back of his truck. It was Morganville’s equivalent to the Meraton Market, only on a smaller scale.
The awning, once providing shade to the fuel islands as motorists filled their vehicles, had been covered to create an open-air meeting place. Where gas-guzzlers had once topped off their tanks, the concrete pads were now covered with old lawn chairs, picnic tables, and even a dilapidated, leather couch. This was where the townsfolk gathered late in the afternoon to share stories as well any extra food that couldn’t be easily stored, and to catch up on any news about the world beyond the county line.
The people of Morganville weren’t starving, the surrounding bayous and nearby river providing a bounty of fish, shrimp, and the local specialty, crawfish. As Pearl and her nephew drew closer to the Q, they began to notice several roadside vendors offering their wares.
A hand-painted advertisement offered “Fresh gator,” the rudimentary sign hung from the back of a faded blue Chevy truck, its neighbor competing with “Squash, Melons, Corn. Will barter.” Pearl noted four bushel baskets, all of them brimming with produce.
“It looks like there is plenty to eat here, Auntie. Why did you leave?” the driver asked.
“Because I didn’t have any way to make money to buy the food. The people here are stuck in a loop. They might be eating, but that’s about it. There are no other jobs, no improvements, and no chance for any sort of a future other than death. If you come down with a cold here, your life is in danger. A dirty cut, a deep cough, or even an insect bite can kill you. No doctors, no medicine, and no hope.”
The busiest vendor was selling his wares from the bay of a tiny, red hatchback. “Dried Tobacco,” his homemade sign read in a bold scrawl. “Will barter.”
They parked beside the store, Pearl smiling as she recognized an old friend. After a hug accompanied by a friendly greeting, she was assaulted with a hundred questions. “What’s it like? Did you find work? Is everything in Texas as good as what they say?”
Within minutes, a dozen people had gathered around, all of them rapid firing questions about what was happening beyond their little town.
“I knew you all would be as curious as old cats,” she smiled. “I even remembered to bring you a local newspaper. It’s from a town in Texas called Forest Mist. It’s not much, but it does have a lot of information about the Alliance and what’s happening there.”
Reaching into the car’s backseat, Pearl produced several copies of the Forest Mist Gazette . What she didn’t mention was that one of the stories was pure fiction, planted there by Marshal Allison Plummer.
“Alliance Authorities Seeking Whipsaw Jones’ Lost Gold,” the headline read.
The article went on to read:
“Local authorities are keeping quiet about a sizeable payment of gold received by the late local businessman, Whipsaw Jones. According to multiple sources, the Alliance government delivered over one hundred pounds of the precious metal to Jones as a prepayment for a significant order of lumber that was to be shipped to various recovery efforts throughout Texas over the next six months.
Now that the local lumber mill is no longer operational, the Alliance officials are seeking the return of their funds. At issue is the location of Jones’ payment. According to our source, law enforcement is actively seeking the cache of the precious metal.
Deputy Allison Plummer, acting town marshal of Forest Mist, refused to confirm or deny the report. When interviewed, she stated, ‘This is an ongoing investigation. I can’t comment further.’
Other sources, however, have provided additional details. One official, who wished to remain anonymous, told this reporter that a team of auditors will be arriving in Forest Mist next week. They are expected to be armed with search dogs and bench warrants. ‘We’re convinced that the gold is somewhere on the mill’s property. We’ll find and return it to the Alliance taxpayers in short order.’”
As Pearl passed out the short stack of newsprint, another friend appeared at her side. “This sounds amazing! But if living there offers so much more opportunity, why in the world did you come back?” she asked.
“I got word that my mother has fallen ill,” Pearl lied. “I’m on my way to Baton Rouge to visit her. I just couldn’t help but stop by and say hello to all of my old friends.”
“So, everything we have heard about Texas is really true?” the lady asked. Then pulling her friend aside and speaking in a hushed voice she added, “Because I’m thinking about leaving Morganville. A seedy element has been moving in over the last few weeks, and they are scaring the wits out of me.”
“Oh?” Pearl responded, acting surprised. “What kind of seedy element?”
“Motorcycle riders in leather jackets. Rough looking men. Marianne said that all the tattoos they have are from prison. Anyway, they are staying at one of the fish camps off Red Bayou, but they come into town almost every day.”
“Have they caused any trouble?” Pearl asked, acting genuinely concerned.
“No, not yet. But I know their kind, and you can see it coming like a train rolling down the tracks. Some say they got chased out of New Orleans by the government. Other people claim that they are from Texas. It don’t matter. They are bad news, and I’m thinking of pulling up stakes just like you did.”
Pearl wanted to tell her friend that things weren’t so grand on the other side of the border, but she held her tongue. She had been hired to do a job, and she was going to earn her pay. “I’d wait a while. Give it a couple of weeks. Maybe they’re just passing through.”
“You just hang around here for a day or two, and you’ll see…. Things have really changed,�
�� the old neighbor fussed. “They come to the Q about every day,” she added, shaking her head in dread.
Chapter 20
Blackjack sat listening to the bullfrogs croaking, the constant stream of reptilian racket fouling his already dark mood. “Somebody should go out and shoot those noisy bastards,” he suggested. “We can fry them up for dinner.”
The two women sitting in the porch swing ignored his complaint, their attention focused on an old fashion magazine discovered at the bottom of a dusty, cardboard box. It was the only entertainment available since arriving at this godforsaken fish camp… Ketchum’s bitching was so incessant it now just blended into the background noise of the swamp.
Since the revolt in New Orleans, Ketchum had been holed up just outside of Morganville, finding refuge in a remote cabin. In reality, the fish camp was a 3,000-square foot country lodge situated on its own miniature, private island. Previously, it had been owned by a prominent New Orleans businessman whose taste in call girls and nose candy had exceeded his ability to pay. After running up a significant tab with Blackjack, he had offered up his secluded resort in lieu of receiving a shave with a blowtorch.
The water surrounding the estate was more akin to a swamp. While technically an island, the bridge leading to the mainland was only twenty-eight feet long.
Still, it was an isolated location, complete with its own generator and guarded by alligators, swarms of mosquitos, and thousands of nutria rats.
After his defeat in the Big Easy, Ketchum didn’t have any place else to go. His empire destroyed, the former King of New Orleans was in exile. He had his emergency stash of cash and a dwindling supply of pilfered gold, but those assets would only buy him so much. Candy, Piper, four bodyguards, and the island estate were now the extent of his realm.
They had escaped that fateful afternoon, hopping into an SUV, escorted by four bikers as they raced out of the city. Ketchum still didn’t know exactly who had attacked him or why. His military experience, however, had prompted him to recognize that his men were deserting in droves. Some, no doubt, due to the rising waters. Others, he reasoned, were swayed by the number of their comrades bleeding out in the street. For whatever the reason, he had decided to withdraw and survive. It had been the only alternative that he’d seriously considered. In his mind, no cause was worth dying for.
After recovering his bug-out bags from the Royal, they had quickly loaded up their emergency vehicles and raced out of town.
During the ride north in the late afternoon, the crime lord tried to think of the most secluded location he knew. The fish camp, a spot he had only visited a few times, was the perfect hideout for a man on the dodge. If didn’t matter if the attack in New Orleans had been mounted by the United States government, a traitor on the inside, or a bold competitor, he would hide out in the swamp until it was safe to resurface and then reclaim his domain.
The failed operation at Forest Mist had annihilated Blackjack’s mercenaries, that first fiasco followed by the botched attempt to overrun the Brazilian freighter. Now, he had suffered an even more serious blow in New Orleans.
The two bags of gold and cash weren’t nearly enough to recruit the manpower he would need to reestablish himself. An army took money… lots of money… and at the moment, Ketchum was at a loss regarding how to even begin raising the funds that would be required. All of his eggs had been in the Big Easy basket.
The only advantage to his current residence was its proximity to Forest Mist. He knew his father had been killed, which brought up a whole host of questions regarding the old man’s mill. More importantly, dear, old dad had accumulated land leases and timber options which were worth millions. He spent his days plotting, wondering how he could take control of the family’s assets without the Alliance stepping in and foiling his plan.
With only a tiny entourage and limited resources, Blackjack felt imprisoned at the fishing lodge. Now, less than ten days after leaving New Orleans, the monotony of the place was about to drive him insane.
He couldn’t seem to think clearly. He was depressed at best, downright mean at worst. He was bored, pissed, and had no outlet for his stress. And it was no wonder. Back in the day of 24-hour, non-stop, streaming television, Ketchum had scoffed at the idea of a half hour show where a couple of guys cast their lines and waited for a nibble. Damn! I should have realized hiding out in this entertainment wasteland would drive me crazy , Ketchum grumbled. Nothing better to do here than watch the grass grow.
His people stayed away most of the day, only approaching him when summoned. They had all taken to making the occasional trip to Morganville, just to see other faces, hear other voices, and occasionally supplement their diet with locally grown vegetables and beef. The backwater town held nothing else of interest.
After a bit, his men had started asking permission to travel there on an almost daily basis. Ketchum had granted them leave, knowing that they were all just as disenchanted with the new blasé existence as he was. “Don’t cause any trouble and stay under the radar. In a few more weeks, it will be time for us to make our move. Right now, I need time to think this through.”
Late in the morning of the eleventh day, the sound of rumbling Harley engines drowned out the croaking frogs, signaling that two of Ketchum’s boys had just returned from Morganville. Standing up to stretch, Blackjack yawned and then sauntered toward the front entrance to see what had been purchased for the evening meal.
“Hey, boss,” one of the bikers greeted. “We’ve got news!”
“Oh?” Blackjack replied, his interest only mildly piqued.
Hustling toward his leader, the rider handed over a copy of the bogus Forest Mist Gazette . “You should check the headline,” he added.
Taking in every printed word of the article, Ketchum’s eyes grew wide. Looking up toward the heavens, he smirked, “Why, you old bastard. You never said a word about any gold or big contract with the Alliance. Keeping your cards close to your vest, eh?”
After rereading the piece, Ketchum sprang from his perch with more energy than he’d displayed since being chased out of the city.
Pacing back and forth on the creaky, cedar planks of the porch, Ketchum examined the article two more times, his mind racing with the possibilities. He could think of at least three places his dad would have stashed that much gold. All of them were at the mill.
“Pack up, gentlemen, we’re going back to Forest Mist. I believe our ship has docked at Jones Lumber, Incorporated.”
His small contingency was flabbergasted at his demand but were more than ready for a change of venue. Swatting at a pesky mosquito, one of the women asked, “Can we go, too?”
Blackjack nodded, “But of course. It wouldn’t be a party without you lovely ladies. You see, we’re not going there to fight this time, just to collect my inheritance. We’ll get a new start while at the same time giving the Alliance one up the ass.”
Harry looked like the cat that had just swallowed the canary. He strolled over to the juke box and slipped in some change, selecting some background music to start the day. He was soon humming the chorus, “You’ve lost that lovin’ feelin’…” his wadded bar towel his microphone.
Holding up the second envelope received in the last three days, the bartender announced, “Hey, Boss, it’s another letter from your lady love, and it doesn’t look very good if I say so myself. The outside is very formal… no warmth in the way she addresses you at all,” Harry teased, “… and no fancy, wax seal this time, either.”
Shaking his head as he accepted the communiqué, Bishop examined the front of the envelope. “Bishop. Confidential.”
He tore open the thin, paper cover and extracted a single sheet. The note was from Allison, its content quite simple, “Message delivered. Seed planted. Suggest you return to Forest Mist ASAP.”
The bartender swirled the towel across the wooden counter, keeping an eye on Bishop through the corner of his eye as he pretended to clean. The VP of Security maintained his best poker face, allowing
no emotion to temper his facial expression. With a nonchalant gesture, he folded the message, stuffed it back inside the envelope, and tucked it in his shirt pocket. Glancing up at the waiting, nosey bartender, he announced, “I’m going to take a few days off, Harry. I’ll have another man cover for me. I will be back by the weekend. Be safe.”
“Okay… must be good news there, eh? I haven’t seen you smiling like that in a month,” the barkeep replied with a wink.
“Oh, yes, it’s very good news. I’ll see you soon.”
With that, he slid off the barstool and left the bar without looking back. He had work to do in Alpha.
Late that afternoon, Bishop returned home to his family, his mood conspicuously upbeat. After hugging his wife and snuggling Hunter, he announced, “I think we should go to Forest Mist, sooner rather than later.”
“What? What is going on, Bishop?” she snapped, unsure of how to gauge this new twist.
Terri’s husband came clean, disclosing his covert activities of the last few days. His account was relatively complete, explaining the planted newspaper article and his meeting with the president. His only omissions were the much-earlier conversations he had initiated first with Sheriff Watts and later with Pete in his pursuit of the truth about what had happened to his soul mate.
Terri had trouble assimilating Bishop’s data dump. “Why?” she asked, “Why have you gone to all this trouble?”
“For you,” he replied honestly. “I love you with every fiber of my being. I can sense your pain, can feel your trauma every second of every day. You need closure. You need that more than anything else I can give you. We both need to know that Blackjack is dead, or locked away, and will never come back to haunt you again.”
She tried to dismiss his words, but she couldn’t. “I have got to put an end to this, Terri,” he added, moving to her and offering a gentle embrace. “This is the fastest road to recovery. I’m not saying that it takes Blackjack’s demise for you to heal, but nothing will give you relief like taking charge of your own life and putting that bastard out of your mind. The best possible outcome would be putting that monster away and making sure he never hurts anyone else. The sooner, the better.”