The Kingfish Commission_A suspense novel about politics, gambling — and murder.

by Hal M. Harrison

  It was too late. The car flipped over from the violent, high-speed course adjustment and slammed, driver’s side first, into the front of the Kenworth. The car’s motion was then immediately reversed, dragged backwards by the huge rig. A sickening sound of grinding metal and flying sparks filled the air as the truck’s trailer skidded around the crumpled mass and slid into the swamp, tire-smoke and exhaust rising from the scene. As the heap of crushed vehicles and burning rubber came to a halt, the driver of the Kenworth leaped from the passenger side of his cab, which clung to the pavement above the swamp. He was running away full-speed while cussing about a nut in an Explorer.

  The black sedan, clinging sideways to the front of the eighteen-wheeler’s front grille like a dragonfly snared in mid-flight, exploded.

  THIRTY-TWO

  It was not quite dark. The sun lingered on the horizon and shadows deepened in the quiet fields six miles outside of Magnolia, Louisiana. This was farm land, grazing pastures for ambling cattle, gently rolling hills stitched with fences and dotted with trailer houses and abandoned cars gutted for usable parts and now grown over with weeds. Tidy farm homes, with lush vegetable gardens just off their back door, sat protected under the sprawling arms of old oak trees. Every house had a porch and every porch had a swing. Every neighbor knew the other.

  But, no one knew the four men that rode down Farm Road 1557 in the long-bed Chevy pickup with the king cab. These men weren’t their neighbors and they wouldn’t stop to socialize. They didn’t return the friendly waves or smiling nods of the farmers, the wives and the children they passed. The men kept their eyes on the narrow, tractor-worn country road.

  They turned off onto a nearly hidden pair of ruts leading across an overgrown culvert. The broken path lead past a thick line of trees and brush that obscured the view of the pasture beyond. The men were dressed in rugged clothing: heavy-duty work-boots, thick jeans, light denim jackets. A metal tool-box stretched across the width of the truck, behind the cab.

  The scrub-brush and thick weeds scraped the bottom and sides of the truck as it followed the path deeper into the overgrown pasture, sounding like hundreds of fingernails scratched across small chalkboards. The trail curved gently to the right, further hiding the truck from the view of any passing farmers. Farm Highway 1557 was lightly traveled, however, and the likelihood of a vehicle even passing by the field during their brief visit was very small.

  What they had to do wouldn’t take long.

  The truck came to a small clearing and made a U-turn to face back in the direction from which it came. The driver stopped, but left the truck idling. All four men got out, and without a word, each retrieved a pair of bolt cutters from the toolbox. They paired off and walked away from the truck, slowly widening their distances apart. One man in each pair stopped at large, metal anchors driven deep into the ground some fifty yards from the truck. The other two men kept walking to similar anchors some twenty-five yards farther out. Two taut wire cables stretched from each of the four anchors at steep angles into the air, one cable below the other. Still without speaking, the four men pulled out thick eye goggles and put on heavy work gloves.

  They looked at each other and nodded their readiness. Each man took his bolt cutter and positioned the yawning blades over the lowest cable of each anchor.

  Finally, a word was spoken. The tallest of the four men, located at one of the outer-most anchors yelled the command:

  “Now!”

  With swift and confident motion, each man severed the lowest cable of each anchor. The cables rapidly retreated from their tethered positions with metallic twangs as they disappeared into the air. Then, each man cut the higher cable on each anchor.

  The whole procedure took less than five seconds. As the cables flew into the air, the men sprinted back to the idling truck. They covered the distance with the speed of well-conditioned sprinters, in spite of the resistance supplied by the thick weeds and the handicap of heavy work-boots.

  As the groaning sound of collapsing metal and sprung cables filled the air, the men jumped into the Chevy truck and sped off.

  Behind their rapid departure, a 300-foot tower bent, first in half, then fully collapsed upon itself, crushing a small wooden building at its base.

  KLOM radio was off the air.

  The Chevy pickup sped down Farm Road 1557 and then took the junction to State Highway 71, heading south.

  The Magnolia Parish Sheriff’s department would later get a full description of the pickup, even down to the bright red and blue “Clayton for Governor” sticker, seen on its polished chrome rear bumper.

  In Moss Point, another pickup truck, this time a Dodge with only one occupant, pulls in front of KAGN radio. The driver carries a small package under his right arm, and though he has no key to the front door, with his well-practiced skill and a small pocket tool, his access is unhindered and immediate.

  He enters the building and picks up the papers strewn on the floor just inside the entrance.

  The man is inside the radio station for less than five minutes. He locks the door on his departure, returns to his truck and casually drives away. Ironically, his truck, too, bears a “Clayton for Governor” sticker from the last state campaign.

  The fire begins an hour later and totally consumes the studios of the small radio station.

  No trace would be found to determine its cause.

  THIRTY-THREE

  A white Ford Mustang convertible. A redhead!

  Bogey! Time for a “Phantom Fly-By!”

  Rocky LeBlanc continued his traffic report while taking the chopper into a sudden, deep dive. He removed his ever-present wad of gum and stuck it on the control stick for safe-keeping.

  “On your drive home this Monday afternoon we have no accidents to report in the business district, and it’s smooth sailing from Airline to I-12. It’s slow-going out-bound on Florida Boulevard, but with no unusual delays. The I-10 east-bound ramp to the Mississippi River bridge has a stalled car in the far right lane you might want to look for, but it’s smooth going west-bound to Port Allen. Rocky LeBlanc, Skywatch Traffic.”

  He pulled his well-worn New Orleans Saints cap lower over his aviator style sunglasses and retrieved his gum from its convenient perch. Rocky LeBlanc looked like an actor called from Central Casting to fit the role of ‘pilot.’ Leather jacket, closely cropped hair, a crooked and confident smile showing through constant gum-chewing. A pilot icon.

  The steep descent took him directly over the ‘bogey.’ He chewed a little faster and switched his headset to the next station for which he would file a report. In his left ear he heard the radio station’s programming, muted on occasion with instructions from Skywatch Traffic headquarters and with cues from the radio stations. In his right ear he listened to air-traffic control from the downtown airport. He reached behind his seat for the cardboard sign on which he had long ago scrawled his cellphone number in broad strokes of black liquid shoe polish. Meanwhile, he gave minimal, but adequate, attention to keeping the helicopter airborne, and at an even pace with the bogey.

  Rocky skillfully flew into a position slightly ahead of the redhead in the convertible. She was driving, just above the legal speed limit, approaching the Mississippi River bridge west-bound ramp. He brought the chopper even lower. She was obviously enjoying a song on the radio, or on CD. Her head was bouncing back and forth and she was mouthing the words to a particularly energetic tune. Her hair was flying wildly.

  Red Alert! We have a Class One Bogey! Red Alert! This is not a drill!

  Rocky waved the cardboard sign frantically, attempting to get her attention. He couldn’t believe that she didn’t notice an airborne heap of metal and glass within spitting distance. That must be a loud tune she was into.

  Finally, she looked over.

  She smiled, in response to his frenzied flailing. It was an incredible, full-mouthed smile.

  Then, with her right hand she lowered her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, exposing mesmerizing green eyes, an
d licked her lips.

  Rocky began hooting with joy.

  He held up the sign and pointed to the phone number, temporarily relinquishing control of the airborne phone booth with propellers.

  The redheaded bogey laughed and nodded her head, saying, “Yes!”

  Rocky let out a scream of victory.

  The bogey’s eyes returned to the road, and Rocky saw her face abruptly fill with surprise.

  Boy, he sure was having an effect on her!

  He looked away from his conquered target for a moment and realized the subject of her sudden excited expression.

  For once, Rocky LeBlanc stopped chewing his gum.

  He was flying directly into the down-sloping ramp of east-bound traffic heading off the bridge.

  He yanked the helicopter up into a steep climb, just missing the top of a huge delivery truck. Rocky had been close enough to the driver to see the look of terror on the man’s face as he saw a helicopter flying directly into his lane of traffic.

  The chopper sputtered and banked, safely away from the oncoming vehicles, then continued rapidly gaining altitude, barely avoiding the upper-deck super structure of the looming Mississippi River bridge.

  Rocky looked down to see the delivery truck swerve back into its own lane, returning from the escape route it had taken to avoid the sudden aerial attack. Three cars in adjacent lanes came within inches of a multi-vehicle collision.

  In his left ear he heard, “Go! Go! Rocky, you’re on!”

  A radio station was waiting for his report. He put his gum back on the control stick.

  “Look for some unusual delays east-bound off the Mississippi bridge, but we’re happy to report there are no accidents so far!” Then Rocky added, “Thank God,” under his breath.

  Thirty more minutes of reports to do for three other radio stations, and then he’d hit the Tailgunner Lounge near the downtown airport for a couple, or dozen, stiff cocktails.

  Then he’d go home and see if the phone rang.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The cottonmouth water moccasin had just fed on a small frog, but was still scouting. It slid through the gaping hole of what would normally have been the passenger-side door of the overturned Explorer. This was new territory, yet unexplored. Perhaps there was dinner inside. The snake undulated through the shallow Atchafalaya water that now covered the interior roof of the vehicle, the waterline just past the tinted portion of the front windshield.

  Rob Baldwin was unconscious, the top of his head partially submerged in the lukewarm brown water. The shoulder harness of his seatbelt held him suspended over the driver’s seat, his butt nearly six inches higher than a seated position. The truck’s airbag was deflated, draped over what was left of the steering wheel.

  The dark olive snake circled Rob’s head. It gained knowledge of its prey from smell, gathered from tiny slits in the center of its triangular head. It detected the warmth emanating from Rob’s head from the heat-sensory pits behind its nostrils. This object was not food. Was it danger?

  Rob blinked his eyes, the threads of consciousness returning. His head moved.

  The snake stopped in the water, inches from his head, prepared to strike before it was attacked. Speed was its most powerful weapon. Its head lifted from the water, its mouth wide open, revealing the cotton-white lining inside. Though its milky venom was not likely to be fatal, the searing pain and resulting scar that was about to be inflicted on Rob’s tender face would be long-lasting.

  A sharp, high-pitched noise cut the silence in the small confines of the water-logged Explorer. His cellphone, hanging from it charger/cradle on the dashboard above was ringing.

  The snake retreated. It slithered out the broken window of the driver’s-side door. It didn’t know how to attack the vibrations of a sound.

  Rob lifted — it felt like lowered — his hands to his face. He rubbed his eyes, praying for vision.

  Thank God I still have a face.

  The pain and pressure he felt on the top of his head was unusual and frightening. He was so disoriented. There was also another unfamiliar sensation.

  My head is wet!

  As he moved his head out of the water, it seemed to drip up.

  Why was the seatbelt cutting into his shoulder so tightly? Why did he feel as if his whole body was being lifted up by some invisible force?

  The piercing sound of the cellular phone startled him on its second ring. He slowly opened his eyes, afraid of what he might see.

  The interior of the truck was dimly lit, but what he saw through the front windshield was not a road. It wasn’t sky. What was it?

  The cellular phone rang again.

  He reached down — up? — to answer it. His arm felt heavy and the shoulder harness cut even deeper into his shoulder. Rob realized that he wasn’t sitting down.

  Sit down! Why can’t I sit down?

  He pulled the phone from its cradle. It nearly rose upward from his hand.

  I must be dead. This is unreal.

  Maybe it’s God on the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello! Rob?”

  God was female! And sounded like his wife!

  “Rob, are you there?”

  “Hello?” His mouth was dry and his face numb. He felt as if he had been punched by a thin, giant boxing glove. His words sounded as if they were coming from somewhere else. He rubbed his eyes again.

  “Rob, are you OK?” It was Abby. Was she dead, too? Or was this just a really long-distance call?

  “Yeah, honey. I’m fine. I’m just dead, that’s all.”

  “What? Rob!”

  He forced himself to focus on his surroundings. Was that water? Hanging over him?

  “Yeah. I’m here. What’s up? How’s Valerie?”

  “Valerie’s fine. I’m fine. Where are you?”

  Rob looked around. That was a hard question to answer. He tried to summon his most recent memory.

  The black sedan. Chasing me. Guy on a bike. Log truck. Rifle. Eighteen-wheeler. Chicken. Head-on collision.

  “I’m, uh — somewhere outside of Moss Point.”

  “Rob, are you coming home?” Her voice didn’t sound angry. She sounded worried.

  “Yes, honey.”

  Got to get to Baton Rouge. Sherry. Phone disconnected. She’s in trouble!

  “I’ve got to get back to Baton Rouge first, though.” Rob kept his eyes open this time. He finally realized that he — and the Explorer — were upside down.

  “Rob, I have something to tell you.”

  Wait ‘til I tell you about the Explorer!

  “OK honey. But whatever it is, I’m sure it’s fine.” Might as well be benevolent while you can.

  “Rob, are you ready to hear this?”

  What did she do? Write a hot check? Wait until she hears what I’ve done!

  “Honey, just tell me. It will be OK I promise.” Rob was trying to figure out how to get out of the Explorer. If he unbuckled his seatbelt he would land on the roof of the truck, into the shallow water.

  Yechh. No telling what’s in there.

  “Rob, honey. Something terrible has happened.”

  He waited.

  “The tower has collapsed.”

  His mind attempted to process the importance of the words he had just heard. Words he had never wanted to hear.

  The

  tower

  has

  collapsed.

  Rob played the words over in his bruised mind.

  The

  tower

  has

  collapsed.

  “Rob? Rob, listen. The sheriff’s department says it was vandalism. Someone came in and cut the guy wires to the tower. It went down and we’re off the air.”

  “How long ago?” Rob realized that the fact he was trapped in an overturned Explorer, having just barely escaped sudden death, wasn’t nearly as bad as this news.

  “Less than a half hour.”

  The governor’s people had been busy: trying to kill him, taking hi
s radio station off the air and most likely threatening Sherry.

  Rob could only assume that KAGN had also met with some broadcast-inhibiting tragedy.

  The breaking news story had been successfully quelled.

  For now.

  “Abby, do what you can to get us back on the air. I’ve got to get back to Baton Rouge.”

  “But, Rob—”

  “Honey, please. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home. Just help me.” His voice was pleading.

  “I love you,” was her reply.

  When Rob ended the call he sat — hung — trying to determine his next move.

  Even if I get out of here, how will I get to Baton Rouge — fast? It’s not like I can fly...

  Fly.

  Rob punched in the number to one of the Baton Rouge radio stations for which Rocky LeBlanc filed traffic reports. He asked the receptionist to connect him with the newsroom. It took a moment or two’s convincing, but he finally persuaded the young reporter that answered the phone to patch him into direct communication with Rocky LeBlanc, who would deliver his next traffic report for the station in less than five minutes.

  “Rocky! It’s Rob. Rob Baldwin!” He had to practically yell to be heard over the static of the cell phone’s marginal sound quality, combined with the patched communications to the noisy environment of the helicopter.

  “Rob! The kid from KEXI? I haven’t heard from you in ages!” Rocky LeBlanc sounded truly happy to hear from him. “Speak up, man! You sound like you’re in a well!”

  “No, I’m not that lucky, Rock. I can’t talk long, we’ll have to catch up later, but Rocky I need your help. I need it real bad.”

  “What’s wrong, Robbie?” His voice had taken on a more serious tone.

  “I need you to pick me up in your chopper and fly me back to Baton Rouge, fast!”

  “Fly you back to Baton Rouge? Where are you?”

  “I’m on Highway One, just south of Moss Point.”

  “OK. When do you want me to get you? I’m off in about a half hour.”