He waited for a few seconds and then cracked open the door.
She was dialing the phone on the receptionist’s desk.
THIRTY-SIX
Sherry dialed 9-1-1, trying to control her breathing enough to speak.
The connection was never completed.
First, she felt her head whip back violently, then her rapid breathing was choked to a sudden stop. Brocata’s arm had a strangle hold on her neck and it felt as if he would pull her head off her shoulders.
She was suffocating. Giant red spots filled her vision and her lungs convulsed, struggling for air.
Her body fell limp. She had no more strength. Sherry was exhausted and depleted of oxygen and adrenaline. She felt herself thrown to the floor and heard something crack as she landed awkwardly, her right arm thrust against her rib cage. An intense pain in her side accompanied each violent gasp for air. She felt cold metal on her temple.
“Now Sherry, dear,” Brocata was hissing. “Shall we have a little more cooperation? And no more of your silly little games. That was quite humiliating.” He clenched his teeth and shoved the barrel of the gun deeper into the side of her head.
Brocata grabbed the front of her dress, pulling her up from the floor as he quickly stood up.
“Come on, bitch. I’ll take you somewhere where we can be undisturbed.”
He shoved her to the wall beside the elevator, the gun now jammed against her cracked rib. The pain sucked the air from her body.
Rocky held the helicopter in position while Rob looked through Army-issue binoculars. Darkness had fallen, but from the magnificent, elevated view over Baton Rouge’s skyline a trace of daylight remained in the air-brushed horizon of pink and lavender.
“I can’t see much down there. Just a couple of cars on the street, but I don’t see Sherry’s car. It’s probably inside the garage.” Rob was squinting through the heavy binoculars, straining to focus on the vibrating images below. Rocky had decided to hover quite a distance away from the building after Rob had explained their immediate objective.
“Take us down,” Rob said.
Rocky nodded and pitched the helicopter into a gradual descent.
“Valet parking, sir?” Rocky grinned.
“Take us down on that back access street. Drop me off, and I’ll go around into the parking garage.” Rob was already unbuckling his harness. He looked back down into the narrow street that ran behind the Petroleum Tower and between some smaller buildings and an abandoned warehouse. As it got closer, it actually looked smaller. He re-thought his strategy. “Is it wide enough to set down in?”
“Oh, sure. Plenty of room to spare,” Rocky said confidently. When Rob wasn’t looking, he shrugged. Rocky looked for traffic, and local authorities, and then swiftly maneuvered the aircraft down between the narrow space that separated the buildings.
As they began their descent, Rob leaned into the center of the helicopter. As if that would help.
The giant main rotor whistled compressed wind off the dusty brick of the abandoned warehouse that stood just behind the Petroleum Tower.
Rob’s stomach cringed at the sound of shattering glass.
A window in the old structure had shattered, either from the sudden change in air pressure, or from flying debris.
The noise between the two buildings was deafening.
In a few more moments, Rob felt the chopper lightly touch-down.
“Don’t go far,” Rob yelled as he jumped out.
“I’ll keep the meter running!” Rocky replied.
Rob ran around the back of the building and up the side street.
Inside the parking garage, he trotted up the incline to the first level. It was nearly vacant, with only a couple of cars and one pickup. The concrete walls muffled the thundering sound of the helicopter behind the building and Rob strained to hear movement in the garage.
He heard the slamming of a metal door and a deep voice coming from a level or two above.
Rob ran to the edge of the incline, to the elevated pavement of the next level up and lifted himself through the narrow space. He scrambled to his feet and listened again.
It was a male voice, but Rob couldn’t make out what he was saying.
He ran to the edge of the next concrete incline joint and looked up to a higher level. All he could see was pavement and a few tires. The voices were closer.
“You’ll never get away with this, Brocata.”
It was Sherry’s voice!
Rob lifted himself horizontally to the next level of the parking garage, lying flat on the cold concrete. He was just behind a cargo van, but crawled on his belly to where he could see around the vehicle in the direction of the voices.
Rob could see Brocata’s silver hair hanging down into his face. He wore a wild expression, his eyes nervously darting from wall to wall of the parking garage. His shirt hung partially out of his pants.
Brocata was discretely holding a gun on Sherry and looking around the garage for witnesses. He shoved her to the rear of a black Mercedes. The Louisiana license plate read: BROCATA 1.
Brocata pressed a button on his key ring and the rear trunk lid popped open. He forced Sherry inside.
Rob knew he couldn’t make a move against an armed man. But, if he waited for Brocata to drive off, he might lose them.
Rob slid back from his vantage point and eased himself down to the lower level as he heard the trunk slam shut.
He ran to the next ramp opening and crawled down to the first level as he heard a door to the Mercedes close and the engine start.
Rob ran down the incline, past the parking ticket barricade and toward the garage entrance as he heard the tires of the car squeal down the exit ramps.
He ran as fast as he could out of the garage and down the side street, praying that Brocata wouldn’t spot him.
The Mercedes sped out of the garage just as Rob turned the corner to the back access alley.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Rob yelled, waving his arm in a circular motion as he ran to the idling chopper and leapt back into the right seat.
The thunder of the rotor grew, along with the accompanying sand storm as they ascended. Rocky guided the helicopter back up through the narrow opening between the buildings. As they cleared the shorter warehouse wall, a Baton Rouge sanitation truck rounded the corner.
The driver of the huge garbage truck jammed on his brakes as he saw the helicopter rise from the alley. The two men on the back of the truck jumped from their perches and ran.
“They’re in a Mercedes! Just pulled out of the garage! Should be in front of the building!” Rob yelled between gasps for air.
Damn, I’m really am out of shape, he thought again.
“Over there!” he yelled, pointing to the sedan careening down Government Street.
Rocky shoved the helicopter into pursuit. Its tail lifted with the thrust of the forward momentum generated by the main rotor and for a moment Rob was staring straight down onto the striped pavement not far below, his stomach left two blocks behind.
“Hang on!” Rocky’s warning came too late and between violent chewing of his gum.
“Over there! They turned left!” Rob pointed the way, fighting the inertia that was pinning him to his seat.
The Mercedes was driving fast, but not fast enough to warrant the attention of law enforcement. Rob worked to get a view of the car’s interior through the binoculars. The image grew larger as they got closer, but the vibrations from the helicopter prevented a clear look inside.
The helicopter’s altitude dropped back below average roof level as the car wound its way out of the central business district. The Mercedes then turned onto a two-lane industrial access road, which would provide a short-cut to the northern city limits. Mazes of twisted metal pipes and smoldering smokestacks cluttered the ground below as they passed through the concentrated stench of petroleum refineries.
So far, Brocata must not have noticed the helicopter’s nearing presence, as he continued his hurried but
unpanicked route.
“I saw him shove Sherry into the trunk!” Rob explained.
Rocky nodded and adjusted his Saints cap.
“Robby, my boy, we’re about to perform the closest-ever Phantom Fly-by,” Rocky announced. “We’re going for a world’s record!”
“He has a gun,” Rob warned.
“Oh, don’t worry. He’ll never know what hit him.”
Rocky put his gum on the control stick for safekeeping.
Rob checked the security of his seatbelt.
The chopper lurched forward, gaining even more speed.
“Rocky? Standby!”
He looked at LeBlanc. Rob knew he hadn’t said the words himself, but they were coming through his headset. Was Rocky talking to himself?
“Damn! I forgot! I’ve got another report to do!” Rocky said. Rob saw the pilot’s hands and feet working the helicopter’s controls with rapid efficiency as the ground sped by in the background.
Now Rob understood. The voice he had heard was that of a radio station sending Rocky a cue to standby. It was time to air another traffic report.
Rob looked ahead. The chopper was making a wide arc, swinging around from the rear to the side of the Mercedes. He could see Brocata clearly now, but Brocata hadn’t noticed the on-rushing helicopter.
“Go!” It was the radio station giving Rocky his on-air cue.
Meanwhile, they were on a fast collision course with the Mercedes sedan.
This was not a good time for a traffic report.
Sherry was blindly feeling around in the dark, rough interior of the trunk, trying to find a way out.
Maybe I can get through the back seat.
Her hands probed the front wall of the cargo area, but could find no seam, no crack of space. The retaining wall between the trunk and the passenger wall was sturdy and well-insulated.
She slammed her fists against the trunk lid above.
There was no way out.
Rocky LeBlanc slowed the helicopter’s approach at the last moment and led with the chopper’s right landing skid.
“Look for a delay or two north of downtown…”
He was issuing the traffic report live on the air as the landing gear jammed through the driver’s side window. The helicopter rocked violently for a moment, then instantly backed away.
The Mercedes immediately swung off the highway, through a shallow ditch and onto a narrow service road beyond. The car picked up speed.
The crash of splintering glass and bent metal was deafening, even inside the trunk. Sherry suddenly noticed an increase of road noise and felt the car swing abruptly to the right. Her whole body careened to the left. She tried to cushion her impending impact to the opposite interior wall of the trunk.
She softened the blow, then felt herself thrown backwards as the car immediately gained speed.
What the hell was going on?
THIRTY-SEVEN
“...slow down and drive defensively. I’m Rocky LeBlanc Skywatch Traffic.”
Rocky picked up his stored gum and replaced the hard, cold wad in his mouth.
“A little busy over there, huh?” Rob glanced over at the pilot working the kinks out of the gum.
“Oh, just another day at the office.” Rocky’s jaw was going full-speed. “Your friend seems to be in quite a hurry. I thought we would slow him down with our little maneuver.”
Rob was looking through the binoculars.
He could see that the entire left side of Brocata’s head was bloody, his body slumped over the steering wheel.
The Mercedes was out of control and gaining speed.
“You nailed Brocata, but apparently his foot is still on the accelerator.” Rob took the binoculars from his eyes and looked down the narrow service road, ahead of the Mercedes.
Thankfully there was no traffic on the lightly traveled access road which gradually narrowed, surrounded on both sides by tall chain-link security fences marking the boundary of an oil refinery.
Rob watched as the Mercedes’ two left tires slipped tentatively off the edge of the pavement, then swung wildly back onto the road. The car then weaved across the lane, ran off the road and grazed the fence, bending it inward. Sparks flew, accompanied by the sound of metal grinding onto chain-links. The side-impact bounced the car back to the pavement.
There were no further obstacles immediately ahead.
Until the road dead-ended.
Beyond a yellow and black diagonally striped wooden barrier at the end of the road was another long fence.
And a crude-oil storage tank.
“Look!” Rob pointed at the dead-end and the hazard beyond.
“All right! All right! Hang on!”
This time, Rob took the warning to heart.
The gum took its position.
The helicopter surged forward, tail up, stomachs behind.
As the Mercedes continued its weaving course down the middle of the narrow road, Rocky pulled the helicopter over its roof, pacing its speed.
“This is gonna be fun,” Rocky said, pulling at his cap while working the controls.
Rob had his doubts.
Rocky guided the helicopter down slowly, pitching the chopper forward ever so slightly, it’s landing gear now within inches of the car’s front hood. Rob cringed as he became aware of the pilot’s desperate plan.
The helicopter, with the two men on board, was going to become a giant air brake.
LeBlanc eased the helicopter onto the front hood of the erratically moving car, while slowing his forward air-speed. Rob felt the craft lurch for a moment, pitch forward even more and then heard a large thud and the squeal of the Mercedes’ tires. The car was straining against the opposing force of the helicopter, the chopper shuddering as it struggled to stay airborne.
Rob looked at the ground rushing by, now less than six feet below. They were, indeed, slowing the car down. But, as he looked up, the boundary fence and the oil storage tank beyond were rushing closer. They could only maintain their position for a few more seconds. He looked at Rocky, who’s attention was trained on the car below, working the aircraft’s controls furiously to maintain flight and position. Rob wanted to warn the pilot about the approaching hazards, but knew Rocky had his hands full.
Surely he hadn’t forgotten them.
Without warning, the chopper lurched backward in another abrupt slowing move. Sparks flew as the left front landing skid dragged the pavement for just a second or two. Rob felt the craft surge forward and then sharply up as Rocky sent the helicopter into a steep climb. The chopper came within six feet from the top of the barbed-wire upper retainer fence, and then immediately pivoted to view the oncoming Mercedes.
The car had slowed somewhat, but was still heading for the fence and the storage tank beyond. Its path was now altered to a more angled approach. The right front bumper was first to slam into the fence. The chain links strained inward on impact. The Mercedes tore partially through the metal web, but its momentum had been slowed enough to prevent it from completely breaking through. The front of the car jutted through the broken wire. The fence’s metal fingers had angrily scraped deep gashes into the sedan, scarring the intruder’s shiny black finish.
Rocky brought the helicopter down behind the car and Rob jumped to the pavement, running to the driver’s-side door.
Brocata was slumped over the steering wheel. Rob could see the side of the advertising executive’s head, red with blood, splinters of glass protruding from torn flesh. He opened the door and pushed Brocata away from the steering column. Brocata moaned, but offered no resistance, instead collapsing across the center console. Rob killed the engine and grabbed the keys from the ignition, ran to the rear of the car and unlocked the trunk.
Sherry’s body was sprawled limply into a small space at the front of the compartment, her head facing away from the trunk’s opening. Rob held his breath in anticipation as she lay perfectly still. As he bent down to reach for her, she whimpered and turned to face him, groggy and disorient
ed.
“Rob, am I dead?” Her voice was thin and weak.
“No, but you nearly scared me to death,” Rob answered softly.
Sirens squealed in the distance as an ambulance and three Baton Rouge police cruisers responded to Rocky’s radioed request for assistance.
Rob helped Sherry from the trunk, then hugged her as she leaned against the back of the car, her hands to her head. He turned to look at Rocky who was still in the idling helicopter. The pilot was talking into his headset, nonchalantly delivering another traffic report.
Rocky looked up as he finished his report. Even from twenty-five yards away, Rob could see the pilot take the gum from its place on the control stick and replace it in his mouth. Rocky smiled through his chewing and gave a “thumbs up.”
It was six more blocks to the St. Louis Cathedral, but Jackson Square was not on Bellemont’s agenda for his French Quarter tour. In fact, he would walk less than two blocks to his destination from the Holiday Inn, where he had just checked in. No five-star luxury hotels for him. Not yet. Maybe after he had the rest of his money. But for now, the plastic familiarity of the Holiday Inn was just fine, if still a bit overpriced. But, it was conveniently located.
The first block of Chartres, just off Canal, was mostly abandoned. The dollar store on the corner had locked up hours ago, its employees retreating safely out of the Vieux Carre before dark. Bellemont passed two other abandoned store-fronts and carefully stepped onto a sheet of plywood that bridged the broken concrete of the dimly lit sidewalk. This certainly was not a part of New Orleans that would be featured on any tourism brochure.
Two men stood in front of the entrance to the only establishment open within sight. The shorter, and greasier, of the two looked in his direction.
“Hey, Doc.” His smile was curled at the lip, exposing yellow teeth. “Good to see ya’ again.”
“Uh-huh.” Bellemont grunted his reply as he entered the door and walked to a u-shaped booth close to the dancer’s runway in the center of the narrow building.
The Kingfish Commission_A suspense novel about politics, gambling — and murder. Page 22