by Mark Romang
Annie polished off the bowl in less than five minutes. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin “I love your house. How old is it?”
“About 175 years, give or take. But it’s not mine. It belongs to Rose Whitcomb. She’s the great-great-granddaughter of Rutherford Whitcomb, who made his fortune growing sugar cane. I only rent it from her.”
“I noticed all the paintings in the parlor. Do you dabble in collecting?” Annie asked. Now that she sat closer to him, she had a better opportunity to study his features. His salt-and-pepper hair made him resemble George Clooney in a way. And his hazel eyes flashed warmth and friendliness. It had been a long time since she’d last felt attraction tug at her. And now at the most inappropriate time, it surfaced in all its maddening glory.
“I’m a painter. Those are my originals you saw.”
“They’re amazing. Do you have any paintings displayed in galleries?”
Rafter laughed. “Not to my knowledge. I’ve sold a few pieces to private collectors, but less than the fingers on my hands.”
“That’s too bad. They deserve an audience.”
Rafter smiled. “I’m working on a mural at the moment. It’s over the staircase. That’s why I found you. I ran out of paint. And like a fool, I decided to brave the weather and go into town for supplies.”
“I’m glad you did,” Annie said quietly, dragging a hand through her caramel-colored hair.
“So am I.”
“I don’t suppose you have a laptop I can e-mail headquarters from? I need to check-in and report my partner’s demise.”
Rafter shook his head.
“I didn’t think so. How about a cell phone or landline phone?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Annie rolled her sapphire eyes. “Maybe the townspeople are right. You are a flake.”
“They’re distractions I choose to live without. At least this way I don’t have to deal with solicitors,” Rafter shot back.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, especially after all you’ve done for me,” Annie said, hating herself for being so coldhearted. “It’s just that I have to find a way to talk to my boss. Do you know if there’s a payphone in town?”
“There’s one by the post office. But I’m guessing all roads leading into town are impassable. Heavy rain has fallen on Iberville Parish for the past several hours. And more is expected.”
Annie buried her head in her hands. Her training at Quantico hadn’t prepared her for hurricanes and flash floods, nor for losing all communication. She was basically operating on her own without a safety net, a bad development for Gabby Witherspoon.
Above all else, she didn’t want Gabby to suffer the same mental anguish and physical trauma that Annie McAllister had at the hands of the Boudreauxs two decades ago. But reality suggested that if she couldn’t figure out a way to contact headquarters and marshal some human assets to help her search for Gabby, the past would surely repeat itself.
“I don’t know what to do,” Annie lamented into her hands.
“I’d like to help you, Annie. I know how crucial it is to find the little girl as quickly as possible. So whatever your need, count me in.”
“That’s very generous, Mr. Rafter. But I can’t let you do that. There’s too much danger involved.”
“The way I see it, Annie, you don’t have a choice. You can’t do this alone.”
Annie looked at Rafter. Like flaming torches, his sad eyes blazed with determination. And despite his ready smile and infectious charm, she sensed that tragedy scarred his soul. She could see the sadness in his eyes, and recognized the haunted look. She had the same one. “Why do I get the impression you won’t take no for an answer?”
Rafter nodded steadily. “I have a soft spot for little girls. And I know these parts as well as anyone. You need me, Miss Crawford.”
Annie thought over his offer. Frank Cooper’s warning about taking on the world all alone clanged in her head. “If we’re going to work together, I insist you follow my lead and do exactly as I say. Do you think you can manage that?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Good. Now, do you own any firearms? And more importantly, are you proficient with them?”
Rafter picked up her empty bowl and placed it in the sink. “I have several firearms. And I like to think I’m above average at hitting my targets.”
“Hopefully you won’t find reason to test your marksmanship.”
“You needn’t worry about me having an itchy trigger finger, Annie. The last thing I want to do is fire an errant shot that kills a little girl.”
Annie nodded and stood up. She waited for the dizziness to come, but it never did. The warm food had strengthened her. “I’m glad you feel that way. Things can get dicey real fast.”
“I take it we’re going into the Basin?”
Annie tugged absently at the draw cord on her sweat pants. “I’m sure that’s where the Boudreauxs are holed up.”
“The Basin covers an enormous land area. A random search could take days. Where exactly do you want to start looking?” Rafter asked.
Annie closed her eyes for an extended second. “I’ve heard that a fool will almost always repeat his folly.”
“You’re guessing the Boudreauxs will return to the shack where they held Annie McAllister hostage?”
“I am. But only if the shack still stands.”
“It still stood this spring.”
“Then you know how to get there?”
“I do. But you must understand, Annie. The shack is very isolated. It will take a good two hours to get there. And we can only reach it by boat.”
“Then we better leave soon.”
“I have a Beretta 92F and a Glock 17. Do you have a preference?” Rafter asked.
Annie nodded. “The Beretta. A Glock is so light it feels like I’m holding a plastic toy.”
Rafter shrugged. “I prefer a Glock, myself. But both are fine weapons. Give me five minutes and I’ll have you a Beretta. My gun vault is upstairs.”
She watched Rafter walk through the kitchen doorway. He seemed like a kindhearted man, but something about him didn’t add up. She couldn’t pinpoint what made her feel suspicious. A gut feeling, maybe. Whatever the source, something told her there was more to Jon Rafter than met the eye. No doubt about it, he’s hiding something.
Chapter 10
Atchafalaya Basin
Sebastian felt his life drain from his body. His gasping lungs hadn’t filtered oxygen in nearly two minutes, and his face shaded toward a cadaverous, bluish-gray.
Henri coiled both his powerful hands tightly around Sebastian’s throat, cutting off his air supply. As strong as he had become from lifting weights in prison, the brute strength flowing through Henri’s jumbo limbs dwarfed Sebastian’s. Pinned tightly against a wall, Sebastian’s feet dangled several inches off the floor and prevented him from generating any offsetting leverage. He couldn’t sever his uncle’s Herculean grip.
Sebastian looked desperately toward Jean-Paul, who watched the brutal assault from the kitchen table. Jean-Paul smiled absurdly, as if he approved the violence. The fool’s too daft to even know he’s witnessing a homicide.
Sebastian focused his blurry vision on Blaine, tapping away on his laptop, blissfully unaware his father was committing murder.
“You should know better than to hold out on me, Sebastian,” Henri roared, his face scarlet from rage and booze. “I know how your greedy little mind works. You were going to keep the cash for yourself.” Henri ratcheted up his grip a few more notches. “Now, tell me where the money is before I send you to hell with a broken windpipe!”
If he knew the hidden ransom’s location he would gladly blurt it out. At the moment he would do anything to extricate himself from his despotic uncle. But Sebastian still hadn’t deciphered his father’s poem. Worse, he couldn’t utter even a single syllable. Henri’s fleshy hands squeezed against his voice box. Only ineffective gasps for air and terror-filled whimpers escap
ed his lips.
If he could just reach the Browning resting on the counter a scant five feet from his twitching fingers, he’d fire its entire magazine into the inky catacombs of Henri’s deranged brain. Doesn’t he know I can’t speak?
Panic-stricken, Sebastian bucked wildly against the wall. But his movements only hastened his imminent departure from Earth. A black fog crept across his bulging eyes. Death hovered so close he could feel it enter his flesh. A burning sulfur pit in Hades undoubtedly awaited him.
Then a miracle happened. At the penultimate moment before he would have expired, Henri’s eyes fluttered and rolled backwards into his head. His pulverizing grip all at once loosened around Sebastian’s throat, and he toppled heavily to the floor. Sebastian had no choice but to follow suit. He sprawled awkwardly onto his uncle, his lungs filling instantly with beautiful, life-affirming oxygen.
He rolled off Henri’s inert body and sat groggily on the floor, sucking in oxygen so fast he nearly retched. Sebastian rubbed his neck, raw and sore from the attempted strangulation. Even now he could still feel Henri’s big hands garroting his airway.
Blaine looked up from his laptop. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be around when he wakes up. He’s never in a good mood when he awakens.”
“And I thought he’d reached his boiling point just now.”
“Far from it,” Blaine continued. “Daddy’s at his meanest when he’s suffering from a hangover.”
“As drunk as he is, maybe he won’t remember what happened.”
Blaine started typing again. “I wouldn’t count on it. He has an incredible memory that’s not always affected by liquor.”
“How long will he sleep?”
“It’s hard to say, really. But my guess is two or three hours.”
“Maybe you should tie him up while he’s sleeping, Sebastian,” Jean-Paul giggled. Unlike his uncle, alcohol made Jean-Paul a happy drunk.
Sebastian shook his head as he fished in a plastic sack for another water bottle. “Tying him up will only enrage him more.” Sebastian lifted the bottle to his mouth and guzzled the water. The water soothed his abraded throat as it trickled down. He ignored the high-pitched wails of Gabby Witherspoon crying in the bedroom and reflected on the crazy events of the past several hours.
His first day away from Angola was turning into a nightmare. He’d envisioned such great things for himself. A comfortable life with no limits. He never dreamed his life on the outside could nosedive so quickly. And odds remained good his misfortunes would continue.
Although they shared the same last name, they were a dysfunctional mess. Any outsider would determine right away that they were a fractious lot headed for a showdown. Henri already tried to usurp his leadership, and he likely would try again at the earliest opportunity.
I’m still alive. I’m still free. I have to build on that, Sebastian reasoned as he twisted the lid back onto his water bottle. He looked at Blaine. “It’s imperative we set up an observation post. We cannot take for granted that the authorities will wait for the weather to improve before beginning their search. Jean-Paul, why don’t you take the first watch?”
Jean-Paul looked at him incredulously. “You’re kidding, right? It’s not safe out there.”
“We’re not exactly safe in this flimsy shack, either,” Sebastian rebutted. “Take a length of rope with you and tie yourself to a stout tree. Blaine will take the second watch.”
“What am I supposed to be watching for?”
“Look for boats trolling through the Basin. In this weather there shouldn’t be one. So if you see one; call us immediately on one of the two-way radios. Also, be watchful for any Jet-skis. Our cousins might be joining us soon,” Sebastian said.
Jean-Paul pulled a rain poncho over his head and stomped over to a corner where the weapons were stashed. He picked up a Remington 700 rigged with a Leupold 6.5-20 scope and opened the door. A great blast of wind and rain whipped through the shack. Jean-Paul turned back around to face Sebastian. A frown darkened his rain-drenched face. “Is Henri right? Do you really know where the money is?”
Sebastian shook his head. “I’m clueless, Jean-Paul. I honestly don’t know where Henri got the idea I did.”
“Three-million dollars is a lot of money.”
“Yes, it is. But I wouldn’t spend much time thinking about it. You’ll only go mad. Besides, if Claude buried the ransom in the ground, it’s likely decomposed by now,” Sebastian said.
Jean-Paul nodded his head and stepped out the door into the raging tempest. After the door slammed shut behind him, Sebastian turned and looked down at the drunken behemoth stretched out on the floor.
“Blaine, you and I need to have a talk about your father,” Sebastian announced as he walked over to the counter and picked up the Browning. He pulled the slide back and chambered a round. “Henri’s boorish behavior is unacceptable and a detriment to our physical safety. I propose we confront him and impress upon him the importance of maintaining a civil atmosphere. After all, we are family. And families should stick together.”
Blaine snorted. “He’s far too hardheaded to listen to anything you might say.”
Sebastian sighed. “You’re probably right, Blaine. The only thing that resonates with Henri is violence.”
Blaine looked at the Browning side arm in Sebastian’s hand. “Are you going to kill him?”
Sebastian looked his cousin directly in the eyes. “If he attacks me again, I won’t hesitate.”
Chapter 11
Atchafalaya River
Regardless his rank, National Guard Captain Alex Stovall made it a habit to break a sweat alongside the grunts under his command. A mutual fund manager in his civilian life, Stovall believed sweat equity built camaraderie and loyalty in a platoon faster and better than anything else.
Captain Stovall worked atop a mounded flatbed trailer. Portable light towers covered him in hot illumination. The first link in a human chain, he unloaded forty-pound sandbags as fast as he could to a guardsman on the ground, who in turn passed the sandbag on to the next person in line.
Despite their efforts, the levee system wobbled toward collapse. Stovall also commanded two other platoons sandbagging farther down river. These reservists were led by Second Lieutenant Lincoln Cole, a former star linebacker for the Black Knights football team.
Together, he and Cole were responsible for preventing breaches in the levee at seven different trouble spots determined by the Army Corps of Engineers. In his mission briefing, Stovall learned that the Atchafalaya River drained water away from the Mississippi River. It had to be contained or every town situated near its banks risked inundation.
Once Stovall and Lieutenant Cole completed their tasks on the Atchafalaya, they would join other units sandbagging along the Mississippi River.
Like the swelling river they fought, the odds surged against them. They were grossly understaffed for such a monumental task. But Stovall didn’t plan on giving up, and if he knew his men as he thought he did, they wouldn’t either. They were a determined bunch, highly motivated by the dark waters rising fast and furiously.
Stovall maintained a breakneck tempo. He stooped and retrieved a sandbag and distributed it to the next guardsman in line with rhythmical alacrity. Each efficient exchange took less than three seconds. Stovall knew if he were to slow down even a little he’d bog down the whole operation.
Nonetheless, an improper lifting technique took its toll. A sharp pain knifed through his back with each twisting exertion. There just wasn’t enough time to bend at the knees. Everything depended upon speed, and Stovall didn’t let his discomfort show. If his men perceived him to be weakening, their resolve might crumble.
Stovall settled into a Zen-like trance. He cleansed extraneous clutter from his mind. He became numb to the pain, and numb to the rain slapping at his raincoat. He didn’t even notice the ancient trees toppling over as Hurricane Vera ripped through the Basin. About the only timbres registering in his ears were the grunts and curses
made by his soldiers.
Under the grimmest circumstances, Stovall’s part-time soldiers metamorphosed into a highly efficient unit, and his heart swelled at their progress. He considered it a privilege to partner with them. Their fortitude inspired him, and made him want to lead even more.
Although they didn’t have to contend with enemy sniper fire or roadside bombs like their brethren in Iraq and Afghanistan, they still found themselves directly in harm’s way. If the levee they labored on didn’t hold, they’d be swept away in an instant and likely drown in the raging cataracts that were once shallow and sluggish bayous.
Stovall also knew that three-fourths of his men had wives and children waiting for them at home, and this knowledge greatly burdened him. If he didn’t bring back each guardsman safely back to Ft. Polk, some child would lose their daddy. A sickening thought he would do anything to keep from becoming reality.
A form suddenly scrambled up to Stovall. The captain recognized Staff Sergeant Scott Blanchard. He held out the receiver of an AN/PRC-119 Single Channel Ground and Airborne Radio System (SINCGARS). The portable radio unit rested in a backpack worn by Staff Sgt. Blanchard. “Captain, its Lieutenant Cole. He and his men have shored up mile marker twelve. They’re awaiting your orders, sir.”
“How close are we to being done here, Sergeant?” Stovall asked as he hoisted another sandbag.
“Perhaps another ten minutes, sir.”
“Tell the lieutenant I said to move on to mile marker sixteen, and that we will soon leapfrog his unit to marker twenty.”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” Blanchard said. He quickly transmitted Stovall’s orders to First Lieutenant Cole, and then headed back to his spot in the chain gang.
Chapter 12
“This is suicide, Annie,” Rafter yelled at her.
Special Agent Crawford turned to face him from her position on the middle seat in Rafter’s pirogue--a small, flat-bottomed boat more commonly referred to as a johnboat. “What did you say?” she yelled back, her voice swallowed up by the whistling 100-mile-per-hour wind.