Peak Oil

by Arno Joubert

  “Portions of the snuff films were e-mailed, and we managed to trace the destination address to a certain individual.”

  Alexa rolled her eyes. Laiveaux had a manner of building up to the crux of a story, and he was stretching this out for effect. She clicked her fingers impatiently. “Yes, General?”

  “A gentleman called Anderson Fitch,” Laiveaux said, pausing for effect.

  Alexa stood up straight. “Andy Fitch, the Texan oil billionaire?”

  “Yes,” Laiveaux grunted. He continued in a disgusted tone. “We sent two Interpol agents to question Monsieur Fitch.”

  “Who?”

  “Voelkner and Latorre.”

  “Okay,” she said, smiling at two young women who waved at her. “What have they found?”

  “Well, they haven’t reported back yet. Their last communication was seventy-two hours ago,” Laiveaux said with an irritated tone. “And we’re starting to get edgy.”

  Alexa bit her lower lip. Voelkner and Latorre had been her fellow troops at the French Foreign Legion. They had saved her life more than once. “Where are they?”

  “The last time we heard from them, they were in Houston. They were on their way to a small town called Dabbort Creek, a hundred and fifty miles southeast of your current location.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t know. That was their last message.”

  Alexa turned around and marched back to the tent. “Very well, General. I’ll get Neil. We’re leaving now.”

  “Excellent, Captain. I’ll e-mail you the intel we have. I must admit, it’s sparse. We have an approximate address.” He hesitated for a second but then cleared his throat. She guessed he was worried about her safety. “Good day, my girl. Be careful.”

  “Au revoir, General.” She disconnected the call. The general’s tone told her more than his spoken words. She was starting to get worried now.

  Alexa made her way through the milling crowd toward a group of people gathered around Neil. They laughed and told stories, their hands waving and gesticulating in the air. Neil looked up at her. She jerked her head toward the exit, and he stood up and excused himself, following her outside.

  “What’s up?” he asked, slipping his arm around her waist.

  “Have you ever heard of a place called Dabbort Creek, Texas?”

  Neil thought for a moment. “As a matter of fact, I have. We passed through there when I was a kid.” He scratched his chin. “Didn’t have much going on. Why?”

  Alexa shrugged. “We’re going on a road trip,” she said and pulled him toward their caravan. “Courtesy of the French government.”

  Neil hummed to Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song” as they drove the scenic route into town. He squinted and peered ahead. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky, a hazy mirage shimmering on the tarmac ahead.

  After a few miles, the road started a gentle climb as they wound their way up the side of the foothill to the town above. When they caught up to a large tanker truck, Neil was forced to slow down.

  For the first time in his life, he felt happy, content with the hand he had been dealt. He glanced sideways at Alexa. She smiled, her green eyes sparkling, and put her hand on his leg. She seemed to understand him, what he was thinking when he looked at her in a certain way. Probably their military training or something else. Love, maybe? He grunted. He remembered loving someone a lifetime ago.

  A murky, brown river flowed gently to their left, halting the advance of a dense, green forest growing up to its edge. Neil slowed down even more, allowing the tanker truck to gain a hundred yards. He opened the window and inhaled deeply. He smelled the earthiness of the rich soil; a moldy waft of decomposing leaves blew in from the forest. The river started to recede into the distance below as they climbed higher.

  They crawled past an ornate sign on the side of the road that said, “Welcome to Dabbort Creek, population 685, Home of the Ocelot.” They followed the tanker truck into town.

  The village was nestled on the side of a wooded hill. The neat blacktop meandered past a police station to their left. They saw a diner and a bar farther up the road to their right. Various signs in front of shops and stores vied for their attention.

  Neil glanced at Alexa. “Alex, what’s an ocelot?”

  Alexa shrugged. “Let’s ask.” She pointed toward the bar, and Neil nosed into a parking space in front.

  Alexa and Neil entered the dimly lit barroom and stood still for a couple of seconds to allow their eyes to adjust to the light. The sound of Mac Wiseman skinning a cat emanated from a vintage jukebox in the corner. Four elderly men were playing cards in a corner booth, talking softly under their breaths as they flipped the cards on the table. They stopped their game to eyeball the newcomers.

  A cowboy sat on a stool at the bar, his Stetson pulled low over his brow. Ice rattled as a burly barman filled a bucket from the ice machine.

  The barman shifted his attention to them as they sauntered to the counter. He stooped forward and planted his hands flat down on the counter. The man wore a denim jacket with the sleeves torn off at the shoulders, and his triceps bulged impressively.

  “What can I do you for?” he asked with a gravelly voice. His eyes lingered on Alexa's chest for a moment before he dragged them away and looked up at Neil. The old-timers continued with their game in a hushed tone. Neil ordered two Sols and sat down at the bar. The barman wiped two glasses dry, placed them in front of Neil, poured the beers, and pushed a bowl of peanuts toward them.

  “What’s an ocelot?” Neil asked him.

  The question drew a smile from the barman. One of the card players sniggered.

  The barman scratched a bearded chin. “It used to be some wild cat folks would find in these parts. But they were wiped out years ago.” He twirled the side of his long, handlebar mustache between a thumb and forefinger. “They used to be a tourist attraction.”

  Neil tossed a handful of peanuts in his mouth, chewed noisily, and chased them with a chug of beer.

  Alexa turned around and examined the room, noticing a couple of pool tables at the far end. “You see two French guys come in here a couple of days ago?” Alexa asked the barman.

  The hushed conversation stopped.

  The barman shrugged. “Nope.”

  Alexa considered his answer with her head cocked to the side. “You sure?”

  “Yep,” the barman answered and refilled the cowboy’s glass with bourbon. The man grunted a thanks.

  “Can we play?” Neil asked, jerking his head toward the pool tables.

  “Knock yourself out,” the barman answered and stooped below the counter. He placed a white ball and chalk on the counter. “Five dollar deposit, includes the first hour. Two dollars an hour after.”

  Neil placed a fifty dollar bill on the counter and picked up the ball and chalk. “Run a tab until it’s done.”

  The barman nodded, picked up a glass, and started wiping it dry.

  They carried their beers to the pool tables. Neil switched on an overhead light suspended from the ceiling above one of the tables and started packing the balls.

  Alexa broke, shattering the cluster of balls and sinking a stripe in the corner pocket. She lined up her next shot, glancing up at Neil. “I went through the intel Laiveaux sent me.”

  She positioned herself, leaning over her cue, one eye squeezed shut as she took aim, and sank the yellow in a side pocket. She stood up and rubbed some chalk over the tip of the cue and blew the excess away. “Metcalfe sent an e-mail to Fitch with a downloadable link to a snuff film. Fitch, or whoever was monitoring the mail account, downloaded the movie a couple of days ago.”

  She lined up another shot, and the white cracked into the side of orange, bouncing it off the side of the table and sinking it into a side pocket.

  Neil sighed.

  She took a long shot at blue and pocketed it in the corner pocket. She looked up with a smile and saw Neil grimace. “How do we know that it was Fitch who downloaded the movies?”

&nbs
p; Alexa shrugged as she considered her next shot. “We don’t. But the mail was addressed to him. It’s the only solid lead we have to go on.” She took a sip of beer. “Frydman traced the location of the computer to approximately thirty miles east of town. The IP address points to Refatex, Fitch’s refinery.”

  Alexa proceeded to clear the table. She was about to break for the second game when the bar door crashed open. The silhouette of a large man blocked the blinding outdoor light.

  The guy entered the bar, and a second man followed him inside. They wore leather biker clothes with long ZZ Top beards. They walked up to the barman, and a seemingly urgent conversation ensued. Alexa observed them casually, leaning on her cue as the barman nodded his head toward the pool tables. The two men looked up and strode purposefully toward them.

  Alexa leaned forward to take her shot.

  “Nice ass,” one of the guys said and slapped it.

  Alexa closed her eyes and sighed, and then she stood up and faced the two men. She cocked her head toward the guy who had slapped her and grinned, blinking twice. “Ugly nose.”

  He frowned, about to reply, when Alexa’s shoulder snapped forward, and she rammed the palm of her hand into his nose. He fell to the floor in a convulsing heap, blood gushing through his fingers.

  “See, ugly nose,” she said to the man on the ground and turned around to complete her shot. He looked up at her through teary eyes, blood dripping from his broken nose.

  The other guy looked at Neil in bewilderment. He took a step toward Alexa. “Why, you . . . you little—”

  “Oy,” Neil called. The biker slowly shifted his gaze from Alexa to Neil. Neil drained his beer and put the glass down firmly on the table. “Give the lady a chance to finish her shot first.”

  The man stared at Neil blankly.

  Alexa broke the balls and sank one into the corner pocket. She glanced up at Neil accusingly. “What, no help?”

  He smiled and shrugged. “You started it.”

  She scowled. “I did not.” She pointed at the guy on the floor with her cue. “He slapped me first.”

  “All right, then. Your ass started it,” Neil said with a chuckle. “It is handsome, by the way.”

  Alexa sauntered up to him and punched his shoulder. “Screw you.”

  “Hey. I’m still here,” the second biker said. His friend was trying to pull himself upright against the man’s leg. The biker pushed him away. “Just wait,” he said with an irritated tone.

  “Oh, sorry,” Alexa said and walked toward him, the cue slung over her shoulder. She stood in front of him, her chin jutted out and her arm hanging by her side. “How may I help?”

  The man shifted his weight uncomfortably from one leg to the next. He glanced at her and then back over his shoulder to the barman, who was busy on the phone.

  “Um, I hear you’re snoopin’ around, askin’ funny questions,” he said as he thrust his face close to Alexa's, their noses almost touching. “What do you want, bitch?”

  Alexa jabbed a finger in front of his face. “That’s no way to talk to a lady.” She threw an accusing glance at Neil. “Are you going to allow this piece of snake shit to talk to me like this?”

  Neil just shrugged.

  The biker shoved her chest. “What’d you just call me?”

  Alexa growled. “Touch me one more time and you’ll be leaving here in a body bag.”

  The card players stood up, mumbling, and shuffled toward the door.

  “Oh yeah? You and which army, bitch?” he said and shoved her again.

  She looked back at Neil, who was leaning against the pool table, obviously enjoying the show. She pointed at him, holding the cue to her side. “You’re next.”

  Neil shrugged.

  Alexa flicked the weighted bottom of the cue upward and caught the man flush in the balls. He crouched, clutching the family jewels. She grabbed his beard and ripped his head toward the floor. She jerked a knee up, connecting solidly with his nose. She looked down at the second man writhing on the floor and then pointed at them with the cue. “Now you two look like twins.”

  She swung the pool cue over her shoulder and sauntered toward Neil. He held his hands up in a defensive posture.

  The card players opened the door, and sunlight flooded in. Neil heard the familiar wail of a police siren outside. The car screeched to a halt in front of the bar, and car doors opened and slammed shut. A cop ran in, scanning the room, gripping a gun with both hands. The barman pointed toward them, and the cop nodded and marched toward the pool tables.

  “Now, who is the troublemaker?” he bellowed.

  The two men on the floor pointed at Alexa.

  The cop marched up to Alexa, removing his cuffs from a buckle on his belt. He started reciting Alexa her Miranda rights. A female cop kept a close eye on them from a distance, her gun pointed to the ground.

  Neil walked in between Alexa and the cop. “Officer, you’re taking this too far.” He nodded at the two men on the floor. “These rednecks harassed my girlfriend.”

  The cop glanced at Neil and then at the men on the ground. His name badge said “Morris.” He grinned at Neil. “Yeah, sure looks like it.”

  Neil grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled the cuffs from his hand.

  The female cop pulled a Taser from her holster and pointed it at Neil. “Do not make me use this . . .”

  Neil glanced over his shoulder. “Try.”

  Alexa gently pushed Neil aside. “Let it go, baby.” She held her hands in front of her. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Neil pursed his lips but did nothing. He slapped the cuffs into Morris’s open palm and then snorted in disdain.

  They cuffed Alexa, and the female officer led her outside.

  Neil followed the patrol car to the station. He steered to a curb beneath a shady oak and cut the engine.

  He saw a well-maintained, white two-story with wide glass doors that slid open as people entered or exited. A large shield had been sandblasted onto the doors. The letters “DCPD” were written on a ribbon that flowed over the center of the escutcheon. “To Protect” was written at the top, “And Serve” at the bottom.

  Neil studied the terrain. Manicured lawns surrounded the building and extended all the way to the back for as far as he could see. Squirrels played in the sheltered branches of shady trees. In the middle of the circular driveway in front of the building stood a bronze statue of a large cat. Water burbled from its mouth, cascading into a small pond below.

  The two cops climbed out of the patrol car. The female officer walked to the back and opened the door, motioning to Alexa to climb out. Officer Morris stood guard at the entrance to the building, a thumb hooked into his belt, the other hand on his holster. Alexa climbed out uncomfortably, her hands cuffed in front of her. The female officer held her by her elbow and steered her toward the door.

  Neil climbed out of the car and cupped his hand in front of his eyes to look up the shimmering road. The early morning sun beat down relentlessly, and he could feel his T-shirt sticking to his back.

  He ambled toward the statue. A black plaque was tacked to the white concrete pedestal on which the cat was standing. He leaned closer and squinted, trying to decipher the writing on the dull surface.

  It described the color, build, and weight of an ocelot, as well as its habitat and the fact that they were rarely seen in the area anymore. The cat’s balls had been rubbed to a golden sheen by thousands of tourists. He leaned over and rubbed them as well. He made a wish, shrugged, and walked toward the sliding doors.

  The doors opened as he came closer, and they sucked closed behind him. He was hit by a blast of cold air as he walked inside. Alexa was being processed by one of the officers at a counter. “Do you have any weapons?” the man asked without looking up.

  Neil stood closer.

  Alexa shrugged, removed the Glock from her shoulder holster, slipped out the mag, and slapped it down on the table. She held up the gun. “You mean like this?”

  T
he man looked up and his eyes widened. He nodded.

  She placed the gun next to the magazine. She slipped a boot knife from the holster on her calf and slapped that down on the table as well. “Or something like this?”

  She fished around in her leather jacket’s inside pockets and removed a pair of knuckle dusters, and then she slipped the hunting knife from its sheath at the back of her belt and slapped them both down purposefully on the table as well.

  The man swallowed. “Shit, lady, you a hired killer or something?”

  Alexa smiled sweetly.

  “Anything else?”

  Alexa cocked her head to the side and then held up a hand in the air. “Merde, I almost forgot.” She fumbled in the side pocket of her jacket and pulled out a Sig Sauer P238. She dangled the small pistol in front of the man, holding it by the grip between her thumb and forefinger. “Does this qualify?”

  Neil smiled as the cop’s lower lip started trembling. “Is that all?”

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  He ducked behind the counter and pulled out what looked like a metal briefcase. He fiddled with a lock and opened it. “Put it in there.”

  The cop watched in awe as Alexa carefully packed her weapons inside the padded box. The cop led her to the side of the counter, took her fingerprints, and gave her a whiteboard to hold up in front of her chest. He scribbled her name, the date, and the time on the front with a black felt-tip pen. She was instructed to hold it beneath her chin, and he positioned a camera in front of her. Alexa winked and pouted her lips as the flash went off. “Don’t do that,” the cop ordered.

  Neil took a chair in the waiting area as the formalities concluded. Alexa was requested to turn sideways for a profile picture.

  The policeman gave her a transparent plastic bag to put the rest of her belongings into and scribbled something on the side. He clipped the bag, a sheet of green cardboard paper with the fingerprints, and some paperwork to a board and shoved it inside a drawer. He picked up the metal briefcase, walked around the counter, and took Alexa by her arm, leading her to a door behind the counter.