The Storm

by Blake Banner

  THE STORM

  Copyright © 2018 by Blake Banner

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  TWENTY FOUR

  TWENTY FIVE

  TWENTY SIX

  TWENTY SEVEN

  TWENTY EIGHT

  TWENTY NINE

  THIRTY

  EPILOGUE

  ALSO BY BLAKE BANNER

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  One

  Hurricane Sarah was heading for New Orleans. It was the only interesting thing the news had told me since early October; since my meeting with Omega in Washington, since that last cryptic message from Marni, asking why the hell I hadn’t followed her from Tucson to Washington[]. Since then, for almost two months, she’d fallen off the radar. There had been no clue, no message, no contact at all about where she was or what she was doing. I’d promised my father on his deathbed that I would look after her and protect her from Omega, but so far she had made that almost impossible.

  And then there was the hurricane.

  It was the largest and most violent in recorded history—almost a thousand miles in diameter—with winds reaching 230 MPH, surging in off the Atlantic and headed for New Orleans. And it was out of season, striking in late November, which was practically unheard of. Hurricane season was August and September.

  Omega’s purpose was to exploit climate change and overpopulation, in order to consolidate their global, political power. Marni’s self-imposed mission was to expose Omega and bring them down. That was why she had murdered my father, that was why the Biosphere Projects had drawn her to Tucson. So maybe, just maybe, hurricane Sarah might draw her to New Orleans. It was a long shot, but it was the only shot I had right then.

  So I’d called Kenny, the butler I had inherited from my father, and had him send the Zombie 222, my converted ’68 Mustang, down from Weston to DC, with a kit bag in the trunk. It was sixteen hours to the Big Easy, following the I-81 and then the I-59 from Chattanooga. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when I got there. I had a few ideas—contact the Coastal Protection and Restoration Authority (CPRA), check out the university’s Climatology and Earth Sciences departments, see if she had been in touch with them or any of their professors. That was the sort of direction my mind was taking. But that was before I reached Laurel, Mississipi. At Laurel, everything changed.

  I had stopped at the Exxon service station at exit thirty-five, just south of the town. It was eight AM and I’d sat by the window with a large coffee and a couple of donuts. The sun had been up for an hour and a half, but outside, the sky was heavy with dark gray clouds, and the tall pines across the road were bowing and tossing in a wind that wanted to get rough.

  Whoever had been at that table before me had come from Louisiana. There was a copy of the Baton Rouge Advocate on the table. So after I’d got bored of watching the bowing pines and the random drops of desultory rain splat on the window, I pulled over the paper and turned to the front page. And that was when everything changed.

  It changed because I was staring at the face of my friend and comrade in arms, Bat Hays.

  I was nineteen when my parents divorced and, to get away from my father, whom I hated with a passion, I had joined the British SAS. For ten years, that had been my life. I had left, a couple of years back, aged thirty, with the rank of captain and a handful of friends who were more than brothers; men who would give their lives for me, and I for them. Bat Hays was one. Now he was staring at me from the front page of the Advocate with his hands cuffed behind his back.

  His black, obstinate, proud face stared at the crowd as he was led by cops to a patrol car. Nobody would see the fear he felt. Nobody but me. This guy who had faced death a hundred times and laughed at it with his Cockney humor, would be completely lost and helpless in the jaws of the relentless system of the law.

  The headline said:

  MAN ARRESTED IN SARAH CARMICHAEL MURDER

  I read on. “Bartholomew Hays, 30, originally from London, England, was arrested yesterday and charged with the murder of Sarah Carmichael, of Burgundy, in the parish of West Feliciana. Mrs. Carmichael was found shot to death in her bed by her husband, real estate magnate Charles Carmichael, on the night of Friday, 3rd November, shortly before midnight.

  “The Killer fled after he was disturbed by Carmichael on his return from dining at a restaurant. Shots were exchanged but the killer escaped through a window into the woods…”

  I stepped out into the drizzle, under the lowering sky, and climbed into the Zombie. I hit the ignition and the powerful, dual electric engines kicked in. There was no roar, no thunder, no sound at all. This machine delivers eight hundred bhp, one thousand eight-hundred foot-pounds of torque straight to the back wheels, and will go 0-60 in just over one and a half seconds. But she is totally silent.

  I lit a Camel, pulled quietly out of the lot, and took the 84 west as far as Natchez. It was one hundred and thirty miles, and I did it in just over an hour. At Natchez, I took Route 61 south, through Burgundy and Hardwood, to St Francisville, where the Parish Jail was. All the way, the sky loomed, darkening and lead-heavy over the green woodlands, and the wind tossed and twisted the trees.

  I found the Clerk of Court, an elegant 18th century red brick building with a pretty dome, on Prosperity Street. I was directed to the bail office, paid Hayes’ three thousand five-hundred bail in cash, and headed back up Myrtle Hill Drive to the parish jail. It wasn’t hard to find, though it didn’t look much like a jail. It looked more like a golf club, set among green lawns and attractive, modern buildings. I figured it was part of the enlightened movement to ensure that criminals did not feel like social outcasts. I could think of several cheaper ways of achieving the same end, but then, I’m a social outcast.

  I left the Zombie out front. The tropical, humid heat made it feel like late August or September, and in the time it took to cross the parking lot, I already had damp patches on my sh
irt. I pushed through the big glass doors into what looked like a hotel reception and told the guy on the desk who I was and why I was there. He made the call and twenty minutes later Bat, six foot two of solid muscle with an army kit bag over his shoulder, was brought out. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me.

  “What the fuck…?”

  “Hello Bat, what have you been up to?”

  “What the fuck…? How the fuckin’…? Where the… Fuck…!”

  I smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. If he’d been a fellow American, we would have embraced, but Brits don’t do that. We grinned and shook hands and that was enough. It was good to see a friend.

  “I see your vocabulary hasn’t improved.”

  He laughed. “Am I glad to see you, sir! Everyone ’round here’s gone stark fucking bonkers. How did you know…?”

  “Come on, I’ll explain in the car.”

  We stepped outside. The humidity had turned into a warm drizzle that dried as soon as it landed. We crossed to the car, climbed in, and slammed the doors, closing out the ominous presence of the weather. I fired up the engines and, as we pulled away, I asked him, “You got a pad?”

  “Yeah, mate. I got a nice little place on Congress Street. Up in Burgundy. Nice fuckin’ ride! Why don’t it make no noise, though?”

  I raised an eyebrow at him as we slipped silently onto Route 61 and headed north toward the small town of Burgundy. I tossed him my pack of Camels and handed him my Zippo. He took them both gratefully and as he lit up, I said, “You have some explaining to do, pal.”

  He inhaled deep and blew smoke at the ceiling, then lay back and closed his eyes.

  “You ain’t fuckin’ joking, Captain. But I need somebody to explain it to me first.”

  “I know the answer, Bat, but I have to ask, you understand that, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you kill her?”

  “You know me, Cap. I couldn’t. Not a woman. Besides, I’m done with all that.”

  “All what?”

  “Violence, killin’. Done it. Done it with the best. Got the fuckin’ T-shirt. Don’t want it no more. I want to do something else with me life. Know what I mean?”

  “I know what you mean. Why didn’t you call me?”

  He looked reproachful. “Where? You fuckin’ disappeared, didn’t you?—sir! Nobody knew where you’d gone. Sarge said you’d gone to Wyoming, but nobody was sure. He didn’t know where in fuckin’ Wyoming. Wyoming’s a big fuckin’ place. It’s like a country!”

  “Bradley? The Kiwi?”

  He grinned. “Yeah, old fucker. He’s still with the Regiment. He’ll never quit. They won’t let him.” He was quiet for a bit, thinking. “How’d you know I was here?”

  “I didn’t. I was headed for New Orleans. I saw your picture in the paper. You’re famous.”

  “Infamous, more like.”

  “Who was Sarah Carmichael?”

  “Wife of the local big wig. Got a reputation for being some kind of angel, concerned about the environment, helped the poor, good works. You know the kind of thing. Hubby’s a land developer. Got a big mansion in the woods outside Burgundy.”

  “You knew her?”

  He shrugged and I knew he was going to lie to me. “She came into the club a few times.”

  “Club?”

  “I work as a bouncer at a local club, sir…”

  “We’re not in the Regiment anymore, Bat. Call me Lacklan.”

  “I’ll try. Anyway, I work as a bouncer at the Blue Lagoon, in Burgundy. They have live jazz. I play the trumpet sometimes…”

  “Yeah, I remember. You were good. So…?”

  “She’d come in some nights, have a drink, listen to the music.”

  “With her husband?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But not always?”

  He sighed, noisily. “Yeah. Not always.”

  “So you talk to her?”

  “Look, Cap, I know what you’re drivin’ at. But she was just an independent woman, who liked jazz, and would go out sometimes of an evening, sometimes in company, sometimes alone. People talk. Especially in a small, religious community like this. But she was sophisticated, intelligent. She liked the music and sometimes she’d come alone. And she’d always leave alone. No big deal.”

  I nodded. “OK, Bat. I’m going to get you an attorney. We’ll get you off these charges.”

  “I can’t afford it, sir.”

  “I can. We’ll think of a way for you to pay me back. The money isn’t a problem. Saving your ass is.”

  He nodded. “Thanks.”

  I gave it a moment, and as we approached Burgundy, I said, “You don’t have to tell me everything, at least not yet. But when your attorney gets here, you’ll have to tell him everything, in detail, warts and all. You understand me? Because if you don’t, whatever lies you tell, will trip you up and bite you in the ass down the line. And after that, I’ll beat seven bails of shit out of you.” I looked him in the eye. His eyes were hard and stubborn. “They still have the death penalty here, you know that, right?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “And a black Brit killing a white American woman? That’s not good. Be smart. Not for me, for you.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Burgundy was one of the old towns. The streets in the outskirts were broad and leafy. The houses were Creole, one and two story clapboard, painted in many colors, red, white, blue, mauve, and green—often on a single house. There were broad gardens and a superabundance of trees. Downtown the streets were narrower, and the houses were interspersed with larger, stone buildings with wrought iron balconies and tall green and blue shutters in the French style. As we moved through the town, the bright colors, the buildings, and the narrow streets with their carnival flavor of mardi gras were strangely at odds with the dull weight of the clouds and the damp, claustrophobic heat.

  I found Congress Street and he pointed me to a bright green, one-story house with a gable roof. “That’s us, sir.”

  “You got a hotel near here?”

  He frowned. “You can stay with me, Cap.”

  I pulled up outside his door and shook my head. “As far as Carmichael, local law enforcement, the courts, and Burgundy are concerned, I am just your commanding officer. I’m concerned for you and, above all, for the reputation of the Regiment. Drop your kit bag, we’ll find a hotel, have some lunch, and then you tell me what happened.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, got it.”

  I watched him go inside through the windshield. He was one of the most dangerous men I had ever met, but right then, he looked oddly vulnerable. I looked up at the blackening sky. Under that sky, the whole world looked vulnerable.

  Two

  The Hotel Soniat was a couple of streets away on Chartres Avenue. It was an old, colonial building constructed around a central patio with a fountain in the middle, four orange trees and galleried landings on the second and third floors, where the rooms were. A guy on reception with a pencil moustache, a film of sweat on his forehead, and heavy glasses told me his name was Luis and the dining room was open. We followed his directions through an arch and into a second patio, where the walls were covered in jasmine and there were geraniums growing out of artfully broken pots.

  The place was empty and a bored-looking waiter greeted us with ill-concealed surprise. He showed us to a table under a creaking, hundred-year-old ceiling fan. They had air conditioning, but with an empty hotel and an equally empty restaurant, they were not about to turn it on.

  “The storm is coming,” he said. “They never come this far inland, but the media…” He shrugged, like the name said it all. “The town is almost deserted. We’re all hoping it will turn north and blow itself out over the Atlantic, but it ain’t looking good. Some people are evacuating already.”

  We ordered a couple of martinis and a couple of steaks and he went away to get them. I watched Bat while he studied the dining room in minute detail. Suddenly, he said, “That storm’s something
, ain’t it? They say it’s the biggest in recorded history.”

  I gave him a moment. He continued his minute study of the walls. Finally, I sighed loudly.

  “Quit stalling, Bat. What happened?”

  He puffed out his cheeks and blew, balled his fists on the tablecloth and stared down at them.

  “I don’t know, sir, Lacklan, mate.” He looked at me with wide eyes and shrugged. “Cross my fuckin’ heart and hope to die.”

  “What? You don’t trust me?”

  “Don’t talk stupid. Sir. Of course I trust you. I’m just…” He spread his hands. “One minute I was workin’ at the club, minding me own business, and the next minute, Detective fuckin’ Jackson of the Burgundy fuckin’ Police Department is arresting me for the murder of Sarah…” He hesitated fractionally and added, “Carmichael.”

  I watched at him for a moment, trying to read his face. Meanwhile, he studied his hands and sucked his teeth.

  “You know what, Bat? I’m getting mad. I have serious business to attend to in New Orleans. I came here, like you would have come for me, like any of us would. But now I’m here and you’re stonewalling me. I should tell you to go fuck yourself, and leave.”

  He frowned a small frown and flattened out his hands, like looking at the back of them might give him a different perspective. After a moment, he said, “It was Friday, 10th of November, a week after she was killed. Detective Jackson come ’round to my gaff, hammering on the door, wanting to talk to me. I let him in and offered him a cup of tea, like you do, and he starts askin’ me questions about Sarah Carmichael. Did I know her? Where from? How well did I know her? Did I know her husband? All that kind of stuff. Had I seen her hangin’ out with anyone? Anyone comin’ on to her or getting aggressive with her?

  “I told him what I told you. I worked at the club. She come in sometimes to listen to the music. I knew her to say hello, never saw nothing special, no more than that. He asks if he can take my prints. I had nothing to hide so I says yeah, and he takes my prints with a mobile scanner. After that, he buggers off, and I thought that was the last of it. To be honest, Cap, I thought it was just routine stuff. I’d expected it after I heard she’d been murdered.