by Rick Reed
Jack watched Liddell put away ten Krystal burgers and two large orders of fries and talk to Marcie at the same time. When Liddell was through talking, he handed the phone to Jack, saying, “Katie wants to talk to you.”
Jack pushed his unfinished Krystal Burgers, fries, and milkshake across to Liddell and talked to Katie. He made a cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die promise to call in the morning, told her he loved her, and hung up.
* * *
Jack and Liddell sat in the Crown Vic outside Krystal’s and talked.
“I’m not sure why Bitty called,” Liddell said. “She didn’t seem to want to talk about it on the phone. She asked if I had some vacation time coming. I called last night and this morning but she never answered. I should have known something was wrong.” He looked over at Jack. “Maybe if—“
Jack interrupted him. “Maybe what? You couldn’t have known. There’s nothing you could have done, Bigfoot. Did she sound worried?”
“Yeah. She did a little. But she didn’t sound scared. Of course, Bitty wasn’t scared of much. I wish she had talked to me.”
Jack started the engine and turned on the air-conditioning.
“She was mutilated. No one should die like that.” Liddell took a deep breath, and his jaw clenched. “Troup is keeping everything from me. Chief Whiteside isn’t treating me like I’m a suspect, but she wouldn’t tell me anything either. I don’t know what the hell is going on. If Troup wantd to frame me for this, he’s had the whole day to plant evidence.”
“What do you want to do?” Jack asked, but he knew the answer.
“I’ve been warned twice now not to interfere. By the Police Chief and now Troup. But to be fair, if we were back in Evansville they wouldn’t want me sticking my nose in either.”
Jack didn’t tell him what Captain Franklin had said. “You didn’t answer my question, Bigfoot.”
“You should go back to Evansville, pod’na. You don’t need this kind of trouble,” Liddell said.
Jack ignored him and asked, “So what’s our next move?”
Liddell said, “My brother says Evie hasn’t been home for a couple of days. I told you I have a niece, right?”
“How old is she?” Jack asked.
“Evie’s fourteen. And before you ask, she isn’t the type of kid to give her dad any problems. He’s worried, and frankly I am too. When I saw Bitty this morning, I was going to ask her if she would have her friend help find Evie. Bitty’s friend, her ex-life partner I should say, is the Missing Persons detective for the Sheriff’s Department.”
“Well, I guess we should stick around and ask some questions. We need to find your niece, Evie. Right?”
“Thanks for sticking with me, pod’na.”
“Where else am I going to go? The Captain sent me to get you. He didn’t say bring you back against your will.”
“We’ll have to avoid Troup. He’s likely to find a charge to put on me. On us. But I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers,” Liddell said.
“Me neither,” Jack said.
Chapter Ten
Papa sat in his office at the mansion and looked at the built-in bookcase that lined one wall. It was filled with hundreds of leather-bound books, some rare and valuable. He had read none of them, but they had given him enjoyment and a sense of accomplishment that he could own such things. They gave him little enjoyment now.
He had been assured the Indiana cop’s arrest was an open-and-shut deal, but things had gotten even more screwed up than they were. He had no choice but to call the investors, and they were more than just unhappy. If he had to close this operation down, a lot of money would be lost by a lot of people. Plus he had two dozen workers who would have to be silenced. It would be—messy. To say the least.
And there was the possible involvement of the federal authorities. He didn’t know how much the woman had told the detective from Indiana. And he didn’t know how much that one had told his brother. The brother was already looking for his daughter. It was a matter of time before he came there looking for her. And now another detective was in town. It was the perfect operation. And it was unraveling. He knew he should just disappear. But the money . . .
* * *
Ten miles south of Grand Isle, Louisiana, in the mouth of Bari-taria Bay, a 117-foot yacht flying the Cayman Islands flag was anchored, and a smaller craft sped away into the darkness. The U.S. Coast Guard randomly patrolled these waters looking for drug runners, weapons dealers, and human traffickers, among other things. The men on the small craft were prepared. They each had Florida driver’s licenses and various credit cards and Louisiana fishing licenses to support the story they were on vacation. Additionally, they had two cabins reserved at Bayside Marina Resort on Grand Isle. Two Suburbans had been rented and were waiting for them at the Marina should a trip to Plaquemine become necessary.
* * *
The concrete room was no more than four walls, a low ceiling, and floor. Air was piped in and circulated by two ceiling vents with metal bars set into the concrete. Evie knew it was hot outside, but down here the air was always cool.
A stainless-steel toilet/sink combination was bolted to the floor in one corner. Eight small pallets were arranged on the floor. Each was covered with a thin foam mattress and blanket, and on each was a sleeping child. Four young girls had occupied the room when she was brought to this room three days ago. An armed man had taken three of the girls out over the last two days. They didn’t come back. Yesterday another girl and two very young boys—the oldest boy was eleven—replaced the missing girls. It was always the same man who came for them, and she’d heard another man in the hall outside the door call him Luke. Luke, the man she had come to think of as “the warden,” was short and stocky and old. He had to be at least forty, and he never spoke to them.
Twice a day they would be rounded up by other men and taken to a room with steel picnic tables and a kitchen. On their march down the long hallways, the overhead lights would come on in front of them and go off behind them. She couldn’t complain about the food because the tables would be loaded with piles of bacon and sausages, trays of homemade bread and blackberry jam, and pitchers of orange juice and milk.
After breakfast, they were made to clean the dishes and wash the tables. When they were done, several other armed men—different men—took each of them to do chores.
This morning she had been taken down a hallway to a room where she saw blood on the floor and walls. A piece of rope was hanging from a chair that set in a puddle of blood. She was given a bucket of water and rags and a black plastic garbage bag. She had picked up bullet casings, and the room smelled like burnt gunpowder. She knew what that smelled like because her father had taught her to shoot, and it smelled like that.
She had cleaned up the blood, put the bloody rags and rope fragments into a black plastic garbage bag, and taken it into the hallway, where she was ordered to clean up more blood. Bile had risen in her throat, but her guard told her if she threw up he would beat her.
That had been a long time ago, and she had just picked at the food on her plate when they were taken for the second meal of the day. She heard footsteps and laughing outside in the hall. She stared at the door and prepared herself. She would be taken soon. It was her turn. But the noise faded and all she heard was the sobbing of the little ones.
She lay back on the lumpy foam mattress, hands under her head, staring up into the dark, and thought about last night. The woman who opened their door last night was bloody and naked, but she’d promised to come back with help. She hadn’t come back. Evie wondered if the blood and bits of scalp she’d cleaned up this morning were from the woman.
She closed her eyes, and tried to imagine that above her were the constellations, and she could see a shooting star streak across the horizon. At night, at home, she would climb out her window onto the roof and lay just like this. She knew all the stars and constellations and would wonder if people lived on them. There had to be some life out there. Had to. Otherwise
the world was just one big cosmic joke. She wished she were at home, on the roof, looking at the real stars right now.
But like her father would say, “If wishes was fishes, none of us would starve.” He had a saying for everything. Sometimes she didn’t understand his point, but she did now. Wishing wasn’t going to get the job done. The woman was gone or dead. Help wasn’t going to come. If there was any chance for her to be saved, her father would have already found her. But how could he find her when she herself didn’t know where she was?
He would watch the stars with her sometimes. That’s where she’d learned all that stuff. And she would ask him if her momma was up there among the stars. He would always say, “It’s just you and me, Evie. And that’s enough for me, kid.” He would put his arm around her shoulders and hug her close and kiss the top of her head.
“Oh, Daddy. What have I done? I’m so, so sorry. Please come and get me.” Tears wet her cheeks, and she lay on her side and hugged herself until she slept.
Chapter Eleven
When Jack awakened the next morning he’d been dreaming about Katie and his father, Jake Murphy. In the dream Jake was happy that Jack and Katie were back together, but he was trying to tell Jack something important. Like most dreams, after you wake, the feeling was still there, but the words and meaning drifted off into tendrils of nothingness. Maybe his dad was trying to tell him not to mess up his chance with Katie. Maybe he was telling him where the family gold was hidden. Who knew?
Landry had let Jack sleep in Evie’s room, and because he had left Evansville with literally the clothes on his back, he hadn’t brought a shaving kit. He used the hand soap by the sink to shower with. It was either that or herbal body wash that smelled like lemonade. The body wash promised luxurious soft skin all day long, but he didn’t want to smell like lemonade. There was a toothbrush and toothpaste in a glass. He used some of the toothpaste and brushed his teeth with his finger, rinsed, spat, and made sure the sink bowl was clean.
He dressed in the clean clothes Landry had loaned him. The khaki work pants and khaki button-up shirt didn’t go with his burgundy loafers, but he was grateful that they fit at all. Landry wasn’t as big as Liddell. He made a mental note to buy a pair of jeans, boxers, and a couple of shirts if the case kept them here very long.
He hadn’t been able to sleep. He was that way when he drove long distances. With the death of Liddell’s friend and the niece missing, he would need to get his head on straight. He’d never met any of these folks, and as this was his first time in Louisiana, he had a lot of catching up to do.
With a murder, you start outside the scene and work your way in to the body. Asking questions like, “What’s the neighborhood like, where was the body found, how could it have gotten there, what is around here, where are windows, people, cars, surveillance cameras, postmen, newspapers, dogs?” Everyone and everything were potential witnesses or held some scrap of evidence. Not so with a missing-person case.
With a missing-person case, you went to the last place the person was seen: their room, their house, their neighbors, their friends, their work, school, haunts, hangouts. You worked the case outward to get a picture of the missing person’s routine, their life and likes and dislikes and tastes, and maybe from there, who they were targeted by.
Last night Landry had told him about Evie. Landry was a little rough around the edges compared to Bigfoot, but he was a good guy, and it was obvious that he doted on his daughter.
Jack surveyed Evie’s room. When he’d come in here last night her bed was made up, at least by the standards of a fourteen-year-old girl. A pair of shorts was laid over the back of a chair, and no clothes on the floor. He opened the closet and saw the clothing was on hangers or folded on the upper shelf. Her shoes were paired and lined up against the back of the closet. If he checked out her dresser, he was sure he would find it the same. She was organized for a teenager. On the back of the door was a bulletin board with ribbons, and lots of pictures. In the pictures, she progressively aged from an infant to a child to a young adult. One picture was taken with her arm around Landry’s shoulder and she was sticking her tongue out at the camera. The look on her face was one of pure joy.
Liddell had told him about the Voodoo talismans and stuff that Landry had found in a box in Evie’s room. Even though her mother, Sally, was the source of the Voodoo stuff, it didn’t fit with the girl he was seeing here. This girl was too neat. She liked to have fun, but she was levelheaded too. She would be the one taking charge of groups at school, or organizing an outing, not fodder for a mindless cult.
Landry had mentioned someone named Marie Laveau last night and Jack had asked if he knew where she lived. He suggested they start there looking for Evie. Bigfoot and Landry had had a good laugh at that. Marie Laveau, as it turned out, is like Elvis. Queen of the Voodoo Prom. Seducer of Souls. Beetlejuice of the Ball. Dead but not gone.
He didn’t know much about Voodoo, except what he’d seen in movies and TV, but he couldn’t see this girl being involved in any of that. No way. He promised himself that he’d do everything in his power to get her home safe.
He folded his dirty clothes and had a sudden twinge at the thought of wearing someone else’s underwear. That would be number one on his clothes-buying list. He tried to be quiet and carried the clothes downstairs hoping he’d find coffee makings, but Landry was already up and making a pot of coffee in the kitchen.
It was dark outside, and he could feel a cool breeze coming through the open window. He’d never get used to this kind of life where windows were left open all night, doors were left unlocked, keys were sometimes left on the visor in a car or truck, and everyone carried a gun. But, maybe it was good weapons and not good fences that made good neighbors. They were doing something right here because the crime rate involving weapons was lower here than in most other states, including Indiana. Jack had asked, “Do you get an assault rifle when you get your marriage license?”
Liddell was asleep on the couch, snoring like a tree limb shredder. Jack had been so wiped out last night that when Landry suggested he go to bed, he hadn’t given a thought as to where Liddell would sleep. Jack tiptoed past the couch and went in the kitchen, where Landry was lighting the burners on the gas stove with a wooden match. Landry was a surprise. He was two years older than Liddell, a head shorter, and a hundred pounds lighter. He looked strong enough to wrestle a bear and make it cry uncle. Landry’s skin was as tough and dark as leather, and the muscles corded in his arms were like coils of wire. His neck was thick, his fists like mallets, and Jack had never seen such intense eyes. They were the color of an angry ocean.
“Just push his big ass off the couch,” Landry said.
“He had a tough day yesterday,” Jack said.
“I’m serious. Roll him off on the floor,” Landry said.
“I’m up,” Liddell said and came trudging into the kitchen. He had bed-hair, and one side of his face was smooshed up and red from the couch pillow.
“Maybe we should stay in Baton Rouge or somewhere out of this jurisdiction if we’re still here tonight,” Jack said.
Landry dropped bacon in an iron skillet and said, “What’s wrong with this place?”
Liddell reached for the coffeepot, and Landry admonished him. “I’m getting it. Sit down.”
Jack sat and across from Liddell. He said, “I appreciate you putting us up last night, Landry, but I really think it would be best if we stay somewhere else while we look into all of this. These people are really messed up, and I don’t want to bring it to your door.”
Landry laughed and said, “You hear that, baby brother? He doesn’t want to bring trouble here.”
Liddell put a hand on Jack’s arm and said, “Landry thrives on confrontation. Even animals avoid him. Mom and Dad moved a couple of times while he was at school, but he kept finding us.”
Landry pointed with a spatula. “You tell people that because you were adopted. That’s right. Mom found him in a garbage can in the State Park. They
made the mistake of feeding him and look what happened?”
“I think he’s got you there, Bigfoot,” Jack said, and Landry winked.
Liddell looked at the empty table and said, “Are you going to feed us or talk us to death?”
Two mugs of dark coffee were set in front of them, and Landry spooned a generous amount of sorghum into Jack’s. A dash of Tabasco sauce was added, and Landry said, “Stir it up. That’s real Creole coffee. Best you’ll ever get.” Liddell was already stirring his.
Jack stirred the thick liquid and took a sip. That’s pretty good. He added a couple more shakes of hot sauce.
Landry spooned sorghum on top of the sizzling bacon, ground black pepper onto it, added some other ingredients, and started a skillet of scrambled eggs. When the eggs were finished, he scooped generous portions onto three plates, added a pile of bacon, sprinkled grated Parmesan cheese on the eggs, and served them.
As they ate, Landry said, “Cops need guns like cows need tits.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a blued-steel semiautomatic handgun and put it on the table next to Liddell with two loaded clips. “Walther PPK .380. Same thing James Bond carries.” He went back to eating as if guns on the table were part of the meal.
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Are we supposed to shoot the bacon, or are you expecting a war?”
Liddell said, “It would be a short war. Landry’s got every kind of weapon known to man around here. Big Jim—that’s our daddy—was a collector. Our grandfather was a collector too. We have everything from muzzle loaders to FNFAL 5.56 assault rifles to Bushmaster AR15s, pistols, bowie knives, hunting knives, you name it.”
“The war is over. The South lost,” Jack reminded them.
“If we’d have had a couple thousand AR15s, things might have turned out different,” Landry said.
Jack decided to change the subject. “This is interesting bacon, Landry. Is it Creole too?”
“Pork,” Landry said and chuckled.