by Rick Reed
Liddell said, “They call it Million Dollar Bacon. You take thick sliced bacon, cayenne pepper, ground black pepper, brown sugar, and red-pepper flakes. Landry substitutes sorghum for maple syrup.”
“Whatever it’s named, it tastes like a million dollars,” Jack said. “You need to turn your house into a restaurant, Landry. You could call it Biscuits and Bullets.”
Landry turned serious. “Bring Evie home, you hear me.”
* * *
Liddell drove the Crown Vic toward the impound lot. It was still dark outside, but Liddell assured him the lot would be open. They rode in silence part of the way before Liddell said, “Evie is a good girl. I don’t think she would just take off and hurt Landry like that.”
“I believe you, Bigfoot. But she’s fifteen years old.”
“Fourteen,” Liddell corrected. “She’ll be fifteen in two weeks.”
“Okay. Fourteen. Let me play devil’s advocate. Does Landry spend much time with her?”
Liddell hesitated before answering. “Landry’s been a single dad since Evie was eleven months old. He and Evie lived with our parents for several years. My mom took care of Evie while the men worked. When our parents passed on, Landry was on his own. Evie was about ten. He had the house, a job that very few men retire from—alive at least—and he had Evie. He worships the ground that girl walks on.”
“I only brought it up because, if we’re going to find her, we need to think like detectives, not like an uncle and a friend. Get me?”
“I don’t know if I can do that, pod’na.” Liddell tightened his grip on the steering wheel and increased their speed. Traffic was almost nonexistent on the two-lane.
Jack had to remember he wasn’t in Kansas anymore. What worked in Evansville didn’t necessarily translate to this place, and Liddell had been gone for about five years. Liddell had even remarked that things had changed.
“We need a plan.” Jack said.
“I have a few things in mind.”
“Me too,” Jack said. Shoot Barbie, then make Troup talk. Or vice versa.
“I still can’t figure out why Whiteside would hire Troup,” Liddell said.
“How’d she get the job here?” Jack asked.
“Landry said the old chief retired or quit and the City Council picked her. Landry thought he heard she was a detective with New Orleans PD.”
Jack asked, “Isn’t there any oversight over who she hires or fires?”
Liddell said, “The Chief of Police pretty well has a free hand. You know how that works with small towns.”
Jack thought about a small town near Evansville with a similar population and law-enforcement setup. The City Council went through town marshals like shit through a goose.
* * *
The impound lot was even sorrier looking during daylight hours. The office was a wood frame farmhouse that had seen better days. A buzzer announced their presence as they entered, but no one was behind the counter. Jack opened and shut the door five or six times, and the buzzing continued until a froggy voice yelled from the back. “Just hold your water!”
The office floor was so dirty and littered that rats would go somewhere else for fear of catching a disease. The Formica countertop was covered in circular coffee stains and cigarette burns on the edges. He could see the impound lot through the windows to his right, and most of the cars were wrecked or missing something: like a motor, wheels, doors, trunks, and hatch lids. He could see the top of Marcie’s cobalt blue Prius setting up next to the window.
A toilet flushed and a woman came to the counter wiping her hands on paper towels that she tossed on the floor. The woman’s eyes passed over Liddell and locked on Jack’s. A smile spread across her face, and she said, “What can I do for you, darlin’?”
Jack might have been flattered, but the woman was a twin for Ned Beatty from the movie Deliverance. He could almost hear the dueling banjos playing in the background.
“My friend wants to pick up his car,” Jack said.
“It was brought in yesterday by Plaquemine PD. They said it would be released, no charge,” Liddell said.
“That what they told you?” She pulled a ledger from under the counter, flipped pages. “What kind of car d’ju say it is?”
“It’s a blue 2015 Prius,” Liddell said. He pointed out the window. “It’s right there.”
“Yep. Sittin’ right there.” She found the keys and held them up, but when Liddell reached for them, she said, “Eighty-five dollars.”
Jack said, “When I spoke to Chief Whiteside, she said there would not be a charge to get the car released. Maybe you should call her.” He hadn’t spoken to Chief Whiteside, but she wouldn’t know that.
“The Chief, huh?” She handed the keys to Jack and said, “There you go, darlin’.”
“Thank you very much, ma’am,” Jack said.
They waited outside while she unlocked the padlock and swung the gate open. Liddell went to the Prius and squeezed himself in, turned the ignition, and powered the windows down. The inside of the car was hot as hell. The steering wheel burnt his hands as he drove out of the lot. The car bumped and banged over the pitted gravel lot and he stopped it just outside the gates. The woman shut and locked the gates behind him and scampered back inside.
Liddell opened the glove box and the center console. Next he reached under the driver’s seat and came up with an empty leather holster in his hand. “My backup piece is gone. My camera is missing, and all my stuff is pulled out on the floor.”
Jack pointed to the right side of the car and said, “You’ve got two flat tires too.”
Liddell got out and walked around the car. Both tires had been slashed. The car had a knob tire for a spare. Before Jack could stop him, Liddell marched back into the office and Jack could hear him yelling. The woman who could be a stand-in for Ned Beatty was croaking just as loud. Liddell came out red in the face. Jack couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Bigfoot this mad.
“She showed me a little sign on the wall that says they aren’t responsible for lost or stolen or damaged items. She said the police must have taken my things, but the police didn’t have an inventory sheet either.”
Jack heard the office door lock and the OPEN sign was flipped to say CLOSED.
“Your call, Bigfoot,” Jack said.
“I would call the police, but I think they would just do more damage to the car. Let me use your phone.” Liddell pulled a plastic card from his wallet and showed Jack. “Triple A. I’ll have them tow it to a Toyota dealership in Baton Rouge. I get the service for free, so might as well use it.”
“I think we should call a policeman out here. The camera and phone are one thing, but a missing gun is serious,” Jack said.
Chapter Twelve
Jack and Liddell had waited in the air-conditioned Crown Vic for almost an hour before a young officer came and took the stolen report. The officer didn’t bother talking to the impound-lot lady and barely spoke to them. The looks he kept giving Liddell made it clear that he didn’t want to be there talking to a cop killer. AAA showed up while the officer was taking the report and gave Jack the address where they would take the Prius. Jack gave them his cell number, and the car was hauled off on a flatbed.
Liddell called the property room, and the clerk said the gun from Liddell’s car had most likely been sent off to the Feds with his duty weapon. When he pressed the man to verify that, he was assured it was with the Feds. The missing camera was a mystery.
Liddell demanded a copy of the complete inventory of property taken from his person and his car. “I want to know everything of mine that was seized. You can give it to your Chief to hold for me. If I don’t get it, I’m getting an attorney. Do you understand?” The clerk had seemed disinterested.
Now they were on a road that paralleled Interstate 10. It was more of a path than a road made of hard-packed dirt with deep ruts where heavy rain had scored it. A few times they’d had to go off road to get around a particularly deep wash.
Liddell said, “We’re coming to a cattle guard just up ahead. I’ll get out and check it. Sometimes pieces of metal come loose, and we don’t need another flat.” He drove through a narrow opening in the brush, and Jack could see cows grazing on a hillside. A steep ditch ran for as far as the eye could see north and south and was bordered on the far side by a barbed-wire fence. A ramshackle house could be seen in the distance, and visible behind the house were the metal roofs of other buildings.
Liddell stopped, got out, and examined the cattle guard, also called a “vehicle pass,” made from heavy metal bars set into the road. Barbed-wire fence was strung out on each side of the opening.
Liddell came back to the car, and Jack rolled the passenger window down.
“The gaps between the bars are wide enough for livestock’s legs to fall through,” Liddell explained. “Keeps the livestock in and allows vehicles to come and go.”
“So, get back in and let’s go,” Jack said and powered the window back up.
Liddell stood looking toward the house. After several minutes, Jack lowered the window again. “What’s up, Bigfoot?”
Liddell came to the window and said, “I forgot to tell you that Cotton claims he’s three-fourths Cherokee and three-fourths Haitian. He says he’s purebred Creole too.”
“So, we’re waiting, why?” Jack asked.
“I want to give him a few minutes to see us before we go up to the house. Gives him time to get dressed or hide stuff he doesn’t want us to see.”
“How do we know when it’s okay?” Jack asked.
“He’ll let us know.”
“That’s just great,” Jack said. He put the window back up and turned the a/c on high blast.
Liddell got back in the car. “Cotton Walters was with the Sheriff’s Department. He retired a long time back, but he used to do the Missing Persons cases. He owns all the land you see around you, all the way over to the Mississippi River.”
Jack watched the front door of the house open. An arm came out and motioned impatiently to come ahead.
“Anything else you want to tell me about this guy?” Jack asked.
“Cotton was kind of forced to retire. He claimed to see his ancestors’ spirits. Other spirits too. He was paranoid back when I knew him, and I suspect he’s gotten worse, but he always liked Bitty. He would let her visit him and no one else. And he’s got guns all over the place.”
“He’s crazy and has guns all over the place, and this is where we’re going to get a lead?”
“We won’t have a problem, Jack. I promise. Oh. And he’s into Voodoo big-time,” Liddell said.
“Voodoo. Well I guess that makes sense if he sees spirits. It does tie in with the symbol you saw on Bitty’s wall and the Voodoo stuff Landry showed us. You think he’ll tell us anything worth hearing?”
“I do. It was the Voodoo stuff that ended his career with the Sheriff’s Department. He didn’t show up for work for a couple of days and didn’t answer his phone, so the Sheriff sent a couple of deputies out here to check on his welfare. They didn’t wait at the cattle guard like we just did. They just drove up to the door, big as you please, and Cotton shot their SUV all to hell. No one was hurt. He claimed the spirits had sent him a warning that they were coming to kill him.”
“And he’s not in prison? Or a nuthouse?”
“He was arrested and all of his guns were seized, but the judge let him go. His defense was that the deputies hadn’t identified themselves, and he had a right to protect his property. It didn’t matter that the deputies had just gotten out of the car when he shot at them. The judge said no one was hurt, and he knew if Cotton wanted them dead, they’d be dead. Case closed. The PD held onto his guns but eventually had to give them back.”
Jack said, “Do you think we should call him first? Tell him who we are and why we’re here.”
“Wouldn’t matter,” Liddell said.
Jack asked, “Do you think he recognized you?”
“Never met him,” Liddell answered.
Liddell stopped twenty yards away from the house, and they got out and walked toward the house.
The storm door was unlocked, and the inside door was standing open. Liddell opened the storm door and they entered a kitchen. The kitchen was just as Jack had imagined. The cabinets were covered with a patina of grease from years of cooking. The countertops were weathered plywood. The sink had last been cleaned during the Civil War. No one was in the kitchen.
“Cotton,” Liddell called.
The sound of a gun being cocked was his answer.
Liddell raised his hands and said, “It’s Liddell Blanchard. I was Bitty’s partner.”
Still no answer, but Liddell didn’t put his hands down. “This is my partner, Detective Jack Murphy, from Evansville Police Department.” To Jack, he said, “Put your gun away.”
Jack didn’t even realize he’d drawn his gun. He holstered his. 45, but he wasn’t about to raise his hands. “We just want to talk,” Jack said.
“He’s a cop,” said a voice from directly behind them.
Cotton had somehow gotten behind them and was standing in the doorway with a lever action rifle. The barrel was pressed against Jack’s spine.
“Yes, I’m a cop. My badge case is in my back pocket.”
Liddell said, “We’ve never met, but Bitty talked about you all the time. She said you ran the Missing Persons Unit at the Sheriff’s Department. We just want to talk. I’ve got some bad news concerning Bitty.”
The rifle came out of Jack’s back and pointed to the floor.
“Can I put my hands down now?” Liddell said.
“You go ahead, but I don’t know this guy. How do I know he ain’t here to kill me? They been trying long enough. But they ain’t got me yet. Never will.”
“My name’s Jack Murphy,” Jack said over his shoulder. “Pleased to meet you.”
The rifle came up again, and Jack said, “Look. There’s no need for anyone to get hurt. You don’t want to talk to us, we’ll be happy to leave. You don’t shoot me, I won’t shoot you. Okay?”
“Speaks his mind, don’t he?” Cotton said, and walked past them into the kitchen.
Retired Sheriff’s Detective Cotton Walters was pushing eighty, but his arms were huge, and his jaw was a block of iron. He was black as night, and his white eyes shone behind thick eyeglasses like full moons seen through magnifying glasses. His graying hair was in one long braid that ran down his back. An antique lever-action rifle was in his hands.
“You come about Bitty,” Cotton said. “I already know she dead. Anyone know you’re here?”
“We didn’t tell anyone,” Liddell said.
Cotton leaned the rifle against a cabinet and went to the sink. He ran some water into a saucepan and put it on a hot-plate burner.
“They drink coffee in Indiana, don’t they?”
“We do,” Jack said. “I wouldn’t mind a cup.”
Cotton dumped half a bag of ground coffee into the pan, stuck the lid on, and said, “Well, let’s get down to it. What’chu want to know?”
Cotton was full of information but most of it was “I heard” or “Someone said” or “It’s obvious” when it wasn’t obvious at all. If Cotton hadn’t been a retired detective, Jack would have been tempted to walk away. In fact, Jack had all but tuned the old coot out when he heard him say something about Marie Laveau. That was a name Landry had mentioned.
“Would you repeat that last part?” Jack said and sat forward.
“I said Marie Laveau isn’t who she claims. For one thing, that’s not even her real name. I got a friend in New Orleans that tol’ me this woman was working the street until she got arrested for prostitution and drug trafficking. And another friend tol’ me she was involved with some pretty big players. He wouldn’t tell me who these big players were because he was afraid. And another friend told me a Voodoo practitioner was in Plaquemine. I didn’t believe it because nine tenths of Iberville Parish has always been Catholic. This friend tol’ me
to stay clear of her and her friend.”
“What’s her friend’s name?” Jack asked.
“No one knows his real name. He claims he’s Papa Legba.”
Liddell and Jack shared a look, and Liddell asked the question on both of their minds. “Was Bitty interested in Marie or Papa?”
“She sho’ was. I tried to tell her to leave it alone, but you know how she was. Like an alligator. Grab onto something and drag it around the bottom.”
Jack said, “We can get back to Marie and that, but we have another thing to ask you about. Liddell’s niece is missing.”
“Evie,” Liddell said. “She’s fourteen years old.”
“Don’t know nothing ‘bout that,” Cotton said.
Jack said, “Well, she had a gris-gris bag and some other Voodoo items. Did Bitty mention anything about missing children?”
“Not that I can recollect,” Cotton said. “You should talk to Bitty’s friend about that.”
“What friend?” Jack asked.
“Detective Parnell. She with the sheriffs.”
“We’ll talk to her when she gets back in town,” Liddell said.
“She ain’t out of town,” Cotton said. “Seen her in town yesterday. She working.”
Liddell said to Jack, “Troup told me she was in Hawaii.”
“Okay, let’s get back to Marie and her friend. What can you tell us about these two?” Jack asked.
Cotton pulled a folding chair up to the card table that served as his kitchen furniture, and motioned for them to do the same. When they were all seated he said, “Papa Legba is a Loa, a Houngan; that’s like a priest that presides over rituals. He is the passage from this world to the next. Papa has the power to bring the dead back or send a soul to the underworld forever.”
“You mean like zombies?” Jack asked.
Cotton said, “No. They’re still alive, but not in control of their body. Papa can make them do what he wants.”
Cotton got up and opened a drawer under the sink. He pulled out a pencil stub and a scrap of paper and drew. He pushed the drawing across to Jack. “Papa Legba.”
“So what about Marie Laveau?” Jack asked.