Scott wasn’t about to hold his breath on that point. If the guy was a pro, he would be half way out of the United States before the local cops found a match on the prints. The gun was probably cold.
No, Scott thought, they hadn’t seen the last of that guy. He had to kill the people who could identify him, or he’d never be able to move freely in this part of the United States again.
“You know what we have to do, don’t you?” Tony asked.
Scott looked down at his buddy and smiled grimly. “We go to ground. You and Jeannie to the back waters of the bayou and me to Brazil. We’ve got to get him — or them — before we’re all dead.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“I need to lie low for awhile.”
Matthews’ feral eyes swept the room for potential danger. He sat in a booth in a dark corner of a bar on Bourbon Street.
Across from him, Rutherford puffed angrily on his cigar. He couldn’t believe how badly Matthews had botched a simple assignment. How hard could it be to kill one small woman and a stupid idiot like Monnier? In his day that would’ve been an initiation rite for the gang in his old neighborhood. He shook his head in disgust and drank his scotch in one gulp.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you myself, you fuck-up.” Rutherford whispered the words, and smiled when the hired gun blanched, his face whiter than a freshly bleached sheet. At least the man was smart enough to be afraid.
Matthews drank his own form of liquid courage, coughed, then said, “Lopez needs me — you need me — to keep the smugglers in line.”
“Ah, Eric, so foolish to think we couldn’t replace you. There are always others waiting to take your place. Try again.”
Rutherford stared at the man through slitted lids. He could see Matthews was having a hard time refuting his logic. As with all predators, Matthews knew there was always another rapacious male waiting in the wings, ready to take over another’s turf.
“Dr. Rutherford — it won’t happen again. I’ll go back to Brazil. Lie low. How could they find me? And even if they did, Brazil wouldn’t extradite me. The police down there are even more corrupt than the New Orleans cops.”
Matthews was grasping at straws, and he knew it. Rutherford laughed silently at the man’s obvious struggle to find the right excuses.
But he wasn’t off the hook, not by a long shot. Sorry to say, Eric would have a little accident on his way back to Brazil. Manuel would just have to understand.
Rutherford smiled. “Sure, go to Brazil, Eric. Report to Manuel. Tell him all, mind you, or I’ll have to do it myself. It would be better coming from you, don’t you think?”
Matthews nodded his head wildly, sweat streaming down his face in the air-conditioned coolness of the bar. “Yes. Yes. I’ll do that. Thank you, doctor. I’ll leave tonight.” After taking another gulp of his drink, he asked, “What about Monnier’s body? Won’t the police question you?”
“Why how nice of you to think of the predicament you’ve left me with, Eric.” Rutherford’s low reply was tinged with more than a hint of a sneer. “I have it covered — don’t worry about it. Lucky for you I have friends in high as well as low places.”
He took a pull on his cigar and blew the smoke at Matthews, who coughed and turned an interesting shade of green.
“Uh, yeah — lucky for me.” Matthews finished his drink in one gulp and signaled for another one, holding up two fingers to indicate a double. “I’ll be gone within the hour.”
“Wise move.” Rutherford smiled — and he knew it didn’t reach his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Two days later.
The sky over Lake Pontchartrain was dark and threatening. A summer storm had threatened to dump on the people in the small power boat ever since it had left the docks at New Orleans and headed toward Pass Manchac.
In the distance, Jeanette spotted the stark white tower of an abandoned lighthouse rising from the storm-darkened waters and outlined by the blue-black sky. The building once stood on dry land, but was now completely surrounded by water. It marked the opening of the Pass.
Once through the Pass, the boat would enter Lake Maurepas. After that, they would be that much closer to Manchac, a small town on the edge of the swamp after which it was named. It was where Scott and Paul had grown up and where Scott’s mother still lived.
Her mood as somber as the storm clouds shrouding the sky, Jeanette sat in the middle of the boat. As if she were two separate people, one part of her observed Tony and Scott entertain Brigitte, the other brooded over the tangled mess their lives had become.
She should be happy to be reunited with her daughter, the child’s protective stay at the Retreat House shortened by the new threat to herself and Scott’s decree that she and Little Bits hide in the bayou backwaters with his mother. She was happy to be reunited with her daughter. But deep inside, she couldn’t avoid the horrifying truth: a man as ruthless as Rutherford would find them sooner or later. And then, not only was she and her daughter in danger, but also the other innocent people who’d vowed to protect them.
It was a Catch-22. She was damned no matter what she did, where she went, and whom she involved. The only way to end the danger was to cut off the head of the beast.
The fact that Scott intended to take the beast head on — risking his life in the process — chilled her to the marrow of her bones and only added to the guilt that threatened to bury her.
What had she done? Why was karma biting her in the butt, time and time again? First, Paul’s death. Then, Charles’s. And now, the danger to her loved ones still among the living.
“Momma.” Brigitte’s happy and excited little voice broke through her funky state. “Look at the bird!”
Jeanette shifted her vision to where her daughter’s finger pointed. An involuntary gasp of sheer delight escaped her.
Near the opening of the Pass, a single ray of light had broken through the angry ceiling of clouds, creating a pathway of light, bisected by a rainbow midway to the surface of the lake. And flying along the ray from the dark sky through the rainbow toward the pewter-colored water was a giant egret.
The cold spot in her soul thawed.
It was as if God had sent her a message. Hope could dawn during even the darkest hour. Just as on this dark and miserable day, there were rainbows and beauty.
“The Manchac Swamp welcomes us home.” Scott’s calm gaze centered on Jeanette. “Little Bits and you belong to Paul — and to me. He and I belonged to the swamp. It was in Paul’s blood just as it is in mine. The swamp will protect its own, Jeannie. Believe it.”
She couldn’t speak, she just nodded. For the first time in weeks she felt like smiling — and she did through the rainbow of her tears.
———
Scott threw a rope to a teenager at the Manchac docks. As he went through the mechanical tasks of securing the boat, he scanned the crowd for his mother, Clothilde Fontenot, known as Mama Chloe to everyone in the Manchac area. She’d promised to close her gift shop where she sold local, handmade items in order to meet them. He wanted Jeannie and Little Bits to be made welcome from the instant they set foot on his home soil.
“Scott, cher.“
There she was. Scott grinned and waved. “Hi ya, Mama.”
The older woman called out, “Comment ca va?“
“Ca va bien.” Scott returned the traditional greeting of the bayou.
“Who’s that, Uncle Scott?” Little Bits shyly clung to his arm and peeked around him at his mother, who ran to the dock to greet them. Her long skirt tangled in her legs; gray-brown hair escaped from the braids wrapped upon her head like a crown. “She looks happy to see us.”
Scott pulled Little Bits round in front and held her as they faced his on-rushing mother. “That’s because she’s my mama, and she is happy to see us. She knew your daddy when he was little. Practically raised the two of us, since he liked to come to our house all the time.”
His mother overheard his last words. “That’s ‘cause little Paul liked Mama Chlo
e’s cooking, cher.“
Not waiting for them to disembark, she stepped into the boat and wrapped her arms around Scott and Little Bits and hugged them until the little girl squealed with laughter. “We’re gonna have us a big party tonight with some of that good cooking to welcome y’all. I made my boy’s favorite — andouille gumbo.”
Scott smacked his lips loudly while he rubbed his stomach. Little Bits giggled.
“Mama,” Scott said. “I want you to meet Brigitte LaFleur and her mother, Jeanette.”
Scott turned and found Jeanette standing next to Tony in the middle of the boat. Jeannie laughed along with Little Bits. Scott’s heart ached to see her smile and he fell in love all over again. He was going to do everything within his power to rid her of the danger so he could see her smile every day for the rest of his life.
“Nice to meet you, Mama Chloe.” Jeanette came forward and got a hug. “Paul told me all sorts of stories about his childhood. And your cooking, especially the andouille gumbo, was a prominent feature in every one of them.”
“Well, that boy sure could eat.” She laughed. “I swore Paul had a tapeworm he ate so much.”
She turned to her son. “You gonna introduce that good lookin’ man over there, or am I supposed to guess who he is?”
Scott smiled. “Mama meet Tony Fortier. He served with Paul and me in the marines. He’s going to stay with you — for extra protection until I get back.”
She frowned at him, then pasted a smile back on her face and turned to Tony. “Good. I like having big, strong men around to eat my cooking.”
“How about little girls, Mama Chloe? Do you like them to eat your cooking, too?” Little Bits pulled on Scott’s mother’s long skirt, an eager smile on her face.
She pulled the little girl into her arms for a tickle and a hug and stared over the girl’s dark curls at Scott. “I like little girls most of all, cher. We’re gonna all get along just fine…”
Mentally, Scott filled in her unspoken words… “until that son of mine gets home to stay where he belongs.”
PART TWO
The conquest of the earth, which mostly means taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it.
— Heart of Darkness, ch. 1, Joseph Conrad (1857-1924)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
October 1st, San Jacinto fazenda in Brazil, One World Base Camp.
Scott’s trip to the San Jacinto fazenda, the ranch which Dr. Lopez had bought to house One World staff and anchor his base camp, was an eye-opening education.
After a commercial flight from New Orleans to Miami, then another to San Paulo, he took a smaller plane to Cuiaba, where he transferred to an even smaller plane owned by One World.
Scott soon became aware that a plane was the most efficient — and safest — way into the southern region of the Pantanal where the San Jacinto fazenda was located. The only other possible route out of San Paulo — a slow boat to Porto Jofre, then a bus ride down the Trans-Panataneira highway to Cuiaba, then another even slower boat trip to San Jacinto — meant weeks of travel, exacerbated by the inherent dangers of the jungle, swamp and mountainous regions the route traversed.
San Jacinto gave a new meaning to being located in the back of the beyond.
Scott concluded that he and his contact had better maintain their covers, because he didn’t see One World offering to fly them safely out to spread the word of its crimes. If the worst happened, he’d improvise. He’d plotted a route to Brasilia by water and it was slightly more treacherous than the one from San Paulo to San Jacinto. With luck, they wouldn’t have to use it.
As he had since the day he’d arrived, Scott set out after lunch for his daily walk around the border of the base camp. He nodded to the armed guards, most of them imported thugs from Central America’s endless supply of mercenaries. Ostensibly they were there to protect the One World staff from hostile natives and eco-terrorists. From the briefing Scott had received from the CIA, there were no hostile natives in this particular region of the Pantanal and the eco-terrorists hadn’t discovered the unspoilt area yet. They worked farther north in the Amazon. But the guards didn’t know he knew that.
“Hola, Dr. Fontenot.”
The comely young woman who’d hailed him rose from the bench in the shade of the hangar building and strolled toward him. Her hips gently swayed under her gauzy skirt.
The hanger guards laughed and poked one another.
Scott presumed the joke was at his expense. The word had gotten around the camp that the crazy Norte Americano was stupid to walk in the hottest, most humid part of the day. Or, maybe they were sharing the most current piece of gossip. That he and Rosalie, his DEA contact, were once again meeting to fuck each others brains out during siesta.
Scott didn’t care which rumor they laughed over, just as long as they believed he and the woman approaching him were harmless.
“Hola,” he replied as he hurried to meet her.
As he approached Rosalie, he observed the way the guards handled the Russian-made automatic rifles. For all their rough edges, the men handled the guns with ease. Their patterns of patrol and hand-offs had convinced Scott that Lopez had bought himself a highly trained, mercenary army.
The thought didn’t do much to ease the tightness in Scott’s throat and the itchy feeling on the back of his neck, feelings he’d had from the day he arrived and realized how isolated he and Rosalie were.
No wonder the other DEA plant hadn’t survived.
Yeah, better the guards thought him stupid or randy.
Rosalie and he had agreed to this daily walk as a way of exchanging information. The fact that the guards and half the camp were now used to them meeting would help if the couple had to leave suddenly. They’d be just another couple running off to have hot sex on a little river voyage up to Porto Jofre.
Or, at least that’s what they hoped the camp would think. If not, they’d be running for their lives.
He was glad Jeannie didn’t know about his comely DEA contact, or he would lose the ground he’d gained with her. He hoped his love had realized that thoughts of finding the evidence to protect her were the only thing that kept him in this hell hole.
Besides being isolated in the middle of proverbial nowhere, San Jacinto sat in the middle of an alluvial plane on one of the rivers which regularly escaped its banks during the wet season and made the area into a full-fledged swamp — bigger and more dangerous than Manchac or even some of the other swamps Uncle Sam had dropped him into during his stint in the Marines. Beyond the swampy land were vast areas of grass lands, forests, and mountains. The Pantanal was one of the last, basically undiscovered and protected eco-regions of the world. Mostly, because no one could get there to ruin it.
It still amazed him that Lopez had been able to build an air strip capable of handling the One World hospital plane. It was this plane in which Scott and the other medical personnel flew to reach other medical fazendas, even further into the swamps and plateaus of the outer reaches of the Pantanal. There, they treated locals who had only recently come into contact with the white man.
Scott grimaced. He wasn’t sure that the indigenous population was better off.
Only two days ago he’d gone out on his first mission of mercy to one of the more far-flung camps. The fury at what he’d observed still lingered.
“Jesus Christ.”
Scott had been shocked. He’d turned and glared at Rosalie who from his first day at One World had attached herself as his nurse assistant and translator to ease their investigation. “Who’d they turn loose on these poor people? The Marquis de Sade masquerading as a surgeon?”
“Shhh.” Rosalie had looked around quickly to see who might have overheard his outburst. “Some understand English. Don’t risk our cover over something you will be seeing quite a lot of.”
Scott lowered his voice. “You mean we’re going to see more of this — this butchery?”
> He waved his hand at the line of people outside the fazenda. The small group of people looked like extras in a Stephen King horror movie. The first man in line had only one eye, as did the second and third behind him. The good eyes they had left glared at him. They muttered words at him which Rosalie had later told him meant “devil doctor.”
The patient he’d just treated and released for an infection in a surgical incision had been someone’s kidney donor. He recalled the child’s heart back in New Orleans, and shuddered to think of where the body of that unwitting donor might be buried.
Rosalie touched his arm and moved closer, using the chart he had in his hands as a cover for the conversation.
“There’s more than maiming and killing going on, doctor,” she whispered. “Lopez and his partners are also raising marijuana and poppies. The drug trade is just as deadly — and that is what Julio — Dr. Calabria — died for. I want these bastards caught and convicted — so we’re not anywhere near through with our mission here. Don’t you forget what you signed on for.”
While Rosalie flirted with the leering guards, another little daily routine to throw the killers off the scent, Scott cursed at his feelings of helplessness. He wanted to kill the One World butchers for what they were doing to these innocent, trusting people. They had no right to call themselves doctors. But he kept his feelings to himself. As Rosalie had so succinctly reminded him, he’d signed on for the long haul, and they didn’t have enough evidence to convict anyone of anything — yet.
The irony of it was that the bastards would probably spend more time in jail for the illegal farming of drug crops and smuggling of the by-products, than for the mutilating and maiming of native populations. So far neither Scott nor Rosalie had found any concrete evidence which would hold up in court to tie One World to murder for harvesting organs. Rosalie said Dr. Calabria had begun to gather that kind of evidence, but he died before he could complete his mission.
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