by BJ Bourg
“How? Where? I mean, who is it? Is it one of Frank’s people?”
“No,” I said. “It’s an activist who was protesting alligator hunting. He got caught cutting some lines earlier this morning.”
There was a long pause from the other end. Finally, Wellman asked, “You mean this guy is killing us off to make us fight each other?”
“I’m not sure what he’s doing,” I said, mulling over the reasons Shannon would have for killing Norris and this random girl. I could understand his screwed up rationale for killing Norris, but what was the girl doing that caused him to target her? Was Clayton the intended target and he accidentally killed the girl? Shooting at, or off of, a boat could be tricky because of the way it rocks. It was plausible this activist was shooting at both families in the hopes of causing a swamp war. If the two families were busy fighting each other, they wouldn’t have time to kill alligators. It was actually a brilliant plan.
I cautioned Wellman that I wasn’t even positive Shannon was the killer, and this brought a grunt from the man. “You just said he had my boat and there’s blood in it, so if he didn’t do it, who the hell else could’ve done it?”
I shrugged to myself, asked, “Where’s your son right now?”
“He’s here…at my house.”
“Can you put him on the phone?”
There was some rustling and a shaky voice came on. “This is…this is me, Clayton.”
I introduced myself and asked him if he was okay.
“I…I don’t know. I’m kind of scared and a bit freaked out. My stomach hurts like hell. I…I never seen somebody die before. She was only nineteen and they shot her right through the head. It was horrible. I…I didn’t know what to do. I tried to get her out of the boat, but…”
“Okay, listen…I don’t want you talking to anyone and I don’t want anyone asking you any questions. Sit tight and wait for us. We’ll be there to interview you within the hour.”
I told him to give the phone back to his dad, and I instructed Wellman to make Clayton comfortable and not talk to him about the shooting. “I don’t want his statement being influenced by anything someone might say to him. Keep him isolated, and wait for us to get there.”
Wellman agreed and we hung up the phone. Dawn and I then marched into the interview room. Dawn snatched Shannon out of his chair by the arm and dragged him toward the door.
“What the hell’s going on?” he asked, his eyes wild. “Where’s she taking me?”
I followed as Dawn shoved him down the hallway and into one of the holding cells. Shannon lost his balance and fell headlong into the nearest bunk. He righted himself and turned to stare at us, a puzzled expression on his face. The cell door echoed loudly up and down the corridor when it clanked shut. Dawn turned the key and stepped back, folding her arms across her chest. “That’ll keep him until we get back.”
“What’s going on?” he asked. “I demand to be released on my own recognizance. I’ve violated no laws that would warrant a stint in jail.”
Dawn leaned close to the bars. “I’ve got some bad news, Mr. Reed. You know that boat you were driving?”
He nodded slowly, his eyes wary.
“We’ve been able to confirm that a young girl was killed in it—shot through the head.”
“But I didn’t know anything about it. I swear—I found the boat drifting on its own. I just borrowed it to cut the alligator lines.”
“Your bad,” Dawn said.
We turned and walked away, leaving Shannon to plead his case in our wake. After moving his cohorts from the lobby to separate cells, I told the jailor to keep an eye on them and not let any of them communicate with each other until we returned.
Dawn and I then hurried to her car and followed Norm south on Highway 3, driving ninety-plus miles per hour with our sirens blaring and lights flashing. I didn’t know what we’d find down there, but I was hoping against hope that the killer was already sitting in our jail cell.
Just in case we had the wrong guy, I got on my phone and called Ben. “How fast can you get your bird in the air and fly over to Devil’s Lake?”
“I can be there in fifteen minutes,” he said.
“Great. I’ll have Jerry and Dean meet you at the hangar. I need snipers in the air.”
When we hung up, I called Jerry and told him what was going on.
“But Becky said y’all have the killer in custody,” he said, sounding confused.
“We’re not positive, so I need you to scour every inch of those swamps from the air. He’ll most likely be wearing a ghillie suit, so look for the small things.”
“You got it.”
I described the route Dawn and I had taken on Thursday when we tracked the sniper from his shooting position to the divot along the western bank of Little Bayou. “The trail went cold at the water’s edge, which tells me the killer’s most likely coming and going by boat. I need y’all to check every canal and bayou leading away from the island. If you see a boat tied up anywhere along any waterway, notify us immediately.”
“And if I spot the sniper from the air?”
“Get him before he gets you.”
CHAPTER 22
Wellman Boudreaux’s camp…
Clayton Boudreaux was sitting on his bed crying when we walked into his bedroom. He stabbed at the tears with a fist and exhaled forcefully, trying to toughen up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve never seen…never seen anything like that. One minute she was alive and the next…it was so horrible. I swear I didn’t know it was going to happen.”
Dawn sat beside him and put a hand on his back. “It’s okay, son. Don’t bottle it up. Let it all out. It’s normal to be upset after witnessing something so horrific.”
Clayton fought hard to keep the tears back. He stood and walked around his room, taking deep breaths and exhaling repeatedly. I didn’t say anything for a few minutes. When he was breathing normal again and had stopped trembling, he looked at me with bloodshot eyes. “Am I in trouble?”
I didn’t know if he was simply naïve or if he’d done something wrong. I hesitated for a brief moment, and then asked if he did something that would get him in trouble.
He was clenching and unclenching his fists, as though trying to decide if he should say what he was thinking.
“Look,” I began, “if you didn’t kill the girl—”
“Joyce,” Clayton said. “Her name is Joyce Cole.”
“Okay. If you didn’t kill Joyce or set her up to be killed, you can’t be in any trouble.”
Clayton sighed audibly. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. I liked her.” He lowered his head, as though embarrassed. “When you find her, she’s going to be naked. We…we were about to”—he glanced at Dawn and then looked at me—“you know, do it in the boat.” He whispered the last part so Dawn wouldn’t hear, but she heard anyway.
I nodded my understanding. “It’s okay. We’ve all been there.”
I saw Dawn’s eyebrows furrow from where she was sitting behind Clayton taking notes, and she slowly lifted her head to look at me. I stole a quick glance in her direction and she mouthed the words, “I’ve never done it in a boat, so speak for yourself!”
I stifled a chuckle and asked Clayton if he could tell us what happened.
“There’s not much to tell. We were getting undressed and…” Tears welled up in his eyes and he lowered his head again.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Go on. What happened?”
“They shot Joyce while she was kissing me,” he said, his jaw trembling uncontrollably. “It was such a weird and scary feeling. I felt her die in my mouth. She just went limp. Her tongue stopped moving and slipped out of my mouth. She fell straight to the deck and then slid out the boat. I tried to get her out the water, but it was no use. She disappeared and I thought they would kill me if I hung around, so I tried to leave.”
When he didn’t continue on his own, I asked what he meant by tried to leave.
“I wasn’t looking where I w
as going and a branch knocked me out of the boat.” He started trembling again. “I thought I felt her grab me under the water, but I knew it couldn’t be her because she was dead.”
“Are you sure she was dead?”
He nodded, his face blank. “There was a hole on both sides of her head. Blood was pouring out of one of the holes and getting in the water. I think I got some of it in my mouth when I hit the water.”
It didn’t take a genius to know he would need a ton of counseling after all he’d gone through. Probably never be able to have sex again, I thought.
“How’d you get home?” I asked.
“The boat shot off to the eastern bank and I thought about swimming to it, but I didn’t want to be out in the open in case the killer was still out there.” He explained that he swam to the nearest shore, which was on the western side of the bayou, and made his way through the trees until he reached the Cut. “It took me about an hour, but I finally made it and I saw one of my dad’s friends fishing in the mouth of the lake. He brought me home and we called y’all.”
Dawn closed her notebook and stood. “Can you take us to the exact spot it happened?”
He jumped at the unexpected sound of Dawn’s voice and rubbed his face with hands that shook. “Yes, ma’am, I know exactly where it is. Can I talk to my dad before we go? I’d like to let him know what’s going on. Maybe get some water or something? My mouth is dry.”
We nodded and walked outside to give him some privacy with his dad, descending the stairs two at a time. As we made it to the landing and then walked along the pier toward where Norm was waiting by the boat, Dawn shoved my arm. “Have you really done that before?”
“Done what?” I knew what she meant, but wanted to see if she’d actually say it.
“You know what I mean,” she said, unimpressed. “Have you ever had sex in a boat?”
All I said was, “Maybe,” and then nodded at Norm when we reached the Boston Whaler. “The kid’s going to take us to the crime scene. From his description of her wounds, this’ll definitely be a recovery mission.”
“I’ll get the grappling hooks ready.” Norm began digging in a large compartment at the front of the boat. After cursing a bit and shoving things around inside the opening, he finally produced a length of rope with a set of hooks attached to one end. He tossed them to the side and began digging for a second set.
I turned away and idly scanned the front of the house, waiting for Clayton to join us. A few members of Wellman’s security team were milling around, but I didn’t see Patrick. I turned to Dawn. “By the way, any word on Patrick’s prints?”
“Yes and no. Melvin texted me earlier to say he ran them through AFIS, but they turned up nothing.”
I was thoughtful. “That doesn’t mean he’s not a criminal.”
Dawn agreed. “It just means he’s never been arrested.”
I scanned the area, wondering if Patrick was out there right now with his glass on me.
“What’re you looking for?” Dawn asked.
“I’m looking for Slick Patrick.”
She joined me in surveying the banks of the lake. “Do you really think he’s out there?”
“He could be.” I didn’t like not knowing where he was and I didn’t like being in the opening. I turned toward Wellman’s house. “We need to get Clayton down here so we can find that girl.”
“I’ll get him,” Dawn said, walking off.
A distant sound distracted me and I turned to scan the sky over the lake, cocking my head to listen. I heard it for a few more seconds before I realized it was the steady chopping of helicopter blades. I snatched the radio from my back pocket and called Jerry. “Sierra One to Sierra Two, what’s your twenty?” Twenty was code for his location.
“We’re flying over the island now, approaching the lake from the north.” His voice sounded muffled, like he was in a barrel. “So far, everything looks clear. No sign of a shooter.”
I gave him our current location and told him where we were heading. “Provide over-watch protection, if you would. And stay sharp—this bastard can shoot.”
When Dawn returned, Clayton was being escorted by Wellman and one of his men. “He’ll ride with me and Tookie,” Wellman announced. “I don’t want anything happening to my boy.”
I nodded and jumped in the Boston Whaler behind Dawn. Norm drifted away from the pier and waited until Wellman, Clayton, and Tookie were in his boat. Tookie drove and Wellman sat close to Clayton, a twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun in his lap.
“That thing won’t do you any good against a sniper and his rifle,” I said in a low voice.
Dawn heard me and asked what I’d said. I just shook my head and kept my eyes peeled, looking for any sign of hostiles along the way. I made Norm hug the shore as much as he could without grounding the boat, but I still didn’t like how exposed we were. One thing was certain—if the sniper got me, I’d never even know it.
CHAPTER 23
Wellman hollered at me from his boat just as we left Devil’s Lake and entered the mouth of Bayou Magnolia. “Clayton says it’s on the left, about a quarter mile down. It’s near a large tree.”
I gave him the thumbs up and relayed the information to Norm, who slowed the boat to a crawl. Ben flew by overhead, dipping low enough for the wind from his main rotor blade to blow my hair around and rock the boat slightly. I waved up at Jerry, who was strapped into a harness and standing on the landing skid, his rifle gripped firmly in his hands. Even from that distance I could almost see the whites of his knuckles. A sniper’s rifle is his life and he’d rather drop a small child than his rifle—well, maybe not, but he didn’t want to drop his rifle.
Wellman hollered again when we drew closer to the spot. “It’s under those weeping willow branches,” he said. “Right where it splits.”
There was a natural separation of the branches and Norm stopped just east of it and shut off the motor. A school of fish darted by just under the surface of the green water and three ducks were swimming just a few feet from the bank. A lazy breeze was blowing in from the lake and everything seemed so peaceful. Dawn noticed, too. “It’s hard to believe someone was murdered right here just a couple of hours ago.”
I nodded and turned to Wellman’s boat. Clayton was sitting with his back turned, his face buried in his hands. “Is he sure this is the spot?” I asked.
Wellman looked at his son, and it was the first time since I’d met him that I saw his face soften. He spoke quietly to Clayton and then nodded. “This is it.”
“Shit,” Dawn said from beside me. She pointed to a thick branch several yards away. There was dried blood sprayed across the bark. “This is definitely it.”
I studied the branch and then glanced over my shoulder. The shot had come from the island—from Wellman’s property. While Dawn tossed the anchor over the side, I unzipped my drag bag and pulled out my rifle. “Mr. Boudreaux, come over here.” Wellman eased his boat beside Norm’s and I jumped in with them, taking my rucksack with me. I pointed to the opposite bank. “Take me to that side.”
A curious expression fell over his face, but he did as I asked without questioning me. When he’d gotten as close as he could, I stepped out the boat into the shallow water—careful not to make a splash—and eased toward the bank. Once I was on dry land, I grounded my rifle and pulled my ghillie suit from the rucksack. I shrugged into it and pushed the radio’s earpiece and throat mic in place, recovered my rifle. I then eased the scope caps up and took a kneeling position facing the woods. The moisture from the swampy ground seeped through the knee of my ghillie suit as I slowly scanned the forest. I tried to penetrate the deep shadows, searching for anything out of the ordinary.
Nothing stood out, so I decided to move deeper into the swamps. I looked back toward Norm’s boat and saw him reeling in the rope with the grappling hooks attached. Dawn was at the back of the boat staring in my direction. I waved to her, but she didn’t wave back. I thought I detected a look of concern on her face, but I w
as too far away to be certain. I slung my rifle over my shoulder and shot her a quick text message, letting her know I’d be exploring the immediate area in search of the sniper’s hide. I didn’t wait for a response, shutting my phone off instead. I dropped my phone into my rucksack and then hid it under a bush.
It was at least midday, but mosquitoes were still buzzing around. I ignored them and moved slowly through the swamps, careful not to rustle a leaf or snap a branch. Sweat built up on my brow and began to slide down my face. I didn’t bother wiping it. Every move was smooth and with a purpose. One foot at a time I advanced. My head remained still as my eyes slowly roved left to right, taking in my entire surroundings—the trees above, the heavy underbrush, the ground below.
I was unsure how far I’d traveled when I noticed a small patch of smashed earth to my right. I froze in place and listened. A hawk cried from its perch in a cypress tree overhead. A squirrel ran circles around the trunk of a nearby tree. Except for those natural noises, all was quiet…deathly quiet.
Mosquitoes buzzed in my ear as I moved closer to the impression on the swamp floor. Once I was standing above it, I noticed a faint trail leading south. I smashed the thumb button on my radio and called out to Jerry. “Check the northern banks of the lake in the area of Wellman Boudreaux’s camp. The killer left the area heading in that direction.”
“Ten-four,” Jerry acknowledged, and I heard the helicopter moving toward that direction.
“You found something?” Dawn called over the radio.
After telling her I’d found the second sniper hide, I shouldered my rifle and attained proper eye relief, which was about three inches for me. (Eye relief is the distant between a shooter’s eye and the ocular lens of a scope.) Peering through my scope, I could see Norm tossing the grappling hook into the water. His armpits were dark from sweat and he stopped to rest after each pull. Dawn was standing on the front of the Boston Whaler with a hand on her pistol, scanning the surface of the water and the opposite tree line.