Fortunate Son

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Stop it, you two,” Savannah broke in. She turned to Mick. “It’s okay, baby. We’re all friends here.”

  “He doesn’t seem all that friendly to me,” Mick said.

  “I’m not,” Cully said. “I’m what you might call the opposite of friendly. Savannah, you can stay.” He looked at Keith, then bent down to regard Lana who was still seated in the vehicle. “These two. Okay.” He glared at Mick. “This one, no. Sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too, Cully,” Savannah said with an ingratiating smile. “But we’re kind of a package deal. These are my sons. I’m not picking one over the other.”

  Cully’s lack of affect was sending warning shivers up and down Keith’s spine. The pale man looked around the cavernous space, his eyes not coming to rest on any of them. “Fine,” he said at last. “All of you. But no guns in my house. And no phones.”

  Savannah spoke up before Mick could. “Okay.” She turned to the three of them. “All guns in the car. And all phones. Trust me. It’s the only way.”

  Keith thought for a moment that Mick might rebel, but their mother’s influence won out in the end. He nodded sullenly.

  “Follow me,” she said. She opened a door leading out of the garage. They followed, Mick falling in behind her, Lana climbing out of the backseat and flashing a smile at Cully, which was completely ignored, then Keith, who slid his way around the hood in the narrow confines of the garage and fell in behind them.

  The door out of the garage led to a flagstone walkway that wound its way to the main house. All the windows of the house were dark, save the one at the end of the walk. Keith stole a glance back to where Cully was locking the door to the carriage house. They were cut off from weapons and communication, totally dependent on a man who gave Keith the creeps. He wanted more than anything in the world for this nightmare to end, to be back in North Carolina with the people who had raised him.

  He wanted to be Tyler again. Being Keith was terrifying.

  THE BLACK bag they’d pulled back over his head did strange things to Winslow’s sense of time. He couldn’t tell how long they’d been driving. They hadn’t bothered to bind his hands or feet as he sat in the front passenger seat, but he could hear that there were at least two men in the seats behind him, presumably armed. There was no way to fight them and live. He had no doubt they were taking him somewhere to kill him, somewhere away from Gutierrez where his body could be dumped. One of the men in back murmured something to the driver and the SUV slowed, shuddering and bumping as they drove over the rough shoulder. When the car stopped, someone reached from the back and pulled the hood from his head. A voice came from behind him. “Get out.”

  This is it, he thought. He considered threatening them, reminding them of the shit-storm that would come down on them for murdering a federal agent. He considered bargaining. He considered pleading. All of those alternatives raced through his mind as he got out. In the instant that he thought of each one, he knew it would be futile.

  The night was deep black and starless. There were no lighted houses or streetlights nearby. The only illumination was the cone of hard white light thrown off by the high beams of the SUV. He could smell the water before he saw it, the low, razor-straight banks of a canal at his feet. He nearly stumbled into it before he stopped. Someone was getting out of the back, the door blocking his view. He moved before the plan was even fully formed in his mind, lunging forward toward the black water. One of the men behind him yelled as he ran into water up to his knees. Winslow raised his arms, took a deep breath and dove, as flat and as far as he could. He heard the report of a gunshot, then another. Something burning blazed a trail along his back and he ducked under, swimming in blind animal panic as hard as he could for the bottom. He heard the zip-zip of bullets hitting the water. He couldn’t seem to make his right arm obey him. Using his left arm and his legs, he pushed through the water. His waterlogged suit pants were dragging him down. The air in his lungs was getting stale and he fought the urge to breathe until it became unbearable and he pulled frantically for the surface. Breaking the surface with a gasp, he took a deep breath and dove again. He realized that he’d been struggling against a strong current, one that would carry him downstream and away from the gunmen if he let it. He changed direction and let the water do the work. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving him feeling weak and shaky. This time, when he surfaced, he did it slowly. He paused, gently treading water with arms and legs that were turning increasingly heavy. He saw the headlights of the SUV. The car was far behind him, but he could hear the shouting of the gunmen coming up the bank as they searched for him. The beam of a powerful flashlight played across the water, but came nowhere near. Then he saw the dark shape moving toward him through the water.

  Alligator, his mind blared. He nearly cried out in panic, but instead inhaled a gulp of foul tasting water. He choked and spewed it out, gagging and coughing. The dark shape was moving closer and closer. It seemed to grow huge as it approached. He kicked out blindly at it, expecting at any time to feel the agony of serrated knifelike teeth in his flesh. His foot struck something hard and unyielding and the evil black shape veered away slightly before resuming its course toward him. He kicked at it again. It swung away, then back toward him. With a quickly stifled laugh of hysterical relief, he realized he was kicking a floating log. He glanced back down the river and saw with alarm that the SUV was now moving slowly down the road parallel to the canal, the flashlight probing the darkness on the surface. Reaching out with his left arm, he snagged a protruding branch and got the log between him and the car, ducking his head behind it. He tried to reach up again with his right, but it was still numb and useless. I’ve been hit, he thought. The weakness and light-headedness he was feeling was more than exhaustion. He was losing blood, and fast. He could hear the SUV slowing, and suddenly the flashlight beam shone over the top of the log. Winslow held his breath and dove.

  THE LIVING ROOM of the old house was enormous, with dusty and frayed furniture forming au-shaped conversation space around a large fireplace with cobwebs in it. It looked as though it hadn’t seen a flame in decades. The only illumination was a Tiffany lamp that Cully switched on as they entered. The old and dusty lamp cast a dim light and left the rest of the room in darkness. “Wait here,” Cully said, and disappeared through a swinging door.

  “Mama,” Keith said as he took a seat on the ragged sofa, “who is that guy? How do you know him?”

  She picked up a pile of old magazines sitting in one of the east chairs and put it down on the floor before taking a seat. “He’s someone I met through Charleyboy. He’s from old New Orleans money. Some kind of trust-fund baby. He’s supposed to be a genius. He was first in his class at Tulane. Then his parents died and left him this place. He’s been living alone here ever since.”

  “What the hell’s the matter with him?” Lana demanded.

  Savannah glared at her. “Just because someone’s a little different doesn’t mean something’s the matter with them, honey.”

  “My name’s Lana, not ‘honey,’” the younger woman snapped back. “And I don’t think something’s the matter with him because he’s a little different. I think something’s the matter with him because he’s fucking creepy.”

  “Cut it out, Lana,” Mick said. He turned to Savannah. “Why are we here?”

  Keith noticed that Savannah had trouble meeting his eyes. “Like I said. Cully’s got more than money. He knows people. He can get things.”

  “Like what?” Keith asked.

  Savannah’s voice took on an edge and she glanced at Mick. “Like a car that every cop in three states isn’t looking for, for one thing.”

  “I ain’t givin’ up my car,” Mick said.

  “You should have thought of that before you shot a police officer,” Savannah said. “You go out of here in that car, they’ll catch you. They’ll probably kill you, because that’s what cops do to people who shoot other cops. My god, son, what the hell were you thinking?” her voice had risen to a
shout.

  Mick slammed his hand down on the arm of the couch. “He drew on me first!” he shouted back.

  “Please,” Keith begged, “stop fighting.”

  Cully entered the room. “Okay. Security system’s armed. Nobody can get in. Let’s talk.”

  “We need a car, Cully,” Savannah said, “and we need a way out of town, fast.”

  “I know. I saw the news. Your idiot son over there shot a cop.”

  Mick sprang to his feet. “I don’t have to take this shit.”

  Cully didn’t raise his voice. “You want my help, cowboy, you’ll take any shit I give you, and you’ll thank me for it while you ask for more.”

  “Cully, please,” Savannah begged. “Mick, calm down.”

  “Like hell.” Mick grabbed a rusty poker from a rack next to the fireplace. Cully reached behind him, into the waistband of his slacks. His hand came back holding a black semi-automatic pistol.

  Savannah leaped up and interposed herself between them. “Stop it!” Cully’s gun never wavered. Savannah turned back to Mick. “Put that down,” she ordered. “And apologize.”

  Mick’s eyes widened in amazement. “Apologize?”

  “Yes. Apologize. We’re guests here.” She stared into his eyes for a moment, her own gaze locked with his. After a moment, Keith saw Mick’s face crumple and his eyes fill with tears. “Why are you doin’ me like this, Mama? After all I’ve done to bring us together?”

  Her voice was soft. “Because I’ll do anything in this world to protect you.” She looked at Keith. “Anything.” She turned to Cully. “I can get some money. And I know they have some. But please, Cully, help us. I know you and Charleyboy are friends. And I hope we are.”

  Cully looked at her with that unnerving stare, then put the gun back. “I need to make some phone calls,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do. And then I’ll tell you the price.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He nodded. “In the meantime, bedrooms are upstairs. I’ll show you the guest rooms.”

  Lana spoke up from the other easy chair. “Hey. You think you can get me somethin’ for pain? I got a bad back.” Apparently, she was willing to put aside her earlier distaste. At least if it meant access to her “medicine.”

  For the first time, the ghost of a smile played across Cully’s lips. “Bad back, eh? What do you need? I got oxycodone, hydrocodone, codeine, fentanyl…”

  Lana’s eyes were bright. “Cully, I think we may end up being friends after all.”

  Savannah didn’t like the look that passed between them. This was not the refuge she’d hoped for.

  THE SUN wasn’t up yet when Lionel Hebert pulled up outside his cousin Remy’s house, but the lights were on inside. He picked up the brown paper bag from the passenger seat of his Ford pickup and walked to the door. Remy opened it as he approached. “I got ham biscuits,” Lionel said, holding out the bag. “Want one?”

  Remy shook his head. “Let’s get on the way first. You got the beers?”

  Lionel nodded toward the rear of the truck. “In the cooler.”

  “Aiight.” Remy was never talkative, and even less so in the morning. It was one of the things that made him Lionel’s favorite fishing companion. With the efficiency of long practice, they hooked Remy’s bass boat to the back of the truck and headed out into the dark.

  “I figured we’d try Lake Lery today.” Lionel took a bite of his biscuit. Remy nodded and took a bite of his, washing it down with a swallow of Abita from the cooler.

  A few miles down the highway, they found a place to put in. It took a couple of tries to get Remy’s temperamental outboard motor started, but after a few minutes, they were heading up the channel towards the lake. Remy sat in the front of the boat and cracked open another beer as Lionel steered. He was humming to himself. It was supposed to be a beautiful morning. Fishing poles, a cooler full of beer, and good company. What more can a fellow ask for, he thought. Suddenly, Remy sat up straighter.

  “What?” Lionel said. Remy pointed. The sun was barely a sliver on the horizon, but Lionel could make out something white on the bank. “Is that…” He trailed off. Remy shrugged. With an anxious feeling creeping up his spine, Lionel brought the boat nearer. “Oh shit,” he said. It was definitely a body. As they reached shallow water, Remy jumped out and waded to it. “He dead?” Lionel called out.

  Remy was kneeling by the man. He shook his head. “Still breathin’. He been shot, though.”

  “Goddamn it,” Lionel muttered. “And this is my only day off, too.”

  “SO THAT’S it?” Chance said. “You’re going to just give up and go home?”

  They were seated at a booth in a diner in the Quarter. The place was mostly empty except for the two of them and a quartet of bleary-eyed frat boys dressed in stained Loyola t-shirts, necks festooned with beads. They looked tired but perfectly willing to carry last night’s debauchery into the light of another day.

  Wyatt stared into his coffee cup. “I don’t know what else to do. Your lieutenant pretty well shut me down.” He drained the last dregs of the cup and sighed. He’d never been so tired in his life.

  The waitress arrived with their plates, pancakes and sausages for Wyatt, eggs, bacon, and toast for Chance. Now that he’d gotten his food, Wyatt found he’d lost his appetite. “So what are you going to do?”

  She shrugged and picked up her fork. “Not sure. Maybe contact DEA, see if I can help them find Winslow.”

  “You think they’ll listen to you?”

  “I don’t know. But I need to do something.”

  Wyatt was momentarily distracted by a ragged whoop of joy that went up from the table of frat boys. The waitress had brought a tray of beers. A man in a dress shirt and tie, probably the manager, followed behind with another tray with shots of amber liquid. Each of the boys seized a bottle and they all clinked them together in the middle of the table.

  Chance shook her head. “Got to admire their stamina.” She saw the look on Wyatt’s face and frowned. “You want a drink?”

  He licked his lips. “Yeah.” He rubbed his hand down his face and tore his eyes away. “But I’m not twenty years old anymore.”

  She was looking at him appraisingly. “You want one, don’t let me stop you.”

  “No. No, I’m good.”

  She nodded and went back to her breakfast. The waitress came back and refilled Wyatt’s coffee. She looked at the untouched food. “Somethin’ wrong with your breakfast, hon?”

  “No.” He said. “It’s fine.” He picked up his fork and took a bite of sausage. He blinked in surprise. It had a slightly spicy but full and complex flavor that was like nothing he’d had before.

  The waitress smiled. “You never had andouille, have ya?”

  “Is that what this is? It’s great.”

  “Yeah, it is. Enjoy.” She walked away.

  Chance was smiling. “Long as you’re down here, you ought to stay for a while. Try some more of the food. You just about can’t get a bad meal in New Orleans.” Her phone buzzed and she fished it out of her purse. She looked at the screen, then pressed the button and put the phone to her ear. “Hey, Delphine.” She listened for a moment as Wyatt continued to eat, his appetite restored. “Thanks, I appreciate it.” The next thing she heard made her sit up straight, her eyes widening. Wyatt stopped eating and listened to her end of the conversation. “You sure? They know it’s him? How bad? Okay. Where’d they take him? Thanks, girl. I owe you big time.” She put down the phone. “Sorry to interrupt your meal. But two fishermen pulled Winslow out of a canal down near Delacroix this morning.”

  Wyatt got up and reached for his wallet to pay the check. “Dead?”

  She shook her head. “Wounded. Half drowned. But alive. He’s at the trauma unit at University Medical Center. I can get a cab if you want to get back to the hotel.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m coming with you.” He motioned for the check.

  CASPAR GUTIERREZ LOOKED down at the man tied to the ch
air, the bloody wreck that was all that remained of Angus Charlebois. He shook his head. “You must love her very much,” he said.

  Charleyboy’s head lolled to one side and he looked at Gutierrez with his one remaining eye. He tried to say something, but all that came out was a bubbling wheeze. He’d given up all the information he had about Wallace Luther and his operations almost immediately, and Gutierrez had already taken action on that information. His men were fanning out across Southern Louisiana to hit the targets Charleyboy had identified. But he’d stubbornly clung to the story that it had been he, not Savannah, who’d gone to the DEA, he who’d arranged for the wire they’d found in the house.

  Gutierrez squatted down beside the chair. “I don’t understand you, Charleyboy. She betrayed you. She betrayed both of us. And yet you try to protect her.” He stood up. “But you see, I know it was her. I have other sources.” He grimaced with distaste as he saw that he’d gotten blood on his shoes. He really liked those shoes, and now they were ruined. Despite his irritation, he kept his voice even and reasonable. “So, while you may think that this is an interrogation, it’s not. It ceased to be that a few hours ago. No, Charleyboy, this is punishment. Punishment for lying to me. And it will only stop when you tell the truth.” He gestured to the man standing by a table covered with tools.

  The man picked up a short-handled hammer in one hand and a wicked-looking iron spike in the other. Tied as he was, Charleyboy couldn’t see him, but he could hear the slow tread of boots as the man advanced, slowly so as to increase the anticipation and terror. He whimpered like the terrified animal he’d become. “You think I’m bluffing, don’t you? You think I’m only pretending to know more than I do to get you to confess. Well, that’s unfortunate.” He looked at the man with the hammer and spike and nodded. “Again.”

  THE HOSPITAL staff wasn’t inclined to cooperate with non-family members. Chance had to flash her badge and bully the woman at the desk to find out where Winslow was. As they got on the elevator, Wyatt said, “I thought you were supposed to turn that badge in.”