by Robin Caroll
The sun descended behind the tips of the cypress trees surrounding the road to the intercoastal port. A hint of rain hung in the air.
Jackson whipped into the parking lot for the port employees and then made clean strides toward the men loitering around the dock.
Jackson kept track of each man’s movements in his peripheral vision. The crew had accepted Burl’s announcement of Jackson’s temporary employment. No one seemed put out by his presence. Yet he could sense some leeriness lurking in a couple of the men’s eyes. They watched him.
He’d gotten the rhythm of work flow quickly the last two shifts he’d worked. Trucks came in with loads to be shipped. Burl checked the paperwork, had the men open the crates and verified that the contents matched the listing in the bill of lading, then signed off on it. The men resealed the crates and loaded them on the boats designated. Pretty straightforward and routine. But Jackson kept track of every man’s actions.
Another 18-wheeler backed up in a slot, its engine rumbling and smokestack polluting the air with exhaust. The foglike atmosphere blocked out the truck’s logo on the side of the rig.
“Come help me with this one, Dawson,” Burl ordered.
The young man dogging Burl’s heels tossed off his work gloves and shuffled after the night manager. Burl turned and added, “You, too, Jax.”
Jackson nodded to the man he’d been resealing crates with—Corey?—and followed the two men to the truck. The man Burl had addressed as Dawson stared at Jackson queerly. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
Great, just what he needed—to be recognized. Although he’d kept a pretty low profile since arriving in Lagniappe, this character might have seen him with Bubba. That wouldn’t be good. “I don’t think so. I’m from N’Awlins.”
“Huh. You just look a little familiar.”
Jackson turned away from Dawson.
The balding driver handed the paperwork to Burl. “Let’s get this one done quickly. I’ve got a deadline to meet.”
Dawson reached for the trailer’s handle. At the driver’s words, he stopped. He dropped his hands to his side and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Why wouldn’t he open the doors and get busy?
Burl gave a curt jerk of his head. “Never mind, Jax. Dawson and I can handle this one ourselves.”
What? The driver said he had a deadline. Two men working would be much faster than one. And just in the short period of his observations, he’d never call Dawson the quickest worker on the dock. Too slight and lacking in the muscles department to be much of an asset.
“Go on back to helping Corey.” Burl’s tone left no room for argument.
Jackson snuck a quick glance over the manager’s shoulder before turning and heading back to the ship end of the port. He’d seen just enough of the bill of lading to confirm his suspicions that everything wasn’t on the up-and-up.
Burl’s signature was scrawled across the bottom of the bill. Yet he hadn’t opened or inspected a single crate.
Back beside Corey, Jackson decided to take a risk. “Guess he just wanted me to walk across the dock for him,” he muttered to his coworker.
Corey, with his smooth ebony skin, glanced over to the truck’s slot. “Don’t worry ’bout that, man. It’s from the rice plant.”
“So?”
“So, that’s one of them shipments only Burl and Dawson inspect.”
“Why’s that?”
“I guess the owner only trusts them to do it right.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t do for us flunkies to mess up their precious rice cargo.”
Very, very fascinating.
He needed a better look at that bill of lading. As he helped Corey load flats of crates to a ship, he kept glancing at Burl. The manager helped Dawson slip the truck’s crates toward the ship docked next to the one where Jackson worked. First time he’d seen Burl do any physical work all night.
“Whew!” Corey said as he wiped his brow when they’d stored the last crate. “We can take a short break until the next truck comes.” The tall black man’s muscles rippled under his insulated undershirt.
“Should we help Burl and Dawson?” Jackson gestured toward the adjacent ship.
“No. I told you, they handle some shipments alone.”
Jackson kept sneaking glances at Burl.
The men finished storing the crates. Dawson ambled back to the dock, while Burl locked and secured the ship, which he hadn’t done for any of the other ships’ cargos. Burl strode up to the clipboards where all the nightly bills were kept, slipped the paper to the bottom of the stack—not common procedure—then turned and headed to the truck.
Frank, standing near the paperwork, nodded discreetly to Jackson.
Now or never.
“I’m gonna run and use the facilities. I think I drank too much coffee,” Jackson chuckled.
“Run on in, man. Burl’ll be back in a few and will get us bustin’ again.”
Jackson forced his steps to be slow and steady when he really wanted to run and yank the clipboard off its rusty nail. He’d reached the end of the plank before Burl hollered at him.
“Where’re ya goin’, Jax?”
“Men’s room. One too many coffees.” He gave a forced laugh, hoping it sounded more casual to his boss than to his own ears.
“Hop to it. I need you to help load Steven’s ship.”
“Yes, sir.” At the door to the office, he took a quick glance over his shoulder.
Burl stared at him from the end of the gangplank.
Jackson opened the door and stepped inside. He could grab his copies quickly, sure, but Burl might check up on him any second. He made his way down the hall to the men’s room, forming a mental plan of attack. In the restroom he checked his BlackBerry for messages before washing his hands. He opened the door to find Burl filling the hallway.
“Sorry,” Jackson said as he maneuvered around the manager.
“Didn’t need to come here until you said something,” Burl grumbled under his breath before shutting the door behind him.
His chance. Now.
Jackson snatched the copies and shoved them into his jacket, then trotted out of the office. His gaze darted about as he strode down the gangplank. Not a single man paid him any attention.
He grabbed the clipboard and flipped to the last page to stare at the bill of lading from the rice plant truck.
The paper reflected nothing but shipments of rice, scheduled to ship out of the port at four in the morning. Nothing unusual about that.
Jackson scanned the top of the bill, reflecting the shipper’s name and address, the recipient’s information, the date. And the shipment number—1022.
A four-digit code.
Just like the numbers scrawled on the pieces of cloth they’d found in the bayou.
FOURTEEN
Momee and Papa laughed softly in the front seat, their voices mingling to soothe her. Darkness surrounded the vehicle careening down the road to Lagniappe. She shifted to rest her head against the side window. Going to pick up her sisters. So tired from the interviews Momee had let her tag along to. Momee was so proud she wanted to go into journalism…following in Momee’s line of work.
“What is that?” Papa exclaimed.
“Don’t slow down, Robert.” Momee’s panicked tone heaved her upright.
Headlights pierced the shadows of the front windshield.
“They’re coming straight for us.”
“Don’t stop the car.”
Papa’s face turned white in the glow of the console lights. “I have to, Claire, or we’ll hit them head-on.”
The car shuddered to a stop on the shoulder.
Momee glanced in the backseat. “It’s okay, ma chère. Just sit tight. Keep your seat belt on.”
She sat still, her stare not missing a thing in the front seat. Her hands trembled. She’d never seen Momee and Papa so anxious.
“They’re coming straight for us, Claire.”
“Do somet
hing, Robert!” Momee screamed.
Something cracked against the front windshield, shattering the glass. A ball of fire burst inside the car.
“They’re going to kill us,” Papa cried.
Metal crunched against metal.
The car spun around—almost in slow motion. She could make out the line of the trees and a big truck idling on the other side of the road. Colors blurred, blending together to form one big palette.
Round and round.
Flames licked the dashboard.
Momee screamed. Papa’s hands gripped the steering wheel.
Another crash against the car. Metal ground.
Glass hit her face. Hot, searing pain under her lip.
Darkness.
Merciful darkness.
Alyssa bolted upright in the bed. Sweat coated her skin. Her hair plastered to her head. Her heart raced, pumping adrenaline through her veins. Every muscle was tensed and coiled. Her breath came in pants and gasps.
The dream again. Only, this time…this time her nightmare started in a place it never had previously. Before the crash. What did the timing mean?
Surrealism at its best.
She massaged the pounding of her temples and kicked her legs free of tangled sheets. Fighting to bring the dream into focus, she stumbled to the bathroom. The cold water splashed against her face helped clear her mind.
Staring at herself in the mirror, Alyssa organized the sequence of the dream.
The crash hadn’t been an accident!
She ran back to her room, threw on a robe and flew down the stairs, nearly tripping in her haste. The rich aroma of coffee seeped into the hallway. Yes! CoCo would be up. Alyssa’s heart thudded again, making every nerve tingle.
The uplifting yellow kitchen stood empty. Where could her sister be?
The bayou.
Shoving her feet into a pair of boots at the back door, Alyssa ran outside, toward where CoCo banked her airboat.
No boat, no CoCo. Not even a ripple in the murky water.
She had to tell somebody. Now. While the events remained fresh in her mind.
“Alyssa, ma chère, what are you doing out in your robe and those boots?”
She spun to face her grandmother, standing in the doorway of her work shed.
Yes! Someone who’d understand. She rushed to Grandmere’s side. “I—I had…a dream. A-a-about the accident. Only…it wasn’t an accident.” Her words were as jumbled as her thoughts.
“Calm down, child.” Grandmere wrapped a bony arm around Alyssa’s shoulders. “Take it slow, chère. Catch your breath.”
Her grandmother steered her into the shed and gently pushed her into a chair at the old wooden table. She thrust a glass of water into Alyssa’s trembling hands. “Drink.”
The glass shimmied against her teeth. Chills raced up and down her spine. She knew. She knew.
A hum rumbled from the bayou.
Grandmere glanced out the window. “Your sister’s back from her morning run.”
Good. She could tell both Grandmere and CoCo at the same time. She took another sip of the water. The liquid gurgled down to her stomach.
The drone of the boat’s fan silenced. CoCo’s cheerful voice drifted in the air. “Good morning, Grandmere.”
“Come here, ma chère. Alyssa’s here.”
CoCo’s lithe form filled the doorway. She took one glance at Alyssa and moved to kneel in front of her. “Al, what’s wrong?”
Alyssa took a deep breath. She had to get the memory out without stammering. “I had a dream. About the accident.”
“Oh, Boo, I’m sorry.”
“No.” She took another sip of water. “It was more than a dream. A memory.”
“That’s only natural, honey.” CoCo clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Being back here—it probably brought up bad memories.”
“Listen to me.” She set the glass on the table with a jerk. Water sloshed over the rim. “I’ve had nightmares about the accident ever since it happened. This time was different. This time I remembered what happened before the crash.”
Grandmere lowered herself into the other chair. “What, chère?”
“It wasn’t an accident! I remember.” She fought to even out her tone. “I remember being so sleepy in the backseat. Momee and Papa were laughing softly. Someone in another vehicle headed straight for us. Momee warned Papa not to stop. He said he had to, or we’d hit them head-on.”
She focused on Grandmere’s ashen face. “Something hit the windshield, which caused the fire. Papa tried to grab for me. Then something hit the car and spun us.” She took a deep breath, her voice hiccuping. “Then the hot metal hit me, and everything went black.” Alyssa rubbed her scar. The mark burned at the retelling.
“It’s only a cauchemar.” CoCo shook her head and stared at her with sympathy oozing from her eyes.
“No, it’s not just a dream. It was real. I remember!”
CoCo let out a soft sigh before glancing at Grandmere.
Their grandmother wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I’ll consult the spirits and see, ma chère.”
No! No! No!
“Grandmere—” CoCo started, but Alyssa interrupted.
She jumped up, knocking over the chair. “That’s all hocus-pocus, Grandmere. Smoke and mirrors.” She banged her fist into her palm. “My dream was real. A memory.”
“It was a nightmare, Al. A very bad one, that’s all.”
“It happened,” Alyssa said through clenched teeth.
“No, sweetie. It’s just your imagination in your subconscious.”
“No, it’s not. You don’t know, CoCo. You weren’t there. I was. And this is real.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “You might not be able to accept it, but I know the truth.”
Fire flashed in CoCo’s eyes. “What exactly are you saying?”
Alyssa pressed her back against the wall. “Momee and Papa didn’t die in an accident. Make no mistake about it—someone murdered our parents. Deliberately and in cold blood.”
Burl studied him like a fisherman watches a bobber.
Jackson finished his shift and loitered around the dock with the other workers. Unlike him, they kept a case of beer on ice in the back of their trucks. Several offered him a can, but he refused. Corey stared at him as if he’d just announced he came from Mars.
“You don’t wanna drink, man?”
“I gave up drinking.”
“What for?” Burl asked.
Jackson cut his gaze to the foreman. “Because I had a problem with it. I got stupid. I didn’t know when to quit.” He swallowed the rest of the truth.
“Ah, got busted and had to do rehab, huh?” Frank asked.
“Not exactly.” More like, Bubba had saved his sorry self from a life of destruction.
Slipping into his truck, he offered up a prayer. He pulled into the hospital parking lot with his thoughts wandering to Alyssa. Where had she been all day? He’d tried to call her from the hospital before heading to the port, but got her voice mail. He’d left a message. When he’d phoned her house, her sister told him she wasn’t home. All day, thoughts of her plagued him. Just the little things. Her smile. Her eyes. Her caring for Bubba.
Why hadn’t she called back? Where’d she been all day?
He glanced at the digital clock’s display. Too late to call her now. Maybe she’d return his messages in the morning.
The hospital’s automatic doors whooshed open. Jackson stepped inside the cool foyer. No one sat behind the reception desk. He silently walked the hall to Bubba’s room, nodding at the sole nurse working on the computer at the nurses’ station.
“It’s past visiting hours, Mr. Devereaux,” she whispered.
“I’ll only stay a few minutes. Just want to check on him before I hit the hay.”
She smiled, winked and turned back to the computer.
He opened the door to Bubba’s room. The machines hooked up to his friend emitted reassuring beeps. Jackson took Bubba’s h
and, his skin cold and clammy.
Jackson paused as his mind wrapped around the facts he’d learned.
God, help me find who did this to him and bring them to justice.
He stared at Bubba and wanted justice. Something fierce. Sure, life wasn’t always fair, but this went beyond a promotion, raise or love.
“Pard, I sure wish you could open your eyes and give me some advice right now. I could use your insight.” He snapped the sheets around Bubba. “You’ve always been a great adviser, directing me to Scripture to get my answer.” He blinked away hot tears. “I’m praying for you. Praying for a miracle. Believing God will heal you.”
The nurse slid open the door. “Mr. Devereaux, you’ll have to leave now.”
He patted his friend’s hand, then leaned close to Bubba’s ear to whisper. “I’m working on finding out who did this to you. Don’t worry, I will expose those responsible.”
Every time he sat with Bubba, the urge to find the men who’d done this to his friend nearly strangled him. He had to put all the pieces together. So close.
Starting with the shipment numbers. Those were key. He knew it—could feel the connection, even if he couldn’t see one yet.
Once in his truck, he opened his BlackBerry and fired off a quick e-mail to his friend in the FBI.
ANY INFO GIVEN ON INTERCOASTAL PORT PAST ISSUES WOULD BE GREATLY APPRECIATED.
Jackson convinced himself he couldn’t sleep after working, so he took the long way back to Bubba’s house. Truth be told, he wanted to drive by the LeBlanc place. No reason for his actions. In the wee hours of the morning, everyone would be asleep. Yet something about the sadness in her voice when she’d shared the story about her scar had wrenched his heart.
But he’d detected more than sadness. He’d picked up on the pain and the guilt as well. While the urge to pry for more details pressed against him as oppressive as the humidity, the drive to comfort and help heal Alyssa tormented his spirit.
Accustomed to taking charge, swooping in and breaking a story to help fight for justice, Jackson couldn’t reconcile himself to not being able to help.