by Erik Carter
So Dale would get the information he needed out of the Grizzly, but he wouldn’t forget what the man stood for.
They approached Arancia, who was parked along the side street from where they’d launched the shopping cart. Dale had been worried about leaving her alone in this rough neighborhood. There were a couple guys eyeballing her as he and Percy approached. They walked away.
When they got to the car, Dale held the bag he’d gotten from the Grizzly up to the sky. It was still overcast, but there was plenty of light. There were crumbles in the bottom of the baggie, dust coating the interior surface.
Percy leaned over. “We’ll definitely be able to get something out of that residue, but even if the same chemical is present, it proves nothing, just that the drugs were in there. There might be some prints, but any number of the Grizzly’s people have touched and contaminated it.”
Dale noticed something. Markings at the top of the bag. “Wait a minute. There’s something here.”
The marks were small. Scratchy. But definitely deliberate.
Dale quickly unlocked Arancia’s door and popped the hood. Since a Pantera was a rear-engine machine, the trunk was in the front not the back. He found the black canvas bag he kept there and took out his magnifying glass.
Percy chuckled. “You bring that thing around with you? Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?”
Dale ignored him. He examined the marks under the glass. They were in the upper right-hand corner, a slash mark and a twisted G.
There was a similar marking at the bottom of the bag, a slash with a dot, in the lower right-hand corner.
“Jackpot!”
Dale’s eyes lit up. Seeing the markings made his inner historian go berserk. They were symbols of some sort. He had no doubt in his mind. And he recognized them—but he couldn’t recall from where.
He was bouncing with energy as he handed the magnifying glass to Percy. “Take a look at these marks.”
Percy squinted at the glass. “I don’t know. Could be part of the manufacturing process.”
“No, look how the plastic is melted a bit. Those marks have been put there after the fact, pressed in with a hot form.”
Percy nodded. “You’re right. I see the scoring. Just a hint of brown around the edges. And they look handwritten.” He handed the glass and bag back to Dale. “But this could be some random bag the dealer picked up. Those scratches aren’t a connection with Jesse James’ tainted drugs.”
“They are if we find more of those markings in the future.”
“And the historical connection? The reason you’re staying on this case?”
“Don’t you see? They’re not just markings. They’re symbols. The Grizzly just told us that Jesse James is going around New Orleans looking for symbols.” Dale tapped the corner of the bag. “And I know I’ve seen these symbols before. Somewhere …”
He looked to the ground, thinking deep and hard. Where the hell had he seen them?
Percy shoved his hands in his pockets, chewed his gum slowly, deliberately, assessing Dale for a moment. “Alright, Dale. A little longer. But we need to figure out if those really are historic symbols. You know who knows a few things about symbols?
“Who’s that?” Dale said with a measure of patience. He knew exactly who Percy was talking about. And it frustrated him that Percy was even mentioning the person.
“Al, of course.”
“Yes. Al Blair. Of course,” Dale said and rolled his eyes. “I don’t need Al’s help on this. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Chapter 8
The Grizzly pushed through the door and stepped onto the roof of the building. Rhino—his favorite guard, he of the massive arms and even more massive sideburns—followed him. There was a just a bit of chill to the air, and the Grizzly pulled his coat tighter.
He should have been furious. The two agents had come uninvited and torn his place all to hell. But they had guts. He admired that. And while he’d never been one to cooperate with the fuzz, he’d also never come across anyone like Jesse James—haunting the streets, killing silently. The Grizzly sure didn’t want to see people dying.
Especially potential clients.
He walked up to the edge of the building. Rhino stepped beside him. Below, he saw the two feds standing beside a bright orange sports car. Looked Italian.
“Nice ride,” Rhino said.
The Grizzly grunted.
The agents were in the middle of a conversation. Something serious. Analyzing the information and evidence that he’d given them, no doubt.
Rhino ran a hand across his chin, contemplating. “This is trouble.”
The Grizzly watched the agents for a few moments before he responded. Their intense conversation concluded and they got in the car. “You might be right.”
“Do you trust them?”
The car started, a roar from what must have been a massive engine.
“No, I don’t,” the Grizzly said as he watched the car disappear down the street. “That’s why you’re gonna follow them.
Chapter 9
Dylan Mercer sat at the small desk facing the window that looked toward the back side of his property where the pole barn sat. He was in the trailer’s master bedroom. Wood paneling covered the walls. Behind him was a queen-sized bed covered in a blue-and-white quilt Luanne’s mother had made. Beyond that was a dresser. It was twilight outside, and the scene before him was lit by a light pink sky. A phone receiver was pressed between Dylan’s ear and his shoulder, and as he listened to the voice on the other side, he watched the men parking their cars and entering his barn. Most had already arrived, but a few were trickling in. The guest of honor had yet to arrive. This troubled Dylan.
Mick Henderson had been speaking for a while now. Dylan had met him in person a few times, so he’d gotten a good feel for the man’s temperament—business-casual, slightly jovial, and never downbeat. But now there was palpable concern in Henderson’s voice. He was losing faith in the operation.
“And you can assure us that more will be delivered?” Henderson said in his Southern accent.
“Two hundred more pounds will be distributed tomorrow,” Dylan said. “Not a thing to be concerned about, Henderson. Our operation won’t be compromised because of one man’s incompetence. We have several more recruits. In fact, one is just about to be indoctrinated. I won’t let this fail because of Jesse Richter. He’s a good knight. He just needs to be reigned in.”
Henderson exhaled. “I’ll pass the info on to the other investors, but that’s not going to be enough to put their minds at ease. I’ve been asked to inform you that we’re meeting with you. Tomorrow.”
For a moment, Dylan couldn’t respond. This wasn’t the arrangement that had been agreed upon. The investors wanted to remain faceless. Unseen. Unknown.
Dylan took in a frustrated breath and fought the urge to lash out. He despised being told what to do. But he knew that the whole of the operation rested on the investors’ input. Their millions of dollars. They had him by the short hairs. So, like a subservient wretch, he managed to say, “Absolutely. In person?”
“That’s right,” Henderson said. “In person and in public.”
“If that’s what they want.”
“I’m getting nervous too, Dylan,” Henderson said, his tone darkening even more. “I don’t trust Jesse Richter. He’s jeopardizing our side venture.”
“I can handle Jesse. We only need him to find the last symbol in New Orleans. After that, we’re in the clear.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The other line went dead. Dylan hung up the phone.
Outside, a new vehicle arrived at the barn. A pickup truck. It came up beside the building—nearer to the door than the other vehicles—and stopped. Jesse Richter got out of the driver’s side and walked to the passenger door. He had a shit-eating grin on his face. He pulled another man from the passenger seat. Blindfolded. Hands tied behind his back. The man was blonde like Jesse. Jesse had chosen several blond
e recruits. More of his single-mindedness, the kind of simple thinking that was putting the whole operation in jeopardy.
Dylan got up from the desk. There was a chest in the corner of the room that he kept padlocked. He knelt down and unlocked it. Sitting on top of the pile within was a knight’s mask. He’d had the mask—and all the subsequent masks—crafted exactly as they were described in the historical document: topped with red and white feathers with a visor of metallic plates.
He stood up and held the mask in front of him. He ran a hand over the feathers, and a bemused smile came to his lips. It all seemed so theatrical, so over-the-top. But these Southern hillbillies ate it up. Being part of the organization, wearing the ridiculous outfit during nights like tonight—it gave the idiots a sense of purpose, a sense that they were part of something.
Dylan would happily provide it to them.
It was almost completely dark outside by the time Dylan approached the pole barn. He put his helmet on and pulled open the sliding door. There were about a dozen men, all dressed as he was: wearing chainmail and the helmets with red and white feathers. They were arranged in a semicircle, and a couple of the men held flaming torches, casting an eerie glow into the darkness of the barn, throwing shadows onto the walls. All of the knights’ swords were drawn and angled down into a convergence at the center of the semicircle. This is where the blindfolded man was, on his hands and knees, kneeling on a mass. He was shirtless now, and there were bloody spots all over him where the swords’ tips had pierced his skin. He shivered violently. His right hand was on a Bible. His left hand was directly on the mass beneath him.
The knights turned to look at Dylan. They kept there swords pointed at the shaking man.
Dylan walked toward the group. As he did, he could see Jesse Richter to the right. He was dressed identically to everyone else, of course, but Dylan knew it was him. He could tell it by the energy, the arrogance that was evident in his poise, his demeanor even when covered with twenty pounds of metal. Jesse was a problem. He was this operation’s greatest soldier—but he was also its greatest liability.
And, if Dylan didn’t control him, Jesse could very well be their undoing.
Dylan stopped when he reached the man on the ground. He drew his sword. It made a satisfying noise as it left his scabbard, like something from a movie. The sound made the man shake even more than he had been. Dylan leveled his sword at the man and nicked his chest with the razor-sharp tip. The man yelled out.
This made Dylan question the recruit’s resolve. If he was this frightened already, wait until he saw what he was kneeling on.
Dylan spoke. “Those who would pass here must face both fire and steel. Are you willing to do so?” They were the exact words that had been spoken so many years ago. Pulled directly from the document. Word for word.
The man was so frightened that Dylan could hardly hear his response. “I am.”
“And you solemnly swear to support this organization such that the South will rise again?
“I do.”
Dylan dropped his tone a bit, tried to be even more ominous. “The penalty for breaking this oath: quartering, your body cast out to the east, north, west, and south.” He paused. “The penalty is death.”
Dylan pulled the blindfold off the man, and someone in the back threw on the barn’s overhead lights, flooding the space with brightness. The man squinted.
The two knights on either side of the man released the his arms, and he looked down at what his hands had been resting upon. Under his right hand had been a Bible. Underneath his left hand was a face. The corpse of a black man. One of the victims of Dylan’s drugs.
The man shrieked. He scuttled away and saw what he had been kneeling on—the body of another black man.
The knights begin to chant.
“Death! Death! Death!”
The man continued to scream, his wails echoing off the barn walls.
Chapter 10
Dale pushed the empty bowl of jambalaya away across the table. He put a hand on his full stomach. Cajun food rocked.
The cuisine was enough of a reason to visit New Orleans, but there was so much more that Dale loved about the place. He wasn’t particularly keen on large cities, so it was odd that New Orleans had ended up as one of his favorite places. He had been there once before this assignment and knew then that he had to some day return. It had been truly a case of leaving one’s heart behind in a city. As opposed to other metropolises—which Dale respected but ultimately found somewhat repetitive—New Orleans had its own truly unique flair. In addition to the food, there was, of course, the French Quarter, which known largely for Mardi Gras, but was even more impressive for its architecture and culture. Then there was the music. Jazz weddings and funerals. And, of course, the history. Oh, there was history in New Orleans.
In fact, the entire region was bursting with history. Pensacola—the easternmost city affected by the drugs he and Percy were chasing—was America’s first European settlement. Though the city of St. Augustine—farther east in Florida—was the oldest continuously inhabited European-based settlement in the U.S., Spanish explorer Tristán de Luna founded a settlement in Pensacola six years earlier in 1559.
The area where Dale had found himself marooned for the last couple weeks—the Gulf South—was a historian’s dream come true. Plus, there were beautiful beaches. He hadn’t had an opportunity to get to one, but he was hoping they might be able to squeeze in half an hour at some point. History, beaches, warm weather—basically, there weren’t many better places for Dale to find himself trapped.
But he knew that if he didn’t soon come up with some solid evidence that this case was worthy of the BEI’s involvement, Percy was indeed going to use the reciprocity clause and take control. Dale couldn’t let that happen. Their meeting with the Grizzly had cemented in Dale’s mind that this case had a historical connection. He just had to find a way to prove it to Percy. The key lie with the symbols. If he could find a way to prove that the symbols were linked to the drugs and that they were historical in nature, Percy would have to believe him.
Now he just had to figure out how to do that.
He was with Percy at a restaurant, right on the edge of the Mississippi River. The heat had disappeared into the night making the humidity more bearable. They sat at a red picnic table in an outdoor seating area. Lights dangled above, casting the area in a warm glow. There were the sounds of people dining, nighttime insects, and the horns of the riverboats on the water. Sitting beside Percy, to his left, was his seven-year-old daughter, Jeanne. He had his arm behind her. Percy’s son Ervin was nowhere to be seen. On his right was his wife Bonita. She was in her mid-forties, like Percy, with gray streaks in her hair and a kind, strong face with a casual beauty.
Percy’s family had been in the city for the last week. It proved to be the only chance that year to get the whole family together. They’d been meeting when they could, at night when Percy and Dale tried to give their minds a bit of a reprieve before delving back into the mystery of violent drug deaths and faceless villainy once again.
Now, though, it was time for the family to leave. They were heading back to D.C. the next morning.
Bonita gave Dale a playful scowl. “Three times in as many years you pull my husband away from his family. We have to move to Houston to get some peace and quiet away from you, Dale Conley.”
Dale grabbed a miniature cornbread muffin from the bowl in the center of the table and popped it into his mouth. “Don’t worry. I won’t take it personally.”
Percy leaned toward his wife. “So I never think I’ve seen Dale squirm as much as I did today.”
“Oh yeah?” Bonita said with a coy smile. “How’s that?”
“I told him we need to bring in Al to help with this case.”
Bonita’s eyes went wide. “Wait, Al? The Al?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Well, now,” Bonita said, staring into Dale with a grin.
“Don’t look at me like that. The pas
t is the past.” He scanned his surroundings, looking for a way to change the subject. “Where’d Ervin run off to?”
It had been a good fifteen minutes since they’d seen him.
Percy stood up and looked over the area. He pointed. “There he is.”
Dale turned around. Ervin was sitting at one of the benches along the sidewalk that lined the river. Dale could see just the back of him, the shape of his massive Afro. He was slouched back, hands in his pockets.
“Mr. Cool,” Percy said. “Doesn’t have time for his family.” He yelled out. “Erv! Come on over and be sociable.”
Ervin looked back at them then reluctantly pulled himself up.
Percy shook his head. “And for dessert, how about a little attitude?”
Ervin approached the table. He wore a light yellow butterfly-collar shirt and brown, plaid, flared pants. He was thin in the way only a young man in his late teens could be. He had a mustache, scraggly and sparse. “What’s going on, Pops?”
“We’re thinking about ordering some banana pudding,” Percy said. “House specialty. Want some?”
“Not hungry. Thanks.”
Percy breathed in, sighed. He gestured at Dale. “I’m sure Mr. Conley would like to see you before you take off tomorrow.”
Ervin slowly turned to Dale, looking down at him from his standing position. “I’m sure he would. Lock anyone up for smoking reefer today? Another government clown like my old man.”