by Erik Carter
He hated the car. And he hated that he hadn’t been able to get anything better in over a decade. Coming to Florida had been an escape after he lost his job at Eli Lily pharmaceutical company in Indianapolis. They’d screwed him, not giving him even a chance to repair the damage he had done, leaving him overqualified for anything but a shit job and underqualified for any new career of substance. A master’s degree and nothing to do with it. His family in Indiana was worthless white trash, and he had nothing tying him to the area. But he had a buddy in Pensacola, Florida. What better place to restart. Beaches. Winters free of snow and ice. His buddy had been a family friend, so when he got to Pensacola, he found himself falling into the same circles that he had tried so hard to escape in Indiana by educating himself, pursuing a career, wearing the right clothes, acting the right way. He was back to slum bars. He was back to wasted days sitting in lawn chairs, staring at a backyard, discussing worthless nonsense with worthless people and getting nowhere. And the people he found himself with in Florida were even worse than those in Indiana. When he was in Pensacola, the people were fine. But the people he was hanging around weren’t in the city. They were north of that. In the trees. Good ol’ boys. Dylan hated Southerners. He hated their accent. He hated their demeanor. And he hated that he found himself in a de facto situation of being required to spend time with them. He’d been at the pinnacle with his job and his education. Living in a metropolis. With a big degree and a big title and big responsibilities.
And yet here he was, somehow married to a backwoods idiot who shit out two of his kids, one of them a goddamn weakling.
He looked at Luanne now, sitting beside him in the passenger seat. She’d gained a few pounds and several wrinkles, but she was still decent looking. That was, of course, why he’d dated her in the first place. She met his sexual needs, doing everything he wanted, even the weirder shit. She didn’t do it well, but she did it. All around, she was fairly helpful, and she was a decent cook. But she was meek and simple. And a Southerner.
In the back seat were his sons. Tyler was five years old, a little roughneck with a mischievous smile. Dylan’s little partner. Tyler had grown the back of his hair into a rattail, which Dylan didn’t like. It was a redneck hairstyle. But he’d allowed it. If Dylan was going to get out of this mess, he had to fit in with the Southerners. So letting his youngest grow out a rattail was a small sacrifice.
Hell, he already lived in a trailer.
Next to Tyler was eleven-year-old Caleb. His little sissy boy. Caleb liked to draw. He liked to watch cartoons instead of spending time outside. He had school friends that were girls but no girlfriends. He spent too much time with Luanne. And Luanne babied the shit out of him.
They were parked outside Pensacola Municipal Auditorium, a grand entertainment venue that brought world-famous acts to the city. Elvis had visited in the ’50s. It was built at the end of Palafox Street, right into the bay, surrounded on all sides by water. A drive wrapped all the way around the building, and it had numerous parking spots and a wide walkway with a fence that went right up the water’s edge, making it a popular spot for scenic views of the water. But Dylan’s purpose that night was altogether different. He kept watching the corner of the walkway where he was to meet the investors. People walked by—couples holding hands, families walking their dogs—but the other men had still not shown.
He’d been there in the car with his family for twenty minutes. The investors hadn’t given him a precise time. Dylan could tell that Luanne was getting antsy. She had that look on her face, the one she wore before she was about to whine. She was always bitching about something. “Can’t we go in some of the stores? It’s muggy. And the boys don’t get to come here often.”
“I said to stay put. It’s bad enough I gotta look like an imbecile bringing my family with me to something professional like this.” He looked through the windshield again to the corner where he was to meet the investors. They still hadn’t arrived.
“These boys gotta see the doctor,” Luanne said with a little laugh. “It’s only once a year.”
Dylan didn’t appreciate her tone—laughing at him—and he let her know by the look he gave her. The smartass grin on her face disappeared. She looked at her hands.
“You gonna buy us a second car, Luanne?” he said. “If we had one, none of this would be a problem. Unless you got some inheritance I’ve not heard about from that lovely family of yours, we’re stuck in this predicament. So stay in the car for a few minutes, and shut your goddamn mouth.”
“I’m sorry, baby. We ain’t going anywhere. I promise.” She put a hand on his knee.
Through the windshield, Dylan saw four men in suits approach the corner. He opened the door. “Stop saying ‘ain’t.’ You sound like a hillbilly.”
He left the car, shutting the door harder than he had to.
Dylan walked to the corner. The men watched him as he approached, standing beyond by the decorative fencing that traced the water’s edge. Four of them. All in their sixties and seventies. All native Southerners. All loaded with money. Three of them wore blank expressions. One of them—the fattest of them, the one with all-white hair—had a smug, condescending smile.
Dylan knew only one of their names. Mick Henderson. The one on the far right. He was in his early sixties, probably the youngest of the four. He was refined—in a back-slapping, hand-shaking kind of way. The sort of man who makes deals. Round cheeks. An extra chin. A hint of twinkle to his blue eyes. Dylan had met with him a couple times, and as he stepped closer to the group, the two of them exchanged a look for the briefest of moments. The other three had no idea of their connection and hadn’t expected anything when Henderson agreed to be the contact person between the investors and Dylan.
“We’re losing our faith in you, Mercer,” the fat one said.
“I know, and—”
“Word has it that the deaths are starting to get traced back to your organization,” said the small, frail-looking one with liver-spotted skin. “That your man Jesse James is gaining a reputation on the streets.”
“I’ve had a chat with Richter. He knows the price of his current actions.”
The fat one spoke again. “Nine months ago we get word of an out-of-work chemist from Indiana with a plan for those of means and a concern about the proliferation of the Negro population over the last one hundred years. You convinced us that you could control your group of simpletons who would join your age-old secret organization. Give them structure. A sense of purpose. Rankings. Uniforms. That you could then use them to distribute your deadly drugs. What you didn’t tell us was that you’d be so sloppy. That you’d let the rednecks you’ve contracted give us away.”
“We’re so close now to the final stage. You have my word that I’ll take care of this. I can reign in Jesse Richter.”
“And what is this I hear of symbols?” said the one with the beard. He had a raspy voice. “That you have Richter out looking for markings on trees and tombstones?”
“All part of the lore. The group was steeped in symbols and mythology. The more the hillbillies believe, the easier it is to control them,” Dylan said.
“You’d better hope you can control them, Mercer,” the fat one said. “For your own sake. We aren’t men you want to cross.”
Chapter 14
Luanne Mercer felt ashamed.
In her hand was the piece of paper she’d seen lodged in the gap beside the driver’s seat. Something about it had caught her eye. A marking. In blue ink. It wasn’t writing. It was a drawing, some sort of doodle. She wanted to know what it was. It wasn’t right, her taking this paper and examining it, but she had never known her husband to draw anything in the entire time they had been together. In fact, the thought of him doing anything artistic was laughable. So why was there a drawing on this paper?
Her eyes flicked up to the windshield again. She saw that her husband was still having his meeting with the four suited men. They stood by the fence along the walkway that overlooked the bay
. Their conversation looked serious.
She was being sneaky. She didn’t know what had come into her, choosing to grab this piece of paper that belonged to Dylan. And the more times she looked up to check if he was coming, the more it solidified her feeling that she was doing something wrong.
But she was going to do it anyway. Bizarre curiosity had grabbed her in a stranglehold, and Dylan hadn’t been treating her well lately. It was okay for her to look. Just a little.
She unfolded the paper. On it, in Dylan’s handwriting, was a list of locations. Beside the names were strange little drawings.
All the places on the list were in the region. They could very well be related to his work, but she couldn’t imagine why he’d have business in Marianna, of all places. It was a small city. Real small. And it was two hours to the east. Dylan had put a question mark next to its name on the list. New Orleans—which made much better sense as a business location—was three hours to the west. Naval Live Oaks was much closer, about fifteen minutes from Pensacola and half an hour from where Dylan and Luanne lived outside Cantonment. But unlike the other places, it wasn’t even a city. It was a park, part of the National Seashore. Each of the locations except New Orleans had one of the small drawings beside it. There was something slightly creepy about them. Almost sinister. They gave Luanne a disconcerted feeling.
She looked up again. Dylan’s meeting was dispersing, and he was heading toward the car. She folded the paper in half again and put it back against the driver’s seat.
Luanne got a better look at the men as they crossed beneath the glow of the lamps that were spaced around the walkway. She recognized one of the faces. Mick Henderson. A local developer. One of the wealthiest men in Pensacola.
She leaned forward. She had to be mistaken. Surely that wasn’t Mick Henderson. Why in the world would he have business with her husband, a man with a work-from-home position shipping pharmaceuticals?
But it was him. Clear as day. Mick Henderson.
“What is it, Momma?” Caleb said from the backseat.
Luanne sat back in her seat. “Nothing, honey.”
There was something going on with her husband lately. She could tell it in the way he’d been acting. And now there was the list of cities with the weird drawings—and the fact that he was meeting with someone as powerful as Mick Henderson.
Something very strange was happening.
Chapter 15
It was a towering ceiling, reaching up to a rounded point, half an oval, like the outline of the narrow end of an egg. It stretched down far on either side of Dale, a gigantic, geometric, chic hallway. The massive wall at the end was a latticework of weaving, angular designs which would have let in sunlight during the day but now showed black sky beyond. There was an enormous bank of lights suspended from the ceiling. Stores lined either side, and rows of cushioned seats zigzagged through the center.
Dale and Percy sat in these seats, and they looked out into the swarming mass of people crisscrossing the floors of New Orleans International Airport, watching for Dale’s contact. Sitting beside Percy, with a buffer space of a full five feet, was Ervin. He too was staring into the crowd. But he was glassy-eyed. Bored. Angry. His legs were crossed in front of him, and his hands were clasped behind his head, fingers buried in his Afro.
Dale leaned around Percy. “You like coming to airports, Erv?”
He didn’t respond.
“Gives you a chance to do some people watching,” Dale said. “You gotta wonder where all these people are going.”
“Yeah,” Ervin muttered without looking at him. “Fun stuff.”
Dale gave him a thumbs-up. “Okie dokie.”
He looked at Percy, who sighed.
Dale returned to searching the crowd for his contact. And there he was. Halfway down the hallway. The man was hard to miss, even among the varied, international mix of people surrounding them.
Dark red pants. Dark red shirt. Dark red, plastic-framed eyeglasses. An elegant yet awkward stride. Pompous but weird. His name was Marty Rhodes. He saw Dale and changed his trajectory, headed toward him.
Dale and Percy stood up, and Marty stopped in front of Dale. “Where are my peaches?”
His voice was lofty and tinged with melodrama, as though he was always taking life about ten percent too seriously.
“I’m afraid I don’t have them, Marty.”
“You said you’d bring me peaches, Dale. Last month. When you had that case in Atlanta. I asked you to bring me some fresh peaches, and, Dale, you said that you would. Do you remember?”
“I remember.”
“You forgot, Dale. And I didn’t get my peaches. I still don’t have my peaches.”
“There’s a fruit stand right down the street from the BEI office back in D.C. You can pick some up when you get back.”
“Oh, it’s not the same, and you know it’s not the same.” Marty paused and frowned. “I don’t like being forgotten.” His attention turned to Percy for the first time. “Who’s the stiff?”
“The stiff is Percy Gordon with the DEA,” Dale said and put his hand on Percy’s shoulder, guided him over. “Percy, meet Special Agent Marty Rhodes, one of my six associates at the BEI. One of the world’s foremost minds in the field of art theory and history. You can call him Arty Marty.”
“You’re the only one who calls me that, Dale. And you know I hate it.” Marty reached his hand out to Percy, halfheartedly. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
Percy, clearly objecting to being called a stiff, looked Marty up and down. “You like red, do you?”
Marty eyeballed him. He turned away before answering. “Maroon.”
“Who you callin’ a maroon?”
“The color,” Dale answered for him. “Marty is in his maroon period.”
Percy glanced over Marty’s clothes again, chewing his gum slowly. “Maroon. Not red?”
Marty didn’t reply, continued staring in the opposite direction.
“Marty ran through all the primary, secondary, and tertiary colors a long time ago,” Dale said. “He’s had to get more specific. Maroon, puce, taupe.” He looked at Marty. “This period’s been going on for, what, a few weeks now?”
Marty rolled his eyes. “Almost three months. Again, thanks for paying attention, Dale. You’re a true friend and associate. My periods are lengthy.”
Dale snickered. “Must be why you’re so salty.”
Percy broke a smile. “I bet an all-maroon outfit really comes in handy out in the field.”
Marty still ignored Percy.
“Actually,” Dale said, “Marty’s a master of disguise in the field. I go to him whenever I need undercover makeup. By the way, you need to work on that mustache adhesive.”
“You need to learn to apply it better,” Marty said.
“Touché.” Dale turned to Percy. “Marty and I end up combining our talents a lot. Art and history are intrinsically connected.”
“And you turn me into your research assistant whenever I’m not working a case,” Marty said, his voice diving even deeper into self-pity.
“Did you get me the Civil War documents I need?”
“Yes, Dale. The materials were on the jet with me. They’re already being chartered to the office you’re using.”
“Thank ya kindly.”
Good ol’ Arty Marty. Dale could always count on him.
“And I brought someone with me,” Marty said. A wicked smile crept from the corners of his mouth.
“Who?” Dale said.
But he already knew who Marty had brought. He knew why Marty was giving him a retributive grin.
A deep voice came from the crowd.
“Conley!”
Dale, Marty, and Percy all looked. And saw him coming toward them.
Special Agent In Charge Walter Taft. Dale’s boss. He was about forty feet away, pushing his way through the crowd. He was in his fifties—paunchy and oily with gray-red hair and a face that was permanently fixed with an expression of frustrated exasperation.
He wore a short-sleeve dress shirt with thin vertical stripes, unbuttoned at the top, and a wide, brown tie. His bald forehead shined brightly under the big lights hanging from the ceiling. His eyes were fixed on Dale. His teeth were bared.
“He insisted on coming with,” Marty said.
Taft pushed past the last people blocking him and stepped right up to Dale. “Conley, what in the name of all that’s holy are you doing down here?”
Dale smiled. “Sir, you seem perturbed.”
“Two weeks,” Taft spat, holding up a pair of fingers. “Two weeks you’ve been down here, and the only updates I get from you are that you’re making ‘further developments.’ And, conveniently, those phone calls only come in when I’m out of the office. I need some substance, pretty boy. I need you to tell me exactly why the U.S. taxpayers are continuing to fund your little New Orleans trip.”
“Well, sir, I’ve just recently made some … further developments.”
Taft growled. “Conley, I ought to—”
Percy interjected. “Sir, just tonight Agent Conley made a major break in the case. He discovered a system of symbols on the drug bags.”
“That’s right,” Dale said with another big smile, putting a reassuring hand on Taft’s shoulder. Taft glared at the hand. Dale removed it. “Percy here is going to hold a press conference later tonight. The public will know that any drugs with these symbols came from Jesse James. Now we need to figure out the meaning of the symbols. Which is why I brought Marty onboard.”
“You didn’t even get me my peaches,” Marty said. “Why should I help you?”
“Because you’re required to.”
Marty grumbled.