The Lowdown (Dale Conley Action Thrillers Series Book 3)

by Erik Carter

  Pensacola

  Naval Live Oaks

  New Orleans

  Marianna

  Snyder shrugged. “It was a woman. She said she wanted to get this list of places to the people investigating the drug deaths. That’s all she’d say.” He stepped out.

  Percy scanned the list. “New Orleans and Pensacola are two of our four cities. Never heard of these other two. Are they on the coast too?”

  Dale walked over to the regional map on the opposite wall.

  “Naval Live Oaks is a part of the NPS. Gulf Islands National Seashore. Riiiiiight …” He searched the Pensacola, Florida, area of map then found the location and poked it with his finger. “Here. It’s a nature preserve. It’s got a few hiking trails. Live oak timber was used in shipbuilding, all the way back to the eighteenth century. Tough wood. That’s how Old Ironsides—the USS Constitution—got her nickname.” Dale’s finger was on the peninsula that lay between Pensacola and Santa Rosa Island, the barrier island where Pensacola Beach was located. He searched the map again. “As to Marianna … I have no idea where that is.”

  A voice came from the doorway.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” It was Snyder again. With him was a woman wearing an ornate dress. Madame Gertrude had arrived. She was in her thirties, on the short side, heavyset, black. She looked bewildered, out of place.

  “Come in. Please. Have a seat,” Dale said and waved her into the room. He and Percy returned to the table.

  Madame Gertrude took the chair beside Allie and smiled at her. Snyder leaned against the doorframe.

  “I’m Special Agent Dale Conley with the DOJ. This is my associate Percy Gordon, DEA, and our consulting expert, Allison Blair. We’re told that you believe you’ve had an encounter with Jesse James.”

  “I don’t just think I did,” she said. “I know it was him.”

  “Tell us about it,” Percy said.

  She settled into her seat, relaxed a bit more. “He came into my shop on Bourbon Street. I have video for you. He gave me a real weird vibe from the moment I saw him. He was about six-foot tall, white, blonde hair, light brown eyes.”

  Percy scribbled down her description as she spoke. Everything she said matched the other descriptions they’d gotten.

  A scratchy sound from the other side of the room. The radio on Snyder’s belt came alive. He was still leaning against the doorframe, and he jumped at the sound. He turned the volume down and put the radio to his ear.

  “He didn’t try to buy anything,” Madame Gertrude continued. “Wasn’t interested in getting a reading. He just came right up to me and started asking about symbols.”

  Allie came to attention, gave Dale a look, and then turned to Madame Gertrude. “What kind of symbols?”

  “Well, specifically he was looking for information about symbols in the Saint Louis Cemeteries.”

  Allie looked at Dale again, a wry twinkle in her eye. I told you so. “Cemeteries, huh?”

  Madame Gertrude nodded. “Yes, and by the end of the conversation, he asked me about a specific symbol he thought might be in the cemeteries. A moon shape.”

  Allie reached across and grabbed the book she’d given Dale, flipped a few pages, and handed it to Madame Gertrude, tapping an image with her finger.

  Percy could see the image Allie was indicating. It was the moon he had seen earlier.

  Allie kept her finger on the page. “Do you think there could be any symbols like this moon in the Saint Louis Cemeteries?”

  “Oh, lord, yes,” Madame Gertrude said. “There are designs all over those cemeteries.”

  Snyder spoke up. “Fellas, sorry to interrupt, but you two need to get the hell out of here. Right now.”

  Dale leaned forward. “What?”

  “Your guy’s supposed to be stalking the Saint Louis Cemeteries, right?” He held up his radio. “We just had shots fired at Saint Louis Cemetery No. 2. That’s three blocks from here.”

  Chapter 23

  It had rained a bit earlier in the evening, and the pavement was slippery as Dale sprinted up to the wall. Percy had fallen behind again. The poor guy. He’d surely done more running that night than he’d done the rest of the year combined.

  The wall encircling Saint Louis Cemetery No. 2 was about ten feet tall and made of brick, which was weathered, stained, crumbling. As Dale ran up to it, he saw a metal gate, chained and padlocked. A patrol car was pulled right up to the gate, its lights flashing. The cop had created a stepping stool with the hood of his car to help him clear the gate. Smart.

  Dale ran up to the car, hopped on the hood, and flung himself over the top of the gate. He landed with a thud on the gravel beyond. He heard Percy behind him, out of breath, climbing onto the car. In front of Dale was a straight path, wide enough for a single car, that cut down the center of the cemetery. On the opposite end of the road was another gate matching the one he had just jumped. Through that gate he could see a city street and beyond that another block of the cemetery with its own gated wall.

  Percy landed with a grunt. He stepped up beside Dale.

  The road was lined on either side with the famous above-ground tombs of New Orleans. Crumbling forms of stone and brick. Some bone white. Others dark. Box-shaped structures with slots for bodies. Little wrought iron fences. Tokens left by tourists. Saint Louis was renowned for its macabre appeal, the eerie final resting place for an eclectic and varied group of people in a city that was equally varied and eclectic. The tombs’ boxy shapes made them look like miniature buildings, giving the cemeteries their nickname: the Cities of the Dead.

  It was dark, but the numerous streetlights gave everything a tinge of orange. The air was so thick you could see the moisture particles floating under the lights. To the right, just beyond the cemetery, I-10 loomed, twenty feet in the sky on big, round columns. Before they jumped the gate, Dale had seen a mass of homeless people under the highway. A shanty town. There was the constant sound of high-speed traffic on wet concrete.

  Further up on the road were two bodies. Homeless men by the looks of the clothing. Clearly dead. One lay right in the middle of the road. Another was crumpled against one of the tombs. A wide streak of blood ran down the side of the tomb to the body, glistening in the muted light.

  Dale drew his Smith & Wesson Model 36 and yelled out into the cemetery. “Officer! This is Special Agent Dale Conley. Two federal agents are entering the cemetery. We’re armed. In plain clothes.”

  Snyder had radioed that he and Percy would be arriving on foot, but Dale still had to be safe and announce their arrival.

  Percy drew his own weapon—a Colt Python, 4-inch—and the two of them held perfectly still, listened. Sounds of a struggle, echoing strangely off the tombs. Somewhere ahead.

  Dale and Percy ran toward the noise.

  It was coming from the left. Dale turned, off the main path. He came to a corner, one of hundreds in the place. With its towering tombs, the cemetery was a giant maze. Like the Greek Labyrinth. Dale just had to find the minotaur.

  So many corners. He thought back to his training at the FBI Academy. How to turn a corner, how to clear a room. He looked back to give Percy a signal. And he wasn’t there. Somehow he’d lost him. Dale was alone.

  More footsteps. A grunt. He peered forward. Couldn’t see anything. It was darker here than it had been on the main road. He plastered himself against the nearest tomb. The stone was cold against his back. He tightened his grip on his gun. Listened. The sounds were impossible to track, bouncing off the walls and angles and varying materials, getting absorbed into the thick, moist air.

  Dale couldn’t remain stationary. He had to move. He cleared a corner. There was an empty path in front of him. Just tombs. Crumbling brick and cement. Open holes where coffins had been.

  More corners. More paths to clear. Tombs and stone. The sound of footsteps. Percy? The cop? Jesse James’?

  He turned another corner. And saw a form. On the ground. A body. It was the cop. Dale could just make out his cap lying a cou
ple feet from his head. The man was still. But breathing.

  More footsteps. Someone was running. To his left.

  Dale threw caution to the wind, turned, and ran through the tombs. The noise had sounded far away. As he ran, he saw for just a moment the body of the homeless man on the road. His eyes were open. A gunshot wound to the chest.

  Dale sprinted to the back wall. Then he saw movement. A person. Someone was climbing the wall. A few feet away from Dale. The man reached the top of wall and turned his head.

  They looked right at each other.

  It was him.

  Jesse James.

  Blonde. Six-foot tall. A button up shirt, sleeves rolled up. A pair of slacks.

  In that briefest of moments when their eyes were locked, Dale felt the hair on his arms stand up. Palpable negativity poured out of the man’s gaze. Hate. Rage. Rot.

  James went to jump over the side, and Dale grabbed his foot and pulled viciously. They landed in a jumbled mess on the ground. Dale’s temple smacked into a stone. Sharp pain. James pulled out a gun, aimed. Dale grabbed his wrist, smashed it into the edge of a nearby tomb. The gun clattered to the ground.

  There was a flurry of motion and impacts, scrambling on the ground, shuffling gravel and stone. Dale elbowed James in the shoulder then took a punch to the ribs. And another to the back of his head. He fell back, and James slipped out of his grasp.

  Dale was back on his feet. Jesse James was nowhere to be seen. Disappeared. Back into the dark hell surrounding him. Dale stood still, held his breath. And listened again.

  Two sets of footsteps.

  One set came from his left. Dale positioned himself beside a tomb, gulped down a breath, and whipped around the corner, gun drawn.

  Another gun. Pointing at him. A Colt Python. It was Percy. Thirty feet away.

  Dale exhaled. Both men lowered their weapons. Dale pointed back into the maze of tombs where the other footsteps had come from, toward the left. He then patted himself on the chest and pointed to the right. Percy nodded. He knew what Dale intended. They were going to put the squeeze on Jesse James. Encircle him. Tighten the net.

  Dale repositioned his fingers around the grip of his Smith. His hands were sweating. One more deep breath, and he plunged into the next, darker row of tombs. A figure cut across the gap in the distance, the silhouette illuminated for just a moment before disappearing again. Percy, getting himself into position. Another noise, farther ahead. Their quarry.

  The wall appeared before Dale, a few feet ahead. He looked down another gap between the tombs, cleared another corner. Another fleeting glimpse of Percy. More footsteps. Crunching gravel. Only a few feet away. Dale turned a corner.

  And there was Percy. Gun drawn. Smiling. Because in front of him was Jesse James.

  James spun around. Saw Dale. His eyes went wide.

  Dale leveled his Smith at him. Their gazes met once more. Those burning eyes.

  James’ shoulders dropped slightly. His chest heaved as he gasped for air. The chase was over. Hands shaking. Quivering rage. A look of utter, forsaken, and complete hatred, like the fingers of some invisible demon were at work, twisting and contorting the man’s face.

  It was a chilling look. And it made Dale’s heart sink knowing that a human being could get that dark.

  But there was no way Dale was going to let James know that he’d gotten to him. So Dale just said, “Gotcha, you son of a bitch.”

  Chapter 24

  Dylan sat in the living room of his trailer. He leaned forward in his orange, tattered armchair, his elbows on his knees, and got closer to the television set. To his right, the kids were making noise, distracting him.

  “Quiet!”

  He heard them scamper off.

  On the screen was a press conference. A black man with a mustache, wearing a suit. The bottom of the screen read Percy Gordon, Drug Enforcement Agency. It was the top story in the ten o’clock news, and given the urgency with which the newscaster had announced it, something just told Dylan that it was related to the drugs. Jesse Richter had shit the bed again. He just knew it. But when Gordon started talking about the symbols on the bags, Dylan recognized that his upcoming issues were going to be a lot more difficult than just reprimanding Jesse. A lot.

  “… and any bag with these markings, regardless of the contents, should be considered dangerous,” Gordon was saying. He motioned to the side, and the camera followed his hand to a projector screen that displayed a magnified image of one of the sets of markings Dylan’s men had been scoring into the plastic bags. “Anyone with further information about these markings or the drugs in question should contact the New Orleans Police Department immediately. Are there any questions?”

  There was a bustling reaction off-screen, reporters yelling out to Gordon. Arms raised from the bottom of the screen as they vied for Gordon’s attention He pointed at one of them.

  A female voice. “What do the symbols mean?”

  “We have a team of experts analyzing the markings right now,” Gordon said and looked out to the reporters for the next question. More hands raised, shouts of Agent Gordon. He pointed at another.

  Dylan’s phone ring. He knew who it was before he answered.

  “I know, Henderson,” Dylan said. “An absolute catastrophe.”

  “You’re damn right it is,” Henderson said. “This is the end of the operation as far as the investors are concerned. You realize that? We need to move fast if we’re going to accomplish our own objective.”

  Dylan had already considered this. He and Henderson needed to move more than “fast.” They needed to move immediately. “I have a plan. All these hillbilly investors and the knights are only in this thing to kill black people. Let’s give them their big finale. Tomorrow night. Let them think they cut their losses. We’ll use the Great Contingency.”

  There was a silence on the other end as Henderson thought it over. “Agreed. But what about us? The Great Contingency will end the KGC. And when the KGC ends, so does our cover. Has Jesse Richter found the last symbol?”

  “He got it narrowed down to a specific Saint Louis Cemetery—No. 2. He was supposed to have confirmed with me earlier tonight. Never heard back. And none of my sentries in New Orleans have reported. I think they’re covering for him. Jesse might’ve been caught.”

  There was a long exhale on the other end of the line. “So what the hell are we supposed to do now?”

  “I’ll handle Jesse,” Dylan said. “It doesn’t matter if he found the specific grave. All we really need to know is which of the Saint Louis Cemeteries the symbol was in. We know that now. I already checked the lines on the map. I know where to find the coordinates. It’s right down the road. A cemetery in Pensacola. I’m going there first thing in the morning. At first light. I’ll get us the coordinates.”

  “Even if you do find the coordinates, we still have to keep the main operation running until we can use them to find the location. If they caught Jesse Richter, this whole thing could come crashing down in a matter of hours.”

  Dylan smiled. Henderson was a major part of all this—both the KGC and he and Dylan’s main objective. But he was rich. And sheltered. He hadn’t gotten his hands dirty. He hadn’t seen the coordination that Dylan had built into the KGC system he’d created, nor had he seen the baffling, childlike loyalty of his knights. “Don’t worry. If the cops do have Jesse, they won’t be able to hold onto him for long.”

  Chapter 25

  They walked three-wide down the dark sidewalk, their feet crunching on the sidewalk—Percy to the left, Dale to the right, and in between them, wearing handcuffs, was Jesse James.

  They’d read him his rights and waited as the next set of arriving police used a pair of bolt-cutters to open the gate. Now they were walking the three blocks back to the station, getting a little one-on-one time with the man they’d been working so hard to hunt down. Percy had been working up something profound to say. Dale, however, always the straightforward type, beat him to it and just said, “Why?
”

  Jesse James laughed, a sneer across his sweaty face. They were all dripping sweat in the soupy New Orleans air. “Why?” he repeated. “Why else? For the same reason that groups have fought this injustice for a hundred years. To cleanse our society. But I’m betting you think it’s just me and maybe a few buddies. You’d be terribly mistaken. I’m part of something big.”

  “The KGC,” Percy said.

  Jesse James was visibly stunned, and for a moment, he didn’t reply. Then the sneer returned. “That’s right. We’re the Second Knights of the Golden Circle.” He stopped walking. Percy and Dale stopped too. “And our aim is to do whatever it is we can to make this society decent for good, white folk again.” He looked at Percy. “Highly addictive drugs. Laced pot. With a special ingredient. Get your people hooked, Agent Gordon, so we can kill off all the …” He said the N word, and he spat on Percy.

  Percy had been called the N word four times now during his time as an agent. He’d always been able to stay detached. When a person said that word, they wanted a reaction. To remain unaffected would piss the person off a whole lot more than lashing out.

  But being spat upon … that was harder to stay calm about.

  That had happened one other time. It had hit his jacket. This time, James’ spit had hit his cheek, his neck. Percy saw Dale gritting his teeth on the other side of James. Percy counted down, calming his anger. Four, three, two, one. He wiped his cheek with his jacket and said, “You just assaulted a federal agent. Not too bright, are you, Jesse James?”

  Dale grabbed James’ shirt and pulled him in close. Percy reached a hand out to Dale and gave him a look that said, Keep your cool. “So that’s really what this is all about?” Dale growled. “Just a bunch of murdering, racist scumbags? How the hell did you get involved in all this?”

  Another ugly smile from Jesse James. Dripping sweat. A pinkish tinge to his skin. His eyes flicked between Percy and Dale. He was enjoying himself. “This is the point in our story where the heroes want to know where I come from. Why I’ve done this. A bit of understanding. Some backstory. Maybe I had a shitty childhood. Daddy wasn’t there. Mommy didn’t let me see black people, told me they were real bad. Maybe a black man hurt my sister. Maybe someone beat the shit out of me. Maybe someone touched me. But things aren’t always that perfect or that complex. I am what I am. I’m a man who wants things the way they were, who wants the balance back. My name is Jesse Nathaniel Richter. I’m from Jackson, Mississippi. I’m twenty-seven years old. I have a finance degree from Louisiana State University, and I quit my job one year ago to become a Knight of the Golden Circle. I’ve brought more change to this region than anyone has in years. The people of this city know my name. The blacks whisper it in the dark. I’m their bogeyman. I’m their specter of death.”