by Ryan King
But not Eric St Keel. He felt his owed the boy's father. He would listen and just might believe.
Jackson Winters most definitely had to die.
Chapter 53
Jack sat at the small hotel room desk and tried to compose his thoughts. They had checked into the small third-rate establishment the night before using some of Deloy's money. Jack had spent most of the time trying to organize his thoughts around how to legally get out of the net they had constructed for him.
"Why don't you take a break?" asked Johnny, his roommate. Deloy and Rena were in the room next door.
Jack looked up at Johnny lying on the bed watching the news. "Wouldn't do any good. This is all I can think about."
"You're just like your father," said Johnny, shaking his head.
"What do you mean?" asked Jack, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.
Johnny answered it to reveal Rena. She was in a sweatshirt and must have just taken a shower.
"Would you mind letting me come in and talk to Jack alone?" she asked.
"Not at all, honey," said Johnny, stepping outside. "He needs a little break time right now for sure."
Jack sighed heavily as she closed the door. He knew what this would be about. "Look, you don't have to apologize anymore. What's done is done."
"I'm not going to apologize. I've already done that."
"Well, good...I guess."
She sat on the bed across from him. "You do realize that my father and I have lost our home. We're fugitives from the law. We're funding everything you do right now."
"I guess you could say it's the least you could do."
"After what we did... Isn't that how you want to finish the sentence?"
Jack grunted. "You said it, I didn't."
"My father and I were put into a very difficult position. We made the wrong decision, but then risked everything to make it right the only way we could. Just a little bit of acknowledgement of that fact would go a long way."
Jack glared at her. "Acknowledgement? I'm still working on acknowledgement that all my friends are dead or locked up in some sadistic experimentation camp. That's taking me some time to deal with, so forgive me if I don't fully recognize your generosity and sacrifice."
"We helped you."
"And then betrayed me."
"I saved your life," she said.
"To give it away to people who tortured me."
"I loved you."
Jack's angry retort froze in his throat. He really looked at Rena for the first time and saw she was crying.
He shook his head. "How? We knew each other for like five minutes. How could you possibly love me?"
Rena wiped her eyes and nodded. "You're probably right. What would I know? Silly little island girl who falls in love for the first time. Tell me you don't feel anything for me and I'll leave you alone. Better yet, tell me that and my father and I will go. Maybe we can still salvage something from our old life."
Jack felt like he couldn't get his breath. "I...just...it's, you know...how—"
"Oh, never mind." She stood up and stormed towards the door, throwing it open. "Let me know when you make up your mind, you self-absorbed jerk."
She disappeared before Jack could say anything.
Johnny stepped back inside and closed the door. "Good visit?"
"Don't even talk to me about it."
"Would never dream of it," said Johnny. "Only to say she's a hell of a girl who cares about you and those don't come along very often."
"Said I didn't want to talk about it."
"And I respect your wishes, son." Johnny was silent for a few seconds. "I'll just say your father would have liked her."
Jack looked up to yell at Johnny, but his eyes locked onto the television screen. He pointed. "Turn it up. Turn it up."
Johnny picked up the remote and raised the volume. A reporter was talking about Governor St Keel's presidential run and an address he would be making the following night in Baton Rouge.
"I think I see a way out of this," said Jack. "He was my father's friend."
"Doesn't mean he's your friend," replied Johnny. "There's nothing slipperier than a mud eel except a politician running for office."
"My father trusted him," Jack shot back at him.
"So what are you planning on doing?" asked Johnny. "You get within a mile of him and the police will snag you."
"I'll wear a disguise."
"And then what? Jerk it off when you shake the governor's hand? That's likely to get you shot, even if they don't recognize him."
Jack growled in frustration. "There has to be a way to get his attention and pass a message along without everyone knowing. I think if I could get ten minutes alone with him, I could make him believe me."
"Maybe there's a way after all," said Johnny thoughtfully.
"How?"
Johnny smiled. "You're not the only one from the old days the governor remembers. Just leave it to me."
Jack shook his head. "I don't want you doing anything dangerous on my behalf."
"It way too late for that, son," said Johnny, pointing his thumb towards the closed door. "All of us are doubled-down on you whether you like it or not."
Chapter 54
St Keel could feel the buzz in the air. It reminded him of the time as a young boy he had been caught outside in a lightning storm. He had felt a similar charge, an energy that had made his hair stand on end, right before a bolt of lightning had struck a tree not twenty yards away from him with a thunderous clap that had thrown him to the ground, dazed.
He had given hundreds, maybe thousands of speeches at rallies and fundraisers such as this, but it felt different.
Eric St Keel was running for President of the United States. And people were excited about it. They were rooting for him. He was leading in early polls. All from a poor boy who no one likely would have believed could even get into college.
It was all coming together, just as Lucas said it would.
The big donors were pouring in even more money, especially the pharmas. He was the darling of radio and television talk shows. Even the Republican Party leadership was starting to abandon President Wilkens and get on his bandwagon.
Still, something didn't seem right. There was something off.
St Keel knew it at least partially had to do with what was going on down at Bog Island. He understood Lucas' logic of not telling him everything for his own protection, but he had a nagging feeling as if he were being used, or worse, played for a fool.
And really, how much could you trust a man like Lucas Ross? He was a childhood friend, but he had always been someone who lived on the ragged edge of morality and usually seemed to find a way to get what he wanted.
And this business with Jack Winters. A mass murderer? St Keel still didn't buy it. He had known the boy well. Sure, he had likely been devastated first by the loss of his mother and then his father, but he was stable. His father's son.
His thoughts were interrupted as an aide approached him and gave him a warning. He turned his attention back to the overly long introductory speech as he heard, "It gives me great honor and pleasure to introduce to you my friend and your governor, the next President of the United States, Eric St Keel!"
He walked from backstage and into the noise and light. Shaking hands with the chairman of the Louisiana Republican Committee, he turned and faced the crowd with the man and waved for the cameras.
The chairman then turned back to him and smiled. "This is it, Eric. Give 'em a show." He then walked off stage.
If anything, the applause got louder, and he lifted his hands to thank everyone. His speech was in a binder before him, and he spotted the sticky note Lucas has put on top.
Don't stop the applause; just smile and wave and look at the crowd. Make as much eye contact as you can. They'll remember it. Each person will think you are looking directly at them.
St Keel did just that. He smiled and waved at all the blue signs reading “St Keel for President” that were
bouncing up and down in the crowd.
He waved to the elderly woman in the front who was wearing pink tennis shoes.
Smiled at the huge biker with tattoos and cut-off sleeves. Blew a kiss to his wife, Brenda on the front row. Placed his hand over his heart at the little girl's homemade poster in his honor. Pointed at the elderly black man near the right front now who stood there glaring at him. Waved to the boy in a wheelchair down front.
Wait. Back to the old black man. Did he know him?
St Keel continued to smile and wave, but he was looking at the man who was staring at him so intently.
Was that Jeremiah's handyman?
As if man could read his thoughts, he nodded and slowly turned his “St Keel for President” sign around to the back side. It was blank, but he pulled down a taped-up flap. There was neat magic marker writing.
Jack is innocent. 5 PM tomorrow. The Refuge. He trusts you. Come alone.
St Keel looked away and smiled and waved. His heart thundered in his chest, and he realized he was sweating. Looking back towards Johnny, he saw that the man and his sign were nowhere to be seen.
He nodded and smiled and played the part. The presidential candidate gave an inspiring and moving speech about hope and service and taking care of people. Many were genuinely moved and more inspired. The Baton Rouge News would say the next day that it was one of the best campaign speeches since William Jennings Bryant.
Yet St Keel missed most of the moment. He was there, but his mind was somewhere else.
Thinking of Jack Winters to be exact.
***
"Who is that?" Lucas Ross pointed into the crowd. He had just seen how the governor had reacted strangely to something. No one else would likely notice, but Lucas knew the man better than he knew himself.
"Who?" asked a member of the security detail.
"There," said Lucas. "The old black man. He's leaving now. Get him, I'd like to talk to that man."
The security detail spoke into a walkie-talkie and then departed.
All they were able to recover was a campaign sign with duct tape on the back as if something had been stuck on the reverse side.
Lucas would have to find a way to ask St Keel about it.
Secrets are definitely not good in a relationship, he thought. At least not secrets from me.
Chapter 55
Deborah walked into the FBI office and slumped down into her cubicle beside her partner.
"Staying out all night partying again, I see," said Justin.
"It's Moses," she said. "He sleeps all day while I'm at work and then stays up most of the night wandering around and talking to himself."
"You leave him at your apartment by himself?"
"Of course not," said Deborah. "I've hired a nurse to look after him."
"And she can't keep him awake while you're at work?"
"Probably," she admitted, "but he seems to be getting better. I don't want to mess with anything if his mind is trying to heal itself."
"I guess, you know that they have actual hospitals for this sort of thing."
"No," said Deborah, a little more forcefully that she intended. "No. Those places aren't for my brother. They're not interested in helping him, only in keeping him from hurting himself or someone else. My brother isn't suicidal or homicidal, so paying tons to put him there makes no sense."
"Well, he's your brother."
Yes he is, thought Deborah fiercely.
"Hey, did you see this?" asked Justin, pointing at the television and turning up the volume a few notches.
"Yeah," she answered. "Can you imagine a guy from Louisiana as President of the United States?"
"Well, it's been done before."
"Actually, no it hasn't."
"Yes, it has," said Justin slowly.
"Name one."
"How about Jimmy Carter for starters."
Deborah sighed. "He's from Georgia, dumbass."
"No, he wasn't. And what about Truman?"
"I'm pretty sure he was from Missouri."
"Zachary Taylor," said a passing colleague. "He was from Louisiana."
Justin turned to her in triumph. "See, there you go."
She had begun to turn away when her eyes locked onto the television. "Hey, turn that up," she said.
There was a picture of Jackson Winters in a suit. He was smiling and looked like the world was at his feet. The reporter was stating that the manhunt was still on for the suspected mass murderer and that any information should be relayed immediately to the police.
She shook her head. "This is getting out of control."
"What do you mean?"
Deborah ignored him and pulled out the missing person's case file that was sent to them 'by mistake' because the missing boat had crossed state lines.
Someone had wanted them to know about this. She looked through the file until she found a name.
"Come on," she told her partner. "Let's go for a little ride."
***
Port Allen Chief of Police Andrew Bolton had finally managed to sit down at his desk to enjoy his now cold cup of coffee. It had been a bear of a morning with a three-car pileup out on the highway. Luckily, no one had been killed, but two were in the hospital.
Gina, his secretary, stuck her head in the office. "Chief, you got visitors."
"Tell 'em to come back later, or you take care of them."
Gina looked out the door and then back into his office. She had a serious glint in her eyes. "I think you better talk to them. They're two feds."
Good grief, thought Bolton. That's all I need. "Probably here to coordinate for that counter-terrorism exercise next month. Go ahead and show them in."
A tall, serious, athletically built black woman walked in, followed by a more relaxed white man. Both wore business suits that were specifically cut to conceal the pistols holstered at their sides.
Andrew rose to greet them, shook their hands, and introduced himself.
"I'm Special Agent Deborah Mitchell, and this is my partner Justin Blake."
"Have a seat." Bolton pointed at the chairs in front of his desk. "Did Gina offer you any coffee? Realize if she didn't, it likely wasn't discourtesy but mercy."
"We're fine," replied Deborah. "Thank you. We'd like to talk to you about the missing person's case? The one involving Evan Athers?"
Bolton took a few seconds to think, but Deborah could tell it was for show; he knew the name right away.
The chief rubbed his chin and looked towards the ceiling. "Yeah, I remember that one. We got a message about a 911 call from his satellite phone. When that was combined with a missing person’s report, we thought it sounded like something nefarious might have happened."
"Your report that you sent to the FBI office—"
"Because of the boat," Bolton put in. "I'm required to do that because the missing boat came from across state lines, making it technically a federal matter."
"And we appreciate that," said Justin. "We passed that right over to our Missing Fishing Boat Task Force."
"Why didn't you investigate it?" Deborah asked.
"We did...for a while."
"What happened?" asked Deborah, leaning forward.
Bolton sat back heavily in his chair and sighed. "Look, I don't want to get into any trouble and bring any heat down on me from way up high. I was told in no uncertain terms not to discuss this with anyone."
"Told by who?" asked Justin.
Bolton looked back and forth at them with uncertainty. He finally appeared to make up his mind.
"I may regret this, but what the hell," the chief said and actually smiled. "The damn state attorney general himself called me. Told me to cease and dissent all investigative activity and turn it over to the state police."
"Why would they do that?" asked Deborah. "Is that normal for something like this?"
"Not at all," answered Bolton. "Something didn't seem right about it. Still doesn't, and that's the main reason I sent the file to you guys."
"
Not to mobilize the Missing Fishing Boat Task Force?" asked Justin.
Deborah gave her partner a warning look before looking back at the chief. "What do you think is going on here?"
Bolton shook his head. "Oh, I don't want to speculate. I have no idea what is going on...but the news has been all over that lawyer Jackson Winters and the five friends he supposedly killed. The news isn't saying, but we know Evan Athers was one of those friends."
"So?" asked Justin.
"So...it's not a secret that Jackson Winters is the only son of the governor's close friend who just happened to be a Louisiana Supreme Court Justice," said Bolton. "Maybe they didn't want this news out before he could prepare his presidential campaign announcement. Maybe they wanted time to dig in on their own. The bottom line is they have known a lot more that they are letting on to for a lot longer than people think."
"Has anyone from the state police contacted you further about this case?" asked Deborah.
"Not at all," answered Bolton, "which is also a little odd."
"Why?" asked Justin.
"Because they didn't want to talk to any of my people. Sure, we handed them the case file, but you know as well as I do that not everything goes on paper. Typically, a detective wants to talk to everyone to make sure they have all the info."
"And no one from the state police has talked to your guys?" asked Deborah.
"Not one," said Bolton. "I don't know what is going on, but something seems out of place here."
You got that right, thought Deborah.
"And what about habeus corpus?" Bolton asked.
"What about it?" asked Justin.
Bolton threw his hands up in the air. "I mean, why has it gone from a missing persons’ case to a homicide? As far as I know, no bodies have been recovered. Evan Athers' body certainly hasn't been, as far as we know. And what was the motive? What was the murder weapon? And where is the murder weapon itself?"
"Does seem like a lot of unknowns," Justin said.
Bolton leaned forward. "What I mean is that the state sat on this for almost two weeks and then it's all out in news? This wasn't a leak; it was officially released. Yet we all know no judge would issue a warrant for an arrest on such poor evidence."