by BJ Bourg
She joined me in surveying the banks of the lake. “Do you really think he’s out there?”
“He could be.” I didn’t like not knowing where he was and I didn’t like being in the opening. I turned toward Wellman’s house. “We need to get Clayton down here so we can find that girl.”
“I’ll get him,” Dawn said, walking off.
A distant sound distracted me and I turned to scan the sky over the lake, cocking my head to listen. I heard it for a few more seconds before I realized it was the steady chopping of helicopter blades. I snatched the radio from my back pocket and called Jerry. “Sierra One to Sierra Two, what’s your twenty?” Twenty was code for his location.
“We’re flying over the island now, approaching the lake from the north.” His voice sounded muffled, like he was in a barrel. “So far, everything looks clear. No sign of a shooter.”
I gave him our current location and told him where we were heading. “Provide over-watch protection, if you would. And stay sharp—this bastard can shoot.”
When Dawn returned, Clayton was being escorted by Wellman and one of his men. “He’ll ride with me and Tookie,” Wellman announced. “I don’t want anything happening to my boy.”
I nodded and jumped in the Boston Whaler behind Dawn. Norm drifted away from the pier and waited until Wellman, Clayton, and Tookie were in his boat. Tookie drove and Wellman sat close to Clayton, a twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun in his lap.
“That thing won’t do you any good against a sniper and his rifle,” I said in a low voice.
Dawn heard me and asked what I’d said. I just shook my head and kept my eyes peeled, looking for any sign of hostiles along the way. I made Norm hug the shore as much as he could without grounding the boat, but I still didn’t like how exposed we were. One thing was certain—if the sniper got me, I’d never even know it.
CHAPTER 23
Wellman hollered at me from his boat just as we left Devil’s Lake and entered the mouth of Bayou Magnolia. “Clayton says it’s on the left, about a quarter mile down. It’s near a large tree.”
I gave him the thumbs up and relayed the information to Norm, who slowed the boat to a crawl. Ben flew by overhead, dipping low enough for the wind from his main rotor blade to blow my hair around and rock the boat slightly. I waved up at Jerry, who was strapped into a harness and standing on the landing skid, his rifle gripped firmly in his hands. Even from that distance I could almost see the whites of his knuckles. A sniper’s rifle is his life and he’d rather drop a small child than his rifle—well, maybe not, but he didn’t want to drop his rifle.
Wellman hollered again when we drew closer to the spot. “It’s under those weeping willow branches,” he said. “Right where it splits.”
There was a natural separation of the branches and Norm stopped just east of it and shut off the motor. A school of fish darted by just under the surface of the green water and three ducks were swimming just a few feet from the bank. A lazy breeze was blowing in from the lake and everything seemed so peaceful. Dawn noticed, too. “It’s hard to believe someone was murdered right here just a couple of hours ago.”
I nodded and turned to Wellman’s boat. Clayton was sitting with his back turned, his face buried in his hands. “Is he sure this is the spot?” I asked.
Wellman looked at his son, and it was the first time since I’d met him that I saw his face soften. He spoke quietly to Clayton and then nodded. “This is it.”
“Shit,” Dawn said from beside me. She pointed to a thick branch several yards away. There was dried blood sprayed across the bark. “This is definitely it.”
I studied the branch and then glanced over my shoulder. The shot had come from the island—from Wellman’s property. While Dawn tossed the anchor over the side, I unzipped my drag bag and pulled out my rifle. “Mr. Boudreaux, come over here.” Wellman eased his boat beside Norm’s and I jumped in with them, taking my rucksack with me. I pointed to the opposite bank. “Take me to that side.”
A curious expression fell over his face, but he did as I asked without questioning me. When he’d gotten as close as he could, I stepped out the boat into the shallow water—careful not to make a splash—and eased toward the bank. Once I was on dry land, I grounded my rifle and pulled my ghillie suit from the rucksack. I shrugged into it and pushed the radio’s earpiece and throat mic in place, recovered my rifle. I then eased the scope caps up and took a kneeling position facing the woods. The moisture from the swampy ground seeped through the knee of my ghillie suit as I slowly scanned the forest. I tried to penetrate the deep shadows, searching for anything out of the ordinary.
Nothing stood out, so I decided to move deeper into the swamps. I looked back toward Norm’s boat and saw him reeling in the rope with the grappling hooks attached. Dawn was at the back of the boat staring in my direction. I waved to her, but she didn’t wave back. I thought I detected a look of concern on her face, but I was too far away to be certain. I slung my rifle over my shoulder and shot her a quick text message, letting her know I’d be exploring the immediate area in search of the sniper’s hide. I didn’t wait for a response, shutting my phone off instead. I dropped my phone into my rucksack and then hid it under a bush.
It was at least midday, but mosquitoes were still buzzing around. I ignored them and moved slowly through the swamps, careful not to rustle a leaf or snap a branch. Sweat built up on my brow and began to slide down my face. I didn’t bother wiping it. Every move was smooth and with a purpose. One foot at a time I advanced. My head remained still as my eyes slowly roved left to right, taking in my entire surroundings—the trees above, the heavy underbrush, the ground below.
I was unsure how far I’d traveled when I noticed a small patch of smashed earth to my right. I froze in place and listened. A hawk cried from its perch in a cypress tree overhead. A squirrel ran circles around the trunk of a nearby tree. Except for those natural noises, all was quiet…deathly quiet.
Mosquitoes buzzed in my ear as I moved closer to the impression on the swamp floor. Once I was standing above it, I noticed a faint trail leading south. I smashed the thumb button on my radio and called out to Jerry. “Check the northern banks of the lake in the area of Wellman Boudreaux’s camp. The killer left the area heading in that direction.”
“Ten-four,” Jerry acknowledged, and I heard the helicopter moving toward that direction.
“You found something?” Dawn called over the radio.
After telling her I’d found the second sniper hide, I shouldered my rifle and attained proper eye relief, which was about three inches for me. (Eye relief is the distant between a shooter’s eye and the ocular lens of a scope.) Peering through my scope, I could see Norm tossing the grappling hook into the water. His armpits were dark from sweat and he stopped to rest after each pull. Dawn was standing on the front of the Boston Whaler with a hand on her pistol, scanning the surface of the water and the opposite tree line.
I dialed the power on the scope to ten and located the spot of dried blood. It lined up perfectly. I sighed and lowered my rifle. As I began a thorough grid search of the sniper’s hide—moving in inches rather than feet—I tried to put myself in his mindset. What was his motivation for the killings? Why did he target an alligator thief on one day and then a young girl two days later? Could it be someone trying to get the Simoneaux clan to go to war with the Boudreaux clan? If so, why would anyone want them to fight?
I knew if I learned his motive I could more likely than not discover his identity, but the motive was a mystery. I considered the dates of the attacks. A Thursday and a Saturday…did that mean anything? Was there any significance to the thirtieth of August? I thought hard about it. It was twenty years earlier that the Ruby Ridge standoff had come to an end, but something that took place in northern Idaho certainly had nothing to do with what was happening in southeastern Louisiana.
And what about the first of September? I remembered hearing about the Beslan school hostage crisis that took place eight years ago tod
ay. It was a tragic incident, but nothing similar to what was taking place in our swamps.
Another thought occurred to me. What if it was completely random? Just some deranged killer taking out anyone who made the mistake of walking in front of his crosshairs? As soon as I thought it, I dismissed it. It would be easier to find victims in a crowded city. Out here, you had to hunt for victims.
My radio scratched to life in my earpiece.
“London, where are you?” It was Dawn. “Norm’s snagged something. It might be our girl, or a large tree branch.”
“On my way.” Like the first sniper’s hide, I hadn’t found anything except for a few bits of burlap. I secured the pieces of fabric in my side pocket for comparison purposes. The least we could do was attempt to ascertain whether or not the sniper who killed Norris was the same one who killed Joyce.
CHAPTER 24
When I jumped from Wellman’s boat to the Boston Whaler, I told him to take his son out of there. “He doesn’t need to see this,” I said. “We’ll be in touch if we need any more information.”
As tough as Wellman acted, he seemed relieved to be leaving the area. We waited until the back of his boat was a dot on the water and then Dawn and I gave Norm a hand pulling in the rope. Dawn was right—it was either a body or a large tree branch. Whatever it was, it was heavy.
“I see something,” Norm called when we had hauled in about fifteen feet of rope. “Look, it’s a girl! It’s got to be Joyce Cole.”
I looked where he pointed and frowned. Joyce was completely naked and one of the hooks had snagged high on her left leg and the other was imbedded in her torso area just below one of her breasts. There were deep gashes in her flesh and the skin was stretched tight under her weight, but the hooks seemed to be holding as we dragged her closer.
Once she was within reach, Dawn grabbed at her legs and I grabbed at her arms. Her flesh was cold and slippery and we had to fight to keep her from sinking.
“She keeps slipping,” Dawn complained, reaching deep into the water to wrap her arms around the back of Joyce’s knees.
Realizing I couldn’t hurt her any worse than she was already, I twisted Joyce’s arm into a bent arm lock, or what some call an Americana lock. Water splashed into my face as I fought to maintain my grip on her wrist and some shot into my mouth. I was breathing inward at that very moment and accidentally swallowed a mouthful of water. I choked on it and began coughing.
“Are you okay?” Dawn asked, blinking the water out of her eyes. Her shirt was wet and clung to her shoulders and upper arms, nearly ripping as she held onto Joyce’s legs.
I spat out some of the water and nodded, wondering how many different types of bacteria had found their way into my mouth and were now swimming down my throat. “Are you ready?” I asked.
Dawn nodded. “Let’s go on four.”
Before I could ask why four, she began counting. When she reached four, we both gave a jerk and threw ourselves backward. Joyce’s body sounded and felt like rubber as it slid over the side and plopped across our legs, pinning us to the floor of the boat. Norm hurried away from us, clutching at his mouth and gagged. When he reached the back of the boat, he leaned out and vomited in the water.
Dawn and I exchanged looks, shrugged, and pulled out from under Joyce’s body. Her tanned complexion had a pale hue to it. Her eyes were half closed and her tongue was hanging from her mouth. There was no expression on her face.
I moved toward her head and gingerly touched the sides of her skull near the bullet holes. It was definitely cracked. I turned to Norm, who was wiping a stream of puke from his face. “Do you have a body bag?”
He nodded and pointed toward the bench seat near the front of the boat. “There’s a compartment under the seat. I’ve got two bags in there.”
Just as Dawn and I had placed Joyce’s body in the bag and zipped it shut, I heard the steady drum of Ben’s helicopter approaching. When he got above us, he circled and Jerry gave us a sign that everything was safe. He pressed his wire mic with one hand and called over the radio, “We’ve got nothing. The killer’s gone.”
I lifted my thumb into the air and Jerry waved at Ben to clear out. The chopper banked to the right and shot off toward the north, where it soon became a mere dot in the distant sky.
Next, I directed Norm to get us closer to the willow tree. His face was pale and his movements were robotic.
“You okay?” I asked. Norm had recovered countless drowning victims, so I didn’t understand why he was so troubled.
“It’s just that…well, I can’t get Joyce’s face out of my mind.”
There was something in the way he said her name. “You knew her, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “I didn’t know her name, but I recognized her face. She works the register at the marina restaurant. I see her a few times every week.”
I glanced at Dawn. “That’s where we’ll go after we notify her parents.”
“Her parents are already being notified,” she said. “I put Melvin on it. You know how word travels. I didn’t want them to find out some other way.”
“Good idea.”
Norm moved the boat closer to the trunk of the tree and Dawn and I began inspecting every branch, searching for the projectile that killed Joyce. It took less than thirty minutes for Dawn to find the pinprick of a hole in one of the thicker branches. The bark had nearly swallowed up the bullet after it entered the tree, but Dawn knew what she was looking for.
Using my knife, I carefully dug it out and hefted it in my hand. “It’s about the same weight as the other one, and it appears to be the same type.”
“One shooter?” Dawn asked.
“Looks like it.” I handed her the projectile. “Can you send that off to be compared against the first projectile? That’s the only way we’ll know for sure.”
“I’ll put a rush on it.” She placed the projectile in an evidence bag and sealed it.
I took one last long look around, and then gave Norm the go sign. “Take us back to the boat launch so we can meet with Joyce’s employer at the marina.”
“But…” Norm hesitated and his eyes fixed on the body bag. “What about her? Do I have to take her back with me…alone?”
“The coroner’s investigator will be meeting us at the launch,” Dawn assured him. “He already knows to be there in twenty minutes.”
That seemed to calm Norm and he turned the key on the Boston Whaler. I settled in next to Dawn as the twin motors roared. The boat vibrated as we began pulling away from the shadows of the willow tree. I leaned my shoulder into Dawn. “You’ve been busy.”
“Huh?” She pushed back her damp hair. The sun had already started drying it and it was starting to fade from black to its original brown. “You mean taking care of the coroner’s office and the notification?”
I nodded. “I didn’t see you on the phone.”
“That’s because you were lying around in the forest while I was working my ass off.”
CHAPTER 25
It was late afternoon by the time we made it to the Seasville Boat Launch. The coroner’s investigator was waiting for us when we arrived. Dawn and I helped him get Joyce’s body onto a gurney. The wheels rattled and the gurney shook as he pushed it across the shells and toward the back of his wagon, where he wrestled it inside. Once he was gone, Dawn and I loaded our gear into her cruiser and got inside. She started to drive off when I noticed the old van that was parked in the northeastern corner of the lot amongst the tall grass.
“That van is still there.”
Dawn followed my gaze. “So? There’s grass grown up around it. It’s probably been parked there for years.”
She was probably right. It hadn’t moved since I’d first seen it and the grass was tall around it, so it must be broken down. Unless…
“Let’s check it out,” I said.
“Why? If it’d be a problem the owner would’ve called it in a long time ago.”
“What if the owner hasn’t seen it yet? What if
it’s only been here for a few days and it was made to look abandoned?”
Dawn was thoughtful for a brief moment, and then smashed the accelerator. Rocks shot out from behind her tires and some popped against the undercarriage as she raced toward where the van was parked.
The Charger skidded to a stop and dust enveloped us as we jumped out. I immediately noticed the entire van was covered in a thin film of red dust, except for the swipe marks from the windshield wipers.
“This van hasn’t been sitting up here,” I said. “It was sitting up somewhere in red dirt country and then driven here.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Look at the swipe marks from the windshield wipers. It cleared away the red dirt, which meant it was driven from red dirt country. Now there’s a thin film of gray dust from this parking lot.” I shook my head. “This van hasn’t been here long.”
The van was backed into the parking spot, so I trudged through the tall grass to copy down the license plate number. There was none. I then moved to the front to copy the vehicle identification number on the front dash. “Damn it!”
“What is it?” asked Dawn.
“I can’t read the VIN. It’s covered with a piece of paper.”
Dawn had walked around to the passenger’s side, and I heard her grumble. “Nah, it’s been here a while, London. The tires on this side are flat.”
“What?” I walked around and checked out the tires. She was right, they were both flat. But something didn’t look right. I slowly walked around the van, studying every inch of it and the surrounding ground, trying to put a finger on it.
Dawn began drumming her foot on the ground. “Ready? We need to head to the marina before it gets too late.”
I nodded absently. I was about to turn away when it struck me. “The grass!”
“What about it?”
“Look at the grass under the van—it’s green.”