Long Shadows: A Mystery Thriller (Winton Chevalier Book 1)

by John Oakes

  “Go on,” Winton said. “Yell all you want. They’re not coming.”

  Anders raised his hands in the air. “They’re dead?”

  “Not all.”

  Joey let out a keening wail, looking down at Jemma. He dropped to his knees and grabbed for the pistol she’d dropped. Winton dropped Joey’s automatic and clamped a second hand on the gun before pulling the trigger again. He maintained a better hold and let off six or seven rounds, filling the empty hold with a cacophony of violence. The pistol flew out of Joey’s grasp as the bullets tore audibly into his arms and chest. He fell back unnaturally, flopping down with one leg bent beneath him.

  Anders looked to Jemma and Joey and thrust his hands in his blond locks, appearing to mix hyperventilation and quick thinking. The man was scared, but composed, as if this was just one of dozens of similarly tense situations he’d found himself in before. “Now, hold on. No need for killing.”

  “Who did it?” Winton stepped forward.

  “Who did what?” Anders asked.

  “Who did it?” Winton asked again, emphasizing each word.

  “She did.” Anders nodded down at the floor.

  “Why?”

  “Because he was injured,” Anders shot a look down at Joey. “Yes. A freak accident. Jemma had medical training. She was trying to help him.”

  Winton stifled a derisive chuckle, remembering the American crewman’s words about Jemma.

  “You cut off bits of him to make him talk.” Winton’s voice was raspy and cold. “I’m guessing he told you everything he knew about Remus and Maroulis by the second finger. What was the rest for?”

  Anders opened his mouth to respond.

  “Huh?” Winton asked. “You wanted his opinion on beets?”

  “There’s no need for killing.” Anders pointed down at the floor. “Not anymore.”

  “And you,” Winton said. “How long were you going to keep him?”

  Anders let out a breath, and splayed his hands. “As long as I needed to and no longer.”

  It was the sort of disarming and honest speech Anders had used before, the same candor Winton had applied when he was the captive.

  Winton took a step back, weighing possible terms.

  A voice from inside spoke to him, calm and clear but separate from the rage. It was his father’s voice in the hospital, the voice that had always gotten through, no matter Winton’s state. And when the moment comes, don’t blink.

  There was only one reason Winton could be hearing that voice.

  “Winton,” Anders said. “You’re a reasonable guy. Put the gun—”

  Winton pulled the trigger. Flames burst from the muzzle, illuminating the cargo bay like an angry orange strobe light. Winton heard the killing bullets find home. In the muzzle flashes, he saw Anders fall as if a rug had been pulled from beneath him.

  Winton’s eyes adjusted to the dark again, and he stepped forward to the three he’d killed. Anders lay on his back, head lolled over the edge of the floor, bright dead eyes looking out the open cargo hatch.

  He felt his pockets for the truck keys, and eventually found them on Jemma.

  Winton returned to the engine room, glad to see Julius and Lucas were gone. He found his captives where he’d left them. He stood directly in front of Brenner and Bill, where Derek could see him if he craned his neck.

  Both men in front of him were straining at their bindings. Brenner, the old sea dog, was doing his best to not look scared.

  “Are you listening?” Winton asked. He knew they were.

  Three heads nodded, even Derek whose face had swollen like he was allergic to a bee sting.

  “I made your associates a deal.” Winton looked them over, wondering for the first time what he must look like to them. “They did not accept.” Winton leveled the machine gun at Bill. “I’ll offer a deal to you, now. Take this ship out into the gulf. Sink the bodies. Go about your business. But never return to Louisiana or the Gulf Coast. That’s it.”

  There was a moment’s pause before heads nodded, and the men assented through their gags.

  Winton had taken a knife off Bill when he tied him up. Now he slipped it in his bound hands behind his back. “Very well,” Winton said. “You’re the proud new owners of this fine sailing vessel. By the time you’ve cut yourself free, we’ll be gone forever.”

  Winton climbed onto the deck and down the clanging steps to the dock which was quiet and empty, except for Julius waiting beside the truck with the driver’s door open. Winton tossed him the keys on the way to the passenger door. Lucas was already inside and offered Winton a hand up. He took it, glad Lucas was that aware.

  “Should we ditch these guns?” Julius asked.

  “Not yet,” Winton said.

  “We gotta get him to a hospital. You too, I’d bet.”

  Winton bent over his brother to smell the arm, then remembered his nose was kaput. “Julius, can you smell?”

  Julius sniffed. “I suppose.” Winton pointed, and Julius bent to smell Lucas’ arm. “Nothing foul.”

  Up on his knees, Winton felt Lucas’ forehead and peered in his eyes. “You feel sick, brother?”

  “Little bit,” he said. “They gave me pills. Made me real loopy.”

  Winton looked to Julius. “If we go to the hospital, it puts us on the back foot. He’s not too warm.”

  “We’re all beat to shit. We’re already on the back foot.”

  “We’re breathing,” Winton said. “And we’re free. Most importantly, Remus doesn’t know we’re coming.”

  “We’re coming for him?” Lucas asked, dreamily.

  Winton grabbed his face in both his hands, searching his eyes. “Lucas, can you hang tough?”

  Lucas blinked. “I could maybe use a beer.”

  There was a second’s pause, then Winton laughed and gripped his brother’s head, tears flooding his eyes.

  “And a bed,” Lucas said, as Winton hugged him. “I wanna lie down in a real bed.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Winton was exhausted when he walked into the cheap motel room, but he moved like a drone to the bathroom trying not to look at the inviting queen beds. He stripped and examined his body, starting with the family jewels, making sure they still resembled jewels and not pancakes. He set off a gut-twisting twinge of pain by feeling himself up, but assured himself at least that he’d live. Though, fathering more children might remain a question mark.

  Winton imagined Missy asking about birth control after their baby was born.

  “Don’t worry, my love,” he’d say. “Took a shot to my boys that put ‘em to sleep for good.”

  Joking to himself helped keep the bad thoughts and shock at bay as he came down off the massive adrenaline dump, and the weight of everything that had happened aboard the ship began to settle. He let the jitters pass over him and let the tears spring from his eyes, thinking it was the healthiest thing, that they’d pass if he just kept breathing slow and deep. Apart from that, his main concern was the rib he was pretty sure was broken and his nose which, well, there was no question. This one felt bad. Like, plastic surgery bad.

  He stepped up on a phone book and the Gideon’s Bible to look in the mirror. His nose had been knocked crooked before, but this time had flattened across the bridge. Winton reminded himself that he wasn’t a poor performer anymore, struggling to pay rent. He’d see the best doctor in Houston. Just one more surgery on the medical to-do list now that he was solvent.

  He touched gently at it and the large bruise forming under his right eye. He couldn’t breathe through it, but at least the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. The tremor-inducing, bowel-chilling ill thoughts wanted in again, so he pressed the side of his nose. The pain helped cleanse him of any feelings that weren’t of use at that moment.

  “We’ll get you good and fixed up,” he told himself in the mirror, noticing the blood coating his teeth. With something like surprise he saw the red streaks on his face where he’d drawn his war paint in the hottest heat of fury. He tr
aced the lines of dried blood, sensing they were permanent, no matter what he could wash away.

  Everything that had transpired was permanent.

  He blew out a big breath, feeling his eyes well up again, feeling his arms and legs tremble. He couldn’t wash any of his deeds away, and he couldn’t quite process them. But he could at least get clean, and prepare to finish what he’d started.

  Winton looked himself in the eyes and decided he was okay with that. He hopped down and ran the shower hot, then just hotter than he thought he could bear.

  When he finished his scrub down, he emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist. Julius was unpacking items bought from the CheapValue down the road: ice packs, over-the-counter pain medication, antibiotic cream, more ice packs, stretchy bandages.

  Lucas was propped up on a pillow in bed, staring blankly at the TV, which wasn’t on yet.

  “Buddy.” Winton sat on the corner of the bed. “You all right?”

  “I got some of them dark beers you like,” Julius said in a sugared tone. “Lemme crack one open for ya.”

  Lucas accepted the bottle with a little smile, and tipped it to his lips. With his first swallow, his shoulders started to jack hammer and his face twisted up in a sob.

  Winton scooted closer and set the beer on the night stand. He hugged Lucas’ head into his chest, and stuck his fingers in his sweat-caked hair. “Let it out. It’s okay. It’s over. It’s over now, buddy.”

  Lucas tipped over, pressing into him until Winton couldn’t hold him anymore, and they both rolled off the bed. Winton grimaced as his brother tumbled onto him and his back scraped down the night stand. Lucas sobbed more, laying boneless on the floor, pinning Winton where he sat.

  “I can still feel them cutting,” Lucas sobbed. “I can still feel them cutting me.”

  Winton felt the hot rush of teary anger and grief. His throat swelled, but he didn’t try to swallow it away. He let the tears roll down his cheeks. He left the anger to build and bubble at a controlled idle. It created a balancing pressure — much more effective than his own pain — that cooled his emotions and formed a diamond-hard resolve.

  Julius stood above them, looking helpless but concerned.

  “This isn’t fucking over,” Winton said to him. “I’m finishing this. Tonight.”

  Julius touched his swollen jaw, tested it side-to-side, then thumbed his nose. “Reckon we will.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Yeah, I do.” Julius eyes flashed white in defiance, with the glint of an anger all his own. “It’s like you say. This shit ain’t over.”

  “They’re cops,” Winton said. “We can’t just kill them.”

  “Wish we could. Nice and neat.”

  “Yeah, and bring down all manner of hell. Blue looks after blue.”

  “We ain’t looking to make friends, though, neither.”

  “If only we could prove what Remus did to Maroulis,” Winton said.

  “Your brother can testify.”

  “And they’ll ask what happened to his arm.” Winton shook his head. “That leads back to that boat.” He petted his little brother’s head. “Lucas isn’t a police officer anymore. And he can’t testify about Remus. That’s just the way it is. He has to disappear from the force, burn out for good and all. It’ll fit with what people already think of him. But at least there are no questions that way. Not from the cops anyhow.” Winton wasn’t prepared to begin thinking about his mother’s reaction. Corbin would have to be muzzled or kept in the dark. His father could keep them all on the same page, keep everyone strong though Lucas’ recovery.

  But Winton didn’t know if their father still lived.

  “We could make it look like an accident,” Julius said. “Get at least one of them in a sort of hit and run situation.”

  “The other two would suspect.”

  “How they gonna find us?” Julius asked. “Then we get the other two somehow.”

  It wasn’t much for a plan, but Winton didn’t want to stifle Julius’ optimism. “I wonder if we could just get Remus…” Winton snapped his fingers. “Remus will be getting the final piece of his enfador tonight.” Winton motioned for Julius to help him out from under Lucas, who still wept softly. Winton managed to keep his towel on his waist while getting hauled up and sat on the other bed. He motioned toward Julius with both hands. “Remus won’t want to be wasting time. He’s been after the enfador for a long time. He’s now the high priest of his own private religion.”

  “But it broke. You still have the piece?”

  “And that crazy magic shop guy said without one part, it won’t work.”

  “But, I mean…” Julius opened a beer and handed it to Winton. “Not to disparage Remus’ magical abilities, but, this thing ain’t coming to life, right?”

  Winton drank and made a sound of thanksgiving. “My brain’s telling me no way. But nothing would surprise me at this point.” He drank again. “Maybe it doesn’t matter.” Winton got up and walked to the sack he’d stashed his gory clothes in, pushed aside the blood-covered jazz saxophonist and brought the inch of golden bone out of his jeans pocket. “If it doesn’t work, Remus has an excuse why.”

  “And if he’s disappointed, well, here you are with a solution.”

  “So, I just give it to him in exchange for his word he won’t have us killed?” Winton drank and shook his head. “Then we’re the sitting ducks, and all he has to do is make it look like an accident. He’s got more experience than us in that field.”

  Julius pulled an ice pack out of the freezer and pressed it to the side of his face. “Man, this…” He seemed to deflate. “This is fucked.”

  Winton didn’t know what to say to buoy Julius, but didn’t want to hypocritically ask him to be a bucket of sunshine. Winton decided to let his own thoughts simmer and do something useful. He grabbed the gauze and bandages Julius had bought and set them next to his brother. He knelt down and asked Lucas to roll onto his side. Silently, Lucas did so, and Winton took his first good look at the arm stump in the lamplight.

  “I’m just gonna get you a fresh bandage. Okay?” Winton unwrapped the athletic tape holding the thick bandage to the arm, then carefully unfolded the edges. The bandage pulled from the wound with strands of sticky goo stretching out. In some spots, blood had dried to fuse the bandage to the wound, especially on the outer edges near the puckered skin. Winton tried to rip it off in one inch strips, like a series of Bandaids. Lucas grunted in pain, but didn’t seem shocked. Clearly he’d had a few different bandages removed this way.

  Fresh blood appeared in spots, oozing, not pulsing. Winton was horrified, but amazed at how clean the cut was. Winton wanted to know why all the arteries weren’t bleeding out or how the cut had been made so cleanly. He wondered how many cuts Lucas had endured to this point on his arm. But he held his tongue. Those were topics for another day.

  Winton finished putting a new bandage on with plenty of antibiotic ointment, oddly replicating the work of Lucas’ torturers.

  He rummaged in Julius’ sacks and pulled out a black t-shirt and a pair of boys trousers. Winton tried on the pants first, judged the fit okay on his waist and butt, then made a mark on the leg. He whipped them off and cut the new hem with a knife. Using a book of matches, he singed the hastily-cut hem with flame, causing any errant strands to shrivel and melt to prevent further unraveling. He tried the pants on again and liked the length better, but the cuffs swallowed his feet. “Jesus. I look like a circus performer.”

  With a little help from a safety pin, he got the cuffs down to a reasonable size, even if the legs did have big pleats running up the outside.

  “Bringing back Hammer pants?” Julius appeared out of the bathroom in his drawers, face glistening and clean, though still puffy and scraped up.

  Winton sighed. “Call a spade a spade.”

  “How do you buy clothes normally?” Julius finished drying out his ears, set his towel on a bed and pulled a new pair of socks out of the shopping
bags.

  “Honestly? As lame as it sounds, my mom makes them. She’s got the fit down perfect over the years. Trousers, at least.”

  “She been doing that for you since you was little, I suppose.”

  “Yep. Nothing in this world was made to fit Winton P. Chevalier.” A smile crept across his face. “Well, one or two things.”

  Julius laughed, and Winton chuckled too. It was refreshing to laugh at a dumb joke. Something light in the darkness.

  “So, is that why you have that resort of yours?” Julius slipped on a pair of comfortable-looking track pants. “The one staffed only with people like you?”

  Winton nodded and pulled on the black t-shirt. He picked up his beer and sat on the bed. “It’s a long story how that place came to be. Crazy story, really. And it’s a little odd, looking from the outside, to have a resort that the Japanese brochures call “Midget Island 3000.” But for us, it’s just the Island. It’s home. Even if employees don’t live there full time. It’s a very special place, man. What can I say?”

  “Maybe I’d like to see that someday.”

  “You’d be a very honored guest.” Winton inclined his head and reached out with his beer. Julius did the same and their bottles clanked together.

  Both their gazes fell to the floor as Lucas began to snore.

  “Did you give him anything?” Winton asked.

  “Me? Nah.”

  Winton looked back down. “Poor guy wanted a bed so bad, but ten minutes on the hard floor and he’s out like a light.”

  “How long was he in that boat?”

  “Three days I’m guessing. Maybe four.”

  “Well, an hour was plenty for me.” Julius shuddered. “But I think your bother will be okay. If he’s anything like you.”

  Winton hoped it was true.

  “He’ll definitely be fucked up, though. But you know…”

  “Yeah.” Winton did know. He’d never owned a lithe, athletic, six-foot-tall body. Despite his own struggle to find his place in the world — which he only marginally felt a part of— he’d never dealt with a loss like Lucas had encountered. To go from handsome and charming, to crippled and unemployed, and all because he was actually trying to be a good lawman?