Murder On Spirit Island (Niki Dupre Mysteries Book 1)

by Jim Riley

  Mississippi River

  Pushing the small bass boat into the murky waters next to the island, Dalton pulled out a small flashlight. No sense in drawing unwanted attention. But attention it drew. Halfway between the island and Baton Rouge, a larger boat spotted him. All the previously seen boats had either not seen him or had ignored him. This one, however, slowed down and stopped within shouting distance.

  “Are you okay?” one man in the large boat yelled. “You ain't got much of a light. We almost didn't see you.”

  “I'm fine,” the senator replied. “Just saving my battery.”

  Another voice sounded across the waves. “I bet you're running shine.”

  “Not me. Just passing down the river. That's all.”

  “How 'bout we come aboard and see how much you got?” the second voice yelled.

  “Wouldn't be a good idea,” Dalton responded, looking at the one-shot M-1 rifle, unsure if it could fire that one.

  “I think it'd be a helluva idea,” the first man said.

  Dalton tried to figure a way out. He hated fifty-fifty chances, which he thought he had of the gun firing, especially when it came to his survival.

  “Why don't we make some kind of deal?” he shouted back at the men.

  “Tell you what,” the second man responded. “We won't tell nobody if you give us half of your load. That's only fair, you know.”

  “Sorry, fellas. You caught me on the wrong end of the trip. I'm going to Baton Rouge to pick it up, not drop it off.”

  “You expect us to believe that?” the second man asked.

  “Look for yourself,” Dalton replied. “Look how high my boat is riding in the water. Wouldn't be that high if I was loaded down with shine.”

  Two strong flashlights shone on the bass boat. Dalton turned his head so they could not see his features. With all the press about him the last week, he did not figure it would take much for them to recognize him. The brightness faded when the men were satisfied the boat was not carrying a full load.

  “I've got a deal for you,” Dalton said.

  “What?”

  “Meet me at this exact spot tomorrow night at this exact time and I'll hook you up with some of the best white lightning you've ever put in your mouth.”

  The two men mumbled to each other for a few seconds. Almost got into an argument, but the first man won the battle.

  “How do we know that we can trust you?”

  “Because you know my boat ain't carrying a load. Besides that, how do I know you won't bring the feds back when you come?”

  More mumbling from the other boat. The first man hollered across, “Guess we'll see you in the morning. You'd better be here.”

  Dalton did not reply. Instead, he revved the motor on the bass boat and sped toward Baton Rouge with a big smile.

  Wednesday Morning

  Spirit Island

  Niki started out at first light. The long-legged detective went directly to the well-traveled path where she had seen the footprint the night before. In the early morning light, the swamp looked different. She could see the banana spiders from a distance in the spaces between the palmetto plants.

  A gray cat squirrel barked at the sight of an intruder in his territory. Another answered on the other side. The strawberry-blonde stopped to watch them. They reminded her of the outings with her dad and Samson. After a few minutes, the small rodents lost all interest in the human and went back to feeding on the old acorns and new buds.

  After a few hundred feet, Niki found the place where she encountered the coyote pack. There was nothing to indicate their presence or something supernatural. But she was sure both had been there with her only hours before.

  The detective walked on, soon coming into a small clearing. She recognized it as a food plot though she had never hunted over one. Her dad taught her to hunt between the natural feeding areas for the deer and their daytime bedding hours. That usually meant at the edge of a thicket or a funnel between the two. Her dad thought planting a food plot and using a corn feeder was cheating.

  A small doe and even smaller fawn were feeding at the edge of the plot. Niki was not sure, but the plot looked like a mixture of winter oats and winter peas. Native animals had eaten it down. Neither of the deer paid any attention to her.

  Suddenly, the ground exploded in front of the fawn. A quick low flash. Niki could not keep up momentarily. The she saw the bobcat’s jaws gripped on the fawn’s white neck. The doe could do nothing to protect her baby. She fled into the depths of the swamp, never to see her offspring again.

  Niki watched as the powerful little cat dragged the fawn out of the clearing. It pulled the carcass up the limbs of one of the century old live oaks. At first, Niki did not know why the cat had not eaten its prey right there on the ground. The answer came soon enough.

  The pack of coyotes smelled the blood. They came in running and tracked the spoor to the limb. The cat growled and flashes its talons at the coyotes below, discouraging them from trying to rob her hard won meal.

  The wild dogs did not spend long at the tree. With a shift in the wind, they caught the scent of Niki. In an instant, they loped in her direction.

  Niki's first instinct was to grab the S&W revolver from the small of her back. Then she changed her mind. The detective did not want to kill the coyotes. They were only doing what centuries of breeding and evolution taught them. To the wild dogs, she was nothing more than a spot on the food chain one below them. Just like the fawn was to the bobcat.

  Settling into a defensive posture, Niki readied for the attack. But the dogs did not come directly at her. Some circled her position and took up stances on all sides. Even as they maintained their positions, the coyotes swished back and forth, barking all the time. For a second, Niki questioned her decision not to kill a few of them. She did not have long to reconsider. One came in, snapping its long teeth only inches from her thigh.

  A swift kick in its nose sent the wild beta female whimpering back to its former position. She looked at the human with disbelief.

  Another came in directly behind the athletic detective. She heard and sensed it rather than seeing it. With a spin, she kicked it in the front shoulders. Not hard enough to permanently injure the animal, but hard enough to send it flying. It landed with a thump on top of another.

  Then the warm pocket of air settled over Niki. Just like the first time. Immediately, the coyotes lost all interest. The alpha male laid down under a cedar bough, paying no attention to the human at all.

  Niki looked up at the sky for an answer. None came. She continued down the trail. More food plots. More hunting stands. No sign of Dalton Bridgestone. No clues about the disappearance of Henry Welker. After more than two miles, she stopped. A large mud hole covered the path.

  Taking her time, the detective inspected both sides of the muddy area. No fresh tracks. If Bridgestone had come this way, there was no way he could have passed this spot without leaving a footprint. Or several.

  Niki sighed. Somewhere over the last two miles, the fugitive had stepped off the trail. She had missed it. Taking her time, she walked back toward the camp. Nowhere did she spot footprints leaving the wide path.

  Once back at the camp, she took the one clue she had, the note with the list of names. That was the one solid piece of evidence from her time on Spirit Island. The sighting of Bridgestone gave her an idea. She had to capture him. Then she could feel like a real detective.

  Wednesday Morning

  Spirit Island

  Dalton did not stop at the bunker when he got back to the island. Instead, he went directly to the camp. The small bit of ham and turkey he had taken were gone. He also needed more antibiotics and cream for the old man.

  The senator saw Niki walk down the stairs just as dawn broke over the swamp. She walked through the clearing and on the same path he used to get back and forth to the bunker. It dawned on him she was looking for him.

  He waited until she was out of sight before climbing the stairs. How ironic wa
s it that she was off in the swamp trying to find him while he was taking food and medicine from the very camp she left. With a smile, he started gathering more ham. This time, he added mayonnaise, mustard and pickles in the bag along with some bread. He was tired of soup and Henry was well enough to eat solid food.

  The urge to look in the bedroom was too much. In it, he found her wallet. He whistled when he read her name.

  Niki Dupre, Private Investigator

  It all made sense to him now. Someone had hired her to find Henry. Another irony. He was harboring Henry. Someone hired her to find the old man. Now she was looking for Dalton. The senator laughed out loud in the big bedroom.

  He gathered the food and medicine and took a different path to the bunker. When he descended the steps, Henry Welker glared at him.

  “You're lucky,” the old man rasped. “If I could've reached those rifles, you'd be dead now.”

  From the hate in his eyes and the icy tone of his voice, Dalton saw that Henry was serious. He sat the bag down on the table and smiled at his patient.

  “I'm glad I'm not that good at doctoring then. If you keep talking like that, I might just get a tad more slack in my care for you.”

  The senator swept his arm in a wide circle.

  “I've even given you a private room. Do you know how much the Lady of the Lake charges for one of these?”

  Welker showed no sign of amusement.

  “You killed Juliette. And now you're keeping me prisoner in this dungeon. I don't like it and I don't like you.”

  “I'm not keeping you prisoner. Walk up those steps if you like.”

  “I can't. You know that.”

  Dalton sighed. “You're hurt. That's why you're down here. You'd die before I got you back to the camp.”

  “Don't you have a boat?”

  “You'd die before I got you to Baton Rouge. The waves rock my boat like a cradle. You wouldn't make it a mile down the river before you bled to death.”

  “Why don't you go get some help?”

  “Because I'd get arrested for Juliette’s murder. They care a lot more about nabbing me than they do about finding you. But somebody loves you. They hired a private investigator.”

  “Which one?” Welker asked.

  “A pretty lady named Niki Dupre. She's on the island now. In fact, she slept in your bed last night.”

  “Why didn't you tell her I was here? Then I could get some real help.”

  “Because I don't want anyone to know I'm on Spirit Island just yet. I'm afraid you wouldn't be able to keep a secret.”

  “So I am a prisoner. Where the hell did you go last night?”

  Dalton hesitated before answering. “I—uh, I had to run some errands in Baton Rouge. I didn't think you would miss me while I was gone, but you're healing faster than I thought. Guess that's both good and bad news.”

  Henry swung his legs over the edge of the cot. “What's the bad news?”

  “The bad news is that you need to stay here for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “First, someone tried to kill you. They have to believe that you're dead. As long as they think that, you're safe.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “I'm the one that pulled you out of the river and dragged your old butt to the bank after you got hit. I also read the paper while in Baton Rouge. They found your boat down in Sorrento. It has a lot of blood in it thanks to you.”

  The old man shook his head. “I don't believe you. I've hunted this island for over four decades. If this bunker was on my island, I would know about it.”

  “It's located where it's not supposed to be found,” Dalton smiled. “That's the way they planned it.”

  “Who?”

  “The United States government. I guess you don't remember me telling you the first time about the cold war and the rumors of the rougarous. Why don't we get some breakfast while I tell you again?”

  Dalton fixed biscuits, eggs, and ham taken from the camp while he told Henry the history of the bunker and why he, as a young state senator, knew of its existence. The old man ate two whole biscuits and part of a third.

  Then he turned to Bridgestone. “Did you steal these from my camp also?”

  Dalton laughed. “How can I be stealing them from you when I'm feeding them to you? I don' think you have a case, old man.”

  “Did you kill anyone else while you were out last night?”

  Dalton did not answer the question.

  Wednesday Morning

  Baton Rouge

  Dixon, Swain, and Kemp met at Frank's Restaurant on Airline Highway for breakfast at the request of Gary Dixon. He could barely drink the cup of strong coffee without spilling it on his plate and lap. When he picked up a spoon, it looked like a maestro's baton.

  “What—what are we gonna do?” he asked in a quivering voice.

  “'Bout what?” Kemp asked in his usual terse manner.

  “You know what. What happened to Bobby?”

  “Why do we have to do anything right now? Bobby was drunk when he left Mansur's. Can't say that I will miss the kid.”

  “I do,” said Kemp.

  “Don't you see?” Dixon's voice was barely a squeak. “LaBorde killed Henry. He wants to run our operation. When Bobby threatened him last night, Wayne killed him as well.”

  Swain poured white gravy over one of Frank's famous biscuits.

  “From what I heard, Bobby was almost three times the legal limit. Nobody can drive with that much alcohol in his system. Bobby's body might have built up a tolerance, but he pushed it too far.”

  “I ain't buying it.”

  Dixon sat his quivering cup on the table.

  “I think Wayne killed Henry and buried his body out there on Spirit Island.”

  “Why would he bury Henry's body?” Kemp asked. “That makes no sense.”

  Dixon shrugged. He looked around the room as though aware of the other diners for the first time. Seeing that none of them were paying any attention to the trio of men, he turned back to Swain and Kemp.

  “I don't know why he hid Henry, but I know why he killed him. He wants to take over, and that's why he killed Bobby too. He doesn't want any competition.”

  Swain rolled his eyes.

  “If he killed the kid, I don't think it was to eliminate any competition as much as it was self preservation. Wayne found out last night that Bobby wanted him dead. I agree with Wayne on that.”

  They all sat quietly contemplating the situation. Kemp and Swain dug into their biscuits, eggs, ham, grits and pancakes while Dixon tried to quell his nerves long enough to get the glass of orange juice to his lips.

  After several minutes of silence, Kemp nodded at Swain. “Bill, what do you think?”

  “I think Bobby went to that bar and got plastered. Then, like the idiot he was, tried to drive home. He found out the hard way that all those fancy safety features on his new truck are useless when it hits an eighteen-wheeler. Especially head on at seventy miles an hour.”

  “That sounds like the most likely scenario to me,” Kemp nodded. “We could be wrong, but right now everything points in that direction.”

  “From what John said, it was an open and shut case,” Swain said. “He was down there before they even towed what was left of Bobby's truck. As far as the cops are concerned, it's over.”

  “What if they're wrong?” Dixon asked.

  The other two men pondered the question a few seconds before Kemp answered.

  “Then I don't want to be the next one to volunteer to run our show.”

  All three men ate the rest of their meal in silence.

  Wednesday Morning

  Spirit Island

  Glancing at her watch, Niki found that she had only fifteen minutes before the window opened for Bobby to pick her up at the landing. From the short time she spent with him, the detective expected the young Welker to be early. She gave one last glance around the camp.

  The only real evidence she had was the list. She did not
know its true value, but hoped that it would lead her to Henry Welker. Finding nothing else, she closed the door and descended the stairs.

  Her steps were more confident than on the way in. The warm pocket of air enveloped her on each stride. Still, she could not explain its presence. Her good mood got even better when she spotted the boat at the landing. Bobby was not there. Instead, John waited.

  The dour face changed her perception in a hurry. Even as she was helped aboard, the detective sensed something was drastically amiss.

  “What's wrong?” she asked. “Did Samson bite a larger than normal chunk out of your butt on the Bridgestone case?”

  “No,” the cop shook his head. “You're no longer employed.”

  Niki's hand instinctively covered her mouth. “Did they find Mr. Welker?”

  John again shook his head.

  Niki did not give him a chance to explain. “Is Bobby that disappointed in what I've done so far? It's only been two days. If it's about the money, we can talk about it.”

  John held up one hand with the palm facing her. A tear rolled down his face.

  “Bobby is dead. He was killed in a car wreck early this morning.”

  “Oh my God,” Niki gasped.

  John wiped tears from his face.

  “He was drunk. I've warned him a thousand times not to drive after he drinks. He thought he was invincible.”

  Niki teared up.

  “I know how close you and he were. I'm sorry.”

  The long-legged detective put her arms around John. She could feel his whole body shudder when she pressed her own torso against it for a long time. Neither said a word.

  Then John whispered, “I'm sorry. I know this investigation meant the world to you.”

  “The only thing that matters to me is you,” Niki replied, putting her fingers to his lips. “There will lots of other investigations, but there is only one John d'Iberville.”