by Jim Riley
“That hurt,” he said.
“I bet,” Dalton replied. “I thought about trying to take you to the hospital, but I was afraid I'd kill you. Then I thought about getting a medivac helicopter, but it'd be a death sentence for me.”
“Why didn't you just let me die?” Welker asked. “That would have solved all your problems.”
“I'd be lying to you if I said the thought didn't cross my mind,” Dalton said. “But I'm just not built that way.”
“But you're nothing but a damn politician. Everybody in politics only thinks of themselves. And the next election.”
“Not all of us,” Dalton picked up a piece of ham for Welker. “I'll grant you that a lot of people in civil service are anything but civil. Those guys can't even swim with the sharks because the sharks have higher standards.”
“Have you decided how either of us is gonna get outta here?”
“I'd like for you to rest up, and get those wounds where they don't break open every time you sneeze. Then I'll take you to a facility where they can take care of you. If you'll behave for two days, I promise I'll carry you out of here no matter the consequences.”
“Don't guess I've got much of a choice. I can't walk outta here on my own anyway.”
“Glad you realize that,” Dalton smiled. “I was wondering how many knocks to that hard head of yours it would take.”
“You've got my attention. What will we do for the next two days?”
“I've got to go to Baton Rouge tonight. That is where I have a chance of finding the truth.”
“Isn't it dangerous for you to be poking around with all of Louisiana looking for you?” Welker asked.
“No more dangerous than lethal injection.”
Wednesday Night
Baton Rouge
Gary Dixon was in no shape to be coherent. The bar maid had difficulty understanding his words. At first, she thought he was trying to order another drink. But then, she caught them.
“I'm gonna die,” the drunk owner said.
The pretty barista sat down another drink in front of the sloppy man.
“Aren't we all, honey? Ain't gonna live forever.” She smiled. “But that might be better than working here and watching folks drink their lives away.”
Dixon grabbed the glass and guzzled the drink.
“I mean I'm gonna die real soon.”
“Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. What's wrong with you? You got the big C or something?”
“I ain't got cancer,” Dixon blubbered. “With it, I'd at least have a fighting chance. More than a worm in a chicken coop, anyway.”
“What is it, honey? Did you poke your Johnson in the wrong hole?”
Dixon shook his head and held up the empty glass.
“Nope. My wife—well, my ex-wife, she almost killed me when she caught me with my step-daughter. But she missed and now she's in jail for trying to murder me. Ain't that a hoot?”
“How old is your step-daughter?”
Dixon dropped the glass and stared at it a long time before turning to the barmaid.
“Now you're start'n to sound like my ex. Am I to blame if she looked a lot older than she was? I told the deputies that we was only praying together.”
“Did you feel closer to the Lord with your clothes off?” the pretty waitress smiled.
Dixon gave her a drunken grin.
“The Good Book says we need to bare our souls. Me and her were just baring our souls to the Lord.”
“If I were you, I'd try praying with children with my clothes on. It's a lot less complicated that way.
The lady took the empty and replaced it with a full glass.
“There you go, honey. That will make everything look better.”
“What I'm looking at ain't got a good side,” Dixon said. “I don't know how it could get any worse than this.”
“It can't be that bad, sugar. You'll feel a lot better in the morning.”
“Somebody's gonna kill me before morning. I can feel it in my bones”
“I think you're feeling all the whiskey you had tonight,” the barmaid said. “And it ain't in your bones.”
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“I think I know who's gonna kill me, but I ain't sure.”
“Now who would want to kill a sweet guy like you, honey?”
“Him,” Dixon answered.
“Him who? Why does he want to kill you?”
Dixon licked the bottom of his glass.
“Because I know too much. I know way too much.”
Wednesday Night
Baton Rouge
Wayne LaBorde did not appreciate being questioned about his plans.
“I already told you,” he said to his wife. “I have to find Gary Dixon before he does something stupid and gets us all in trouble.”
She snarled at him. “You're going to meet that hussy of yours. What's her name again?”
“It's Bambi,” he sighed. “And she's not a hussy. She's my assistant.”
His wife tightened the belt to her nightgown.
“And what is she going to assist you with this time of the night? Push-ups?”
LaBorde took a step toward the front door.
“I'm not going to see Bambi. For your information, she is immensely qualified to be my assistant.”
“I've seen her qualifications,” his wife scoffed. “Plastic surgery and implants have done wonders for her resumé. I'd bet on that.”
“Now, dear. You're way off base. Bambi and I have a professional relationship.”
“I bet she's a professional, all right. How much does she charge you by the visit? I'm guessing you get a volume discount, but I've seen what you pay the bitch. Great salary with benefits. Guess that is what someone with her 'qualifications' gets.”
Wayne took a step back in her direction. He put one hand on her shoulder.
“I know you don't trust me after that little thing with my last assistant. But you've got to realize that Bambi isn't Trixie.”
She shoved his hand from her shoulder.
“Does that mean she won't do it in the elevator? Is that why you have to visit this bitch in the middle of the night?”
She turned and huffed off toward the bedroom. He followed her.
“Look. I told you I'm not going to see Bambi. I need to find Gary. I'm concerned about him.”
She did not turn around.
“If you are that concerned about him, don't you think there are enough hours during the day to talk to him?”
“I talked to him. After I got home and thought about some things he said, I started to worry. I've tried to call him, but he has his cell forwarded to voice mail. I've left a bunch of messages, but he hasn't returned any of them.”
His wife went through the bedroom door before turning to face him.
“I'm to the point where I don't care anymore, Wayne. I don't believe you are going to look for Gary. You're going to get some of the fringe benefits you're paying the bimbo for from Miss Qualified. Don't wake me up when you get home.”
She slammed the bedroom door shut. LaBorde stood staring at the door. His wife had never spoken to him like that before. Then he trudged to his pickup, contemplating the actions he was about to take.
Wednesday Night
Baton Rouge
Gary Dixon fumbled with his keys, unable to find the right button to open his truck door. All the alcohol became a barrier between his brain and his fingers. His digits seemed to have a will of their own, leading to severe frustration on his part. He hurled the keys to the ground in anger, cursing them and the man that made them.
Then he realized through the mental fog that he could not get into the truck without them. Gary searched in the dim light, his eyes refusing to focus. The blurry images stayed in continuous motion, defying the laws of physics.
He became dizzy while bending over. The pavement swirled beneath him and sucked his body down to it. Gary collapsed against the cab of the truck and lost the feeling in the tips of his fingers. He
lay there, unable to develop a plan to get to his feet. The top of the cab seemed far, far away.
A voice came to him from nearby. The drunken owner swiveled his head in search of the source. In the fog enveloping his mind, his efforts were useless.
“Can I help you?” the man repeated.
Dixon tried to lift his arm. It would not remain upright. The man reached down and easily lifted Gary to his feet. The drunk pointed at the ground.
“My—my keys,” he slurred.
“Don't worry about them,” the good Samaritan said. “You're in no shape to drive. You might kill yourself, or more importantly, someone else.”
“I—” Burp. “I—can drive.”
“No,” the fellow stated firmly. “I can't let you drive in this condition.”
The man put his arms around Dixon and led the drunk to his own vehicle. When he lifted the semi-comatose man into the passenger seat of the truck, Dixon was unaware of the movements. The man locked Dixon in with the seat belt, locking the sot's arms to his chest.
When he went back around to the other side of the pickup, the man looked around the parking lot. He saw no potential witnesses. He glanced at the faux cameras under the eaves of the bar and smiled. The establishment was far too cheap to invest in a working surveillance system.
The man pulled out of the lot slowly. The last thing he wanted was to draw unwanted interest. Not too far down the road, he pulled into the rear of a convenience store, away from the cameras that worked. He casually walked in and purchased a medium size cup of coffee, adding neither sugar or cream, and two whole raw fryer chickens. At the counter, the teenager barely took any notice of his customer.
When he returned to the truck, Dixon's head was resting against the windowpane. Soft snores emanated from the passenger seat. The man steered the truck to the back roads away from all the traffic.
The trip to the cabin on the banks of Lake Maurepas took a little over an hour. When the wheels rolled to a stop, he looked over at Dixon and smiled. The inebriated man was still asleep.
Opening the passenger door, he hauled Dixon out of the truck. With some effort, he dragged the unconscious man down to the dock overlooking Lake Maurepas. He tied one arm to a creosote piling, then did the same with the other arm to a different piling. After ensuring that Dixon was secure and would not fall into the water, the man retrieved the cold cup of coffee from the truck.
Inside the camp, he heated the coffee in the microwave. He got the two chickens from the truck and whistled while walking down to the pier. When he reached Dixon, he patted the drunk on his cheeks. Getting no response, he forced Gary's mouth open and poured some hot coffee down his throat. Dixon coughed and jerked against the ropes securing his arms. The abductor repeated the process until Gary was coherent.
“What—.? What is this all about? Why am I tied up?”
“Because I didn't want you to fall into the water before I talked to you,” the man smiled. “That wouldn't have been good for your health.”
“I won't fall in now. Let me loose,” Gary pleaded.
The smile never left the man's face.
“That wouldn't be the best thing for your health. Let me show you.”
The man took one of the raw chickens and dangled it over the end of the pier. The water roiled and a huge alligator erupted from the depths of the lake. Its powerful jaws ripped the fowl from the man's hand. The beast submerged, taking the prize with it.
Dixon stared in horror. The fog evaporated. He saw the predicament he was in. Pure panic replaced the effects of a hangover.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“That all depends on you,” his abductor replied.
“Huh?”
The man knelt beside Dixon.
“I need to ask you a few questions. What I do after that totally depends on how you answer those questions.”
“What questions?”
“Have you talked to anyone about the operation other than us partners?”
Gary's eyes were as wide as saucers.
“No. I ain't talked to nobody.”
The man placed a hand on Dixon's shoulder.
“Has anyone asked you about our operation?”
Dixon shook his head. “Nobody. I swear.”
The man patted Dixon's shoulder.
“Would you be willing to testify in court about how the partnership worked, who was involved and how much you made?”
“Absolutely not,” Dixon vowed. “I would never do that.”
“What if I could get you full immunity? You and me? We could testify against everyone else and walk out of the court free and clear.”
Dixon stared at the man for a long time.
“Can you do that? Can you really get us immunity if we testify?”
“I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't have it in the bag. But they need more than my testimony alone. With both of us telling the same story, they'll have to believe us.”
“How do I know this is legit?” Dixon asked.
“I can get it in writing from the District Attorney. Will that be good enough?”
Dixon nodded in exaggerated movements.
“I'm in. I'm tired of the partnership, anyway. With Henry and Bobby gone, I don't think it will work like before. Nothing against you, but I just don't think it'll work without the Welkers.”
“That's what I wanted to hear,” the captor smiled.
The man picked up the other raw chicken. This time, when he dangled it over the edge, he jerked it back before the beast could latch onto the fowl. He dragged the meat along the pier until he reached Gary. Then he rubbed it all over Dixon's body and dropped the carcasses in the stunned hostage's lap.
A small alligator climbed up onto the pier. The next one dwarfed the first. It had to be over twelve feet long. They followed the scent trail along the pier.
The captor took out his knife.
“Thank God,” Dixon exclaimed. “For a minute, I thought your were serious.”
He sliced bound man's legs and arms. Blood oozed from Dixon's pants and shirt. The cuts were not deep enough to be fatal, but Dixon screamed as though the knife pierced his heart. Then he jerked at the ropes and yelled every curse he had ever heard.
“Oops,” the man grinned.
Dixon had a low tolerance of pain under any circumstances, and the decking beneath him was soon soaked with urine. Then he got mad.
“What the hell are you doing this for? Why are you killing me?”
“I'm not,” the captor replied. “I'm gonna let my pets do that for me. But you're not part of their usual diet, so I had to improvise to make sure you're on their menu.”
“Why? I agreed to join you in the immunity plea.”
“There is no immunity deal. Never was,” the man said. He cut Dixon's ankles, then his stomach. “I had to see if I could trust you. You proved that I couldn't.”
“You don't have to do this,” Gary pleaded. “I'll disappear. You'll never see me again. You'll never have to worry about me testifying.”
The man chuckled and shook his head.
“This way you will disappear. I won't have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life wondering when you might come home.”
The larger of the alligators was only inches away from Gary's foot. The bound man screamed and soiled his pants. His captor backed to the side of Gary opposite the creature.
“You're going to hell for this,” Dixon whimpered.
The man laughed.
“You're the first one to tell me that. Henry and Bobby didn't have the chance.”
At first, the giant reptile was hesitant. When the smaller one tried to get to Dixon first, however, he lost all reluctance. He grabbed Gary's leg In its massive jaws and jerked. Dixon screamed. His captor sliced both ropes holding Dixon's arms. Then he backed up to the bank.
The larger gator dragged Gary toward the end of the pier. The smaller one took hold of the man's head and shoulder as he passed. For a moment there was a bit of a tug of
war with Gary's body being the rope. The two reptiles tore him apart.
Both of the ferocious animals took their pieces back to the lake, leaving only scraps and blood on the pier. The captor whistled all the way back to his truck.
Wednesday Night
Central
Niki tossed and turned in her bedroom at the upscale townhouse in Central, a wealthy suburb of Baton Rouge. The catalyst for her restlessness was Henry Welker. Rather, the disappearance of the elderly man with no logical explanation. Though she had searched the camp thoroughly, the long-legged detective was certain the answer was on Spirit Island. The only clue she had so far was the list of names and amounts of money by each name.
There was nothing nefarious about the list or anything else. Her instincts, however, urged the strawberry-blonde to follow up with each of those names. Except that one was dead, and another was the subject of her search.
That was the reason she tried to tell herself was the cause of her discomfort. But she knew differently. She had withheld the sighting of Dalton Bridgestone from John. Maybe it was because she was not sure of the identification. It was dark inside the camp and she had been roused from sleep. She had only a brief glance at his face in the doorway.
That was all balderdash, and she knew it. She had seen Bridgestone's face enough in the media. There was no doubt that he was in the camp that night. The lean detective had no logical reason to keep the information secret. Especially when the two men she cared most about in life, John and Samson were being hurt by their inability to capture the alleged murderer.
Then there was the slight problem with her client. If being dead could be considered a slight problem. How could she address her final report? To the Heirs of Bobby Welker? To the Widow of Bobby Welker? To anyone that cares?
Even though she told John she would continue the investigation, she was not sure how to get a solid lead on the whereabouts of Henry Welker. Or his body. Someone had taken a shot at Bobby and her at the landing. The shot had to have been intended for the younger Welker because no one knew she was on the case yet. She had only met Bobby minutes before and he had called no one.