I suck in a deep breath, let half of it out and wait.
Only the sound fades and I realize. He’s running away from me. And I can’t see him. It’s so dark ahead. Glancing up, I see a wispy cloud moving in front of the moon.
I rise to my knees and see a mound ahead. There’s a rise, probably a levee. Instinctively, I move to my right, angling for the rise in front of me. Moving quickly, with knees bent, I hurry forward, watching and listening.
Footsteps echo off to my left, sounding as if Clyde’s made it to solid ground. I pick up my pace and nearly fall over a dwarf palmetto, its spires pricking my legs through my jeans. Suddenly I’m on solid earth. Stepping cautiously, I continue up a levee until I feel something sharp underfoot. I reach down and feel rocks. My hand touches something cool. A rail.
I’m on railroad tracks atop a small levee. Flattening myself next to the tracks, I aim my weapon down the tracks to where Clyde should be, the marsh to my left now. Slowly, the clouds part and the moon beams through. To my right, beyond the levee, is a line of live oaks dripping Spanish moss. Beyond is a wide cypress swamp. In the distance, I see the black water of what must be the Mississippi River Gulf Outlet intra-coastal waterway and Lake St. Catherine, Lake Borgne beyond, shimmering in silver moonlight.
As the tracks take form, I know I can’t stay here so I crawl across the levee to the oaks where I can stand, wipe sweat from my eyes again. I slowly steal my way toward where Clyde must have crossed the levee. The moonlight seems brighter as it streams through the canopy above me.
Rounding an oak I spot Clyde’s footprints heading away from me. I watch for any hint of ambush and I follow the prints through the trees until they turn left and head back toward the levee.
What did I tell Angie? “You may not believe this, but I’m always careful.”
As I slip through the trees, I sharpen every sense. Directly ahead, the levee seems to have a hole in it. I go down on my belly and crawl forward. Stopping behind another oak, I peer around the trunk. It’s not a hole in the levee, it’s a railroad trestle, a small bridge across one of the ribbons of water which falls away into a pond to my right.
Clyde’s footprints head directly for the trestle. Did he cross back to the marsh? Is he hurrying back to the Chef? No. He’s waiting to bushwack me. The footprints are too easy to follow.
In the dappled moonlight, the oak’s gnarled branches hover over me like tarantula arms. Without even a breath of air, the moss dangles lifelessly around me. The drone of insects echoes, like distant waves rolling to shore. Humidity, like lukewarm steam, presses against my face and sweat drips from my chin to my wet shirt.
I back away from the tree and crawl all the way to the end of the tree line. I’ll circle the pond, cross the levee and come up from the other side. Moving as quickly as I can in the bog, I make good time to the pond. I scoop up fresh mud and reapply it to my arms, neck and face. I cover my exposed skin, blackening myself, painting myself like a good Sioux warrior.
As I round the pond, a splash freezes me, but only momentarily. I am one with the swamp. In case it was a gator, however, I pick up my pace. I tip-toe to the levee and crawl over it to lay on the grass on the marsh side focus my senses again.
To my right, the marsh is lit in moonlight and there is no blot crossing it. Slowly, I inch forward, flat on my belly. It takes a while to cross the distance to the trestle. I reach the edge of the steel bridge and stop and listen.
My skin tingles and my heartbeat rises. He’s there. I can feel him. He’s under the trestle waiting for me in the blackness. Peeking up, I see a thick cloud cover the moon. A minute later, a blanket of darkness falls over us.
I close my mind to any thought and direct my senses ahead. There’s a soft sound in front of me, as if he’s repositioning himself. And slowly, I hear raspy breathing. Moving my Glock forward, I aim in the direction of the sound and wait.
The sound fades. Is he moving away from me? Does he know I’m here? Is he getting into a better firing position?
Stop thinking!
Concentrate your senses. Harden yourself. Steel yourself. Deny the enemy a place to wound you. The seconds drag into minutes. I blink perspiration from my eyes, not daring to move my hands. My vision becomes blurred, then clear, then blurred again. Gradually, the moonlight returns. I see something. High, beneath the trestle up close to the tracks. It’s shiny.
We both fire. Squeezing off three rounds, I roll down the levee to the high marsh grass. I’m not hit but the bright flashes from Clyde’s magnum revolver has me seeing yellow dots.
Clyde fires again. Three shots striking the marsh grass around me. I aim for the flashes and squeeze off three more rounds. Jumping up, I scatter the remaining nine hollow points toward Clyde as I race back up the levee.
I reach the tracks, drop my empty magazine, and reload the Glock, chambering a round. I start to cross to the other side of the levee, but turn and crawl back the way I came. He won’t expect me to come back this way.
The ensuing silence is complete. The air reeks of gunpowder. Another cloud passes in front of the moon, then moves away. Eventually, the cicadas start up again. A mockingbird, rousted from its nest, begins it long litany of calls. And I hear a cough. He’s under the trestle.
There’s another cough.
“Pretty good shootin’, ass-hole!” Clyde’s voice is scratchy.
I move up the levee a few feet.
“You fuckin’ hit me, you bastard!”
That was the fuckin’ point.
Clyde coughs again. “Did I get you?”
His voice has a slight echo to it. He’s on the same side of the trestle as I.
“Why don’t you come and get me?” He coughs again. “If you’re waiting for me to pass out, think again. It’s just a nick.”
The insects buzz in response. A minute passes, then another. I remain motionless.
“What you waitin’ for? Come and get me, you gutless fuck.”
He’s close, all right.
“Ain’t you supposed to call out ‘Police’? Ask me to surrender?”
Clyde coughs again, louder and lets out a moan.
As more minutes slip by, I hear Jodie’s voice in the back of my brain reminding me we have to capture them, have to get the whole story. Then I see Mullet’s ugly face grinning at me, telling me he’ll be king of parish prison. King of the cop killers. I squeeze the Glock’s grips and keep the sights aimed forward.
Harden yourself. Steel yourself.
“I surrender! You hear me. I give up!” Two seconds later, he snarls, “Answer me, you fuck!”
Good, he’s losing it. And suffering. Very good.
“I’m comin’ out! You hear me?” Two seconds later – “Answer me!”
I don’t.
“I know you ain’t dead. I heard you creeping back. I been hearing you since you started after me, you lucky fuckin’ bastard. What the fuck are you, some ex-Green Beret or somethin’?”
Concentrate. Don’t let him distract you.
“I’m crawling out, you fuck. I surrender!”
He comes out not ten feet from me, dragging his right leg, his revolver still in hand. I keep my sights trained on him.
“Get me outta here. Get me to a fuckin’ hospital!”
Clyde pulls himself into a sitting position and drops his revolver. Holding his right leg with both hands he looks right at me. A dark stain on his pants shows he’s lost blood. Good.
“Get me to a fuckin’ hospital!”
I rise slowly on weary legs and step down the levee, still keeping myself a good fifteen feet from him. He leans forward to get a better look at me. I can see his eyes clearly in the moonlight as he focuses on me. There’s a slight twitch as he sees this mud-covered man pointing a Glock between his eyes.
“You gonna say something, fuck head?”
I start squeezing the trigger, very slowly.
Clyde grimaces and shouts, “Come on. Get me outta here!”
“You’re not going anyw
here.”
“Fuck you! Get me to a hospital!” His voice echoes over the marsh. Only the mockingbird responds, chirping angrily.
“You know the old saying,” I tell him. “Kill a cop. You die.”
I wait for the realization to register in Clyde’s eyes. It doesn’t. He coughs again. I go down on one knee. This is a better angle for an entry wound.
“Who – ,” Clyde says in a harsh whisper. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I am Sharp Eyes of the Oglala Sioux. And you killed of my tribe. So, you die.”
It finally registers in Clyde’s eyes, the realization. I smile coldly and see my hands are rock steady as I squeeze off a round which strikes Clyde in the forehead, snapping his head. He falls straight back, his hand conveniently close to his revolver.
Good. When they get here, they won’t see any of my footprints near him. He and his revolver will get me through another Grand Jury. I sink down on the levee as the air in my lungs finally exhales. My breathing eventually returns to normal. Holstering my weapon, I lean back on both hands and look up at the beaming moon.
“When I came on the job,” I tell the moon. “I swore to uphold the law to the best of my ability, didn’t I?” I look at Clyde’s body. “This is the best of my ability.”
I sink back on the levee and lay there, staring at the sky above. My weary eyes close and I rest, let the tension float away, let the hardening and steeling soften until I feel almost light-headed.
In the waning moments of The Battle of the Little Bighorn, a battle we Sioux call ‘The Battle at the Greasy Grass’ because of the oily grass surrounding the Little Bighorn River, a warrior came upon a Sioux woman standing over a wounded soldier. The soldier was begging for his life. Before killing the soldier, the woman, known as Eagle Robe, called out to him, “If you did not want to be killed, why did you not stay home where you belong and come to attack us?”
As I lay on the levee in this thick Louisiana marsh, my mind drifts back to that dusty Montana plain where my ancestors, Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse and his brother Little Hawk, killed those who had killed of our tribe.
I feel a deep peace inside.
I was careful
The sun rises along the flat, eastern horizon, eerily illuminating the vast swampland around me. Marsh fog hugs the ground, like steam from a boiling kettle, until the sun is completely above the horizon and burns away the warm fog.
The cackling of gulls behind me turns me around. Moving in from Lake Catherine, laughing gulls float above and past me. One at a time, they swoop down to the marsh for their breakfast of cock-a-hoe minnows. Snowy egrets, their white plumes gleaming under the bright sun, stand in the ribbons of water dotting the marsh.
I peel the dried mud from my face and arms as I sit on the levee. Facing the marsh I’d crossed in the darkness, I’m surprised how far I’d crawled. The tree line along the Chef is a good two miles away, at least. The hot sun makes me want to lie back and go to sleep. Someone’ll find us sooner or later. No way I’m leaving Clyde and his gun until the crime lab arrives to process this scene.
When I was a rookie homicide detective we thought we had a murder on the river batture, when we found a body with a bullet wound in the head. Checking the wound we found unmistakable evidence of a contact wound to the temple – powder burns, blow-back and stippling. We were immediately confused when we discovered the victim’s car parked nearby with a suicide note in it.
It took us a while to put the pieces together. Some brazen street thug had come upon the body and snatched the victim’s gun. The last thing I need is Clyde’s gun disappearing. Guess those bloodhounds weren’t so good after all. I’ll bet they’re all still on the other side of Chef Menteur Highway, dodging spiders and cottonmouths.
I lean back on my elbows and close my eyes. You’d think that someone would look over here. Maybe a train will come along slow enough for me to flag it down or get a message out. The tracks look in pretty good shape.
I keep checking the tracks. An hour later, I spot two figures moving my way along the tracks. My legs ache as I rise and stretch. The knee I tore up at LSU creaks as I climb to the top of the levee. The figures stop about a hundred yards away, two men, one carrying a pump shotgun.
I wave my arms, then wave them forward. The man with the shotgun pulls it off his shoulder and points it at the ground as the two come slowly toward me. The taller is black and wears a shoulder holster rig. The man with the shotgun, a pudgy white boy, looks young. Both have small silver badges clipped to their khaki shirts.
When they are within earshot, I put my hands around my mouth and shout, “Police! I’m a police officer!”
The men pause a moment, but continue cautiously. I turn my side to them and pull my ID folder, with my badge clipped to the outside, and hold it open above my head.
“NOPD!”
The black man raises a friendly hand, then shouts back, “Railroad Detectives!”
Fuckin’ A! The muddy dirt on my face cracks as I smile. As soon as they reach the trestle, I hold my ID folder out front. They cross the trestle easily.
“I’m Detective John Raven Beau. Homicide. Y’all have a radio?”
The black man, who’s darker-complected than Merten, pulls a small radio from his pants pocket, then stops and says, “You’re Beau?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus. We all been looking for you.”
I point down the levee to Clyde’s body. “Thought y’all might be looking for him.”
The pudgy man steps over, looks down and whistles.
“He’s dead,” I tell them. “Can y’all call in and get NOPD out here?”
The black man reaches a hand out and tells me he’s Sam Martinez. His partner is Irvin Martinez. Irvin runs a hand through his carrot red hair and says, in a serious voice, “We’re not related.”
Ah, humor. Nice. Sam asks if I’m all right.
“Just tired and muddy.”
“Is that blood on your leg?”
Damn palmetto. My jeans are ripped and coagulated blood is clustered around the tear.
“Can y’all call in?”
“Sure.” Sam calls his headquarters. I return to my original position on the levee, sitting cross legged like a good Indian. I tell Irvin to stay away from the crime scene.
“Just sit here with me.” I nod toward the Chef. “They’ll be coming soon.”
“Damn right,” Sam says. “You got a passel of cops out searching for you.”
Irvin passes me his canteen and the water is sweet and cool.
I thank him as the mockingbird starts chattering behind us. I can’t spot it in the oaks, but it fusses us through a long series of calls. Hell, maybe it isn’t fussing at us. Maybe it’s just advertising for a mate.
Sam points across the marsh. A long line of blue moves out of the trees toward us. Shielding my eyes with both hands above my brows, I watch their slow progress. I spot Jodie’s white-blonde hair near the center of the line. A dark, hulking form seems to be out front. He’s moving quickest. It’s Merten, in another dark brown suit, coat flapping as he tries to jog through the mire.
“That’s my lieutenant out front,” I tell Sam.
“From the way he moves, he looks mad.”
“Naw. He’s just ornery.”
Someone helps Jodie across one of the waterways. “See that Elmer Fudd looking guy next to the blonde woman?”
Sam squints and nods.
“Don’t let him talk to you.”
“Why not?”
“He’ll never stop.” Turning to Irvin, I ask if I can have more water.
“Sure.” He passes the canteen back to me. “Can you tell us how you killed him?”
I shake my head. “Have to tell my lieutenant first.”
“Cool!” Irvin bobs his head. “I never met anyone who killed someone before. I mean right after and all.” Sam tells him to keep quiet. And we watch the cavalry approach.
Merten nearly falls climbing out of the last ribbon of water. Pu
lling himself up, he hurries forward. A second line of people stream out of the trees. Most of these are in civilian clothes. Several are carrying cases. Crime Lab and FBI probably. The men in white are probably from the coroner’s office.
As Merten closes in, a rail car approaches and Sam and Irvin get up and move to it. I watch my lieutenant slow down and turn towards Clyde’s body. He stops twenty feet from it, gives it a long look, then turns to me. His face glistens with sweat. He’s breathing heavily and to my surprise, the normally present scowl is gone. He stops in front of me and goes down on one knee, his yellow-brown eyes staring into mine.
“Are you all right, son?”
“I’m OK.”
He plops heavily and wipes the sweat away from his face with both hands. Covering his face with his hands, he lets out what could be mistaken for a cry, followed by a nervous laugh. He clears his throat. “Beau,” his voice wavers with emotion. “You don’t know how much you worry me.”
A dog’s howl echoes over the swamp. Looking across the marsh, I see the bloodhounds have finally made it. The first line of uniformed officers closes in on me.
Merten directs two to guard the area around Clyde’s body. “Don’t let anyone within thirty feet until I start processing the scene. And I mean anyone, I don’t give a fuck what rank they are!”
Four other officers continue toward me. They stare at me as if I’m from Mars. I suddenly feel like a wild animal in a cage. When one of the officers speaks, I realize it’s Gonzales, the brim of his dark blue NOPD hat nearly hiding his eyes.
“You got mud all over your face, Crazy Horse,” he tells me.
His dark blue uniform pants are caked with mud. He wears black rubber boots that slosh as he tries to climb the levee. They’re full of water.
“You got demoted or something?” I ask back.
“No! Just didn’t want anyone shooting me by mistake.”
Merten stands and tells Gonzales to go secure the scene. “I need Homicide there until I’m finished with Beau.” He reaches a hand down to help me up. I grab it and he pulls me up on my achy legs. My lieutenant leads me up to the trestle, away from everyone and asks me to run it down to him, quickly. As I tell him, my voice scratches with exhaustion. I tell him about the tracks in the mud and the trek which led us to this trestle in the middle of last night.
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