by BJ Bourg
As she drifted off, she began dreaming of being grown up and brave. She knew she wouldn’t be scared of the dark once she got older, because none of the adults she knew were scared of the dark. She realized it was just a kid thing. She had hoped the fear would suddenly disappear once she became a teenager, but that hadn’t happened. She figured she’d have to wait until she was at least eighteen. She knew some eighteen-year-old girls, and they drove alone at night without being afraid. They even went to parties and—
A loud noise interrupted her sleep and her heart jumped in her chest. She clutched the top of the blanket to her chin, listening intently and wondering what had made the noise. Could it be an alligator? Or a bear? What if it was something else? Like, a swamp creature? She had been told stories as a little girl—frightening stories of creatures living in the swamps collecting the bodies of bad boys and girls—and the adults had insisted they were true. It was important, her aunt had told her once, that she never disobey her mom and dad. Otherwise, the act of disobedience would attract the ire of these creatures. It had scared her to death as a child, but she’d slowly begun to discount those tales of horror, thanks to a kid she’d known since the second grade. His name was Chase and he was the most disobedient kid she’d ever met. If the swamp creatures didn’t come for him—she had reasoned years ago in her young mind—they would never come for her.
Now, though, she wasn’t so sure. After one night in the primitive camping area, she had grown somewhat accustomed to the noises of the outdoors. Her dad had identified most of the sounds for her. Cicadas, frogs, crickets, and the occasional grunt of a distant alligator could all be heard throughout the night. She’d heard those same noises tonight. They weren’t frightening at all now. In fact, they were soothing. Her dad had told her that as long as she could hear the night sounds, which he described as swamp music, everything was fine.
“If you don’t hear the sounds,” he had said with a grin, “that’s when you should worry.”
Well, she could no longer hear those sounds and she was worried. Something had caused the swamp creatures to stop singing and it terrified her—at least at first. The longer she lay there, the more she began to think she had imagined the sound. She started breathing easier and had just turned over to go back to sleep when she heard another sound that caused her to nearly choke on her tongue.
The first sound could’ve been an animal scurrying around, but this one sounded like metal scraping metal—definitely a human sound. Somewhere, she believed she had heard that sound before. Had it been in the movies? She explored the deepest recesses of her brain, trying desperately to remember where she’d heard the noise. When it came to her, she sucked in a mouthful of air.
It was a gun!
Alice was about to call out for her dad when the quiet and cool night air erupted into a deafening crescendo of violent explosions.
CHAPTER 3
I had spent an entire week and most of the weekend testifying in court for a murder trial. After the jury had deliberated for six hours on Saturday night and then two hours on Sunday morning, they had reached a decision.
“I would like to thank the jury for their patience and attention during this long trial,” Prosecutor Britt Lucas was saying to a tiny crowd of reporters that had gathered on the front steps of the Chateau Parish Courthouse. She tossed back a long lock of blonde hair and continued, squinting her blue eyes against the brilliance of the morning sun. “We worked some long days, but they never wavered. They worked tirelessly into the night and, after applying the law to the facts in this case, they returned a just verdict of guilty on all charges.”
One of the reporters shouted a question, but Britt lifted a hand and silenced the man. She wasn’t done and she wouldn’t let anyone interrupt her. She glanced toward me and gave an appreciative nod.
“I want to especially thank Chief of Detectives Clint Wolf of the Mechant Loup Police Department,” she said, indicating me as she addressed the reporters again. “It was his exceptional work that helped to bring this case to a successful conclusion. As I’ve told many a young prosecutor, we’re only as good as the officers out there investigating these cases. If they do a good job, it makes us look good. If they do a poor job, there’s nothing we can do to make it better. Well, Chief Wolf has made this office look extremely good today.”
I shifted my feet and stared down at the concrete. I didn’t like being the center of attention and I certainly didn’t like being showered with praise. To begin with, while my official title was chief of detectives, the fact remained that I was the chief of myself and one other person, Detective Amy Cooke. Ours was a small town and we didn’t need a large investigative unit. Hell, we only had one patrol officer on duty at a time. My wife Susan, who was the chief of police, would often be forced to work the streets herself when they were shorthanded or if something major happened. Thankfully, that wasn’t often.
As Britt Lucas continued to address the media, I slipped silently away, careful not to attract any attention. It was easy to do, because all eyes were on the tall prosecutor. At five-ten, she stood eye level to me when she wore flat shoes, but was taller when she wore heels. She loved wearing heels when she was in trial. It enabled her to look down on opposing counsel and make them feel small. I had once seen a defense attorney stand on his tip toes beside her at the judge’s bench in order not to seem shorter than Britt, so I guess the tactic was effective.
I called Susan when I rounded the corner and had put some distance between myself and the courthouse. “I’m free!”
“Wait—what?” she asked, sounding concerned. “They set him free? After all of that?”
“No, I’m free.” I laughed. “I’m heading home. Want to try and salvage what’s left of our Sunday?”
“What do you have in mind?”
I pulled my cell phone away from my face and glanced at the time. It was a little after ten thirty. It was too late to go on a road trip, but early enough to hit a local hiking trail or visit a park. Our daughter Grace loved parks.
“Have you been outside today?” I asked. “It’s beautiful and cool. Maybe go for a walk somewhere?”
“Gracie and I took the dogs for a walk to the back. It is beautiful.” She hesitated for a moment, and I knew she was chewing on that lower lip of hers. She did it habitually when she was thinking, oblivious to how sexy she looked when doing it. After a minute, she said, “Why don’t we hike the Waxtuygi Wildlife Nature Trail? We can eat lunch at M & P Grill afterward.”
I had never been to the Waxtuygi Wildlife Nature Park, but I’d heard of the area. I quickened my step. “That sounds great. I’ll be home in thirty minutes.”
“Wait—what happened with the case?”
“Oh, they found him guilty of second degree murder. The judge set the sentencing for next month. Thankfully, he’ll die in prison and he’ll never be able to hurt another woman.”
She was quiet and I knew she was remembering the case. “I hate that we can’t be everywhere at once, you know?”
Although she couldn’t see me, I nodded. I knew full well what she meant. It was hard to protect victims of domestic violence, because the abuse usually happened inside their homes, where no one could witness the acts.
“See you soon,” I said.
I was about to tuck my phone into my back pocket when it rang. I answered without looking, thinking it was Susan again. “Miss me already?”
“I wish you’d get your lazy ass back to work.” It was Amy and she was huffing. “While you’ve been screwing around in North Chateau all week, I’ve been running around chasing burglars.”
I ducked under the low-lying branch of a Magnolia tree as I hurried down the sidewalk. “We’ve had some burglaries?”
“Well, only one, but I’m covered in fingerprint dust.” She groaned. “You know how much I hate fingerprint dust!”
“What happened?”
“Last Monday, this lady noticed that a pack of ham was missing from the refrigerator and her phone was
knocked over, but she didn’t think anything of it at the time. She figured she must’ve forgotten it on the conveyor belt at the store and that one of her kids knocked over the phone. But then things started clicking when she was trimming her rose bushes this morning.”
“Someone stole a pack of ham?” I asked incredulously as I reached my new black Tahoe and paused outside the door. I had crashed my old Tahoe a few months ago in defense of Amy’s life. After driving my personal truck around for a few weeks, Mayor Pauline Cain had insisted on getting me a new work vehicle. I hated new vehicles. Every time I rubbed against the paintjob I worried I might scratch it.
“While she was trimming her bushes, she saw a little tear in the screen on one of the back windows,” Amy explained. “The tear was right near the locking mechanism and it was the window to the laundry room. She went inside and found that the window had been left unlocked. Whoever had broken in had apparently exited the same way they had entered. On their way out, they closed the window and replaced the screen to disguise the fact that a burglary had even occurred.”
“And all they took was ham?”
“That’s all she noticed at first, but then she remembered hearing her husband complain about someone drinking his last Coke earlier in the week. She also remembered thinking they ran through the latest loaf of bread pretty fast. She started checking around the house and realized a jar of pickles, a tube of mustard, and a bag of chips had also been taken.”
As I listened to Amy, I climbed into my Tahoe, fired it up, and headed south for Mechant Loup. The SUV still had the new car smell. While it was a good scent, it only served to remind me that I’d better be careful with it.
“Did she check with her kids?” I wanted to know. “Maybe they had a party while she was gone and ate through the food. Tell her to check the beer stash, too.”
“Her kids are eight and twelve, so no, there were no parties.”
“I don’t know,” I mused, “eight-year-olds can be pretty crafty.”
“Well, that still wouldn’t explain the ripped screen.”
“But why would someone break in just for food?”
“That’s pretty obvious, don’t you think?” Amy scoffed. “It’s clear they were hungry.”
“You can get a burger, a fry, and a cold drink for three dollars at McDonald’s.”
“Maybe back when you were a young man, old timer, but now it’s double that price.”
Amy had been giving me hell about my age ever since my birthday had passed a few months ago and I had pretended not to notice. “Still,” I said, “it’s not hard to find food nowadays. There must’ve been another reason for the burglary.”
“She checked her house up and down. Nothing else is missing.”
I considered this as I drove, wondering how desperate a person would have to be to commit a burglary just for food. We only had three homeless people in town that I knew about and the community was working together to keep them fed and dry, so I didn’t think it would be them. I said as much to Amy.
“Yeah, you’re right,” she agreed, “but I’ll make my rounds just in case.”
“Did you recover any prints, or did you just make a mess like you usually do?”
She let out a facetious laugh and then stopped dry. “Let’s stop talking about me for a moment. How was the trial? Did the jury convict that piece of shit?”
“They did,” I said, nodding. “They sure did.”
“Of second degree murder?”
“Yep.”
“Well, that’s good. At least he’ll die in prison where he belongs.”
“Are you done at the scene?” I asked, glancing at the clock on the dash. “I can swing by and give you a hand.”
“No, that’s not necessary. I’m done. There were no legible prints and the shoe impression in the flower bed was indiscernible. Other than some photos of the ripped screen, I’ve got nothing.”
“Do they have cameras?”
“There’s a technician waiting to install some now, but they didn’t have any when it happened.” She took a breath and blew it out. “I’ll canvass the area, but this house stands alone and it’s far from the highway, so I doubt anyone saw or heard anything.”
I told her to call if she needed anything.
“I plan on wrapping this up and then enjoying what’s left of my weekend, so don’t expect any calls from me. Hell, I can already feel Monday breathing down my neck.”
I laughed and told her I’d see her at the office tomorrow morning. I then ended the call and continued my drive south.
CHAPTER 4
It took me about thirty minutes to get home and then another twenty for us to load up my truck and head out. We brought our dogs—Achilles and Coco—with us, and that thrilled Grace. Achilles was a solid black German shepherd with tan eyebrows, and Coco was a saddleback. While Achilles tipped the scales north of one hundred pounds, Coco was a typical shepherd and weighed in at around eighty-five. They both sat in the back seat with Grace—one on either side of our redheaded daughter—and Susan took her seat beside me.
“How do I get there?” I asked as I reached the end of our street and braked for oncoming traffic.
“Head to the east side of town toward Cypress Highway,” she instructed. “Once you reach Cypress, head north for about three miles. It’s past the Bayou View Apartments.”
I was familiar with the area, but had never been to the park. From what I had heard, the nature preserve consisted of a hiking path that led to a primitive campground and hunting area that was rarely used anymore. According to some of the old timers in town, there had been a vast expansion of the public land in that area around thirty years ago, mostly due to the dying off of wealthy landowners whose children had moved away and wanted nothing to do with the property. They said representatives from the state and parish governments had worked together to acquire the property from the descendents of these land moguls, and the area was eventually developed into what was now known as the Waxtuygi Nature Park.
The recreational area, which had been named after a friendly greeting used by the Chitimacha Indians, used to be a favorite day spot for many of the tourists who frequented the area. Now, though, we had a different breed of tourist visiting the town. Most of them were into fishing or water sports, and nearly all of them headed for the lakes and bayous south and west of town, relegating the east side of town to a quiet and forgotten countryside. However, it had turned out to be the ideal spot for retirees to come and finish out their days, and we’d had quite a few couples move to the area in recent months.
At two and a half years of age, Grace was a chatterbox, and she talked nonstop as I drove. At times, she addressed Susan and me, but she mostly held one-sided conversations with the dogs. She once told Achilles to stop arguing with her, and this caused Susan and me to laugh out loud.
After taking East Coconut Lane to Cypress Highway and turning north, I drove for a half a mile before Susan pointed to an old brown sign with an arrow pointing east that read, Waxtuygi Wildlife Nature Park. I slowed as we approached a gravel road that intersected with Cypress Highway, and then turned right, heading east.
I didn’t have to travel far to know this road wasn’t used much anymore. It was bumpy and the gravel was thin in places, revealing it wasn’t well maintained.
“Have you ever been out here?” I asked curiously. Susan had lived in Mechant Loup long before I landed here, and she knew a lot more about the place and the people than I did.
“Yeah, I’ve been out here a few times. Melvin and I have had to rescue a number of overdue hikers over the years.” She shrugged. “Most of them simply ventured off the trail and got lost. They were never in any real danger. Few people even know about the place, really.”
“Maybe we should get Mayor Cain to start advertising its existence.”
“Sure, and attract more tourists to our area.” Susan shook her head. “I swear we’ll need to hire four more officers to keep up with the crowds that show up in the summertime
.”
She was right. Our usually quiet little town became a bustling boom town of adventure during the summer. It had certainly provided this place with an economical shot in the arm, but with larger crowds also came larger problems, and our four patrol officers were insanely busy during tourist season, as some of the locals called it.
We jostled along the gravel road for almost a mile. To our left, there were open meadows where oak trees had been planted in long, uniform rows. It appeared the idea had been to create a forest consisting exclusively of oak trees, but over the years, other species of trees had begun sprouting up between the majestic oaks and a widely diverse forest had emerged from the soil. To our right, a faded wooden fence—broken in places—separated the gravel road from the thick swamplands that extended toward the south.
Far away in that direction was a secret place called the Forbidden Swamps—and it was a place I would never forget.
CHAPTER 5
As we neared the end of the road to the Waxtuygi Wildlife Nature Park, the surface became even more uneven and rough. It hadn’t rained in several days, which was a good thing. Otherwise, the holes would’ve been muddy and filled with water. While they would’ve been no match for my F-150 four-by-four, it was nice to have dry weather for a change. This had been a very active hurricane season and even the storms that hadn’t hit us directly had dumped several inches of rain on our town.
“The parking area’s right after that tree,” Susan said, pointing up ahead to a skeleton of a tree that stood just past the end of the wooden fence. Spanish moss hung like cobwebs from the bare branches. Unlike the surrounding trees, this one didn’t look healthy.
