Silent Crickets: A Shallow End Gals, Trilogy Book Three

by Troutman, Kimberly

  Copyright © 2013 Vicki Graybosch

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1484034155

  ISBN 13: 9781484034156

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-63002-288-4

  BOOK ONE: ALCOHOL WAS NOT INVOLVED

  BOOK TWO: EXTREME HEAT WARNING

  BOOK THREE: SILENT CRICKETS

  A VERY SPECIAL THANKS TO:

  ERIKA CANTER

  BOB SMITH

  MICHAEL SUTHERLAND

  SUSAN WEAVER

  SADIE CORBIN

  JOCELYN SCHULTZ

  CAROLYN GALE

  CINDY ROY

  VALETA COVINGTON

  DEBBIE JASINSKI

  JENNIFER DUNCAN

  JUDY LUKASIEWICZ

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely fictitious, used fictitiously or coincidentally.

  Copyright © Vicki Graybosch 2013

  All rights reserved

  Copyrighted Material

  ISBN-1484034155

  ISBN-9781484034156

  Editorial Services: Erika Canter

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photo-copying, recording or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  List of characters at end of book

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  IN MEMORY

  Mambo stood at the edge of the swamp and focused her large dark eyes across the black bayou inlet. She had tried for many months to lure the child spirit to her. She could see the slight blue glow of his small frame squatting in the tall marsh grasses. He was looking at her, peeking through the reeds. He was closer this time. Mambo could sense his fear. She closed her eyes, rubbed her amulet and asked the spirits to assure him she could help. Like all of the times before, when she looked back to him, he was gone.

  Jeanne called out again for Lisa. Why wasn’t she answering? Jeanne walked half the length of the damp tunnel when she heard footsteps running toward her. She held her gun behind her back. If it were Lisa and Jamie she didn’t want to scare them. In the dim light from the wall lantern Jeanne could see the small form of Jamie moving toward her. Lisa was directly behind her, “Mathew was just here. He told us to stay with you. He said he needed to make some things right.”

  Tears streamed down Lisa’s cheeks. She was noticeably frightened. She looked at Jeanne and asked, “Who are those men? Why are they trying to harm us?” Jamie sucked on her thumb, her eyes wide as she leaned into Lisa and hung onto her shirttail. Jamie was six years old, and Jeanne was quite sure she had stopped sucking her thumb years ago. Lisa and Jamie were in an impossible situation now.

  Jeanne answered, “I’m having you both taken to our field office for safety. An agent there will explain to you what is happening.” Jeanne knelt down and looked into Jamie’s eyes, “The bad guys will not hurt you now. There are two more agents here, and one of them has been injured. He’s my brother. We need to get him to the hospital. I’d like to meet up with you later. Is that okay Jamie?”

  Jamie nodded and took her thumb out of her mouth. “Is your brother an FBI person too?”

  “Yes.”

  Jamie exhaled and looked at Lisa, “Mom, we have a lot of thinking to do. You should stop crying now and try to think of something happy. There is always something happy, remember?” Lisa wiped her eyes and smiled at Jamie. Jeanne’s heart was breaking for them both. Life was never going to be the same for them.

  Supervisory Special Agent Dan Thor called the New Orleans field office. He told them to send an ambulance for Pablo, and an agent to provide protection for Mathew Core’s wife and kid. Thor added, “Send a cleanup crew. We have three dead guys in the swamp grasses out here.”

  Thor was on the ground. Pablo’s head rested on his lap. Thor applied pressure to the shoulder wound and prayed help would get there soon. Pablo was showing signs of shock and had lost a lot of blood. Thor watched the ambulance pull in and waved them over. Special Agent Nelson’s SUV spun into the drive. Thor pointed to Jeremiah’s house where Nelson would find Lisa and Jamie.

  Jeanne ran over and helped the EMTs get Pablo on a stretcher. She kissed his forehead and said, “You’re going to be okay. I know it.” Pablo blinked his eyes as the EMTs put an oxygen mask on him and hoisted the gurney into the back of the ambulance. Jeanne watched as they left, sirens blaring. Her mind was racing. Jeremiah would come home to this chaos and be afraid. She knew she should stay at the site and give her report to the field agents who were now arriving. She could feel Pablo’s pain and fear. They were twins. She wanted to be near him.

  Jeanne looked at Thor. He was covered in Pablo’s blood. His eyes locked with hers, and he knew exactly what was racing through her mind. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Pablo’s blood from his hands. “Come on. I’ll drive.”

  Jackson didn’t pay much attention to the guard who said, “Get up. You’re outa here.” Sadistic son of bitches would say anything to get you goin’. The guard unlocked the door and mumbled, “You one lucky fool.”

  Jackson looked at the guard’s facial expression and realized he was serious. “What you talkin’ ‘bout?” Jackson moved to a sitting position on his cot. This had been home for five years, and there was still another dime left on his sentence.

  The guard motioned with his arm, “Quit askin’ stupid questions, and just move it. Seems someone got your ass a sentence revoke order. You got a ride waitin’ on ya. Best move it.” The guard chuckled as he jingled the keys, “Lessin’ you want to stay?”

  Jackson threw his shirt on and slipped into his shoes. He put his hands out for the cuffs and the guard laughed, “You deaf boy? You be a free man! I ain’t cuffin’ your ass. I’m walkin’ you to the gate.”

  If this was some kind of mistake, Jackson wasn’t going to be the one to mention it. He quickly shuffled down the hall with the guard and barely heard the deafening jeers of the other inmates. The guard buzzed through several corridor gates and pointed to a large steel double door. “We’re going out this way.” Jackson followed. He had never been in this part of the prison before.

  Soon they were outdoors. Even though the h
eat was oppressive, the breeze felt like magic. They walked over to the tall chain link gate used primarily for delivery trucks. An old, gold Chevy Impala sat idling. A man about Jackson’s age got out and walked over. He had something cupped in his hand as he shook hands with the guard.

  He winked and said, “Rest of yours been taken care of.” He looked at Jackson, “Let’s go. You’re already late for work.”

  Abram put the car in gear and pulled away from the prison yard. He looked over at Jackson. “My name is Abram. I guess you could say I’m your new boss. Old boss got shot this morning. ‘Bout thirty times!” Abram laughed out loud then turned to Jackson, “You heard what’s been goin’ on in the city?”

  Jackson shook his head. Abram looked in the rearview mirror, used his turn signal and slowly pulled into the traffic on the highway. He looked at Jackson. “You got to watch yourself real close right now. Feds had some big weapon/drug seizure at the docks last night. Streets are dry. Nobody got much product. You can’t get your hands on nothin’! Lot of folks startin’ to panic, ya know?”

  Abram used his turn signal to change lanes and glanced down to make sure he wasn’t speeding. “Heard it was FBI, but they got Navy, Coast Guard and National Guard involved too. Said Nawlens under martial law or some damn shit. This morning they blasted the four main hoods. Killed people, took our drugs and guns. Left military jeeps rollin’ through the streets. We figure we lost a couple dozen guys at least. Dead. Whole bunch of ‘em in the Navy jail. Hear tell, if the government declares martial law, it ain’t like a regular arrest where ya go to jail. Them boys lookin’ at court martials.” Abram looked at Jackson’s shocked expression and continued. “Manio Cartel lost some people this afternoon in some kind of abduction thing. FBI not only killed ‘em all but knew they were comin’. Nasty shit goin’ down.”

  Jackson wondered if he hadn’t been safer in the prison. “So what do you want with me?”

  Abram glanced quickly over at Jackson. “I always heard you be a standup guy. Took the jail time and didn’t squeal none. Hell, didn’t really have nothin’ to do with nothin’. I need to replace a guy we lost this mornin’. Fast. Need somebody trustin’. Good money to be had, and I figured we owed ya. Falled on me to make a couple of calls and here you are. We got us a judge we use.”

  Abram rubbed his chin and quickly glanced over. “You got a problem snatchin’ kids?”

  Jackson surprised himself when he answered, “No.” His mind screamed, Hell yes!

  Mathew Core knocked on the door of his rental unit over the jewelry store next to Mickey’s Bar. Duane came to the door and said, “Hey man. Rent not due yet.”

  Mathew smiled and said, “I got twenty grand cash says you just decided to move. Now.” Mathew held out the fat envelope. Duane peeked inside.

  Duane grasped the envelope and said, “Just let me grab my car keys.”

  Alan was driving down the highway toward Slidell when he saw an ambulance tear out of Uncle Jeremiah’s driveway and head towards New Orleans. What the hell? He abruptly turned his truck onto Jeremiah’s drive and almost collided head on with an SUV driven by Agent Todd Nelson. Nelson lowered the driver’s window and stuck his hand out for Alan to stop. Alan yelled over, “Is Uncle Jeremiah okay?”

  Nelson nodded. “He’s out on his boat. There was a shooting here. Pablo was hit in the shoulder. Can you stay and explain it all to Jeremiah? The guys back there will bring you up to speed.”

  Alan noticed a woman and child in the backseat. He answered “Sure,” and continued to drive back into the property. Two NOPD patrol cars, a coroner wagon, and two black FBI SUVs sat in Jeremiah’s drive. Agents and officers walked around Jeremiah’s yard pointing and writing in notebooks. Alan could see Jeremiah pushing his boat to shore and looking around at the chaos. Alan parked his truck and ran over to the edge of the swamp to meet him.

  “Uncle Jeremiah, everything is fine. There was some kind of situation here, but it is over now.” Jeremiah looked tired. Worried. His skin was sweaty from the oppressive afternoon heat. Alan held out his arm to help Jeremiah off the boat. Jeremiah wrapped a rope around a large cypress root and slowly lowered his old bent body to sit on his favorite stump.

  He looked at Alan, “Is Jeanne okay?” To be out at his place, he knew whatever happened must have involved her.

  “Think so. I only know her brother, Pablo, was shot and the ambulance has already taken him away.” Alan and Jeremiah watched the coroner’s team carry a body out of the tall marsh grasses, load it in the coroner’s wagon, and return back to the grasses with the body board.

  Jeremiah swatted a mosquito on the side of his neck and adjusted his eye patch. He looked at Alan, “I ‘spect somebody pissed her off.”

  SSA Roger Dance dropped his briefcase on the hotel bed and hung his suit jacket on a chair. On the jet, the FBI Director had given him twenty pages of transcripts from last night’s communication sting. He carried the stack of pages over to the small table near the window. Roger had asked Paul and John to give him about thirty minutes to think things out. Thor had called to tell Roger he was driving Jeanne to the hospital to be with Pablo. Nelson had Mathew Core’s wife and daughter in protective custody at the FBI field office.

  Roger was grateful Jeanne had survived the abduction attempt of the Manio cartel against Mathew Core’s wife and daughter. His team had been pushed to their limits after the raid last night at the dock, the neighborhood sweeps this morning, and the shoot-outs at Core’s house and Jeremiah’s a few hours ago. It had already been an extraordinary last couple of days.

  Roger’s plan to capture all communications in conjunction with last night’s martial law raid had revealed through the transcripts, his team faced even larger threats than he had suspected.

  Roger ran his fingers through his hair and stretched his neck. The sunlight coming through the window blared across his pages and reminded him how oppressive the New Orleans heat was outside. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window glass. The Director wasn’t the only one this case was aging. Roger shuffled the transcript pages until he found the call where Mathew Core was warned of the FBI raid, precisely when it started. Later, Core had called the Deputy Director of the FBI, William C. Thornton. Thornton had then called Thomas Fenley.

  John Barry and the FBI Director were quite alarmed to see Fenley’s name in these transcripts. Roger had to assume Fenley represented a new threat.

  Roger knew the sting cover could be blown any minute. Thomas Fenley and FBI Deputy Director William C. Thornton had any number of ears that would soon be alerting them that all communications were being monitored, including secure government lines, until midnight Friday. Tomorrow. Roger could only hope they would capture a few more meaningful transmissions before then.

  Roger’s eyes moved down the pages to the call that Thomas Fenley had placed to Jesse Manio, head of the Manio Cartel. It was obvious now. The Manio Cartel was the intended recipient of the sixty tons of weapons diverted to the port storage building from the ship. The remaining thirty tons on the ship had been a decoy transaction the Deputy Director of the FBI, William C. Thornton, had arranged to entrap the Zelez Cartel. Mathew Core had brokered the deal. Bringing ninety tons of weapons into the United States by ship from Algiers, under FBI protection, for some scheme with two major cartels was astounding and arrogant. These men were confident they could do anything they wanted and probably had been doing so for quite some time.

  He read again the passage where Manio ordered the abduction of Mathew Core’s wife and daughter, and threatened blood baths in fifteen U.S. cities. Roger rubbed his temples and closed his eyes. When he had first read this, it scared the crap out of him. Now, an hour later, this sounded like a spoiled child’s rant. Manio hadn’t kept his position of power by acting on non-productive threats. Manio would be looking for a better resolution.

  Roger paced around the small room. He could actually taste his contempt for Manio, Thornton, and Fenley. Roger needed them to feel like they were still in
control if he was going to win this thing.

  The one piece he couldn’t connect was Jason Sims, Mathew Core’s computer guy. What was he trying to do with the CIA super-frame? Was he protecting his own interests or was there a larger picture? Mathew Core was connected to all of these players in some way. A decorated Marine turned black op. He was apparently, both a valued asset of the government, and a dangerous threat at the same time. Whatever Core was, he was in a bad spot, and he was asking for Roger’s help.

  Stopping the sicko club was in the front of Roger’s mind too. If they acted quickly, they would be able to save any number of children from this group. He had John Barry’s guy, Tourey, closing in on Patterson, but there was no time to spare. Patterson still had to be caught. Thanks to Tourey they knew where Patterson was hiding. Roger sat across from his computer and started tapping his pen on his knee. Any one of these problems would normally require months of investigation and a lot of manpower. Roger didn’t have either. He had to buy some time.

  Roger searched his computer for his downloaded version of Ravel’s Bolero and walked around the room as he listened to the steady, restrained beat of the snare drum and the almost sickeningly sweet melody that just repeated and repeated until it almost seemed like an unstoppable march. He knew percussionists hated this song. They had one cadence to play, and the tempo was unchanged from start to finish. Fifteen minutes of hell for the drummers. Some conductors appeased the drum section by letting them sit in front of the orchestra for performances and advising the audience of the difficulties of maintaining the tempo and volume for such an extended time.

  He tapped his pen to the beat as he listened to the orchestra instruments enter and one by one, grab the melody and slowly twist and distort it. About three quarters through the piece the trombones boldly enter with what sounds like a taunting brash assault on the melody and the power of the piece shifts to the strings, double reeds, and saxophones. The brass instruments mimic the drum cadence and quickly take over with sheer volume and attitude. The once fluid melody is now staccato and brazenly altered. The buildup to the ending has every orchestra instrument adding their taunting twists, attacking the melody, and completely drowning out the once unchallenged snare drums. Then the choir voices join in, the voices of the people. The last sixteen bars of the piece sounds as if the orchestra has gone mad and is laughing at the ruin of the original melody. As a listener, he had always felt the piece should have been entitled, ‘The Orchestra’s Revenge’.