Midnight on the Mississippi

by Mary Ellis

  She checked her cell phone for a message from Hunter. What she was hoping for was “Where are you, darling? Hurry on up to the house. We’re all ready to dive into a pitcher of lemonade and a bucket of crawfish.” But instead of a welcoming text, “No Service” blinked ominously in the message box.

  After driving all the way to the bayou, she was standing like Chicken Little on the side of the road. Nicki sucked in a lungful of humid air and exhaled slowly. Her fear of swamps was personal and shouldn’t interfere with her ability to do the job. She was Nicki Price, trained private investigator.

  Dropping her phone into her purse, Nicki started the engine and inched slowly up the driveway. Many people would find the area beautiful. They would be glad that wild, natural areas still existed in a world where developers loved to drain swamps and put up another strip mall. Nicki may have felt that way too if her father’s death in the swamp and how that horrible event had impacted her childhood wasn’t closing around her now like kudzu.

  With each turn in the road, with each successfully navigated pothole, she expected to see a Tara-like plantation mansion loom before her eyes, complete with double verandahs and a wide expanse of front lawn. Nicki imagined a home more palatial than Bissette’s Fenêtre sur l’Eau. Lunch would be ready to be served. Hunter would beckon with a smile and wave of his hand, having already soothed the nervous client. The ice tea would be sweet and strong, the cuisine served with style. Nicki would join the soirée and impress the boss with her resourcefulness in finding the place, besides her brilliant conversation skills.

  Boom! A loud bang, followed by an ominous hissing, curtailed her daydream about lunch on the patio. The hissing sound meant only one thing—a flat tire. Nicki had suffered more than her share during her driving career. After scrambling from the car, her expectations were confirmed. The tire rested on its rim while something odd lay in the dirt beneath the flattened rubber. She’d driven over some sort of board, yet the wood wasn’t dark with mildew like everything else in the swamp. This board was clean as a whistle. Nicki got back in the car and rolled it forward just enough to discover a strip of carpet tacking embedded in her tire.

  With considerable effort she pried the strip loose. But instead of tacks, long and sturdy nails had ruined her scenic drive into the bayou. Someone had purposely hammered them into the row to ensure a blowout for the next hapless traveler. Wasn’t it bad enough that bored teenagers bashed mailboxes from pickup trucks for amusement?

  Muttering under her breath, Nicki grabbed her purse and headed up the driveway before her fears came home to roost. She didn’t want to consider the strange sounds around her without the protection of her Escort. After all, how long could this driveway be? Hunter and his rich client would soon appear and offer to put on the spare or maybe replace the ruined tire.

  After another half mile, La Maison de Poisson came into view, but not the mansion with white pillars she had anticipated. It was a one-story, slat-board shack with a rusty corrugated roof. The porch leaned precariously to the right, while the front steps angled to the left. The house had the ambience of an amusement park fun house, but nothing about the situation struck Nicki as humorous.

  Jagged glass shards clung to frames where windows once had been. The chimney had fallen in long ago, leaving a gaping hole in the roof for bats and bugs to come and go. Soda cans, beer bottles, discarded fishing nets, oil cans, broken lawn chairs, and everything imaginable from a man’s getaway weekend littered the weedy yard. And “yard” would be stretching the definition—more like muddy high ground surrounded by swamp willows and moss-draped cypress trees. The driveway on which she stood looped around the cabin toward a channel’s dark water.

  Nicki shuddered and swallowed hard. It was obvious that no one had visited this place, let alone lived here, in quite some time. One of those mailbox-bashing brats probably found it funny to move the sign to the road leading to this hovel. Nicki stomped her espadrille in the dust. By the time she finally arrived at the client’s home, Hunter probably would have given up and returned to New Orleans.

  So much for the opportunity to enthrall them with witty conversation.

  Starting back to her car, she planned to change the tire and get away from the tick-infested tall grass as soon as possible. But as she batted away a swarm of no-see-ums, Nicki noticed tracks in the dirt for the first time. These weren’t from narrow economy tires like hers or the wide high-performance tires from Hunter’s Corvette. These treads were made by one of those big, dual-axle pickups common on the country roads where she’d grown up. Queasiness settled in her stomach while perspiration ran down her temples. Suddenly, exasperation for phantom pranksters morphed into something more insidious. Considering how often it rained in the bayou, these tracks had been made recently.

  Nicki began to run, heedless of muddy potholes. Hunter, his client, and lunch on the veranda were not nearly as important as feeling safe again. The sooner she changed the flat and left Terrebonne Parish, the better. She didn’t slow down until she reached the final twist in the road. But the sight of her car did nothing to calm her anxiety. The doors on her Escort were open and the trunk lid was up. Nicki crept toward the back of the car. What choice did she have? Run headlong into the swamp and swim back to Orleans Parish?

  Fortunately, no ax murderer, no bayou strangler, and no Freddie Kruger lurked behind the raised trunk lid.

  But also no jack and no spare tire. And she was certain they were there the last time she looked. Nicki stood with hands on hips contemplating her options. As she waited for something brilliant to come to mind, she heard the sound of a vehicle approaching on the same road she was stuck in the middle of. Panic tightened her chest, choking off her air for several moments. Nicki braced her hands on the car and forced herself to breathe. Then, despite feeling light-headed, she turned and sprinted up the rutted washout as though an army of cutthroats were coming because that’s what they sounded like.

  Voices raised in a rebel yell reverberated through the dense undergrowth. The whooping, hollering, and horn blasting grew closer by the second, along with a radio tuned to a screechy hard rock station. Nicki also discerned a few obscenities aimed in her direction. For no apparent reason, these men were swearing at her and she had no clue why. Nor did she wish to find out.

  She reached the cluttered yard of the shack panting like a dog. Her cotton top was plastered to her chest and a side stitch doubled her over with pain. Nothing around the cabin offered protection from the melee fast approaching. Her small car must have been little impediment because the truck was very close. With no alternative, Nicki circled around the shack and fought her way through the briars, trying not to consider what critters lived in the swamp’s underbrush. Her goal became the boathouse sitting at water’s edge—a boathouse if one stretched the definition. Thanks to Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, the shanty leaned to the side. Mossy stone steps led down to a rotted pier that extended into the waterway. Fishermen may have taken this path down to their boats in better days. Now they would break their necks for sure. Nicki couldn’t imagine entering anything less appealing than the swamper’s shack until she saw this boathouse. Yet visible through the filthy window was a lone pirogue.

  How she wished she was licensed to carry and had brought along her Beretta 92, a semiautomatic 9mm. I would fire off a few warning shots, and if they kept coming, I’d pick them off like Coke cans on a fence rail. Of course, soda cans were the only objects she’d ever fired at, other than paper targets at the range.

  Hidden behind thick vines entwining one of the boathouse’s supports, Nicki watched a pickup skid to a stop in the yard. The cloud of dust kicked up by the truck obliterated her view of the thugs, but judging by the volume of shouting, there must be at least a hundred.

  As Nicki’s gut twisted into a knot, a young man stomped up the steps to the shack. “Where you at, woman?” he shouted. His booming voice carried through the cypress and tupelo trees.

  What could I have possibly done to infuriate to
tal strangers? The men sounded full of hate and rage as their shouting carried over the truck’s blaring music.

  “Where you at?” The first man yelled again. He sounded closer.

  Nicki peeked from behind her post and spotted three men in dirty jeans and ball caps coming down the path toward the boathouse. They were muscular and mean looking, and one had a shotgun.

  These weren’t bored teenagers out to torment a tourist.

  After hurriedly untying the pirogue with shaking fingers, Nicki scrambled in it, preferring her chances in the swamp to meeting those men face-to-face. The decrepit boat was coated with mildew, but she found a paddle on the wet bottom. Nicki wasted no time pushing off from the dock and into the waterway that connected the bayous like a road map. If she could get away from land she would be safe. No other boats were handy for her assailants to use.

  “Where ya goin’, missy?”

  “Get back here so we can get better acquainted!”

  “We got a littl’ message for you.”

  Three distinctive voices called to her, but Nicki paddled with every ounce of strength she possessed. She glanced over her shoulder at the burly men standing shoulder to shoulder on the dock. Their shouts and expletives continued. When she reached the middle of the canal, a gunshot resounded in the trees on the other bank.

  They were shooting at her.

  They meant to kill her.

  They didn’t even know her, but apparently they would shoot a woman with no more pity than a muskrat for the stew pot.

  Nicki’s skin crawled as she stopped paddling and crouched down in the slimy vessel. She just knew she was going to die in her least favorite place on earth and be eaten by alligators, her remnants becoming shrimp or fish bait. Perhaps a turtle would savor the last mortal remains of Nicolette Price from Red Haw, Mississippi.

  Another shot rang out, sending a cypress branch crashing down on shore. Two thoughts occurred to her while she huddled in the filthy boat: one, they were using solid shot loads, far more deadly than buckshot; and two, the falling branch indicated she’d drifted close to the bank, making it far easier for them.

  But Nicki had another pressing problem to contend with. Her rescue craft was rapidly taking on water. She tried bailing with her cupped hands, but the pirogue was filling so fast it was useless. As she frantically bailed, a white glob floated to the surface of the dark water. Putty! Holes had been drilled and then filled with putty. She’d been a victim of that trick many years ago.

  Nate had drilled holes in an old rowboat, filled the holes with soft putty, and then talked her into taking the boat for an excursion. He and his friends hid in the bushes until she reached the center of the pond, about which time the putty plugs popped loose. The boat quickly filled with water and sank. Nicki, wet and embarrassed, had to swim back to the group of boys on the shore. It took years before her cousins stopped teasing her about the incident.

  But the ricochet of yet another gunshot meant these weren’t immature kids pulling a prank. As the pirogue sank from beneath her to the dense, mysterious bottom of the canal, Nicki swam to the nearest solid mass. An old cypress lay uprooted and dying, its branches extending fifteen feet into the water. Covered with slippery moss and vines, the tree barely offered a handhold, but it effectively shielded her from view.

  “What happened out there, missy? You go down like the Titanic?”

  “That was the lamest escape attempt I ever saw.”

  “Swim on back to me, sugar. I got something to take your mind off that man in town.”

  Laughter and taunts echoed under the low branches, but at least they were mocking her now rather than shooting at her. Nicki clung to her tree and remained as quiet as possible. She tried to not let her feet touch the surface of the water. Visions of gators, snakes, and snapping crawfish came to mind as she fought down waves of nausea. Retching into the black water would be a dead giveaway to her location for gators, so Nicki fought back the impulse.

  “I said get back here, woman!” the most venomous voice shouted, followed by another shotgun blast not far above her head. Leaves and debris rained down into her hair.

  Nicki laid her face against the lichen-encrusted bark and started to cry. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she prayed every prayer she had ever been taught. After a while she could only whisper over and over, “Please, God, help me.”

  For an hour, maybe two, the men milled around the boathouse, shouting at her, at each other, or maybe just making a racket for no reason. Nicki lost track of time as her arms and legs grew numb. It seemed each time she gingerly shifted position to gain a better grip on the cypress someone took a shot at her. At least none of the creeps wished to ruin their alligator skin boots by coming after her into the murky water. The scratches on her face began to swell and hurt, while mosquitoes feasted on every part of her exposed flesh. She shuddered to think what lurked beneath the water level. She knew at some point she would have to enter it again if she were ever to get off that tree.

  Eventually she heard the pickup start up again and drive off. Could she trust that they all left and someone wasn’t just waiting for her to come out from behind her shelter and make herself an easier target? She waited as the other bank finally grew silent. There were no further insults or shouted obscenities, no blaring hard rock music. Other than birdcalls and the insistent buzzing of mosquitoes, Nicki heard nothing at all.

  Once darkness had fallen, Nicki slipped from her log into the water and waded to shore, except that her destination turned out to be a raised hillock surrounded by more water and dense vegetation. The land mass was nothing more than a thick, floating crust that trembled beneath her body weight. Seeing a pair of shiny yellow eyes watching her from the weeds, Nicki started to cry again. Salty tears streamed down her face with the realization she had nowhere to go but into the swamp.

  Quietly, carefully, she half waded, half swam back to the dock, praying not to encounter either a poisonous copperhead or a hungry alligator. Once she was out of the black water, she crept from one tree trunk to the next toward the camp. She scanned the area for signs of the men, but nothing moved in the weed-choked yard. The truck, the men, and the nightmare appeared to be gone.

  Nicki sat down on the dock’s bottom step to assess her sorry condition. She was coated with black mud and green slime, and she smelled awful. Her limbs ached, and her bites and scratches itched and hurt simultaneously, but she was alive. Before she had a chance to grow giddy from her good fortune, the step broke through, sending her downward. Nicki scraped an elbow and a knee and banged her chin hard. Once she regained her footing with solid land beneath her feet, she headed straight to the shack. She felt braver now that her tormentors were gone.

  But now she faced a new worry. No streetlights illuminated the path because she was still in the swamp—an unnerving place with or without the good old boys. Her stomach growled, her throat tightened, and her legs felt like rubber as she walked. There was no way could she navigate the long driveway to the highway and then get to the nearest town in total darkness.

  Tears streamed down her face as Nicki climbed the steps and entered the shack. The hovel was missing several floorboards, so snakes could slither up at will. She stepped carefully, testing each board before shifting her weight forward. A visual of herself breaking through the floor and wedging herself half inside the cabin and half in the stagnant water below flitted across her mind. She inched her way toward the sturdiest looking part of the room and sank down against the wall.

  Vines had grown in through the broken windows, between the floor boards, across the windowsills, and then wrapped around everything upright in the room. Nothing prevented any bug, reptile, amphibian, or mammal from reaching her if they set their mind to it.

  This shack would be her hospitality suite for the evening. There would be no turndown service, no mint on the pillow, and no complimentary breakfast in the morning, along with a copy of USA Today. The prospect of spending the night there frightened her as much as the gun
-toting hooligans. Maybe even more.

  Nicki sat utterly motionless as night arrived, bringing with it the sounds of hoot owls, nightjars, and whippoorwills. After several hours, a full moon rose over the black water, offering additional ghoulish special effects. Then a thick cloud crossed the moon’s face, blotting out even the small amount of illumination it had given her. Just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse, she was wrong. As Nicki curled into a fetal position and tried to sleep, it started to rain. A cold, unrelenting, merciless rain.

  NINETEEN

  Hunter spent Monday and most of Tuesday reassuring corporate clients that recent events wouldn’t affect investment strategies already in place. Word traveled fast in the business world, especially as many clients came to his firm by word-of-mouth at the country club or at children’s soccer matches. Fortunately, few clients jumped ship to other investment houses. Apparently one dead partner and the other suspected of murder didn’t negate suitability as a financial advisor. Performance was king, and Hunter’s performance had beaten all indices for the past year. James’s clients were another story. Ironing out those considerable wrinkles would probably drag on for weeks.

  But Hunter had something else on his mind other than money at the moment, something that had been bothering him since Saturday night. What in the world moved him to kiss Nicki? For one thing, she was Nate’s cousin. For another, she worked for him and he took issues such as sexual harassment seriously.

  Then there was the matter of Ashley. He was practically engaged to another woman, so what did that make him? A bad cliché of a sleazy bridegroom who couldn’t handle restricting himself to one woman? Or maybe the groom-to-be acted out because he feared taking the big plunge?

  Hunter knew he was neither promiscuous nor afraid to get married. But something had prompted him to kiss sweet Nicki in the dance hall, and he couldn’t lay the blame on alcohol. The “why” would remain a mystery, but in the meantime he owed her an apology for his behavior. And it must never happen again.