by BJ Bourg
BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
A Clint Wolf Novel
(Book 1)
___________________
BY
BJ BOURG
www.bjbourg.com
BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
A Clint Wolf Novel (Book 1) by BJ Bourg
This book is a work of fiction.
All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or
reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author, with the exception of brief
excerpts used for the purposes of review.
Copyright © 2015 by BJ Bourg
ISBN-13: 978-1-52329-320-9
ISBN-10: 1523293209
Cover design by Christine Savoie of Bayou Cover Designs
PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 1
Wednesday, June 13
I stepped out of my truck, walked to the passenger’s door and opened it for Michele. She leaned her right leg out first, the slit in her dress pushing upward to reveal a slender sculpture of porcelain perfection. I planted my hand firmly on her exposed thigh, leaned forward and kissed her fully on the lips.
Michele pulled away and turned her head. “Don’t, Clint! Not while Abigail’s in the truck.”
“How many times do I have to tell you there’s nothing wrong with a kid seeing her mom and dad kiss?”
Michele planted both feet on the pavement and straightened her dress. “How many times do I have to tell you it makes me uncomfortable?”
I grunted, pushing her door shut. “Whatever.”
I started to walk toward the back of the truck to open the door for Abigail, but Michele grabbed me by the arm and leaned into me. She looked up, her green eyes sparkling with moisture. “You know what I love about you?”
“Stop trying to make up for rejecting me.”
“I’m not.” Michele puckered her lips. “Seriously…do you know what I love about you?”
“My manly gait?”
She laughed, shook her head.
“My money?”
She cocked her head sideways. “You’re a homicide detective, not a doctor. Guess again.”
“Um, let me see…” I stared upward. I had to squint against the setting Louisiana sun that was taking a lazy dive behind the skyscrapers to the west. I suddenly dropped my mouth open and stared in feigned disbelief at my wife. “You naughty girl! You love me for my large—”
“Clint Wolf, don’t you say that!” Michele shot a glance toward the truck. “Abigail can hear you.”
I turned and saw Abigail drawing on the opposite window with washable markers. “She can’t hear me, and she certainly didn’t know I was trying to kiss you earlier. Look at her—she doesn’t even remember she’s got parents. Watch this…Abigail, sweetie, Santa Claus isn’t real. Mommy is the one who leaves—”
“Stop it!” Michele grabbed my shoulders again, yanking me around to face her. Her grin pushed the dimples deeper into her face. “No…while I love all of you, that’s not what I was getting at. What I love about you is that—after nearly seven years of marriage—you still open my door for me.”
I shrugged. “Force of habit. I’ve done it for all my wives.”
She laughed, poked my stomach playfully, then suddenly glanced down, felt along my waistband and frowned. “Your gun. You forgot it’s on.”
“I’m not taking it off.”
“You can’t carry it in private businesses anymore. You know that.”
“It’s a stupid law.”
“But it is the law.”
“No one will know. It’ll be fine.”
Michele folded her arms across her chest. “Clint, you know how I feel about breaking rules. What kind of example would that be setting for Abigail?”
“Baby, the protesters have been getting more and more belligerent. Three restaurants got robbed just—”
Michele moved forward and cupped my face in her warm hands. “Sweetheart, you said yourself the riots have been reduced to the inner city. We’ll be fine. Just please do this for me. No gun. Okay?”
“Every time we go out now you do this.”
“And you always see it my way.” Michele smiled. “Why don’t you just put it up so we can go inside and enjoy dinner like a normal family?”
I sighed, blowing out forcefully. “One of these days I’m going to stop letting you win all of our arguments.”
“You know what they say, Happy wife—”
“No more life.” I jerked my concealed-carry holster from under my shirt and locked it in the glove compartment, while Michele grabbed Abigail from the backseat. We then walked the two blocks to the restaurant, me holding one of Abigail’s hands and Michele holding the other. Abigail jumped into the air intermittently, and we hoisted her upward each time.
“I can fly,” she yelled.
We laughed all the way to the restaurant. I held the door for Michele and Abigail, then followed them into the dim interior. The hostess recognized us. “Table for three, booth in the corner; am I right?”
I smiled. “You’ve got it.”
When we reached the booth, I sat where I could see the door and scanned the room before reading the menu. There were about a dozen tables occupied, mostly couples. I looked across the table at Michele and smiled. “Your eyes look really green tonight.”
“And yours look really brown.”
“That’s because they are—”
“Everyone get down!”
I shifted my eyes to the front door, which had burst open. Four masked men stormed into the restaurant waving guns around. I instinctively reached for my waistband, but cursed out loud when I felt an empty belt.
The men spread out across the restaurant quickly, taking over the room in seconds. The guy who looked to be the leader grabbed the hostess and shoved his pistol in her face. “Open the register now!”
One of the men was heavier than the others and he made his way to our booth. He pointed his pistol—a cheap black semi-automatic—down at Michele and opened his mouth to speak. Without thought, I grabbed the barrel with my left hand and twisted it upward. At the same time, I lunged out of my seat, driving my right shoulder into his paunchy gut.
The gun went off as I pumped my legs forward and sent him reeling. Paunchy crashed into a table and fell backward. I landed on top of him, maintaining my death grip on the barrel of his pistol. I punched down at him, striking his rough face repeatedly. He grunted. The rancid odor of stale cigarettes and coffee spewed from his mouth. I turned my head, nearly gagging.
I felt Paunchy’s grip on the pistol weaken with each strike. I lifted my hand to punch down at him again when a gunshot went off behind me, and Michele screamed. I twisted around, gasping when I saw Abigail in the hairy arms of the ringleader.
“Get off of him or the girl dies!” Ringleader bellowed.
I slowly released my hold on the pistol and raised my hands. “Okay, it’s over. You win. I’m getting off of him.”
I eased to a standing position, keeping my eyes focused on the jagged slits of the dirty mask that covered Ringleader’s face. Greasy black hair with streaks of silver extended from the bottom of the mask. “Please, sir…put the girl down.”
Michele had apparently made a move on Ringleader when he grabbed Abigail because one of the other thugs had her pinned to the wall by her throat. She stifled her sobs, as she spoke softly to Abigail.
Ringleader scanned the restaurant. His front tooth on the left side was missing and he pushed the tip of his tongue through the gap, then scowled. “When I give an order, I expect it to be followed. When it’s not, there are consequences!”
“Sir, you’re right. I disobeyed your order—”
“I know I’m right!” Ringleader jerked Abigail around in front of him as he stepped forward. She screeched in terror, tears pouring down her pale face.
“Abbie, it’s okay,” I said calmly. “Just look at Daddy. I promise you, everything’s going to be—”
“Shut the hell up!” Ringleader pointed the pistol at me. “Are you a pig? You’re acting like a pig right now.” He sniffed the air. “You smell like a damn pig!”
There was too much distance between us for me to disarm him. I shifted my eyes from him to the other three men. I could see Paunchy dragging himself to his feet in my peripheral vision. The pistol was on the floor in front of him, but was too far from me.
Ringleader shoved the pistol roughly into the side of Abigail’s temple, making her cry even louder. He glared at me. “Are you a pig?”
“No, I’m not a cop. I’m just a guy who took his wife and daughter out to dinner. Please, I’m begging you not to hurt her.”
“Begging, eh? Get on your knees and beg me like you mean it.”
I dropped to my knees, folded my hands in front of my face. “Please, sir, I beg you not to hurt Abigail. She’s six years old. She just recently graduated from kindergarten and—”
“Cops,” one of the other robbers called. “The cops are coming!”
“You should’ve stayed in your seat.” Ringleader smiled and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 2
Two Years Later
Monday, June 23
I stared down at the pool of blood in the thick grass, then cursed my foolishness when sweat dripped from my face and splattered amidst the crimson puddle. I rubbed the sleeve of my tan uniform shirt against my forehead and pointed to the spot. “Is this where it happened?”
Mrs. DuPont nodded. Tears spilled from her eyes and traveled the deep wrinkles etched into her weathered face. “That gator came all the way out the water to get Buddy.”
I followed the blood trail to the bank of the bayou, where it disappeared into the dark green water. The grass had been smashed down and deep divots torn into the ground from the pool of blood all the way to the bayou. It had been a wild struggle. I squatted at the water’s edge and scanned the surface of Bayou Tail, looking for any sign of the killer alligator. The smothering sun had already started its westward slide and the thick trees on the opposite side of the bayou made it look even later than it was. “So, the alligator dragged him into the water and that was the last you saw of him?”
“That was the biggest gator I’ve ever seen.” Mrs. DuPont wiped her face on the front of her plaid shirt. “Had to be fifteen feet.”
I frowned. “Are you sure? That would be extremely big for an alligator.”
“If there’s one thing I know, it’s gators.” Mrs. DuPont nodded her head for emphasis. “I hunted gators with my daddy for thirty years.”
Not convinced, I stood and turned to face her. “How tall do you think I am?”
“You don’t think I realize you’re trying to test me?” Mrs. DuPont scoffed. “You ain’t an inch over five-feet-ten in them boots.”
I nodded my approval. “Okay, Mrs. DuPont, I’m impressed. Fifteen feet it is.” I grabbed the radio off my gun belt, but paused with it in front of my face. What’s her name again? It was my first day on the job, and I’d only briefly met the four officers and the daytime dispatcher before heading out here. Maybe I should have written— Lindsay! That’s her name!
“Lindsay, do we have someone who kills alligators or do I do that?”
“The trapper should be there any minute,” Lindsay called back over the radio. “I called him as soon as I received the complaint. His name’s Dexter Boudreaux.”
“Thanks.” I clipped the radio back on my belt and walked to where my Tahoe was parked in the front yard of Mrs. DuPont’s house. I grabbed my shotgun from the back seat and slung it over my shoulder. My radio scratched to life, and Lindsay’s voice blared through.
“Chief, I just got a call from Mr. Boudreaux. He’s pulling up behind the DuPont residence right now.”
Leaving the radio on my belt, I pressed the button and leaned my head. “Behind her house?”
“Ten-four—he’s in his boat.”
I locked my Tahoe and walked around Mrs. DuPont’s house, where I found Dexter Boudreaux on his hands and knees examining the bloody scene. I nodded when he looked up and stuck out my hand. “How are you, sir? I’m Clint Wolf, chief of police here in Mechant Loup.”
“Dexter Boudreaux.” The old man took my hand and squeezed—harder than I expected. He pushed his weathered baseball cap back to expose a balding crown with scattered tufts of white strands. “So, you’re the new chief, eh?”
“Yep, that’s me.”
Dexter stood and looked me up and down, measuring me. “You ever hunted a gator before?”
I felt my face flush a little. “To be honest, I’ve never really seen one up close. I did see that show on television a couple of times where they hunt alligators and—”
“That stuff’s bullshit.” Dexter shook his head after he spat a stream of tobacco juice to the side. “Don’t believe anything you see on reality TV.” He then turned to Mrs. DuPont. “How big was your German shepherd?”
“Buddy was over a hundred pounds,” Mrs. DuPont said. “He was strong—and fast. I just don’t understand how that gator could get him. I should’ve kept him inside.”
Dexter’s leather face seemed to soften a bit. “You had no way of knowing that gator was into dogs. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
“Well, I hope you can get Buddy back. I’d like to give him a proper burial.” Mrs. DuPont started to turn away, but stopped and waved her hand to indicate up and down the bayou. “There’s kids playing all along this bayou and it would be easy for him to get one of them, so make sure y’all catch that gator before he does something horrible.”
I put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll get it, don’t yo
u worry.”
Dexter turned and stepped into his boat, deftly walking along the length of it as it rocked to and fro. He cranked the outboard motor, took his seat, and grabbed the tiller. I hesitated. The aluminum boat had to be a mere fourteen feet long and the sides were only about twelve inches above the water.
“We’re going in that?” I pointed to the tiny craft.
“Unless you’d rather swim.” Dexter smiled, exposing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. “I’d vote against swimming—considering the size of that gator.”
I stepped into the boat and nearly lost my balance as it dipped under my weight. I leaned over quickly and grabbed the sides of the boat. My shotgun slipped off my shoulder and clanked loudly against the metal frame. Cursing silently, I fumbled with it and, when I’d gained control over it, placed it on the floor. I then sat on the front seat and held on.
Dexter chuckled. “You’ll get used to the rocking.”
I didn’t respond. Dexter revved the engine and the boat backed slowly away from the shore and the front end swung toward the right. We then headed down the bayou. Cool droplets sprayed my face as the boat cut through the water. Enjoying the relief from the heat, I scanned the banks on either side of us, searching for any sign of an alligator. We had only gone a dozen or so yards when I spotted an alligator’s head protruding from the water. I pointed. “There’s one.”
“Too small,” Dexter called over the hum of the motor. “The one we’re looking for is a monster.”
I nodded, kept looking. As we glided along the calm water, I saw a dozen more alligators, but none were big enough to be the killer. After what had to be a mile or two, we passed a number of camps that were perched along the shadowy banks of the bayou. Many of the cabins looked to have been thrown together with scrap wood and were topped with tin roofs. There were even a couple of houseboats in the mix and one of them had a satellite dish. I pointed to it. “They get satellite television out here?”
Dexter nodded.
I scratched my head. “But where are the electric poles? How do they get power?”
“Generators.” Dexter sounded annoyed.
