Gator Aide (Rachel Porter Mysteries)

by Jessica Speart

  This was one of those suffocatingly hot Louisiana nights when not even a breeze dared invade the area. A swarm of mosquitoes danced about my head in a frenzy of midsummer madness, buzzing inside my ears like a radio that hadn’t been tuned. Charlie began to scratch and slap, muttering an occasional curse under his breath. He finally broke the silence.

  “It’s so quiet you could hear a damn gnat scratch its ass.”

  Except for him, he was right. Charlie directed the boat down different fingers of the swamp that shot off without any rhyme or reason. When I finally spoke, it was in a whisper.

  “How do you know where to find him?”

  “What the hell you whisperin’ for, Bronx? Afraid a ghost’ll hear you comin’?” Hickok could smell fear and immediately zeroed in on mine. I silently hated him for it. “I can find him ’cause we been doin’ this for years. The man knows where I am, and I know where he is. It’s sorta like a game of hide-and-seek.”

  The idea was so ludicrous that it broke the tension for me. “And you haven’t caught him yet?”

  “Listen up, Bronx. This man is the best there is at what he does. I’m gonna get him. There’s no two ways about it. But he’s dangerous in that he has no fear. It’s a test of skills that’s takin’ place here.”

  I had the sneaking suspicion that if Charlie ever caught Trenton, there wouldn’t be much in life for him to look forward to. From where I sat, I could sense his adrenaline flowing. In turn, my own began to pump a mile a minute.

  “There’s the sucker now!”

  I looked around madly but saw nothing in the darkness of the swamp.

  “Nice and slow, we’re gonna sneak right up behind him.”

  As if he were doing the opening step in a mating dance, Charlie eased along until I could just make out the marsh ahead. Another boat sat with a lone figure in it. Even in the darkness, I could tell the rig was twice as big as our own. A huge engine attached to the back purred in anticipation of our arrival. It wouldn’t be much of a race. We were in a stock Chevy thumbing our nose at Mario Andretti in one of his Formula cars.

  Charlie glided our boat slowly forward, feeling his way as tentatively as a debutante at her first ball. But there was no sneaking up on Treddell, who turned to watch our approach. He stood up, and his looming figure cut a shadow across the moonlight, causing my heart to clench.

  Charlie goosed the throttle, and we flew toward Treddell’s boat with a lurch. As we picked up speed, so did Treddell. When Charlie unexpectedly slowed, so did he. A cat-and-mouse game ensued, a pure and simple tease. Trenton would allow us to get tantalizingly close, then quickly pull away, conducting a series of figure eights, twists, and turns that would have made an ice-skater proud. Charlie tried to follow suit, nearly causing our boat to capsize and landing my heart in my throat.

  What must have been less than fifteen minutes seemed like a good hour as Charlie and Trenton played their game. Looking over at Charlie, I saw him in his element—a man determined to win or to kill me trying. I gripped the sides of the boat until my knuckles ached.

  Suddenly Treddell threw his boat in reverse, nearly causing us to crash. Throwing back his head, he let loose a devilish roar as he took off again, abruptly veering off to the side. He hightailed it into a tall patch of cordgrass and cut the engine. His boat bobbed seductively, the grass around his craft swaying as if it were a skirt buffeted by a breeze. I held my breath, waiting for the next move, when I heard the faint whisper of a laugh glide across the water toward us.

  Having held out as long as he could, Charlie finally blasted the engine, 150 horsepower sending us cutting through tall grass toward Trenton. The hull barely skimmed the surface as we flew atop the marsh, and the motor screamed with glee. Water whipped up and razor-sharp grass slashed against the side of our boat like miniature daggers as we approached him. My pulse sped along with the engine, caught up in the excitement of the chase.

  Trenton waited until the last moment before letting loose, his boat rising out of the water as if it were about to unfold a pair of water wings. An expert in building airboats, he had mounted 220 horsepower to the rear of a light pontoon craft which hit close to seventy miles an hour, leaving us far behind.

  Charlie followed Trenton’s zigs and zags as best he could, as Treddell’s airboat churned up water and weeds that blew back in our faces. Up ahead, the marsh became impenetrable but for a narrow channel that cut through in the shape of a horseshoe. With only one entrance in and one exit out at the opposite end, it led onto a lake of open water.

  Entering the canal, Trenton barreled ahead in a race to the other end as we followed behind. The wind picked up, and I found myself squinting into a thin mist of water that hung like a sheet of fine rain. But the breeze also carried a pungent aroma that had precipitously crept into the night air. An odor which was unsettlingly familiar, and blasted an alarm siren inside my brain.

  Shielding my eyes against the oncoming spray, I peered at what seemed to be a group of swaying orange figures in the near distance. Dancing on top of the water, they stretched their long, lithe limbs up toward the sky, high-kicking like a chorus line of leggy Rockettes. It wasn’t until we drew closer that the figures converged into a fiery wall of flames, and the biting sting of smoke hit our eyes.

  Charlie stared for a moment in disbelief before the impact of what we faced hit him.

  “Holy shit! That bastard’s set a blaze that’s coming right at us!”

  Trenton had reached the other side of the horseshoe, dumping his spare gasoline along the way. After that, all it had taken was one simple match to turn the canal into a roaring death trap. Charlie threw the throttle into reverse, not bothering to try to turn the boat around. The motor choked up, and for a brief instant I felt sure we were about to go up in flames as the fire came roaring toward us, an angry critter out of control. The heat of the flames greedily licked the night air, the hot breeze a furnace eager to engulf us. The crackling of fire on water sizzled in my ears, and my skin prickled from the heat, as our engine caught hold and we sped backward through the waterway. In a game of touch-and-go, Charlie’s mud boat and the roaring fire kept a steady pace. My fear froze as the flames picked up speed, but Charlie miraculously swung the boat out of the canal with only a few yards to spare.

  Charlie had gone in search of a race, and Trenton had more than obliged. Smoke ripped through my lungs, and tears stung my eyes as I looked back to see Trenton’s craft parked at the end of the horseshoe, a sentinel standing guard. His motionless figure peered out from thick, black billows of smoke. Looking like Lucifer personified behind a screen of sinuously dancing flames, he began to laugh, a deep, menacing laugh that rang out through the night, echoing off the edge of the swamp to encircle us before slowly fading away as the fire continued to crackle. We sat in silence, watching the night burn, the roar of Trenton’s motor now no more than a ghostly whisper.

  Charlie cursed a nonstop blue streak out of the marsh, into the swamp, past dead cypress trees, and beyond ghosts that knew well enough to stay out of his way. He cursed until we reached shore and loaded the boat back onto its hitch. A crimson hue rose up from the swamp and burned the velvet sky, eclipsing the stars. I held my silence until we were almost home.

  “I want to thank you for that lesson on how to catch outlaws, Charlie. It’s been a night I’ll never forget.”

  “Not one word, Bronx! You hear me? Not one word of this to anyone, or you’ll be out on duck patrol so long you’ll forget what another human being looks like.” Charlie was in the blackest mood I’d seen yet. “We got our asses whupped tonight. We got ’em whupped good. That ain’t nothing to be proud of.”

  I wondered if something inside him had finally snapped. “Does this mean you’re giving up?”

  “Hell, no! I’m only just starting. The important thing is to be a poor loser, and that’s exactly what I am. That’s the only way to win, Bronx. Don’t you ever forget that.”

  It was a lesson I’d spent my entire life learning. It was
what had me sitting in a pickup truck weaving through the bayou night. It also gave me a window into Charlie Hickok’s soul. Neither of us could walk away from a challenge. Sometimes, it was the only way I felt I really existed at all.

  “We did get close, Charlie.”

  Charlie pulled his cap down with a tug.

  “Coming close don’t count in nothin’ but horseshoes, Bronx.”

  He had a point. I just wasn’t sure what it was.

  Six

  Charlie’s mood didn’t lighten up over the next few days, and, as a result, I found myself once more back out on fulltime duck patrol. He sent me off with a few words of wisdom.

  “Listen up, Bronx. You signed your life over to this outfit. That means you hit the road, you stay on the road, you catch the bad guys, and you stop ’em dead in their tracks.”

  This was easier said than done. A new scam in vogue was to make an anonymous call reporting a poaching in progress. I’d rush to the area only to discover that I’d been kept busy on a sham. Meanwhile, a group of poachers would be leisurely blasting six hundred grosbeaks out of their nests just twenty-five miles away. This time of year was a free-for-all on grosbeak babies. Not only did they have the bad luck of being a favorite food for Cajuns, but they were also dumb enough to sit on branches awaiting their fate.

  In another ruse, one good ol’ boy would be set up to take a fall on a minor poaching charge, spiriting me away from where the real dirty deeds were going on. One or two ducks over the limit ate up a day of my time, filing papers and heading to court. Twenty-five dollars later, Bubba or Billy or Tommy Lee would be set free to join the others. It was the perfect flimflam.

  In order to placate Charlie’s black mood, I spent five nights in a row at Bayou Lafourche, scouring the area for poachers. Hitting a different spot each night after dark, I’d stake out a likely location for poaching and wait for the evening deluge of rain to begin. Dawn found me soaking wet, sore, and waterlogged down to my bones as I trudged through miles of marsh in search of suspects. Steam-cleaned from the heat rising with the sun, I’d rush home each afternoon to catch a few hours’ sleep before heading back out on another late-night marathon.

  But my luck appeared to have changed this evening. There was no sign of rain as I headed down Highway 55, my headlights illuminating battered road signs flashing exotic names—Chauvin, Boudreaux, Dulac, and Cocodrie—all in the heart of Cajun country. Pointe Au Chien was on my card for tonight. Twenty miles outside of Houma, the Pointe is flat and nearly devoid of trees. I’d at least be able to watch the geese take flight in the morning.

  I’d begun to choose my spots by instinct. The obvious thing to do was head west of the Pointe, where a ricefield lay close by. I was after the poacher who was smart enough to lie low in the cordgrass of the east. Parking my car, I grabbed my flashlight along with my .357 and headed for the water.

  The air was filled with the scent of gunpowder. Holding my flashlight to the ground, I searched for any telltale signs of a hunt. But this was my fifth night out with little sleep, and I was tired of kicking around in the dirt. About to give up, I caught the light’s gleam off a mound of spent cartridges that glittered like a pile of fool’s gold. Whoever had been here just a short while ago had had a field day—not that it did me any good now. But at least I knew I was right. This was an area worth staking out.

  Feeling absolved by my find, I looked for a spot to rest and wait for more luck at first light. A large muskrat nest sat close by. Long and wide, with tightly woven twigs, it was the closest thing I’d had to a bed in five nights. I curled up on it and played with the idea of asking for a transfer.

  Life without Charlie. The phrase had a nice ring. Dealing with the man was becoming more difficult by the day. On top of that, Louisiana had come to seem like a hopeless skirmish with no end in sight. I didn’t mind the fight. But if I was willing to sacrifice my sleep, existing on little but Cokes and candy, I needed to see at least a modicum of progress.

  Tracing the routes of dozens of stars above, I was still on a fruitless search for Orion’s belt as the sky grew light and a new moon slowly grew old. A circle of geese hovered overhead, trying to decide whether or not to land. Either way, there was more than a good chance they would end up being blown to smithereens. I tried to shake my morose mood, when something else grabbed my attention.

  The muskrat nest beneath me had begun to shake. I knew it wasn’t from muskrats, unless they’d taken to snoring, too. Jumping off as I pulled my gun, I kicked hard at one side of the nest and then the other.

  “Quit kicking!”

  Curious as to whom I’d been lying on top of all night, I planted myself in the shooter’s position I’d learned at the Academy, my gun held steady in both hands.

  “Come out or I’ll shoot.”

  “Jesus Christ. Hold your fire!”

  A pair of yellow rubber boots appeared, followed by jean-clad legs the size of hamhocks. Next came hips wriggling their way free from a tight squeeze, as a wide waist and round belly clad in red-and-black checks jiggled out. The effect was that of a fully grown adult emerging from a cocoon.

  The insect turned out to be none other than Hunky Delroix, a poacher I’d already caught three times for illegally shooting ducks. This was getting to be a bad habit. A big man, Hunky weighed in close to 260 pounds. But even more distinctive was his near-fluorescent, carrot red hair with full beard to match. I was unsure how he had managed to squeeze himself inside the nest in the first place; he was swathed in sweat from the exertion of working his way back out. His shirt clung tightly to him, outlining each roll and bulge of fat on his frame so that he resembled the Michelin man. Panting hard, Hunky sat down on the muskrat nest.

  “Jesus Christ, don’t shoot me, Porter.”

  “Don’t tempt me, Hunky. This isn’t a very good morning for me. Ever hear of PMS? I think I have it.”

  Twigs and reeds stuck out from his hair and clothes, and a stench hung about him that made me wonder if the man ever took a bath, or just soaked in marsh water.

  “What were you doing in there?”

  “What the hell do you think I was doing? I was hiding from you.”

  At least I now knew where all the spent cartridges had come from.

  “Why don’t you pull out the rest of your gear. The gun first. Slowly.”

  A new twenty-gauge 1148 Remington appeared, attesting to the fact that Hunky had been pulling in money from somewhere lately.

  “Leave it on the ground and kick it over to me.” I picked the gun up, not wanting to leave anything to chance. “Let’s see the rest of the goodies.”

  I must have arrived at the Pointe just as Hunky had been about to leave. The ducks were all neatly packed in a burlap sack.

  “All right, Hunky. Let’s go. I’m taking you in.” Another day, another twenty-five-dollar fine.

  Hunky wrapped his arms around his massive frame and stamped his feet in protest, an overgrown child in the midst of a temper tantrum.

  “You’re taking the food right out of my babies’ mouths, that’s what you’re doing, Porter. You’re causing my babies to go hungry.”

  I knew his babies. Two hulking boys of fifteen and nineteen, who’d already been brought up on numerous poaching charges of their own.

  “I have the feeling it’s more like I’m putting a kink in an upcoming party.”

  Hunky had plans for his daddy’s seventieth birthday. Custom required not only that all his kin be invited, but that he feed them as well. In this case, that amounted to sixty-four people. They’d just have to eat something other than duck.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake Porter, you know my cousin’s only gonna get me off anyway, so why don’t you give yourself a break and just let me go? I promise I’ll never do it again.”

  He grinned as he crossed his heart and spit in the dirt. His cousin was Delbart Lumstock, famous throughout the area for his defense of poachers. While his courtroom skills were mediocre at best, he excelled in backroom politics. In the ol
d boy network, Delbart was on top of the heap keeping the wheels of justice sufficiently greased. Busy poachers had made him a wealthy man. And for those cases too slimy even for Delbart to weasel out of, only the minimum fine was applied. I’d been here long enough to know how the game was played. In fact, I was beginning to learn how to play it myself.

  “For me to let you go, I’d need something in return, Hunky.”

  A look of relief passed over his face.

  “Sure. Whatever you want. How about a couple of ducks?”

  “No. A couple of ducks isn’t going to do it. I want you to tell me where I can find Trenton Treddell.”

  The color drained from Hunky’s florid complexion. “What you want him for?”

  “What do you care, as long as it’s not you I’m after?”

  It was easy to guess why Hunky was panicked. Notorious for his explosive temper, Trenton had once caught a man who had tried to turn him in. After Trenton finished with him, the man had never looked the same. It was an example that had not been forgotten.

  “Are you going to tell me where to find him, or do you want to spend your morning having me haul you in? It doesn’t matter to me, Hunky. In fact, it’ll get me out of the swamp for the rest of the day.”

  Carefully weighing the situation, it was evident Hunky had a lot of hunting left to do.

  “If I tell, you can’t say where it came from.”