The Shoal of Time

by J. M. Redmann

  Making noise to tell people not to be noisy didn’t seem like a winning strategy to me. I was proven right by how quickly the noise level returned to its previous boisterous pitch.

  Another ten minutes, a little more trail mix. At the half hour I allowed myself a sip of water.

  At around 10:30 I saw the lights of a boat coming up the bayou. Using the night vision goggles I looked at it. It was a smaller boat, not big enough for more than the two people—oh, wait, man and woman, and they were clearly close friends—in it. The Cajun variation on the backseat of a car. They headed past me, presumably back to the homes where they didn’t have as much privacy.

  More trail mix. Hold on the water.

  I had also been watching to see if law enforcement was going to do something. So far I hadn’t seen anyone or any car that looked like it might be here for the same reason I was. Maybe they had positioned themselves farther down the road and gotten here before me. Or they were waiting at one of the intersections closer to the highway. I was guessing the homes with the prowling dogs were the site, but I could be wrong. Maybe the party was going to get wilder at eleven with the arrival of a bunch of chained women. Possibly the police were spread out.

  Or they weren’t here.

  At five minutes to eleven a large van rumbled past me. I let it get about fifty feet farther before picking up my night vision binoculars.

  No license plate. It looked like a delivery van, but nothing was written on it and the only windows were in the cab. The kind of van your mother warned you about.

  It stopped next to the dock across from where the dogs were. They picked up their ears and came to the fence but didn’t bark.

  A figure dressed in dark clothes, a man I guessed, got out, trotted across the road, threw something to the dogs—something edible from their reaction, snuffling on the ground and chewing. He hurried back to the van. He wore a dark ball cap low on his face. I had the impression of a scruffy beard and a paunch, but couldn’t get a good look at him.

  Though it was cold, I rolled down my window. It made the party louder—no wonder the neighbor was complaining—but it let me hear the other sounds of the night.

  A soft wind in the trees. The far-off bark of a dog.

  The approaching chug of a boat, faint, in the distance.

  I couldn’t yet see it even with the goggles.

  I glanced at my watch. A minute or so after eleven.

  Another minute and I could make out the ghostly green of the boat. It was large, the right size. Its running lights were off. Without the aid of the goggles, I wouldn’t be able to see it.

  Maybe it wasn’t human trafficking, but it was something shady. This time of night, no lights on the boat, no license on the van.

  I kept watching, mesmerized by the boat’s slow progress to the dock. I put the night vision goggles down. Without them, it disappeared, only a vague directionless rumble of a motor. I only heard it because I was listening and listening intently. Behind closed doors it wouldn’t register. Outside, the noise of the party masked it.

  I picked up the night goggles again. The boat reappeared, closer now, slowing to come to the dock.

  Again, only because I was listening, I heard the soft thunk of the boat as it nudged the dock. Someone jumped off it bundled against the cold of the night and the water. The figure was tall enough to be a man, but the heavy clothes told me little else. He quickly tied it off.

  I tried to gauge his height against the boat. Tall, either had ten layers on or he was sturdy or stocky. But like his compatriot in the van, he also wore a cap pulled low with a sweatshirt hood over it.

  Another man also got off the boat. Same deal, dressed for the cold and to be hidden. He was a little shorter than the first man.

  I heard the sliding door of the van open. It was facing the dock, so I couldn’t see it.

  This was about the time the cops should show up, if they were going to show up.

  I heard a crash and drunken yell from the party and then raucous laughter.

  Someone was leaving the boat, smaller, slighter than the other figures.

  Then another.

  A horn blared.

  I looked in my rearview mirror. The peeved neighbor was back, this time an even longer blast of his horn. He slammed on his high beams, casting a harsh light down the road, catching my car and most of everything down the bayou.

  Two more figures were hustled into the van.

  I put down the night goggles. I was visible to anyone looking. Sitting in a car, maybe. Sitting in a car with funny-looking binoculars would be noticeable, and not in a good way.

  With his light, I could just make out the boat.

  In the rearview mirror, I could see him yelling at one of the partygoers.

  Then he got out of his truck, leaving it in the middle of the road.

  I lost count of the women—I was guessing they were woman—being taken off the boat. Two, three more?

  The angry man starting shoving and pushing a party person. Then a punch was thrown. I could only make out a slice of the action from my mirror.

  Sirens. Then very clearly in the mirror, flashing lights.

  The cops. Where they here for the party or the boat?

  I was able to see at least three pairs of lights. Had to be for the boat.

  But they were stuck behind the truck. This was a narrow lane, and for two cars to pass, one would have to pull to the side. With all the party cars parked, it made it impassible, no way to edge around the truck in the middle of the road.

  Shit, shit, shit. Oh, make that major shit.

  Were all the women off the boat?

  With all the hoopla from the fight, I hoped no one would notice me grabbing my goggles.

  One small person was standing on the dock, one of the bigger men holding her arm. She jerked it free and started running in the direction of the lights and sirens. Toward me.

  Two of the men started after her.

  The truck hadn’t moved yet. The cops were still stuck behind it.

  I broke my promise that I would just watch.

  Turning on my car, I slammed on the high beams, catching both the woman—and she was clearly a woman—and the two men chasing her. I squealed out of my parking place, heading toward them, yelling out of the window in my most butch voice, “Stop! Police!”

  The woman kept running in my direction.

  The two men turned back to the boat, sprinting away from the lights.

  The van driver jumped out and started to untie the boat.

  The only way out was by water.

  A shot rang out.

  I couldn’t tell if it was from the boat or the cops.

  Didn’t matter. I was between them.

  I reached the woman. Stopped my car and flung open the passenger door.

  “Get in,” I yelled.

  She looked at me, then behind her.

  Another shot.

  She jumped in and said something in a language I didn’t understand, not even well enough to guess what language it might be.

  The two men ran to the boat as it was pulling away from the dock, its engines revving. The slower one had to take a running leap to make it aboard.

  It was in reverse, not willing to take the time to turn, but going as fast as it could away.

  I heard the sirens move. The truck had finally been cleared.

  I pulled over, out of their way.

  The woman in my car was sobbing, crying in a language I couldn’t comprehend.

  “It’s okay,” I said, doing my best to calm her. “You’re safe now. You’re free.”

  She couldn’t understand me either. I took her hand. She was cold, trembling.

  The cars sped past me, only to jerk to a stop at the van.

  A number of officers got out, guns pulled, demanding whoever was in there to come out with their hands up.

  By my count only the women were still in it.

  The woman in my car saw the guns and started screaming. She jerked away fro
m me. But as she fumbled with the door lock, I jumped out and dashed around to her side. I grabbed her before she ran into the cops.

  I held her tightly, what I hoped she’d understand as protectively, and we slowly walked to the van.

  “Hey,” I called. “Three men jumped onto the boat. I think it’s her and her friends in the van.”

  One older cop looked back at me.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Just a bystander. Was leaving the party and saw all this mess. This woman,” I pointed to her, “looked like she was trying to get away from them, so I let her in my car.”

  “Who is she?” he asked me.

  “I don’t know. I can’t understand her language. Eastern European, maybe?”

  “Tell ’em to come out,” he instructed.

  “If you lower your guns, they might get the message,” I said.

  He looked at me, at her, at his gun, at the other cops surrounding the van.

  The boat was out of sight.

  In the silence, we heard women crying, coming from the van.

  He looked at me again and holstered his gun.

  I felt the woman beside me let go a held breath. She called to the van, what sounded like names.

  Several other cops lowered their guns.

  “It’s probably locked from the outside,” I suggested. “They might not be able to get out.”

  The older cop looked at me, then one of the younger ones and nodded at him. The younger man cautiously approached the van, his weapon still in his hand, but pointed down. He carefully opened the side door.

  For a second nothing happened, then women piled out. They were all dressed like my friend, cheap clothes not warm enough for the temperature.

  The woman beside me pulled away, running to one of the other women, grabbing her in a fierce hug. They looked enough alike to be sisters. They also looked young, the one who ran to me maybe eighteen, the one she was holding no more than fifteen.

  Bastards. Fucking bastards.

  But for these women, their ride in horror was over.

  If it weren’t midnight, I’d ride off into the sunset.

  I slowly stepped back, away from the van and the cacophony of languages. What little information I had, they could easily get. Anyone and everyone in this town would quickly tell the same tale my coffee-pushing waitress told me.

  I didn’t need to be anything more than a chance bystander.

  I counted the woman. Nine.

  That was all I needed to know before quietly turning away and getting back in my car. The night was cold, and I’d done what I could do.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Much as I wanted to blow town, the narrow street defeated me. Between the cop cars and the former partygoers, now a gawking crowd, there was no way to move my car. At least not without drawing a lot of attention to myself by asking about twenty people and three police cars to get out of my way.

  Other than being a little cold, I was okay. As long as I didn’t desperately have to go to the bathroom, I could stay here until it had cleared up enough for me to leave without being noticed.

  I closed my windows, zipped the sweatshirt, and wrapped the scarf tightly around my neck. Then I let my seat back and shut my eyes, hoping for a nap blessedly long enough so I could wake and head home.

  Crack!

  Something slammed against my car.

  Groggily, I sat up.

  Then noticed a hand against my door window.

  A hand holding what looked like an official shield. The metal banging against the glass was what made the noise.

  I blinked my eyes.

  Read the badge.

  FBI.

  Read the name.

  Emily Harris.

  She rapped sharply with her knuckles. “Open the door, Knight,” she said, her voice muffled by the closed window.

  I half obeyed and rolled down the window.

  She leaned in, her eyes flashing. “What the fuck are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Scenic drive.”

  “Bullshit,” she growled. “Bringing in some trade for Desiree?”

  That woke me up fully. “No,” I retorted. “Not even remotely close.”

  She strode around to the other side of my car and attempted to yank the passenger door open. It was locked.

  I had enough sense to unlock it before she shot her way in.

  Even so she almost tore the door off opening it.

  “I am so not standing in the fucking cold, fucking rain, fucking talking to you,” she informed me.

  A drizzle was coming down my windshield. Must have started while I was napping.

  “It’s not what it seems—” I started.

  “It never is with you.”

  She had a badge and I didn’t have a good excuse for being here. “I heard a rumor—”

  “From where?”

  “Let me get through it. Then you can ask your questions,” I said in as calm a voice as I could muster.

  She curtly nodded.

  I started again, “I heard a rumor. Talked to someone I know in law enforcement, but they blew it off. It nagged me. Made perfect sense to me to smuggle goods—and people—through these bayous. So I came here to watch. To see if I was right or not. That’s really the story.”

  “Okay, if that’s your story,” she said, her voice so tight the words were clipped. “First, let’s start with the rumor. Where did you hear that?”

  I pondered what to tell her. The truth, that I’d after-burglared some burglars, wouldn’t be wise. That left me with the very weak “I can’t tell you. I have to protect my sources.”

  “That’s giving me no reason not to arrest you right now.”

  “It happens to be true. And…”

  “And what?”

  Go for it. See how she reacts. “And my source thinks there’s a leak, a corrupt cop. They don’t want their name brought up.”

  “So now it’s our fault?”

  “I can’t prove her wrong. Can you?”

  Emily turned to me and grabbed my chin in a hard grasp. “I have worked with several of these people for most of my professional career. I trust them with my life. Could some cop somewhere be on the take? That’s always possible. But no one in our inner circle. No one who would know information that could put anyone in danger.”

  I pried her fingers from my face so I could answer. “I’ll go back and talk to my source and tell them what you said. But I can’t reveal a name right now.”

  She sighed, an angry sigh. “What did the rumor say?”

  “The information was cryptic.” I wondered what I dared tell her. What if she was wrong? Or lying? “It mentioned the name of a boat, the Eula May.” The cops could easily find out who docked here. “Then numbers, nine at eleven on eighteen.”

  “That was enough to lead you here?”

  “No. It also mentioned down the bayou by the Germans.”

  “Ah, that’s what led you here?” she challenged.

  “Yes. I know you don’t believe me, but I grew up down here.”

  “I believe that. We pulled your birth records. Lived in Bayou St. Jack until you were ten. Metairie after that.”

  The words seemed too small to sum up those years, my father’s death, living with Aunt Greta and her rules, never accepted by my cousins, Uncle Claude lost in TV and a life that had defeated him. I cleared my throat. “Yes, so I remembered being here once and my father commenting on Down the Bayou Road. How original a name it was. I also know this is referred to as the German coast, and Des Allemandes is French for ‘the Germans.’”

  “How did it get that name?”

  “A number of German immigrants settled here, farming and fishing. They did a lot of trade with New Orleans back when it was owned by the French.”

  “I’m supposed to believe that some unnamable source dumped those choice nuggets of info in your lap rather than go to law enforcement?”

  “I did what I could to pass it on,” I argued. “Clearly someo
ne listened, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Did you happen to notice they got away?” The sarcasm dripped.

  “Yes, I did manage to see that. But how is that my fault?”

  “You warned them.”

  “Fuck you,” I said, and realized she was deliberately goading me. I took a breath. “That’s crap and you know it. If I were going to warn them, I’d warn them to change their plans. Show up at a different time. Clearly they didn’t do that. They got away through dumb luck. And your side not thinking to have a boat ready to go after them.”

  She looked away. I got her on that one. She broke the silence. “It’s not a good thing you’re here. I didn’t believe your first story, but I let it slide because it was possible—just possible—your reasons for lying weren’t relevant. I don’t believe you now either. And it’s getting harder to think your lies can have an innocent explanation.”

  “I’m not involved with selling women into sex slavery. Any women, but especially ones as young as these were.”

  She stared at me for several seconds, then said, “I hope that’s true. But if it’s not, I’ll put the handcuffs on you myself.” She got out, slamming the door hard enough to make my car shake.

  I sat still, not looking after her.

  What had I accomplished here? Madame Celeste had passed on my information to someone who listened. The cops were here and they probably would have been able to arrest the men on the boat if they hadn’t been blocked at the crucial moment by the truck. All it took was two or three minutes to give them enough time to get back on the boat and pull away. That would have happened if I was here or not. All I managed to do was let Emily spot me at the scene of another crime.

  The woman who’d run. What would have happened to her if I hadn’t let her in my car and acted like police? Had that made them decide to abandon the women and jump on the boat?

  Maybe. And that was the best I could give myself.

  It was after one a.m. The party had ended and even the gawkers were gone. Clear enough for me to do a three-point turn and head back up Down the Bayou Road.

  I was careful to do the speed limit the entire way back.

  Once I got home, I poured myself some of the not-so-good Scotch, chugged it in a few swallows, and went to bed.