12 Bullets
O’Neil De Noux
© 2019 O’Neil De Noux
Cover Art © 2019 Dana De Noux
For David Grouchy
12 Bullets is a work of fiction. The incidents and characters described herein are a product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the written permission of the copyright holder.
Author Web Site: http://www.oneildenoux.com
Twitter: OneilDeNoux
facebook: oneil.denoux
Published by
Big Kiss Productions
New Orleans
First Printing 2019
12 Bullets
IS THIS FOOL gonna step into the road?
John Raven Beau takes his foot off the accelerator as a man in all-yellow takes a cautious step into the highway and waves his arms over his head.
Beau pumps the SUV’s brakes, eases into the other lane of the 2-lane highway to go around the man and pulls over to the right shoulder of the road. He turns on the blue lights hidden behind the grill and along the rear lift-top of the navy-blue GMC Acadia Denali, Secret Service edition SUV with a souped up engine, extra dark windows. This portion of Highway 90 bisects the Bayou Sauvage National Wildlife Refuge, 22,700 acres of swamp within the city limits of New Orleans.
The man hurries to the passenger side window as Beau lowers it. The man’s in a yellow cycler’s jumpsuit, one of those silly-looking bike helmets atop his pointed head.
“You’re police?”
“Show me your hands.” Beau already has his weapon out of its holster.
The man puts his hands on the top of the partially opened window. He wears half-gloves with fingers exposed. Yellow gloves.
“Guy back there pulled a Bowie knife on me. He’s got blood on his hands.”
Beau takes his keys and LFR – little fuckin’ radio – and goes around the SUV, joins the man, who takes off his bike helmet to show he’s nearly bald. Young guy. Couldn’t be forty. Beau still has his weapon in his right hand, holds it behind his leg now.
“I stopped to urinate and he came at me with the knife.” The man points to a bicycle on the grass alongside of the highway.
Urinate – thinks Beau. Doesn’t want to say piss or pee or stopped to take a leak.
“I’m Chief Inspector Beau, NOPD. Let’s see some ID.”
Beau wears a white polo shirt with black 511 police tactical pants with seven pockets, his gold star-and-crescent badge clipped on the right side of his canvas belt just in front of his carbon-fiber holster. He holsters his weapon as the man hands over a small bright orange wallet dug from a rear pocket.
“I’m Professor Isaac Gustav. Tulane University.”
Isaac Gustav, names of two recent hurricanes.
The man lives in Gentilly. A car zips past.
“What’d this guy look like?”
“A damn mad man. Filthy clothes. Hair all frizzled, looked like that Unabomber guy. Ted, whoever.”
Ted Kaczynski –thinks Beau.
A rustling of foliage turns Beau to the thick swampland.
“That’s him!”
A face peers at them though palm fronds and pulls back quickly.
Beau locks the SUV with the key fob, shoves his keys into a pocket and takes off.
“Hey, my ID!”
Beau calls out over his shoulder, “Wait for the police cars.”
He keys the radio mic.
“CIU 1 – Headquarters.”
“Go ahead, CIU 1.”
“I’m in foot pursuit of a 37 suspect with a Bowie knife. Highway 90. Couple miles west of Irish Bayou Lagoon. Send a unit. Victim is a cycler in all yellow waiting by my SUV. Going into the swamp now.”
He runs past the spot where the face disappeared, sees a break in the foliage and goes in fast, withdrawing his new .357 magnum semi-automatic, an experimental Suisse-Armes model DX1. The pinion resin on the Kevlar grips feels tacky in his sweaty hand as a hot wave of humidity washes over him like a damp rag.
He stops next to a pine tree and scans the marsh thick with huge bushes and trees wrapped with trumpet vines and thick swatches of Spanish moss – sugarberry and elderberry trees, multi-trunked sassafras trees, water oaks, pecan trees, magnolias and wide, towering live oaks – and bushes – palmetto and camellias, chokecherry, swamp azaleas, spicebushes and others. The late afternoon sunlight filters in streaks through the canopy.
The familiar sweet-sour smells of the swamp fill Beau’s nostrils and a movement to his right draws his eyes to the man scrambling through the brush and Beau races after, his black Skechers running shoes easily navigating the mush. A grunting to the left and Beau spots a flash of a big animal, feral pig most likely. He catches his call number on the radio.
“710 to CIU 1. You wanna wait for backup?” Watch commander calling.
Yeah. Right.
The runner moves to the left now and Beau keeps pace but cannot get any closer.
A gator bellows and Beau slows and looks around as he splashes into swampland, moving through 6 inches of water now. The canopy opens to a patch of cypress swamp and the man he pursues climbs out of the water maybe eighty yards ahead. Beau continues around bald cypress trees. Two snowy egrets rise from the water and the gator bellows again. He looks around trying to locate an alligator. Females ferociously guard their nest.
Beau grew up on Vermilion Bay, was taught the lessons of the swamp by his Cajun father and Bayou Sauvage is familiar ground for him. A few years earlier he’d tracked down and killed a cop killer here. The man he pursues must be as familiar with the swamp as Beau cannot close the distance between them.
Beau brushes a mosquito from his neck, wipes blood on his trousers. He steps back up on soggy marshland, spots a large snake slithering silently through the grass off to his right. He recognizes the diamond pattern on the black and gray snake. Eastern diamondback rattlesnake, a highly poisonous bastard. But shy, thankfully. Unlike fuckin’ cottonmouths. Beau ducks beneath a large spider web between two sugarberry trees, spots the 4-inch golden silk spider with its hairy tufts on its leg-joints as it dangles from its web.
The man’s no longer in sight but Beau follows the man’s footprints in the soggy soil. Rushing headlong through marshland leaves broken branches behind, the man’s leaving heavy footprints in the bog, bent palmetto bush fronds and Beau thinks maybe his doing this on purpose, drawing Beau to a stand of oaks on higher ground. Beau wipes his brow, squeezes the shock-absorbing grip of his magnum and presses on.
The signs show the man straddled a mound ahead and two steps later Beau realizes what it is and give it a wide berth. Alligator nest. No gator in sight but she’s probably near her nest. The trail picks up a little ways on, straight through more cypress swamp to a high patch. After traveling straight north, the trail turns east.
The footprints lead straight to a pool, which he probably crossed, hoping to lose Beau from tracking him. Branches rustle in the trees beyond the pool. He’s moving fast now.
Beau starts up again, stops, the hair on his arms standing up now. Wait a second. The pool doesn’t look deep with clumps of earth rising in spots. It’s a good thirty yards wide. Why not just run around it? Beau does, picking up a fallen branch and tossing it into the brackish water. A second later the water writhes and three black heads rise, one opens its cotton mouth. The snakes swim quickly away from the ripples and more rise, a huge nest of water moccasins angered by the disturbance and looking for retribution.
This guy’s wily.
Leads Beau past a gator mound and a nest of cottonmouths.
What next? The trail draws Beau to higher ground, to another stand of oaks dripping Spanish moss like rotted drapes. The insects quiet down and Beau knows he’s not alone in the shade beneath the oaks. It smells better here, more chlorophyll than swamp. Mosquito hawks dart in front of his face. In the distance, the sing-song call of cicadas echoes. The footprints lead directly between the trees and Beau follows, a little askew, training his eyes for any movement. Something catches his eyes and he freezes, raises his magnum slowly and studies a branch with an odd bend to it.
Is that a rope attached?
Beau edges to his right to approach the tree and sees there is a rope half-hidden among the trumpet vines wrapping around the tree trunk. He follows it down to the ground and spots dead leaves covering it. He looks further and there’s a nice flat area covered in leaves out of place, leaves dropped in an area he would naturally use when tracking the trail left for him.
There’s a dead branch next to Beau’s foot so he picks it up and tosses to the flat area and the trap springs, flips the branch around and lifts it into the air. A snare. Beau goes down on my haunches because he knows the man’s watching. He’s good, but not as good as Beau and after missing with three traps, he’s got to realize that.
He does and bolts, straight away from Beau, man in the dirty dark green coveralls making good time and Beau’s after him, pacing him, making sure of his steps. The man’s initial advantage is gobbled by Beau’s long strides. The man weaves between trees and before Beau can cut away, Beau’s right foot catches a trumpet vine and he tumbles, hard. It takes about twenty seconds to disentangle himself, a pain on his chin draws his hand. No blood.
No sound now. No foliage snapping, no footfalls.
Beau stands slowly, wipes off his magnum and heads after the man again.
Did he stop? Is he hiding to pounce with that knife?
Slow movements now, checking the signs left by the man, slightly bent branches, more footmarks in the mud. Beau looks up every tree and around every bush, any place where a man could conceal himself. The swampy floor becomes marshland and after fifty yards, the marsh drains away to land not so soft. He follows the footprints, grass pressed down, mud on the grass from the swamp. No footprints now.
Beau stands on a low rise on hard ground, marsh to his left, deep swamp to his right. His strains to listen. Hears a faint grunting ahead and moves that way, slowly. Around a stand of magnolia trees, his feet crunching on dead magnolia leaves – a swoosh ahead stops him as three black buzzards rise into the canopy. The buzzards continue upward and circle in the sky.
A large mound stands ahead of Beau.
Another buzzard squawks to his left and rises into the air from something hanging from low, thick branches of the magnolia. He spots a swatch of red and moves toward it, sees it is red flesh. A 9-foot alligator hangs from a low branch, thick ropes around its neck. Beau moves closer, sees the gator’s been eviscerated, tail lopped off. Someone who knows how to dress a gator had taken the best meat, removed the entrails for bait, no doubt. Was getting ready to clean the hide away.
A scent of smoke draws Beau’s attention back to the mound and he creeps toward it, magnum in both hands now in his familiar police grip. As he gets closer to the mound he realizes it’s not earth at all but branches and leaves knitted together. A hut, no, a large wigwam with an open doorway and a hole up top to let out a trail of smoke rising in the humid air. He scans the area and waits.
The entrance of the wigwam is about five feet high and Beau slowly moves around to view inside. Bright sunlight shows a dirt floor, some matting on the floor to one side and a flat mattress-looking blanket. A black iron stove stands near the center of the place. Most of the interior can be seen but some areas remain dark.
The stink of rotten meat and urine floats from the wigwam entrance. Beau moves closer, sees the matting is a stack of rugs and bedding atop, appears to be clothing, denim mostly, hangs from sticks protruding from the walls above the bedding. A pair of black boots rest in front of the stove.
A soft scratching noise raises the hair on the back of Beau’s neck he wheels, sees the man standing about thirty yards away, half his body behind the trunk of a water oak. The man leers at Beau, panting, knife in his right hand.
Beau trains his weapon on the man.
“Police.” The word comes out as a rasp and Beau realizes his mouth is dry, the pain on his chin worse now. “Drop the knife.”
The man’s eyes lock on the magnum and he eases away from tree, switches the knife to his left hand. Beau’s finger moves to the trigger. The man drops the knife, raises both hands and steps away from the tree trunk. Beau lowers the muzzle of his magnum and tells the man to come forward.
“Get on your knees.”
The man complies and closes his eyes, his chest still rising and falling.
Beau steps closer, sees the man’s about fifty, with long frizzy hair sticking out in all directions, a scraggly beard on his lean face. At 6’2”, Beau towers over the man whose maybe 5’8”. Beau steps around the man.
“Put your hands behind your back.”
Beau handcuffs the man behind the back and searches the man, before holstering his magnum and helps the man sit on the grass. He wipes the blood he got from the man’s hands on the grass. A pair of deep-set blue eyes stare at Beau when he steps in front of the man.
“How’d you get the blood on your hands?”
“Deer. Back by highway. I was dressing the carcass when the bicycle man made me jump. Didn’t hear him.”
“I’m Chief Inspector Beau. NOPD. You got some ID.”
He shakes his head and Beaus asks his name.
“Jerome Morrison. You’re not from here are you, Inspector Beau?”
“Yeah?”
“You sound Cajun. Not a heavy accent, more the lilting way Cajuns speak.”
“Half-Cajun. Half-Sioux. That’s how I could track you. You sound like you’re from here.”
Morrison nods. “The look of a warrior. Hooded brow, long nose, deep set eyes. I went to Jesuit. UNO. Used to be an accountant. Gave it up. Gave everything up.” His chin sinks before he lifts it, takes in a breath. “Wife and son killed by a drunk driver.”
Beau keeps his distance, moves away from the man, looks back at the wigwam.
“How’d you kill the deer?”
“Bow and arrow. Have to go back and get them. Backpack too and the venison.”
A grunting turns both to a row of thick palmetto bushes. The bushes rustle grow still. Beau wipes sweat from his brow.
“That your wigwam?”
Morrison looks at the wigwam and lowers his chin. Beau steps over to the knife, wipes it on the grass, works it into his belt next to the leather scabbard where his Sioux warrior knife rests – an obsidian knife sharped on one side – perfect for skinning buffalo or taking a scalp.
“You have any firearms in there?”
“No. You can go take a look.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Goin’ on five years. Used to live under the railroad trestles until railroad detectives started harassing me. I don’t hurt nobody.”
Beau lifts the man.
“You’re living in a national wildlife refuge.”
Morrison nods. “You called it. Seeking refuge.”
Beau removes his handcuffs and the man rubs his wrists.
“I don’t kill endangered animals. Just gators, coons, snakes – lotta cottonmouths and rattlers in here – and I kill squirrels, deer, feral pigs when I get a chance.”
Subsistence living on a swamp.
“I was raised next to a swamp off Vermilion Bay,” Beau says. “My Mama, Papa and I lived off the land. Hunting and fishing.”
Beau steps over to the wigwam and tosses the man’s knife inside.
He steps back to Morrison, looks at the swampland around them.
“Best time of my life,” Beau says as a crash turns both to the palmettos and a huge razorback comes for them.
Beau pulls o
ut the magnum, aims and squeezes off three rounds, each striking the hog’s head, one penetrating the left eye. A loud squeal is followed by spastic jerks and the hog rolls to its right and Beau fires three more rounds in its side just above the left leg where the heart lies. The razorback squeals again, jerks and stiffens its legs. It goes through a long death spasm. Beau keep aiming at the hog. He has six rounds left before reloading.
“Your gun’s loud.”
“It’s a .357 magnum.”
After a minute, the razorback lies still, Beau reholsters his magnum and digs a business card, passes it to Morrison.
“Call me if you need to.”
Morrison looks at the card.
“I can’t help if the Wildlife and Fisheries people find you, but if anyone else fornicates with you, call me.” Beau nods to the dead razorback. “Lotta meat there for you. And get rid of those booby traps. Understand?”
“Yeah.”
Beau shields his eyes as he looks up at the sun.
“Any booby traps this way?”
“No.”
Beau heads south, straight for Highway 90.
FOUR MARKED NOPD police cars with blue lights flashing block the eastbound lane of Highway 90. A lieutenant, a sergeant and four officers stand this side of the cars, along with the yellow-clad cyclist. All stand looking at the woods.
Beau spots the dead deer, not a big one, but no Bambi. He lifts the bow and backpack with four arrows protruding and props them against the oak where Jerome Morrison will spot them. He takes a moment to look at the bow. Big damn bow like an English longbow. He goes back and works the arrow from the deer, brings it back to the bow. As he suspected, the arrowhead is stone and for a moment Beau hears the faint chant of his ancestors. Lakota, called Sioux by their enemies, including the white man.
“CIU 1 to the lieutenant on Highway 90.”
“720 – go ahead CIU 1.”
“I’m coming out now. Code-4.”
They don’t spot Beau until he comes out and he realizes his white polo shirt is mostly brown now, his trousers streaked with mud.
The lieutenant and sergeant come to meet him. Beau’s seen Lieutenant Jeffers before but not the large black sergeant with the name tag: Antoine. The other cops move to their cars while the yellow cyclist follows the rank.
12 Bullets Page 1
