Tales from Stool 17; Dark Days of Judgment: The Nigel Logan Stories (3)

by Kirk Jockell

  The poacher had been sent back to the van for cigarettes. He didn’t smoke, but the leader of the group did. He drew the short straw which was part of the reason for his lackadaisical stride. Once in the woods, he heard more movement and picked up his pace. He knew of the feral hogs that roamed at night. He was aware of their temperament, but it wasn’t a wild hog he had to be concerned with.

  The weak light did little to pave his way forward, but it was enough to move him quickly through the makeshift trail they had forged over the past few nights. In short order, he found the dirt road, and where they had parked the van. The poacher reached the driver’s side door and grabbed the door handle. He became startled by the sound of a stick or twig snapping somewhere behind him which caused him to stop and turn around. He peered into the darkness, his heart rate increased, his breathing already labored.

  Logan was watching from Earth’s shadow, almost complete darkness. He was standing still in the open, only twenty or twenty-five feet away, but invisible to the poacher. Logan sized up the target through the night vision googles. No big deal. The green image showed a guy of average height and on the thinner side of a medium build. It would be easy to take him.

  The poacher called out in Spanish, but Nigel could only understand the names, “Carlos? Miguel? Is that you?”

  There was no answer. Only silence. He remained still and cautious for several moments before returning to the van. He opened the door and the interior light came on. Logan moved close and crouched behind the van. He reached up, turned off his NVGs, eased them from his head, and placed them on top of his bag. The sudden light was blinding to the poacher, but he found the cigarettes on the seat. He squinted as he grabbed the pack and put them into his pocket. Then he opened the console and found a switchblade. He popped it open in the cab and rushed to back out of the van. He turned around toward the pines and pointed the knife at the darkness, moving it from side to side.

  With the van door still open, the poacher stood in a small, glowing, basket of light. The very instant the poacher glanced off in the wrong direction, Nigel engaged. By the time the poacher saw the movement and his attacker to his left, it was too late. He brought the blade around and actually penetrated Logan’s midsection, but the stab wound remained shallow. The blade exited Nigel’s body as the clenched fist of his left hand delivered a powerful blow to the poacher’s face. He was propelled backwards, and when the poacher bounced off the open van door, Logan connected with an even more destructive, debilitating right. The poacher collapsed in a heap on the dirt. Lights out.

  Logan stood in the glow of the van’s interior light and pulled up his shirt to inspect his injury. It was minimal, maybe an inch deep. The bleeding was light. Logan realized it could have been a lot worse and looked down at the target. “Dammit,” he said and delivered a swift kick to the poacher’s midsection. “You little fucker. You ruined my shirt.”

  Logan moved to the back of the van and opened the rear door. “Oh, shit,” he said to himself. The back of the van contained several small Styrofoam coolers, some empty, some closed tight with duct tape. To make matters worse, two turtle shells cleaned of their meat hung from racks on the side of the van. He took a knife from his bag and opened one of the coolers. They were full of eggs, iced down for travel. He opened another and it contained eggs and meat packaged in gallon sized freezer bags. Another cooler contained nothing but fins. Not only had they been stealing eggs, but they also had an evisceration operation as well. “You slaughtering bastards,” Logan mumbled.

  Logan’s thoughts turned to three things: The other two poachers on the beach, Red, and the time. He looked at his watch. It was 0345. There was still time, but soon the sun will begin to paint the edges of the horizon with color. He needed to work fast.

  Logan pulled the unconscious poacher by the collar to the back of the van. There was plenty of rolls of duct tape, so he used it to tie up his target. As he secured the poachers wrists behind his back, it brought back a recent memory of when he himself had been bound by duct tape and thrown in the trunk of a car. In his mind, he relived the steps he took to escape. As Logan applied wrap after wrap around the ankles, he looked up at the lifeless form and said, “You won’t be that lucky, bitch.”

  Logan left the poacher leaned up against the back, left wheel well. He was closing the back of the van when someone shouted out in more Spanish. “Jorge. Where are you? Come help.”

  Logan grabbed his NVGs and bag and dashed toward the pines. He looked back at the van and the interior light was still on. He had left the driver’s side door open. Shit!

  He donned the pair of NVGs and looked toward the dunes. He could see the two other poachers, moving slow through the pines. They were carrying the cooler. Logan moved from tree to tree to get closer.

  One of them yelled something, “Jorge. Bring me my goddamn cigarettes and run to the beach. Get the shovels and other gear. We are done here.”

  Jorge was taking a nap.

  “Jorge! Goddammit, answer me!”

  No answer. There was only silence. Then as the poachers came out of the woods and onto the dirt road, they saw the van. They saw the door open and Jorge leaned up against the van. The two looked at each there and lowered the cooler to the ground. They took off running toward the van. They were also running toward Logan who was watching from behind a tree. The one bringing up the rear would be Logan’s next target.

  The poacher in front zipped by first. Then, right before the next poacher reached Logan’s position, he stepped out and with his right arm extended and loaded with power. The poacher ran full speed into a clothes-line that took him off his feet and landed him on his back, head first. Had the road been asphalt the poacher would have been out, but the softer sand only stunned him. He tried to get back up, but Logan was ready and met him with a full right hook to his temple. The poacher went to the ground and Logan followed. He grabbed the poacher by the collar and was about to deliver another damaging blow when the third poacher jumped on Logan’s back and grabbed him tight around the neck. Logan collapsed on top of the other poacher and his night vision goggles came off his head.

  At six foot three, Logan was much bigger than any of the three and that gave him an advantage, especially if he could keep them isolated. The poacher held on tight and squeezed as hard as he could. Logan pushed off the ground one hand at a time and got back up to being on all fours. The poacher around his neck, squeezed and squeezed and twisted back and forth with violent action. He thought he was chocking Logan, but he wasn’t.

  Moving one leg at a time Logan began to stand. When he got to his feet, the poacher was like a determined bull rider. He still had his hold and was dangling off Logan’s back waiting for an eight second buzzer. He got his full ride when Logan ran backwards and drove the poacher into a big pine and bounced his head off the bark.

  The poacher slid down to the ground. Logan leaned down and grabbed the front of his shirt, raised him off the ground several inches and delivered another blow to the head. Then another. The next thing Nigel heard was the unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked followed by the pressure of a barrel being pressed into the back of his head.

  Logan dropped the other poacher with a thud and raised his hands high. “Okay! Okay! Easy now. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  The poacher yelled in Spanish, but Logan couldn’t understand a word. Logan tried to straighten up and he quickly learned that understanding Spanish wasn’t necessary. The increased pressure of the muzzle against the back of his head told him everything he needed to know. Get down. Down on the ground! Logan winced as he hit his knees.

  Logan could just make out the shadows of his target moving around him, and the poacher never stopped talking. Logan could tell by the way the poacher was repeating his words, getting angrier and angrier each time that he must be asking a question.

  Logan yelled, “I don’t understand Spanish, asshole.”

  Then a voice from the darkness said, “I do, bitch.”

  The po
acher turned to look and was met on the side of his head with the flat end of a shovel. The poacher dropped the gun and fell to the ground.

  Logan remained on his knees as more Spanish was being spoken, but it didn’t take long for him to pick up on the Gulf County accent. As he scrambled to his feet he said, “Red! Dammit. Is that you?”

  “Just call me, El Diablo.”

  “Son of a bitch, Red. You speak Spanish?”

  “Yeah. It’s a little something I picked it up while doing some time in a Tijuana prison. It was the summer of ‘76. Jimmy Carter was running for president against Ford. Some friends and I crossed the border...”

  Whether it be fact or fiction, Nigel could tell that his buddy was about to spin one hell of a yarn. A yarn neither one of them had time for, so he interrupted. “Red! We don’t have time for this. We have work to do.”

  “But it was a trumped up charge. We were in this bar...”

  “Later, Red. Later.” Nigel found his pair of NVGs and continued. “Help me drag these guys over to the van. And don’t touch anything.”

  Red chuckled.

  When they got to the van, they dropped the poachers in the road. Nigel said, “There is plenty of duct tape in the back of the van. We’re going to bind these two just like the other one.”

  Nigel was setting the poachers up against the van when he looked up to see Red standing behind the van. He was still, staring, his vision fixed through the back window. Nigel walked up to Red and peered into the back of the van too. Nigel put his hand on Red’s shoulder and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to see that. Honest.”

  Red gazed at the hanging shells and shook his head. He mumbled under his breath, “The bastards.”

  “Come on Red. We got to focus.”

  Red helped as Nigel bound the other two with duct tape. Not only would they never escape, it was going to take forever for someone else to cut them free. Nigel searched the inside of the cab and found a cell phone. The screen was locked, but he put it in his pocket anyway. He ran around to his bag and pulled out a portable GPS and powered it up. Once the unit had a fine lock on their position, he created a way-mark to record the van’s coordinates.

  Nigel found Red scribbling something on the side of the van with a sharpie pen. “Red, what are you doing? We don’t have time for this. We got to go.”

  “We can’t go yet.”

  “What do you mean, we can’t go?”

  “The eggs, Nigel. We can’t just leave them.”

  “Red, the eggs in the van are iced down. There is nothing we can do for them.”

  “Not those eggs.” And Red pointed down the road. “I think there is still time. We can get those in the ground where they belong.”

  Nigel wasn’t crazy about prolonging their stay in the area and said, “Red. Brother. We got to go.”

  But Red wouldn’t leave. He walked past Nigel and picked up the shovel and said, “You go. I understand. I can take care of this by myself.”

  Nigel watched Red hurry to the cooler, grab one end, and start dragging it back through the woods. Nigel looked around the van one last time, surveying the scene. The interior light was still on casting a glow about the area. He found the switchblade on the ground which reminded him of the stabbing. He quickly covered the wound with his hand. Then pulled his shirt up to check the bleeding. It was still at a minimum, but it made him think: DNA. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again, so he picked up the knife and stuck it in his pocket. He gathered his bag and other items and donned his night vision googles. He turned and looked toward the woods. Red was still making his way.

  Red was more than half way through the woods when he felt the other end of the cooler lift off the ground. Red turned around and Nigel said, “I can’t leave my wingman.”

  Red said nothing.

  “This really means that much to you?”

  Red answered with a single word, “Everything.”

  Nigel said, “Then it means everything to me. Let me go first. I can see.”

  They were quiet on their jog back to Red’s car. The car doors slammed and Red fired up the engine. It was still dark, but visibility had improved. The eastern sky was beginning to cast a familiar glow at the horizon’s edge, but the sunrise was still some time away.

  Nigel said, “Do you think they’ll make it. The turtle eggs, I mean.”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind. They’ll be fine.”

  But there was doubt, how the eggs had been affected by the ordeal was uncertain. All they could do is hope and convince themselves that everything was going to be alright.

  Nigel pulled out the poacher’s cell phone and called 911. Even a locked phone can be bypassed to dial 911. A young-sounding female dispatcher answered the call. “Gulf County 911. Who am I speaking with? What is your emergency and location?”

  Nigel refused to identify himself, but told the dispatcher about the poachers. He told her what they would find once they got there. He told her where they were and read off the GPS coordinates. He made her repeat them back to him twice. When he was satisfied that she was taking him seriously, he said, “And you will want to hurry and send an ambulance. One or all three may require medical attention.”

  The dispatcher made one last plea, “Who is this...?” But Nigel ended the call.

  A few minutes later they were rolling down County Road 30A toward Port St. Joe. They rode in silence. Red’s thoughts were glued to the slaughtered turtles and scores of eggs that would never hatch. He thought of the eggs that he and Nigel placed back into the warm sand. That made him smile. He looked over at Nigel, his head was leaned back and his eyes were closed. Red said, “Thanks for everything.”

  Nigel kept his eyes closed but offered a smile. He raised his head and opened his eyes when Red said, “Here they come.”

  At the far end of the long straight road, flashing blue lights were approaching. The squad cars were moving at a high rate of speed. They zipped by, one right after another. There were three of them and they had to be going at least ninety miles an hour. Red watched them disappear in the rearview and Nigel checked them out in the side mirror. When they were gone they looked at each other and Nigel asked, “Where’s that bottle of Jim Beam?”

  Red smiled and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  By the time the sun was up and off the horizon, the scene at the van was crawling with county deputies, members of the base security team, and FWC investigators. Two of the poachers were sitting in the back of squad cars, while the third, shovel head, was being transported to the emergency room. He was conscious, but bleeding out of his left ear. One of the county crime scene photographers stopped to capture an image of the words written on the van. He was checking out the image on his LCD screen when an FWC officer of Latino decent approached. The photographer asked, “What does it say?”

  The FWC officer replied, “El Diablo Rojo estaba aqui. The red devil was here.”

  Leave No Trace

  In big cities, such as Chicago, New York, or even Atlanta, from a daily news perspective, there is no shortage of murders, rapes, gang activity, or multi-million dollar political scandals to fill up the news feed. If anything, it is often difficult to select which murder, robbery, or scandal will be most newsworthy. After all, it’s all about what sells, not what’s most important.

  Small towns that run weekly newspapers don’t generally have this problem. Thank God. The news cycle of Port St. Joe is no different. Thank God, again. The big cities can keep their sewer news. Neither the local paper, The Star, nor its citizens want or need big city drama in their backyards. The Star hits the pavements every Thursday morning, and if the readers had their choice, they would pick happy and boring over tragic and exciting any day.

  However, even from the news desk of a sleepy town, a savvy editor would like to have, on occasion, something juicy and substantive to report on. There is only so much mileage a paper can get out of a first-ever release of a coveted and secret muscadine preserves recipe, or
the occasional complaint of discolored water coming from the new, fancy schmancy, high-dollar water treatment plant, or even the repeated reports of black bears dumpster diving out on The Cape and Indian Pass. And, as entertaining and content rich as it can be, people get bored with the repeated name calling, childish shenanigans, and antics coming out of the Gulf County Board of Commissioners.

  One of the fun things about having a weekly paper is how the local rumor mill will take a story and twist it around before the facts can be published on Thursday. If something really newsworthy happens over the weekend, the locals have several days to play with, spin, and distort the facts and details. This was one of those weeks.

  “Son of a bitch!” Nigel lamented. He lost the coin toss, again.

  When he and Red are at the Forgotten Coast Raw Bar, they will often flip to see who has to pull the first round of beers from the draft station. Red normally does the ceremonious flip. Being a creature of habit, Nigel found himself at a great disadvantage. Over a year earlier, Red picked up on how Nigel always chose tails for the coin toss. This sent Red searching online. He found a coin dealer and paid way too much for a double-headed quarter. The motivations were simple: to drive Nigel nuts and, of course, to always make Nigel pull the first round of beers.

  Nigel jumped off stool 17 and marched away bitching. Red chuckled to himself, feeling not the first inkling of guilt. Then he slapped the bar to get the attention of Bucky, one of their favorite shuckers. “Let me taste one, Buck.”

  Bucky shucked an oyster and slid it down the bar. Red took it and slurped it from its shell. He looked at Bucky with a hint of disapproval and asked, “Texas?”