The alcohol entered his bloodstream quickly, and Sloan was feeling light-headed when he found a large ziplock bag. It contained a Bic lighter, a Hershey bar, and a grimy map. Sloan didn’t fully appreciate the find at the time, however, because he was too busy consuming the candy bar. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
After that, all he could do was stretch out on the middle seat with his feet sticking out over the side. A rain poncho served to protect his upper body from insects and conserve heat. What followed was a long, uncomfortable night spent drifting in and out of sleep as the night creatures conspired to keep him awake. And those moments were spent worrying.
What if the swamper had another boat hidden away? Or possessed the means to summon help? Sloan hadn’t rowed far . . . No more than half a mile. So was the man closing in? Preparing to shoot him? And who could blame the swamper if he did?
Sloan wished there was some way he could compensate the man for the boat but couldn’t think of one. As soon as there was enough light to see by, Sloan consulted the map. And he was sitting there, wishing for a compass, when the sun appeared! Not for long . . . But the brief glimpse was enough to get oriented.
The motor had its own integral gas tank, which was half-full. Sloan hoped that it, plus the fuel in the two-and-a-half-gallon auxiliary tank, would get him to neighboring Louisiana.
The motor started with a single pull of the rope and ran smoothly as Sloan followed pole markers to what he thought was an eastbound channel. It was a dead end. Fifteen minutes had been wasted going in, and fifteen minutes had been wasted coming out, not to mention some precious fuel.
Thus began a frustrating day. But by the time the light began to fade, Sloan had found his way into Stark’s North Canal and entered Black Lake. During the journey, he had seen vehicles driving along the tops of dikes and spotted boats in the distance. That’s why he was wearing the poncho over the jumpsuit. Not only was it an obnoxious shade of orange; it had the word PRISONER printed across the back and would leave no doubt as to his status. Sloan needed to find clothes and food. His stomach growled in agreement.
As the sun set, Sloan beached the boat in a hidden cove and built a fire for warmth. Ironically, given the fact that he had a fishing boat, there wasn’t any gear in it.
In hopes of finding something edible along the shoreline, Sloan removed his shoes and began to wade through the mud. A long shot, or so he thought, until he stepped on what felt like a rock. But the rock wasn’t a rock! It was a fine specimen of Corbicula fluminea!
Sloan knew that because the so-called Asian clams had a propensity to clog intake pipes and were the bane of power plants. As Secretary of Energy, he’d been in charge of the effort to eliminate them.
Sloan was tempted to eat the clams raw . . . But, rather than risk it, he resolved to steam them instead. He brought double handfuls of the bivalves over to the fire he had started using the Bic, placed carefully chosen stones in among the coals, and went out to gather additional driftwood. Fifteen minutes later, Sloan placed six shells on top of the improvised cooking surface and waited for them to open.
It didn’t take long. As soon as a clam was ready Sloan was there to grab the shell with a pair of rusty pliers and remove it from the fire. As he ate, Sloan washed the clams down with sips of lukewarm beer. It was one of the best meals he’d ever had. And for the first time in days, he went to sleep feeling full, mostly warm, and free from fear.
When Sloan rose the next morning, he was hungry but filled with hope as he launched the boat. Fuel had started to run low by then . . . So Sloan kept an eye out for a boat or fishing camp that might yield what he needed.
He hugged the south end of Black Lake because, according to the map, that would allow him to reach the Intracoastal Waterway through a connecting channel. There was an industrial complex on the right. Sloan gave it a wide berth, knowing that there would be people around.
Channels ran every which way at the southeast corner of the lake, and Sloan lost the better part of an hour making wrong turns. Finally, after starting over, he fell into company with a small tug. It had a barge in tow and was headed east. To the Intracoastal? Probably. So Sloan followed along behind. The tug entered the larger waterway an hour later, and that was Sloan’s cue to turn left, knowing that the Intracoastal would take him north to the city of Lake Charles, Louisiana.
There was a lot of boat and barge traffic on the waterway and, much to his surprise, some of it was clearly recreational. What about fuel? Why did everything look so normal? It didn’t make sense. Most of the traffic was commercial, however, so he ran the boat along the eastern shoreline, where there was less chance of being hit. Even so, some of the larger vessels produced wakes so powerful that Sloan had to turn into them. That was a worrisome waste of both fuel and time.
Meanwhile, the little five-horse was about to run out of gas because all of the fuel in the auxiliary tank had been transferred to the motor by that time. So when a pontoon boat appeared up ahead, Sloan took notice. It was a yacht in all truth but riding on pontoons rather than a conventional hull, which created a lot of deck space. The boat was moored to a pair of trees and seemed to be deserted. But maybe the owner was inside taking a nap. With that in mind, Sloan gave a shout. “Ahoy there! Is anyone home?”
Having heard no response, Sloan pulled over in front of the larger craft, tied the skiff to a sapling, and called out again. After a minute or so, he jumped the gap. The door to the cabin was in front of him and a handwritten sign was posted in the window: MECHANICAL PROBLEMS . . . BACK SOON.
That meant the owner could return at any moment. Sloan felt his heart beat faster as he took a rock out from under his poncho and broke the window. After knocking the remaining shards of glass loose, he reached in to open the door. Be quick, Sloan told himself. Get in and get out.
Broken glass crunched underfoot as Sloan entered and went straight to a nicely equipped galley. A canvas tote was stored in a cubbyhole, and after dumping half a dozen cans into it, Sloan remembered to grab a pot, plus a pair of salt and pepper shakers. The bottle of Riesling was an afterthought.
Then he went forward. A closet was located next to the head—and Sloan had lots of clothes to choose from. He appropriated a pair of jeans, two tee shirts, and a Tommy Bahama jacket. They went into a nylon knapsack along with two pairs of boxers and some black socks. Hurry, Sloan told himself, don’t screw around.
Blood was pounding in Sloan’s ears as he grabbed a box of Kleenex to use as toilet paper and returned to the galley. Then with a bag in each hand, he went outside and jumped over to the riverbank. After placing the loot in the skiff, Sloan grabbed the auxiliary gas tank and returned to the yacht.
The pontoon boat was equipped with a pair of humongous four-cycle outboard motors. That meant they, unlike the five-horse, could use straight gas. But if Sloan could find a quart of oil, he could add some to the fuel—and use it in the little motor.
Sloan went to the stern, where he opened storage lockers until he found part of what he needed. That included a well-equipped toolbox and half a quart of Honda Marine engine oil. The next step was to open a deck hatch and access the plastic tubing that ran every which way. The last thing Sloan wanted to do was cut a fuel line.
Sloan spent three minutes isolating a water line, clamped it off, and cut a section free. After dividing the hose in two, he set about the process of siphoning gas into the auxiliary tank. A skill perfected on the family farm. The process seemed to take forever, and Sloan felt jumpy. Was the distant speedboat turning his way? No, thank God, but the next one might.
Finally, the auxiliary tank was full. Sloan removed the tubes, screwed the cap onto the tank, and lugged it over to the side of the boat. After heaving the heavy container across the narrow strip of open water, he followed. Then he carried the container to the skiff, put it in, and cast off. No way in hell was he going to sit there and refuel the motor when the pontoon boat’s
owner could arrive at any minute.
Sloan felt guilty as he got under way—and refused to make excuses for himself. He knew what his father would say: “Stealing is wrong regardless of the circumstances, son . . . You need to make it right.” But Sloan couldn’t make it right . . . And he could feel the weight of his father’s disapproval as he motored north.
Sloan glanced back over his shoulder from time to time, fearful that a vengeful yacht owner was after him. When a side channel opened up on the right, he took it. The bottom came up quickly, but the skiff drew very little water and entered without difficulty.
As the waterway curved to the left, Sloan realized that he was circling a small island. That was good since there were lots of trees on it, and they would screen him from the Intracoastal.
The moment a small cove appeared, Sloan cut power, pulled the outboard up out of the water, and rowed to shore. The hull made a scraping sound as the bow ran up onto a gravelly beach. Then it was a simple matter to ship the oars, get out, and wade ashore.
The next hour was spent taking a bath and donning clean clothes. Sloan got rid of the orange jumpsuit by digging a hole and burying it. As soon as that was accomplished, he built a small fire, knowing that if someone happened along, he’d look as innocent as a man with a scruffy beard could.
Sloan’s loot included a can of stew. After dumping it into the stolen pot, he was forced to wait. To kill time and slake his thirst, he opened the bottle of wine. And, lacking a corkscrew, he made quite a mess of it. I should have selected a red, Sloan thought to himself as he pried the last chunk of cork out. To go with the stew.
Sloan’s stomach rumbled ominously as he took the bubbling brew off the fire and went to work. He ate, using a cooking spoon and pausing occasionally to take sips of wine.
Once his stomach was full, Sloan was faced with a choice. It was midafternoon, so perhaps he should remain on the island and get an early start the next morning. But the sooner Sloan arrived in Lake Charles, the sooner he’d be able to travel north, where he hoped to find some support.
With that in mind Sloan put everything back in the boat, poured water on the fire, and rowed out to where he could start the motor. The channel led him into the main waterway, where he fell in behind a heavily loaded barge. With the motor running full out, Sloan could keep up—and was content to do so as day gave way to night.
Clusters of lights appeared, marking the locations of small communities and signaling the fact that the power was on. How could that be? But what was, was.
Finally, after an hour or so, Sloan made the decision to go ashore. He was tired and concerned lest the motor run out of gas while on the Intracoastal. And the last thing he wanted to do was to try to refill the internal tank in the dark. He saw some lights and took aim at them.
Fifteen minutes later, Sloan arrived at a small town. He had some money, but should he spend it? Especially in a little Podunk town where strangers would stick out. No, Sloan decided, it would be best to hold out for a larger town.
The waterfront park was equipped with picnic tables and metal barbecues. There was no way to know how the local police force would look on overnight camping, so Sloan chose the spot farthest from the parking lot, hoping to escape notice.
There wasn’t much firewood to be had, but Sloan managed to scrounge enough fallen branches to build a small fire and heat a can of chili. That, along with what remained of the wine, was sufficient to warm his belly.
After washing up, Sloan put on every piece of clothing he had with the rain poncho on top. Then, with no good place to sleep, he was forced to hunker down on a much-abused cushion that was enough to keep his butt up out of the water in the bottom of the boat. The incessant moan of a distant foghorn, the occasional barking of a dog, and a sudden rain shower kept him awake. The night seemed to last forever.
Dawn came eventually. But with no dry firewood, Sloan left as soon as there was sufficient light to see by. He figured he was north of Moss Lake and likely to reach the city of Lake Charles by evening.
The sky was blue for once, and Sloan hoped that was a good omen, as an endless succession of whitecaps marched down from the north. Spray exploded sideways as the boat smacked into the waves, and droplets of water flew back to wet his poncho.
There was no warmth to be had from the wan sunlight. All Sloan could do was sit in the stern and shiver, as the tireless five-horse pushed him past Prien Lake and into Lake Charles.
It was necessary to refuel shortly thereafter. Sloan had to hurry as waves hit the skiff broadside and threatened to swamp it. But he got the job done. And it wasn’t long before Sloan saw two office buildings and a TV tower on the horizon. The city of Lake Charles! He was close.
Forty-five minutes later, Sloan could see the town’s mostly low-lying buildings and a well-developed waterfront. And that raised a question: Where to leave the boat? The obvious answer was with other boats—in the hope that no one would notice it for a while.
It took about fifteen minutes to find a small marina, collect his scant belongings, and walk away. Maybe the authorities would be able to trace the boat back to its rightful owner via the registration decal on the bow. Sloan hoped so. The marina was located near the intersection of Bor Du Lac and Lakeshore Drives.
As Sloan entered town, he was surprised to see how many people were marching about, waving flags, and shouting slogans. A man carrying a Confederate flag was flanked by picketers armed with “New Order” signs.
Meanwhile, a hundred feet away, those waving American flags had the support of a costumed flutist who was playing “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
Most of the bystanders were cheering for the Confederates, so it appeared that Huxton and his friends were making progress. Having failed to recruit him, what would they do next?
But politics would have to wait. Sloan had more pressing problems to deal with. Thanks to Short Guy he had enough money for some basic toiletries, a decent meal, and a night in a cheap hotel.
He awoke feeling hungry. But before Sloan went looking for breakfast, he wanted to take full advantage of the shower and the opportunity to shave the scruffy beard off.
Sloan had no choice but to put the same clothes back on. Clean now, for the most part anyway, he made his way to a nearby café, where he ordered the “Sunrise Special.” It consisted of two strips of bacon, two eggs any style, and two pancakes—plus all the coffee Sloan could consume. He ate every bite and consumed three cups of coffee.
Then it was time to hit the streets and look for an affordable way out of town. The first thing Sloan noticed was the number of people on the streets. And the way they were congregated around various speakers. By listening in, it soon became apparent that a referendum was under way. Should the state of Louisiana secede? Or remain with the “old” government, which, according to the propaganda being bandied about, was intent on subverting the Constitution on behalf of “the takers.” Takers being those on social security and public assistance.
That was bullshit, of course, and some of the “patriots” stood up to say so. One such person was a thirtysomething black man wearing a well-cut business suit. He was standing on the bed of a bunting-draped pickup truck and holding a bullhorn up to his mouth. “This is the time to rally behind our country,” he told a small crowd, “not to tear it down. Do you really believe that rich people are going to look after your interests? Of course they won’t . . . The only thing they care about is themselves! That’s what ‘security through self-reliance’ means. It’s another way of saying, ‘I have mine, and you can kiss my ass!’”
The man might have said more . . . But a dozen men armed with baseball bats chased the onlookers away. They lined up along both sides of the truck and began to rock it back and forth. Sloan took a look around. Where were the police? Deliberately missing in action. The beleaguered speaker had little choice but to jump off the back of the vehicle and run. Two thugs gave chase, caught up
with the man, and hauled him around a corner.
Sloan pushed his way through the crowd. There was a construction site to his left, and he paused long enough to grab a four-foot length of two-by-two from a pile of scrap, before continuing on. The Glock was at the small of his back, but Sloan wasn’t planning to use it unless forced to do so.
When Sloan rounded the corner, he saw that the thugs had the man down, and were kicking him. Their backs were turned, and that was fine with Sloan, who came up behind them. After planting his feet, he took a swing. He felt the impact of the blow as the stick hit the man’s head. The thug fell as if poleaxed and lay motionless on the ground.
As the second attacker turned, the two-by-two was falling again. Sloan missed the thug’s head and struck his shoulder. The man uttered a scream as the force of the blow broke his left clavicle. He stumbled away, fell, and lay moaning on the ground.
The patriot was back on his feet by then, dusting his suit off. The kick was an afterthought. “Asshole.”
“Come on,” Sloan said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Recommendation accepted,” the other man said. “‘The better part of valor is discretion.’ Henry IV, Part 1, act 5, scene 4. Reginald P. Allston at your service.”
“You’re an actor?” Sloan inquired, as they hurried away.
“An amateur,” Allston replied. “I make my living as an attorney.”
“I liked your speech,” Sloan told him. “That took balls.”
“Thanks. And you are?”
“Samuel Sloan.”
Allston frowned. “The name sounds familiar.”
“I was the Secretary of Energy until recently,” Sloan replied.
“If you say so,” Allston replied.
Into the Guns Page 13
