by Mark Romang
Of course there were always his fists, elbows, and feet. But most of all, the weapon he coveted the most was the derringer hidden somewhere on Annie’s body.
Annie possessed a figure that made other women jealous, and made men’s necks kink up from craning too far. And yet she was so modest she rarely wore tight or revealing clothes. Today she wore jeans and an oversized t-shirt. The t-shirt hung down over her butt. Rafter assumed the small side arm hid under her waistband near the small of her back.
But the derringer might as well be locked up in a gun safe. With their hands and feet tied, they would never gain access to the weapon.
Rafter once read a book on survival written by an ex-Navy SEAL named Cade Courtley. The book covered multiple survival scenarios, including one on home invasions, complete with a section on escaping restraints.
Although never an easy task, ropes can often be overcome by a sharp object or friction. Offering a stronger and cheaper restraint, plastic flex cuffs raise the degree of difficulty by quite a bit. Courtley stated in his book that two methods existed for defeating flex cuffs: the Shim method and the Break method.
The Shim method required finding an object to wedge into the latch. The tiny plastic teeth could be worn down or broken over time. A shim in the tie slot can theoretically prevent the one-way catch from activating, allowing escape.
The Break method consists of ramming the flex cuffs against something hard. Flex cuffs can snap if jammed violently against an unyielding surface. In a pinch, the ex-SEAL said to use your own chest as a striking surface.
Rafter didn’t doubt the veracity of the escape methods. But he couldn’t try either method as long as Iris kept close watch on him, and as long as Arcadias and Damien kept coming into the parlor.
I should just do nothing. The police are here now. And a SWAT team will be close behind. Let the professionals do their job.
But from his past experience, Rafter knew if Arcadias refused to negotiate, a SWAT team would shout, “Search warrant!” and break down the door with a battering ram. They’d pour into the house like an ocean at high tide, throwing flash-bang grenades and tear gas grenades, and pointing MP5 submachine guns at anyone who dared to move.
Rescue operations amidst that much chaos can and do go wrong. Rafter looked at his wife. His eyes misted over. He couldn’t let such a high-risk scenario happen. One misplaced bullet, one freakish ricochet could kill Annie, not to mention Ned or Keith Jepson. He had to find a way to get free and diffuse the situation himself.
Annie caught his eye and winked at him. For some reason her playful wink reminded him of their honeymoon at Myrtle Beach, and a promise he once made to her.
Chapter 38
Myrtle Beach—38 months prior
Sunset had given way to twilight and now darkness fell on the Grand Strand—a sixty mile stretch of beach in South Carolina. Jon and Annie walked hand in hand along the beach, alone for the most part. The popular beach had emptied out around sunset when a short-lived thunderstorm moved in.
A strong breeze had all but chased most of the thunderheads away. And now a full moon bathed the sand and ocean waves in silvery moonbeams. As he walked with his bride, Rafter listened to the relaxing sound of surf relentlessly pounding sand, and seagulls crying as they circled the surf looking for small fish.
Rafter breathed in the air tinged with salt spray. A smile worked its way across his face. It felt good to be alive.
They’d spent the bulk of the day inside their rented beach house, doing what honeymooners are supposed to do behind closed doors. They finally ventured out around seven pm and grabbed something to eat at a restaurant on the Boardwalk. After filling their stomachs with seafood, they rode the nearby SkyWheel—a 187 foot tall Ferris wheel, complete with glass-enclosed, air-conditioned gondolas that light up at night.
“You picked a great place to honeymoon, Babe,” Rafter said. “What a beautiful evening.”
Annie squeezed his hand. “Myrtle Beach is a special place. I can see why so many people vacation here.”
“It is a great place to fall in love,” Rafter added.
“Um, how it works Jon, is you’re supposed to have already fallen in love before you get married.”
Rafter laughed. “Don’t worry, Annie, I don’t have it backwards. I fell in love with you the instant I met you.”
“Are you serious? I was a mess, lying in the road, beaten to within an inch of my life and covered in mud.”
“No lie, it’s the truth. Kneeling there in the drenching rain, my heart skipped the moment I turned you over.”
“You’re heart only skipped because my appearance frightened you.”
“No, that’s not the case at all. I knew a beautiful princess hid underneath all the mud and bruises.”
Annie kissed him on the cheek. “That’s a sweet thing to say, Jon. It was love at first sight for me too. When I finally woke up and found myself in your house, I saw you standing in the candlelight; I thought you were George Clooney at first. I thought I was dreaming.”
“And then you figured out you were only hallucinating.”
“I admit I was a little groggy from all the knots on my head. But I wasn’t delusional.”
“People say I look like Clooney. But I don’t see the resemblance.”
“It’s only a slight resemblance. Actually, I think you’re more handsome than George, and you don’t look as old.”
“You’re really buttering me up, Babe.”
Annie nestled in closer to him as they strolled in the sand, arm in arm. “I’m telling the truth, Jon. You’re quite the catch. I thank God every day for placing you in my life. I don’t know what I would do without you. You’re my miracle man.”
They fell silent again as they walked, content to listen to the Atlantic Ocean’s rhythmical advance and retreat. The crashing surf hypnotized Rafter little by little.
“We should probably turn back, Annie. We’ve left our beach house far behind us.” The words had barely left his mouth when Annie started hopping around on one leg. “Are you okay?”
Annie stopped hopping after a bit. She looked down at the sand. “I stepped on something hard and sharp,” she said.
Rafter pulled his phone from his pocket and activated the built-in flashlight. He shined the light onto the sand near Annie’s feet. The light spotlighted something dark and foreign. He squatted down and examined it closely. “It’s definitely not a seashell. It looks like some kind of weird rock.”
Annie dropped down beside him. She picked up the object and inspected it under his phone light. “I think I know what this is. I believe it’s a fulgurite.”
“What is a fulgurite?”
“Haven’t you seen the movie Sweet Home Alabama?”
“I’m afraid I missed that one,” Rafter said.
“Well, it is a chic flick. So I’m not surprised you haven’t seen it. Anyway, if lightning strikes the right kind of dirt or sand, and if the lightning burns at just the right temperature, it can cause the sand grains to fuse together into a glass-like tube,” Annie explained. “This fulgurite is fresh. It probably formed earlier this evening during the thunderstorm.”
“Can I see it?”
Annie handed it over to him. Rafter took the fulgurite in his hands. The bumpy, tube-shaped object looked to be about six inches wide by eight inches long by two inches thick. “So is a fulgurite like petrified lightning?”
“I don’t know. I guess it could be. I bet if we dug down we could find more fulgurites buried in the sand.”
“It’s shaped like a cross. Did you notice that?”
“I didn’t. But now that you mention it, it does resemble a cross. And it’s about the same size as a crucifix.”
Rafter grinned and held up the lightning-formed crucifix. “This is miraculous in a way. I guess you could say we’re standing on holy ground.”
“Yeah, good thing we’re barefoot.”
Rafter stood up. He’d broken his pelvis less than a year ago. Squatting in
the sand made it ache. “Annie, there’s something I need to tell you. Now is as good a time as any.”
Annie stood up and looked at him curiously. “Okay, I’m a little worried. You sound serious, Jon. But go ahead.”
Rafter dropped the fulgurite into the sand and took Annie’s hands in his. “First off, I take our marriage vows seriously. We’ve entered into a covenant. And I intend to keep every vow. But I wish now I would’ve pledged one more vow during our ceremony.” Rafter paused. A lump formed in his throat. He started to get emotional. “So with God as my witness, I pledge to protect you from harm, to keep you safe from evil people like Sebastian and Jean-Paul Boudreaux.”
“I don’t need you to be my guardian, Jon. I just need you to be my husband.”
Rafter shook his head. “You’ve been through so much, Annie, more than any person should have to bear. So until I take my last breath, until death separates us, I will protect you. No one will ever take you hostage again.”
****
Remembering the vow he made on the moonlit beach ignited a murderous fury inside Rafter. He’d promised to keep Annie safe from people like Arcadias, to never let her be kidnapped again. And he’d failed her. His words on the beach rang hollow now.
If he ever got Arcadias alone he didn’t know if he could hold back his fury. He might just break every bone in the man’s face. Lord, please help me calm down. This rage I feel isn’t going to help end this crisis. Please don’t let me do anything rash and stupid.
Chapter 39
Newton Laskey and his two agents stood near the police cruiser and talked to Detective Jack Casey. The detective from the Iberville Parish Sheriff’s Department had just given them a condensed version of the events leading up to Copeland Police Officer Josiah Barrett’s death.
“It doesn’t make any sense, Detective,” Laskey said.
Jack Casey scratched his head. “What specifically doesn’t make sense? If you ask me, crime never makes any sense.”
“You said Officer Barrett was shot in the back three times.”
“If I did, I misspoke. Barrett was actually shot twice in the side and once in the back,” Casey clarified, his voice steady and clinical.
“And he was shot with full-metal jacket rounds?”
“Yes. There were entry and exit wounds. The exit wounds were much larger and ragged than the entry wounds. The entry wounds were symmetrical and had gunpowder and cordite residue ringing them.”
“And Officer Barrett came here looking for an old man who lives down the road and was missing.”
“Yes, Cora Hoxley said her husband Ned came here to tell the Rafters’ their dog was injured, and Ned never came back. That’s why Barrett came here.”
“I take it he answered the call on his own without any backup.”
Casey nodded somberly. “Copeland used to contract with the sheriff’s department to run nightly patrols. But then the city council decided they needed their own police department. Unfortunately the town budget only allocated for two policemen, the chief and Barrett. The chief had finished his shift, and Barrett had just started his when he visited the Hoxley place.”
“What doesn’t make sense to me is that Barrett was shot in the back and side. Why would Barrett turn his back on Jon Rafter if Rafter was the raging lunatic Sheriff Tubbs makes him out to be? Why didn’t Barrett pull his gun, and why wouldn’t the entry wounds be on the front of his body? This tells me he was turning to leave when he was shot. And if he was turning to leave he must’ve thought the old man wasn’t here, or he was an acquaintance of the shooter and trusted him.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Laskey. The investigation is just starting. But in a town this small, Barrett probably knew Jon Rafter.”
Agent Otis Grant spoke up. “Was the officer shot on the porch?”
Detective Casey looked at the African-American FBI agent. “We assume so. We haven’t gone up onto the porch. It’s too dangerous. But we can see a pool of blood on the walkway at the foot of the stairs. The blood trail extends from there to the cruiser.”
Laskey rubbed his chin. “It’s a miracle the officer made it to his cruiser to call in.”
Casey nodded. “Judging by the blood trail there wasn’t much blood left in him when he called in.”
Laskey looked at the cars parked in a small lot on the east side of the house. “Who do these cars belong to?”
“The two pickup trucks belong to what we assume are paying guests. The newer Chevy is a rental to Arcadias Charbonneau. The old pickup is registered to a Damien Charbonneau. The BMW belongs to a family law attorney out of Baton Rouge named Kevin Jepson. The Buick sedan belongs to Ned Hoxley.”
“Are Damien and Arcadias brothers?”
Casey nodded.
“Do they have records?”
“Arcadias is clean as a whistle, not even a speeding ticket to speak of. Damien has a DUI arrest on file. The arrest happened three years ago. Other than the DUI, Damien is squeaky clean too.”
“Why would two brothers want to rent rooms here?”
Detective Casey shrugged. “Maybe they’re romantics and brought girlfriends. We’re only estimating the number of people inside the home.”
“So neither one of the brothers is married?”
Casey nodded. “Both are single. Damien is a lifelong bachelor. Arcadias is divorced.”
Laskey looked up into the sky, noticed the Big Dipper shining brightly. As a kid he always wanted to be an astronaut. Somewhere in high school the ambitious dream died. He wished now he could rocket to the farthest reaches in space and leave this crazy planet far behind. Laskey returned his gaze to the detective. “What do the Charbonneau brothers do for livings?”
“Damien pours concrete. Arcadias was once a history professor at McNeese State University. Now he owns a treasure hunting shop in Grand Island.”
“You said something about a bloody footprint in the art studio. Can we take a look?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Laskey, follow me,” Casey said. The detective led them on a circuitous route, bypassing squad cars and deputies clustered around the sheriff, to the carriage house sitting fifty yards from the main house.
Laskey stopped in his tracks when he saw a metal detector leaning against the carriage house. Otis Grant pulled up beside him. “Looks like the guests have been hunting for treasure, Newt. They sure know how to make themselves feel at home.”
“There’s something weird about this crime scene, Otis.”
Casey turned his head at Laskey’s comments. “Fingerprints have been lifted from the metal detector. We’re waiting to hear back on a definite match, but I’m guessing the prints belong to Damien Charbonneau. The prints from the metal detector match those lifted from inside his pickup truck and on the door handle.”
Kevin Brubaker touched Laskey on the shoulder. “Hey, Newt, you mind if I go back to the car and get on my laptop? I want to check out the social media sites, see if Rafter or the Charbonneaus are Facebook friends with the dead cop, find out where they all went to high school. That’s the easiest way I know to find out if one of them knew the cop.”
“Yeah, go ahead Kevin. What can it hurt?”
Brubaker left as Laskey and Grant followed the detective into the carriage house. Laskey took in the lovely paintings hanging on the walls, as well as the mangled canvas lying on the floor. He also noted the puddle of blood drying on the floor not far from the vandalized painting. Numerous paw prints were visible on the bloody floor, as well as a shoe print.
“We dug a bullet out from the back wall. We’re checking to see if ballistics matches up with any registered firearms owned by the Rafters or the Charbonneaus,” Casey said.
“You’re taking all the right steps and running a good investigation, Jack,” Laskey said. “Just don’t jump to any rash conclusions. Despite what the sheriff thinks, my gut feeling says this isn’t a domestic violence case.”
Detective Casey looked at Laskey. “Don’t underestimate the sheriff, Mr. Laskey. He’s often rig
ht. He’s been in this line of work a long, long time.”
“I just can’t see Jon Rafter shooting a cop. He was once a cop himself.”
“We often think we know a person well, but we really don’t. We can’t totally know what is going on inside a person’s head. Inner thoughts are deep and secretive mysteries. And then when you add unstable emotions to the mix, anything can happen.”
Laskey sighed. “So what do you think went down inside this art studio?”
Casey shrugged. “To me it looks like Jon Rafter snapped. In a fit of rage he trashed a painting, shot his dog, and then stomped into the house and took the guests hostage. And then when Officer Barrett came by he shot him.”
“But why would Rafter shoot the officer when he was turning to leave? He wouldn’t have had to do that. It doesn’t add up.”
“Mr. Laskey, you know how this works. We won’t know the motive until an arrest is made, perhaps not even until the case goes to trial.”
“Okay, Jack. Thanks for filling me in. My men and I will stay out of your way. But don’t hesitate to ask for anything. I’m the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Baton Rouge Resident Agency. I have a lot of resources at my disposal.”
“I’ll keep your offer in mind, Mr. Laskey.”
Chapter 40
On his way back into the parlor, Arcadias stopped at the front door. He bent down and looked through the peep hole. Although the tiny hole limited his vision, he could see multiple cruisers, their light bars flashing red and blue.
None of his carefully hatched plan was playing out the way he wanted, and his erudite mind scrabbled for credible solutions. Two things needed to happen soon, preferably within the next half hour: First, he needed to find the treasure. Second, he needed to leave the house without the lawmen outside knowing it, the treasure secured to his person.
