Fortunate Son

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Of course she fucking exists!” Mick’s scream was ear-splitting in the confined space of the car. Tyler recoiled back against the door. Mick leaned toward him. “You think I’d bring us all the way here if she wasn’t real? I’ve dreamed about this day, lil’ bro. Dreamed of when we could be together. Be a family. Be…” He got hold of himself with difficulty. Tyler stayed pressed back against the door. Mick shook his head and reached down to pull his phone from the center console. “Relax, Keith,” he said. “It won’t be long now.”

  WYATT HAD never liked airports, and New Orleans’ Louis Armstrong Airport seemed more confusing than most, especially when it came to finding ground transportation. Eventually, after retrieving his checked bag, he found the desk for the rental agency where he’d booked a car. After verifying he was who he said he was, he asked for directions to the hotel he’d booked in Chalmette. She began to explain, but when she saw Wyatt’s evident confusion, the clerk just sighed, gave up, and showed him how to program the destination into the car’s GPS. He fervently hoped he’d never have to do it again; he didn’t trust vehicles with computer screens where instruments and knobs should be and dreaded the day when he’d have to abandon his old truck for a model that gave him no choice but to adapt. The trip took about a half hour and wound through the midtown, the Ninth Ward, then through Arabi to Chalmette. The neighborhoods were run down, and in some areas Wyatt could still see devastation from the 2005 hurricane. The GPS kept speaking up, making him jump every time. It would warn him of upcoming turns, remind him of them as he drew closer, then tell him again when it was time to make the turn. It got on his nerves from the beginning. Along the way, Wyatt kept checking his phone, looking for a reply to his calls to the New Orleans Police Department or the St. Bernard Parish Sheriff. Before he took off from Raleigh-Durham airport, he’d even gritted his teeth and tried to tap out some e-mails. It was the first time he’d tried that on his phone rather than a desktop computer at the station. It didn’t matter. He’d gotten nothing back. He kept thinking of his last conversation with Glenda.

  “New Orleans,” she’d said in the neutral voice that meant he was in trouble from the beginning.

  “Yeah.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “And do you know anyone in New Orleans?”

  This was shaping up to be the same conversation he’d had with Kassidey. “No. But, you know. Brotherhood of the badge and all that.” He tried to keep the words lighthearted, almost self-mocking, but they landed like lead.

  “Uh-huh,” she said. Then she surprised him by putting a hand on his. “You’re afraid they’re going to kill Tyler, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “That’s been worrying me, yeah. Word comes down he’s a violent armed robber…” He paused and took a breath. “All it’d take is one scared rookie to put him down. I couldn’t face Carl Welch if I didn’t try to do something.”

  Glenda nodded, her face set in that blank expression that meant she was thinking something through. “Well, we’ve got some money put back. This isn’t how I meant to spend it. I was thinking of a new roof, you want to know the truth. But if you’re careful and don’t eat at Chef Whoever’s every night, we can swing it.” The distant expression went away and she looked at him with the direct gaze that had attracted him when they first met. “Just don’t do anything stupid, okay? If…stuff gets bad, stand back and offer encouragement and good advice. Don’t get into the middle of anything. You know what I mean.”

  “I do. And thanks.”

  She snorted. “You don’t need to thank me for telling you that it’s okay to do what you were going to do anyway, Wyatt.”

  “I know,” he said, “but thanks anyway.”

  She kissed him. “You’d better go pack. Will they let you take your bulletproof vest on the plane?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “So, what I said earlier still stands, okay?”

  “In one hundred and fifty yards,” the cheerful computer voice interrupted his memory, “your destination will be on your left.”

  He pulled into the parking lot of a Best Western. He didn’t know what he expected—Spanish moss hanging off live oaks in the parking lot, maybe, but there was none of that. It looked like every other hotel of its type in the United States. He found a parking space and got out. As he walked into the lobby, dragging his roller bag behind him, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Cursing under his breath, he fumbled it out and answered. “Hello?”

  “Mr. McGee?” a female voice, all business and clearly not up for any nonsense, came over the scratchy connection.

  “This is Wyatt McGee.”

  “Mr. McGee, this is Sergeant Delphine Cormier of the St. Bernard Parish Sheriff’s Department. What can I do for you?”

  There was a small sitting area a few feet away from the front desk. A slim young black man stood behind the desk, looking skeptically over a pair of reading glasses at Wyatt. He pulled out the printout Glenda had made of his reservation and waved it at the young man. The clerk gave him a professional smile, nodded, and returned to his computer screen. Wyatt took a seat. “Thanks for returning my call, Sergeant. I’m a law enforcement officer…well, retired…from North Carolina.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cormier’s voice was getting more disinterested with every word.

  “I’ve got some information about a couple of…um, suspects…from North Carolina who may be coming to New Orleans. Specifically, to your county…sorry, parish.”

  “Sir, we haven’t heard anything about any fugitives from North Carolina.”

  “I’m telling you now. There are two young men coming to town who are wanted for an armed robbery and arson in North Carolina.”

  “Yes, sir. And why are they coming to St. Bernard Parish?”

  “They’re looking for their birth mother. Savannah Jakes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cormier said, the automatic politeness like a brick wall. Then her voice sharpened. “Wait. Did you say Savannah Jakes?”

  Wyatt’s heart skipped a beat. “You know the name?”

  There was a brief pause that seemed to stretch out for minutes. “Mr. McGee? Will you be at this number for an hour or so?”

  “Yes. Yes, I will.”

  “Okay,” Cormier said. “I’ll get right back to you.” She broke the connection, leaving Wyatt staring at his phone in bafflement.

  “Ready to check in, sir?” the desk clerk called to him.

  Wyatt stood up. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  In the room, he lifted his roller bag onto the bed and unzipped it. He looked down at the objects that lay on top. He had debated bringing them along, seeing as how he had no official status here. Carrying weapons also required him to check his bag and leave it to the mercy of the airline, something he loathed. But the thought of going unarmed into a situation with this much uncertainty was intolerable. That explained the Beretta semi-auto and the shoulder rig. The knife…that he had more trouble explaining, even to himself. He picked the sheathed blade up for a moment and regarded it, turning it over to read the burned-in name on the back. His thumb unsnapped the safety strap and he wrapped his fingers around the hilt. He hadn’t drawn the knife in years, even to look at. It occurred to him that it would probably look ridiculous strapped to the JC Penney belt that held up his khaki pants, with his dark green polo shirt pulled over it. He put the knife back into the suitcase and picked up the holster.

  CHANCE WAS PUTTING away the dinner dishes when her phone rang. She picked it up off the kitchen table and checked the screen. It was work. “Hello?” she said.

  “Hey, Chance, it’s Delphine.”

  She relaxed slightly. She’d always liked Delphine. Short, round, dark-haired, with a dry yet bawdy sense of humor that had reduced Chance to tears of helpless laughter on more than one after-hours outing, Cormier was one of the few officers in the department with whom she felt totally comfortable. “Hey, girl. What’s up?”

  “Aw, you know how it is. Hey, cher, I just got a weird call.”

  Chance sat dow
n at the kitchen table. “Go ahead.”

  “Isn’t the lady in that case you’re working with the feds named Savannah Jakes?”

  Chance looked over to where Savannah was slumped on her couch, stone-faced and watching Wheel of Fortune. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Some old guy, said he was from North Carolina, has been calling. Says he used to be sheriff in one of the counties up there.”

  Chance turned away slightly. “Go on.”

  “Well, he’s here. Says Savannah’s sons are on their way.”

  Chance felt her heart speed up. “What did he know?”

  “I didn’t go into it with him. I figured I’d let you know first, since it’s your case and all.”

  “Not really mine. I’m just the liaison with the feds.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, cher, it’s yours. Fuck the feds. What have those sumbitches ever done for St. Bernard?”

  Chance had to laugh. That was Delphine all over. “I heard that.”

  “You want his call-back number?”

  “Yeah.” She searched for a pencil and a scrap of paper and a pencil in the kitchen junk drawer. “Shoot.”

  Cormier read off the number to her. “And the name is McGee. Wyatt McGee, if you can believe that.”

  “Thanks, Delphine.” She stole another glance at Savannah. This must be the sheriff Savannah had been so bitter towards. She didn’t know how she was going to handle this.

  “No problem, girl,” Cormier said. Her voice went from lighthearted to serious. “You need any kind of backup on this? Seriously. Anything.”

  “I’ll keep you on speed dial,” Chance said.

  “You do that.”

  “Thanks, Delphine. I owe you.”

  “Hey,” Delphine said. “We ladies don’t look after each other, who will?”

  “You got that right. See ya.” She broke the connection and looked over again at Savannah. As if sensing her disturbance, Savannah looked away from the TV for the first time since their silent dinner and regarded Chance suspiciously. “What?”

  Chance decided to be upfront. “That was one of my co-workers.” She hesitated, trying to think of the best way to broach the subject. “Someone called her. Said he has some information about your boys.”

  Savannah jumped up. “Who? Who was it?”

  Chance took a deep breath. “I think it was that sheriff. From back in North Carolina.”

  Savannah’s face went blank for a moment, then her eyes narrowed and her lips drew back in a snarl. “What’s he saying? More lies? I know it’s lies. He just lies.” She was working herself up to a full-blown rant.

  “Easy,” Chance said. “We don’t even know what he has to say.”

  Savannah began to pace. She rubbed her hands together in agitation. “Whatever he says, you’ll believe it. You stick together. All you bastards stick together. All you fucking cops.”

  “Hey!” Chance barked. Savannah stopped and looked at her, wide-eyed. “Stow that shit, okay?” Chance said. “I don’t know this guy from the man in the goddamn moon. I’m going to hear what he has to say. He may be as bent as you think he is. I’ll keep that in mind. But here’s the thing, Savannah. I don’t totally trust you, either.”

  She looked stunned, then as if she was about to cry. “Why wouldn’t you believe me?”

  Chance rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Spare me, okay? I’m going to call this guy. I may even meet with him.”

  Savannah looked alarmed. “Wait. He’s here?”

  “Somewhere in the area, yeah.”

  Her mouth drew into a tight line. “If you meet him, I want to go with you. I want to look him in the eye and ask him why he lied. And then I want to spit in his face.”

  “That doesn’t exactly make me want to bring you along. But I’ll talk it over with my partner. We’ve still got to get you to your debrief tomorrow morning, and me having to book you for assaulting a law enforcement officer with bodily fluids might slow that down.”

  “Fine.” Savannah stomped off down the hall and slammed the door to the guest room. Chance shook her head. She’d be glad when this babysitting job was over. She thought for a moment about who to call first, Winslow or this McGee. She decided to find out what McGee’s game was first. Then she and Winslow could decide what to do. She walked down the hall toward her own bedroom at the other end of the trailer, dialing as she went.

  WYATT WAS hanging his shirts carefully in the hotel room’s tiny closet when his phone rang. He picked it up, but didn’t recognize the number. “McGee,” he answered.

  “Mr. McGee,” a female voice said. “This is Deputy Chance Cahill of St. Bernard Parish Sheriff’s Department. How can I help you?”

  “Thanks for calling me back so quickly, Deputy Cahill. Did the sergeant fill you in?”

  “Sergeant Cormier said you had some information on Savannah Jakes. And her sons.”

  He sat on the end of the bed. “Yeah. I know her sons are on the way. And…” He hesitated. “Do you mind if I ask what your connection is with Savannah?”

  “Yes, I do mind, sir,” Cahill said. “For the moment, at least. Sorry, but I need to know what your interest in this matter is.”

  Wyatt was getting irritated. Then he picked up on what Cahill had just said. This matter. There was clearly something going on, Savannah was involved, and everyone was more than a little touchy about discussing it. He felt the tension creeping up his back and neck, the same tension he’d felt on the job when going into a house or bar on a call, not knowing what was waiting beyond the door. He decided to lay his cards on the table, and hope Cahill would do the same. They were, after all, on the same side. He hoped.

  “Okay,” he said. “I know the boys. I’m the one who first picked them up from their mother. The younger boy, Tyler, was adopted by friends of mine. I know the boys are headed here to try and meet up with their mother. Savannah. But there was some trouble along the way.”

  A brief pause on the other end. Then, “Go on.”

  “The boys were involved in an armed robbery. At least, they were both there. I think Mick, the older boy, may have put Tyler up to it. Then, as they were leaving to come here, one or both of the boys assaulted and robbed a local drug dealer. Then Mick appears to have burned his own house down.”

  “Ooooh-kay,” Cahill said. “So, are you here to bring them back?”

  This time, it was Wyatt’s turn to pause. “I don’t have that authority,” he said finally. “I’m just here to try to help them. I…I feel a certain amount of responsibility for them.”

  Cahill’s voice, when she spoke again, was softer, less formal. “I guess I get that. But you have to understand, Savannah doesn’t exactly trust you.”

  Wyatt laughed ruefully. “I guess in her position, I wouldn’t either. I take it you’ve been dealing with her.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s an informant, isn’t she?”

  “I can’t really say…”

  “Come on, Deputy,” he said impatiently, “I’m not some rookie. We both know Savannah. The only way she’d be dealing with you, a law enforcement officer, is if she was an informant. And the only way she’d be doing that is if she was in deep shit. And now we have her sons, in deep shit of their own, about to enter the mix. There’s no way this ends well for anyone unless we all get together and get on the same page.”

  There was a brief commotion on the other end, as if Cahill had dropped the phone. He thought he heard a curse, but it was too muffled to make it out. When she came back on the line, Cahill sounded slightly breathless and her voice was tense. “Okay. Let’s meet. But you’ll need to come to me.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because that fucking bitch just stole my truck.”

  CHANCE PACED BACK and forth in the narrow confines of the trailer’s tiny living room, cursing bitterly under her breath. Jonas sat on the couch, following her with his eyes and occasionally thumping his tail anxiously. She paused from time to time to reassure her dog with a scratch behind the ears,
then returned to pacing.

  How the hell could I have been so careless, she thought. Then another part of her mind took over and tried to defend what happened. She’d only turned her back on Savannah for a moment. How could she have known? Then again, she should have known better. Savannah was an informant. Informants will burn you given half a chance.

  It seemed like longer to her, but it only took a minute or so before Chance made her decision. She went back to what she’d learned from her father. You screw up, Lil’ Bit, he’d told her, you own up. Then you step up. You do what it takes to make it right. This was something exponentially worse than losing her dad’s favorite cufflinks or denting the car, the two major times she could remember her dad imparting that lesson, but it still stuck. She picked up the phone, tapped it a couple of times against her hip, then took a deep breath and dialed Winslow. “Savannah’s in the wind,” she said as soon as he answered.

  The response was immediate. “How long?”

  She was humiliated at how grateful she was that he wasn’t berating her. “About fifteen minutes. Give or take a minute. I was on the phone with this ex-sheriff from North Carolina. He’s been tracking the boys. When I turned my back for a second, she took my keys, slipped out the door, and hit the road.”

  “Okay. Only one place I can think of that she’d be going.”

  Chance got it immediately. “Home. To Arabi.”

  “That’s where the boys would be heading. It’s the address she gave them. And I’m still set up on that house. I’ve got eyes on it right now.”

  “Wait,” she said. “Alone?”

  “Well, you did kind of advance things faster than anyone was anticipating. But we’ll cover it. I’ve got a relief coming. Eventually.”

  “What happens if she tells them to meet her somewhere else?”

  “Don’t know how she’d do that,” Winslow said. “And her computer’s still in the Arabi house.”

  You know she can access it from her phone, right?”