Fortunate Son

by J. D. Rhoades

“She can?”

  Chance shook her head and moved on.

  “Is Charleyboy still there?”

  “Yep,” Winslow said. “Obviously, I’d rather have him in a safe house, but…”

  “I know. I moved up the timetable.”

  “Yeah. But he knows better than to try to run.”

  “Okay. She could be figuring out some place else to meet the boys, but this is the only meeting place we know of so far. We start from there and figure out where to go from that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” she said. “So. When your relief comes—”

  “You need me to come out and get you.”

  She sighed. “No. I made arrangements. And, Winslow?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You can give me as much shit over it as you like, okay? Just do it later.”

  “Oh, you can count on that.” He chuckled. Then his voice grew serious. “But yeah. Later.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wait one. Someone’s rattling the back door. Maybe some kids trying to get in. Or my relief’s early.”

  “Okay.” She tucked the phone under her ear and went to fetch her sidearm. She made sure she had extra magazines. A minute passed. Then another. “Winslow?” she said. There was no answer. “Winslow?” she demanded.

  There was no one there.

  SAVANNAH DROVE blindly, tears stinging her eyes. She didn’t know where she was going. The only place she wanted to be was away. She remembered a phrase Charleyboy used to use: “We’ll cross that bridge when we burn it behind us.” Tears sprang to her eyes as she thought about him. All her bridges were an inferno flaming behind her. Charleyboy had betrayed her. The cops were trying to use and discard her. Her boys were on their way, and she didn’t know how to find them. She didn’t know how long she drove before the realization hit her. She’d given them the address on Esteban Street. That’s where they were supposed to find her. But she couldn’t go back there. Not with Charleyboy there. And the cops. Possibly Luther even had people watching the place. They were headed there. She pulled over and pulled out her phone. The only way she had to contact Mick was via Facebook message. She should have gotten a number, but things had turned so frantic, she’d never gotten back to that. She called up the Facebook application on her phone and swore when she saw how weak the signal was. She was still out in the sticks. All she could do was punch in a quick message. Don’t go to Arabi. Send me a phone #. She pushed send and hoped for the best. Then she pulled back onto the road and headed for the house. Maybe she could head them off.

  WINSLOW HEARD the rattling at the back door again. He checked his watch. His relief, a young agent named Causey, wasn’t due for another hour and a half. He shook his head, thinking about his own rookie years. Had he ever been that gung-ho? He supposed he had. Or maybe it was some homeless guy trying to get in. Or kids looking for some place to get high. That thought made him smile. Wouldn’t it just fuck with some stoner’s head to be looking for a place to blaze up, and get greeted at the door by a DEA agent? He walked to the back door, through a kitchen stripped of all appliances by the last occupants, and looked out. He frowned. There was no one there. He could swear someone had knocked. He opened the door and looked out. That rookie had better not be playing with me. When he stepped out onto the concrete slab of the back stoop, he sensed rather than saw the presence standing to one side. But it was too late. He reached for his sidearm, only to feel a gun barrel jammed into his side. “I wouldn’t,” a voice said. Winslow froze, his knees feeling suddenly weak. “Reach down,” the voice said. The accent was straight out of the bayou. “Two fingers. Take that there gun out nice an’ slow.” Winslow hesitated. “Don’ fuck around,” the voice warned. “This shotgun’ll blow your spine right in two.”

  “I’m a goddamn federal agent, dumbass,” Winslow said. His ears were buzzing from the adrenaline coursing through his system, so he couldn’t tell if he was keeping the fear out of his voice. He hoped he was. “Believe me, you don’t want to do this. You are about to bring a mountain of shit down on you.”

  “’Zat so?” the voice said. The man sounded amused. “Maybe I should just shoot your ass right now an’ run off. Cut my losses.” He shoved the shotgun into Winslow’s side harder.

  “Don’t,” Winslow hated the way his voice cracked, hated the chuckle from the redneck with the gun.

  “Get the pistol out, motherfucker. I ain’t tellin’ you again.”

  He reached down, pulled the gun out of his hip holster with two fingers, but hesitated. Everything in his training told him not to let go of his sidearm. But he wanted to stay alive. Maybe, if Causey showed up early, he could warn the kid. Keep him from walking into an ambush. Or maybe, he thought, he was just rationalizing. But he wanted to live. He tossed the gun into the yard.

  CHARLEYBOY SAT on the edge of the couch. The room was darkened except for the glow of the TV. He stared at the screen, unseeing, wanting to look anywhere but at Mr. Luther seated in the easy chair or one of the twins—he thought it might be Zig—leaning against the jamb of the kitchen door, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and a shotgun dangling from his right hand.

  “Don’t look so glum, Angus,” Mr. Luther said. “You made the right choice, tellin’ me what’s goin’ on, then tellin’ us the way to get here through the neighborhood so that fucker across the street didn’t see us coming.” He took a drink from a silver flask he’d produced from a back pocket. “I knew somethin’ was up from the way you was actin’. I woulda found out eventually, and then I might not be in such a forgivin’ mood.”

  “Remember our deal, though,” Charleyboy said. “Savannah doesn’t get hurt. She didn’t know what she was doing. She thought the feds would help her find her sons. So just let her go. Let her walk out of this. You promised.”

  “Yeah,” Luther said. “I did say that, din’t I?” He took a cigar from a shirt pocket and regarded it thoughtfully, rolling it between his fingers. “And here I was thinkin’ you’d hate her for what she done.”

  I don’t, Charleyboy thought. Even after all she’s done, all the things I told her, I can’t stand to see her hurt. I still love her. But he knew better than to tell Luther that.

  The old man went on. “Understand, that’s not normally how I do things. Someone turns traitor, they got to pay. They got to pay for a long, long time, till I get tired of makin’ ’em pay.” He produced a lighter, lit the cigar, and took a puff. He smacked his lips in satisfaction. “An’ everybody got to see how much they paid, so they ain’t tempted to do the same. That’s just good bidness.”

  “You promised,” Charleyboy said, his voice cracking on the second word. He cleared his throat. “Being known as a man of your word. That’s good business too. Right?”

  Luther looked at him without expression. Then he laughed in a ghastly, wheezing cackle. “Damn, boy, you can sling some bullshit, I’ll give you that.” He leaned forward. “You’re right. So I ain’t gonna hurt your lil’ redhaired gal, much as it’s gonna disappoint my nephews.” His face hardened and his eyes bored into Charleyboy’s. “But she’s still gotta pay. So when she’s done tellin’ me everything she told the feds, I’m gonna let her live. But I’m gonna take something from her. Something she cares about.” He leaned back and took a drag off the cigar. “I’m gonna make her choose which of her brats gets torn apart by my dogs.”

  Charleyboy felt like he was going to throw up. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his dinner down, when he heard the back door open. The other twin, Zag, came in, pushing a short, balding man in a navy-blue windbreaker before him. “Look what I found,” he said with a grin.

  Luther stood up. “Well, well,” he said. “How are you this evening, Mr. DEA? That is who you’re with, ain’t it?”

  “His name’s Winslow,” Charleyboy said. “I heard…” he hesitated, “…I heard Savannah mention his name.”

  Winslow looked at Charleyboy, hatred twisting his face. “You son of a bitch,” he said in a low voice. �
��You know you’re not going to get away with this. You are in for a world of hurt.”

  Zag smashed the butt of the shotgun into the back of Winslow’s head, driving him to his knees. He groaned with pain and put his hand to the back of his head. It came away red and sticky with blood.

  “Seems to me, Mr. Winslow,” Luther said, “that you’re the one gonna be doing some hurting. How much hurting you do depends on how much you tell me about what you know.” He jerked his chin at the back room. “Zig. Take Mr. DEA in the back room. See what he has to say.”

  Zig grinned. He motioned toward Winslow with the shotgun. “C’mon, boy,” he said. “Up an’ at ’em.”

  “Fuck you,” Winslow said. Zag smashed him in the back of the head again. This time, Winslow fell forward on his face, out before he hit the floor.

  “Damn, bro,” Zig complained. “Now we got to drag his limp ass back there.”

  “No,” Luther said. “You do.” He turned to Zag. “Get in that place across the street. Keep a watch. Anyone who shows up, bring ’em in here. Bring ’em to me.”

  “WINSLOW!” CHANCE YELLED into the phone. Still no answer. “Shit.” She broke the connection, her gut twisting in fear. Something was wrong. She had to let someone know. She’d given McGee her address, but she didn’t know how long it would be before he arrived, and it might be as much as another half hour back to Arabi. She needed to call Winslow’s people at the DEA. She pulled up the number she’d been given at the beginning of the investigation. Someone picked up on the third ring. “DEA. Special Agent Kimball.”

  “Agent Kimball,” she said, “This is Chance Cahill with the St. Bernard Parish Sheriff’s Department. I’ve been working with Agent Winslow.”

  The voice was cool and uninterested. “Yes?”

  “He’s set up on an informant, doing surveillance. I was just on the phone with him, and I lost contact.”

  There was a pause. “Probably a dropped call.”

  “Maybe.” She was trying to contain her anxiety and frustration. “But I haven’t been able to raise him again.”

  “Have you talked to your own people? They’re nearer.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Yeah. I’m getting ready to call them. But I thought you need to know.”

  “We do. And thank you. We’ll send an agent to look in on him. But call the locals.”

  “Right. I will, but he said he’d heard…” He hung up before she could go on. Chance sighed. She knew who she had to call, and it wasn’t going to be easy. But…own up, then step up. She hit the number in the recently called queue on her phone.

  Delphine picked up on the second ring. “Hey, shug, what’s up?”

  “Delphine, that DEA guy I was working with? I need someone to go by and check on him.”

  Her voice sharpened. “Check on him? Where is he?”

  Chance gave her the address of the Arabi house. “He was doing surveillance from across the street. I was on the phone with him. He said he heard someone at the back door. Then we got cut off.”

  “Huh. And you don’t think it was just a dropped call.”

  “No. He’d—”

  “He’d have called you right back. Okay. I’ll get a patrol car out there to check it out.”

  “Thanks. Tell them to be careful. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Oh, I will.” When Chance hesitated, Delphine asked, “Is there anything else?”

  “Yeah. There’s something else. They need to keep an eye out for Savannah Jakes. She’s driving my truck.”

  There was a brief pause on the other end. Then, “Oh, Chance. Oh no. She didn’t…”

  “Yeah. While I was on the phone, the informant I was supposed to be watching stole my truck.”

  “This is bad, hon. This is really bad.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I ain’t tryin’ to be smart, Chance, but I have to ask…”

  “She doesn’t have my gun. Or my badge.”

  “Well, praise Jesus for small favors,” Delphine said. “Okay. I’ll tell ’em to watch out. You need someone to come get you?”

  “No. Someone’s on his way.”

  “That sheriff who called?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, I guess I need to tell the deputy to look out for those boys he was talking about, too. He said they had warrants on them out of Carolina.” Delphine chuckled. “Damn, girl, you are makin’ life way too interestin’ for everyone.”

  Even through her fear and shame, Chance had to laugh at that. “Sorry.”

  Delphine’s voice grew serious. “You just hang in there, Chance. You’re gonna get through this. I got your back. And I ain’t the only one.”

  She felt her throat tighten. “Thanks, Delphine. I needed that.”

  “You’re welcome. See ya.”

  Chance looked at the phone, checking the time. It was still going to be a while. She dialed her father.

  “Hey, Lil’ Bit,” he answered. “How’s it going?”

  “Not good, Dad,” she said. “I screwed up.”

  “Personal or professional?”

  “Professional.”

  He became all business. “Tell me.”

  She explained the situation, her voice catching from time to time as she tried not to cry. “I guess I screwed any chance I have of getting on with the feds, huh?” she said finally. There was a long silence. “Are you disappointed in me, Dad?”

  “Yes,” he said, “but not for the reason you think.” He continued talking over her attempt to respond. “You’ve got a partner missing. And you’re thinking about your career?” His voice was quiet and measured rather than angry, but the words couldn’t have hurt worse if he’d screamed them at her.

  “I…” She stopped. He was right.

  He went on, his voice softening. “You did exactly the right thing in calling the DEA, then calling your friend and filling her in. That’s looking after your partner. It was your first instinct, even though it’ll probably get you in hot water. But looking after your partner is all you need to be doing. It doesn’t matter that he’s an asshole, it doesn’t matter if you don’t like him. He’s your partner. He’s one of us. Everything else is secondary. No. Not secondary. Everything else is got-damn irrelevant. Got that?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “I knew you would. You’re a good officer, Lil’ Bit.”

  She heard the sound of an engine coming up her driveway and went to the window. A nondescript beige sedan was pulling up.

  “I’ve got to go, Dad. My ride’s here.”

  “Good. Be careful out there, okay?”

  “I will. And, Dad, thanks for the kick in the ass.”

  He laughed. “What else is a dad for? Now go kick some ass of your own. Go find your partner.”

  WYATT WAS getting out of the rental, looking around the property. He took a deep breath of the humid air. There was a swamp nearby, and the air carried that familiar aroma that smelled of life and rot at the same time. From inside the trailer, he could hear a dog barking. As he approached the trailer, the door banged open and a young woman emerged, dressed in jeans and a New Orleans Saints t-shirt. A gun belt was incongruously strapped to her waist. She barely came up to Wyatt’s chin, but she was striding with an angry determination that made him stop and extend a hand. “Hi,” he said, “I’m Wyatt McGee.”

  She took the hand briefly, gave it a quick shake, then slipped past him and headed for the car. “Chance Cahill,” she said over her shoulder. “Okay if I drive? I know the way.”

  “Oh. Sure,” he said. Despite his longer stride, he had to hurry to catch up. She was already in the front seat, adjusting seat and mirrors, when he clambered into the passenger seat.

  “Sorry to be so abrupt,” she said in a voice that told him she was anything but sorry, “but we got a situation here.” She started the car. “After we talked, I called my partner. Well, a DEA guy I’ve been working liaison with.” She whipped the car around in the narrow parking area so quickly Wyatt had
to grab the handle above the door. He stifled a gasp as she punched the accelerator, throwing up a plume of dust behind him. “He’s been set up watching the house where Savannah’s been living with her boyfriend, a lowlife named Angus Charlebois. He told me to wait a minute, there was someone at the door. Then, nothing. He never came back.”

  She hit the hard road at the end of her driveway with a squeal of tires and headed down the narrow track at a speed that made the rental car’s engine strain. He saw her grimace. “You couldn’t have rented anything with a little more speed?”

  “Sorry,” Wyatt said. “They didn’t have any police cruisers at the Hertz counter.”

  She glanced at him, then back at the road. She chuckled. “Okay, fair enough.”

  Wyatt’s head was reeling, trying to keep up. He hadn’t expected things to move this fast. “You think this Charlebois character ambushed him?”

  She shook her head. “Hard to imagine that Charleyboy—that’s what they call him—would have the stones. But they’re running with some pretty bad people. That’s why we flipped Savannah. After that, Charleyboy didn’t have much choice.”

  “You think these ‘bad people,’ as you put it, got to him? And your partner?”

  “I don’t know.” She barely paused at a stop sign, then picked up speed again. “Could be nothing. His battery may have died. Or his service dropped out.”

  “That’s not what you think happened.”

  “I said I don’t know,” she snapped. Then she took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m a little tense.”

  “No need to be sorry. You think your partner’s in danger. Can’t blame you for that.”

  She looked at him again, then made a turn onto the highway leading into the city. “Yeah,” she said. “Thanks.”

  He reached into the back. “Hope you don’t mind that I brought this, then.” He pulled the pistol in its shoulder out and held it in his lap.

  Her jaw tensed at the sight. “Mr. McGee, with all due respect…”

  He was getting tired of hearing those words. “I may not be a sworn officer any more, Deputy Cahill. But with all due respect, I suspect I was in law enforcement when you were still home watching Barney the Dinosaur or whatever.” He held up the gun. “I still know how to use this. And if things have really gone into the crapper here, you and your partner are going to need all the help you can get. Am I right?” He noticed her quick grin. It seemed out of place in this situation. “What’s so funny?” he demanded.