Eventually he came to an area that was more densely populated. There were some newer homes strewn incongruously among tin-roofed shanties and commercial operations, most of them connected to the fishing or shrimping industries. A number of shrimp boats were tied up along the canal to his right. A few moments later he saw a large water tower announcing that he’d arrived in Dulac.
It was a low-lying bayou town in Terrebonne Parish. Population less than three thousand people. Whelan was amused by a faded billboard he passed. It touted the annual Shrimp and Petroleum Festival in Morgan City. Coming to a theater near you, he thought, The Gulf Oil Spill Meets the Seafood Industry.
Much of Dulac appeared to be an industrial zone, stained with oil and petroleum products and reeking of exhaust fumes and chemical odors. The road and adjacent canal were lined with boat and construction yards, pipelines and processing plants. Trash littered its streets and waterways. Stray dogs and cats sprawled listlessly in the middle of the side streets.
Whelan followed a couple of bends in the road, then turned off on 4-Point Road. Five miles later the road ended in a small fishing village and the front door of a run-down, tin-roofed shanty. It listed noticeably to the right atop stubby pilings. Fittingly, it housed a bar. The name, painted in badly faded letters over the front door, was The Bitter End.
He parked the Charger across the street in a vacant lot that was more water than dry land and walked over to the bar. The lot and the road were topped with marl, a white, claylike crushed rock that quickly turns viscous in wet areas. It sucked at the bottoms of Whelan’s shoes like quicksand.
A couple of sagging wooden steps led to a narrow veranda sheltered by an overhang of the tin roof. Two battered, rickety cane-backed chairs flanked a heavily patched screen door. A man in a nicely fitted, three-piece white linen suit sat in the chair to the right of the door. He looked out-of-place. But even more incongruous than the rest of his outfit were his black kung fu slippers. He was muscular, but not as thickly built as Whelan. As he sat, the man casually twirled what appeared to be a highly polished walking stick. His dark hair was slicked back in a short ponytail. He had a well-trimmed goatee and wore sunglasses that were almost opaque. Although Whelan couldn’t see the man’s eyes, he knew they were fixed on him.
“I’ve been expecting you,” said Marc Kirkland.
38 Near Dulac, Louisiana
Kirkland motioned Whelan toward the other chair.
As Whelan settled lightly into it, Kirkland said, “Would you like a drink?”
Whelan looked at his watch. Five after five. He thought of his late Irish father. The man had always maintained that it was improper to drink alcohol prior to five o’clock. But once that magic hour was reached, the drinking lamp was lit. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll have a beer.”
Kirkland called out, “Remy.”
After several moments a heavyset, unshaven man with long, stringy, dirty blond hair limped to the screen door. “What you wan’, mon ami?”
“My friend would like a beer. Very cold, as I recall.”
Remy looked at Whelan. “What kind you wan’?”
“Something local. Lots of hops,” Whelan said.
The man disappeared back into the bar and returned a few minutes later with a bottle of Abita Jockamo IPA. He handed it to Whelan. “You don’ look like a man what need de glass,” he said with a thick accent that hinted strongly of French.
After he left, Whelan said, “You not drinking these days?”
“In awhile. I have some business to take care of first.”
“What kind of business?”
“The usual kind. A gang of biker trash has adopted this place. They beat up Remy’s regulars, took their money, got kinky with their women. Pretty much destroyed his business. He got hurt pretty bad shrimping awhile back and can’t do that kind of work anymore. His wife ran off and left him with five kids to raise. This bar’s all he’s got to support his family.”
“You want some help?”
“No thanks. There are only fifteen or twenty of them.”
This should be interesting, Whelan thought as he took a long pull of the beer. He glanced at Kirkland’s walking stick. “That what I think it is?” he said.
“You tell me.” Kirkland casually tossed the stick to Whelan.
It was about four feet in length and slightly less than an inch in diameter. It was made of a wood that had a mottled black and white grain. It was surprisingly heavy as if made of lead. Whelan hefted it and studied the grain. He noticed that the stick narrowed at each end to slightly less than a half inch in diameter. Each end was tipped with a hard substance that looked like carbon fiber. “Lignum vita with composite tips,” he said as he handed it back to Kirkland.
“Yep. Just about the strongest, densest wood there is.”
“English bobbies used to carry truncheons made from it,” Whelan said. “Many an Irishman got his skull cracked by them.”
Whelan knew Kirkland had been a highly dedicated student of the martial arts. The “walking stick” actually was a formidable weapon known as a jō stick. In the hands of an expert jōjutso-ka, it could be deadly.
The martial applications of the jō were believed to have been developed in seventeenth century Japan by Musō Gonnosuke Katsuyoshi. He had a dream following his loss in a sword duel with the immortal Japanese sword saint, Miyamoto Musashi. Musashi, commonly believed to have been the best swordsman the planet has ever seen, was a master of the two-sword technique. He was rumored to have fought and won more than sixty duels, losing only his final one: a rematch with Gonnosuke in which Gonnosuke used his jō stick to overcome Musashi’s masterful two-sword technique.
The two men sat quietly for several minutes discussing Levell, the Society, and the pending reunion of the Sleeping Dogs. After awhile, Whelan heard a low rumble that began to build from the north. It grew louder as the moments passed. Eventually a group of eighteen motorcyclists appeared in the distance. Moments later they rolled to a stop in front of the bar, but continued to gun their engines. The resulting roar shattered the quiet atmosphere. Then, as if on cue, they killed their engines and climbed off the saddles.
Kirkland rose from his chair in a swift, fluid movement and glided to the top of the steps. He paused with his hands resting on the top of his jō stick.
Some of the bikers had shaved heads; others wore long, oily ponytails. A few had faded bandanas wrapped around their skulls. None wore helmets. Several were wearing sunglasses. Some wore shirts with the sleeves ripped off. A few others wore tee shirts touting heavy metal bands from the ‘seventies. One was shirtless with what appeared to be empty bandoliers crisscrossing his chest. All wore scuffed engineer boots and grime stained dungarees. They came in all sizes from a short, thin man to a six foot seven inch giant. None of them had shaved in awhile. All of them were heavily tattooed.
The leader of the biker pack stood more than six feet tall with huge arms and thick chest and shoulders that stretched the fabric of his sleeveless shirt. A forest of tattoos covered his exposed skin, except for his face and the palms of his hands. His head was shaven and an ugly white scar started about an inch above his right eye and plunged through the eyebrow skipping the eye itself, but continuing for another couple of inches down his right cheek.
As he climbed off his bike, he took his sunglasses off and perched them on the top of his shiny, bald head. He put a foot on the first of the steps leading to the verandah. Kirkland blocked his way.
“Who the fuck’re you, Colonel Sanders?” The biker’s voice was deep and raspy.
“I’m the new bouncer.”
“Yeah? Good luck with that.”
Although the biker was standing one step below the porch, he was almost eye level with Kirkland. But Kirkland was deceptively quick and strong, as all the Dogs were. It didn’t hurt that he also was a gifted practitioner of the jō.
The other bikers had dismounted, and one of them said, “Knock the little pansy’s ass out of the way, Deke. I need me some
beer.”
Whelan heard a noise behind him and turned to see Remy standing behind the screen door with an ancient short-barreled ten-gauge shotgun in his hands. Whelan rose, opened the door and took the weapon from Remy. Cradling it in the crook of his left arm, he walked over to the wooden railing that ran around the porch and sat on it, facing the gang of bikers. “This man”—he nodded at Kirkland—“is going to teach you some manners. It’s doubtful many of you will survive. But”—he held up the shotgun for all to see—“to keep it fair, I’ll cut anyone in half who pulls a weapon.”
Deke made his move. He was quick for a man of his bulk, but not quick enough. Only a handful of people on the planet, including the six surviving Dogs, were. Deke attempted a roundhouse punch with his right hand, expecting to catch Kirkland on his left temple. The jō stick flashed and spun. Deke’s right arm dislocated at the shoulder and he started to cry out in pain, but the whirling jō stick lunged and crushed his larynx. If he survived, Whelan thought, it was unlikely he would ever speak again.
Deke staggered backward, falling into some of his gang members. For an instant, no one moved, then, as if on cue, the bikers tried to swarm up the steps at Kirkland. Crowding together on the steps, banging into each other, they reminded Whelan of a Three Stooges movie. Kirkland was a blur of white. The jō stick whirled, flashed, flicked in nonstop motion. His feet moved just as fast as he shifted effortlessly from one technique to another. Occasionally, one or the other of his feet would snap up or out, crushing testicles or destroying a knee. The perpetual motion of the jō stick cracked skulls, gouged out eyes, and destroyed joints. In less than one minute it was over.
Three hesitant bikers were still standing at the bottom of the steps. They began backing slowly toward their bikes. One of them said to Kirkland, “We ain’t got no problems with you, Mister. We jes’ gonna ride on outta’ here.”
Kirkland nimbly leaped from the porch to the ground in front of the men. In seconds they lay motionless beside their bikes.
Whelan did a quick appraisal. Most of the bikers clearly were dead and a few others were in the process of joining them.
Kirkland turned to Whelan and made an exaggerated bow. “How’d I do?”
Whelan set the shotgun down and held up ten fingers, rating Kirkland’s performance. “Nice,” he said. “You have some blood on your suit, but it’s not yours.”
“I was getting tired of the damn suit anyway. Time for a new look.”
“Tell me about it,” Whelan said.
“Yeah,” Kirkland said. “The oversized Johnny Depp thing just isn’t you.”
Whelan picked up the gun again and opened the screen door for Kirkland. Inside, Remy had placed two cold beers on the bar, another Jockamo and a Restoration Ale.
Kirkland drained the Restoration in a single pull. He nodded for another one and said, “Remy, mon ami, you won’t have any more problems with bikers.”
The man smiled and nodded, opened another bottle and placed it in front of Kirkland, then opened one for himself. “Merci beaucoup,” he said. He put the bottle down, fished his cell phone from a pocket and speed dialed a number. “C'est fait,” he said into the phone and hung up.
Several minutes later, Whelan heard the sound of vehicles pulling up in front of the bar. He could hear men talking and grunting, then metallic sounds and a noise that sounded like a wench piling heavy metal objects. Like motorcycles. He looked at Kirkland.
“Remy’s clean up crew.”
The bartender laughed. The sound came out like a snort. After a few more minutes, the door opened and a man walked in wearing the uniform of a parish sheriff. He strode over, took off his hat and laid it on the top of the bar. Whelan looked at Kirkland. Kirkland looked at Remy.
“Boys,” Remy said, “meet Sheriff Arsenault. We’re first cousins.” With that, he placed four shot glasses on the bar. He reached deep into a cooler behind him and brought out a bottle of Don Eduardo añejo tequila, filling each shot glass to the brim. He placed a shaker of salt and bowl of lime wedges on the bar in front of them.
The Sheriff picked up a lime wedge between the thumb and index finger of his left hand, raised the hand to his mouth and licked the crotch between his thumb and forefinger. He sprinkled some salt on the wet spot, then lifted a shot glass with his right hand. “Boys,” he said, “they gonna be some, happy well fed ‘gators in the Bayou tonight.” He tossed back the shot and bit deeply into the lime wedge.
Remy raised his glass and drawled, “Laisser les bons temps rouler.” Let the good times roll.
39 J. Edgar Hoover Building
For a change, the weather in Washington was a little better, although the air remained crisp. The snow was melting off, but still covered the ground in patches. It wasn’t fresh anymore and had begun to turn brown, even black in places where the detritus of urban activities had left its mark. The sun had begun to burn away patches of the sooty gray cloud cover, allowing a brilliant blue sky to peek through with the promise of better days ahead.
Special Agent Mitch Christie was in one of the kitchen areas in Bureau headquarters. He had poured his fifth cup of coffee of the morning and laced it with three shots of cream, hoping to make it easier for its passage through his digestive system. The cream had cooled the coffee to lukewarm, so he nuked the cup in the microwave oven for several seconds. As he waited, he unconsciously rubbed his stomach, as if warning it that more coffee was coming. His thoughts turned to the almost empty bottle of antacid in one of the drawers in his desk.
As he was taking his first tentative sip, Lou Antonelli walked in and said, “Thought I might find you here. Something came up that might be relevant concerning Whelan.”
Christie nodded toward the door. “Let’s go to my office.” As they walked along the corridor, he said, “So give.”
“We got word from our people in Hawaii about a situation that’s developing there.”
“In Honolulu?”
“No, a couple of places on Maui. Kahului, where the airport is, and a town called Hāna.”
“Hāna?” Christie said with surprise in his voice.
“Yeah, you know the place?”
“Vacationed on Maui with the family a few years back. We visited Hāna. It’s very quiet and scenic. Charles Lindbergh’s remains are buried nearby.”
Antonelli looked at him for a moment. “Thanks for sharing,” he said dryly.
“What was the excitement?”
“Some guy nobody ever saw before or since shows up at a fitness facility in Kahului. Kicked a local’s ass, big weightlifter guy. Apparently tossed him around like a tennis ball.”
“Boys will be boys,” Christie said. “So what?”
“The new guy was hefting weights in amounts and repetitions that a guy his size…hell, any size, shouldn’t have been able to handle. And he was lightning quick, too.”
“Interesting. How’s that tie in with Hāna?”
They had reached Christie’s office and went inside. Christie shut the door and waved Antonelli to a chair.
“It seems,” Antonelli said, “there was another dust up the next day. Local guy known as Brett Lange goes into a bar with a stranger who sounds like the same guy from the fitness place—muscular, strawberry blond curls. Lange isn’t a native, but he’s lived in the area for a long time. He’s supposed to be some kind of physical freak. Stronger, faster than anyone had ever seen. Locals liked him, but with a healthy respect…maybe more like fear. He lived in a cabin on the side of the mountain above town.”
“Haleakala,” Christie said.
“Whatever. The thing about Lange is that ever since he showed up in the area, crime just about dried up.” Antonelli paused for a moment, then said, “And hard core criminal types simply disappeared.”
“And what was the local cops’ take?”
“They didn’t seem to mind. They got to issue parking tickets and Lange got to deal with the bad guys.”
“So, what’s this got to do with Whelan?”
“Seems this Lange guy, just for sport, tries to promote a brawl between the stranger he brought with him and the rest of men in the bar.”
“And?”
“And the stranger puts a quick end to it by swatting Lange across the room. Fast as Lange is supposed to be, he couldn’t quite evade the blow.”
“This stranger, what else can you tell me?” Christie said.
Antonelli grinned. “That’s the interesting part. Right size. Freakishly quick. Freakishly strong. And,” he paused and grinned, “some chick who was with the weightlifter guy ID’ed Whelan from the Bureau’s sketch.”
“Whelan? How the hell could he have gotten to Hawaii from San Francisco? We had all the bases covered. Shit.” Christie stood suddenly and turned to gaze out his narrow window. “We need to lock down that whole island and sift through it until we find this guy.”
Antonelli said, “Too late. One of the locals took this guy over to the Big Island by boat.”
“Hawaii?”
“Yeah. There’s two airports there. One on each side of the island. I have people on the ground tracking his steps there. But there’s another element to this too. An eerie one.”
Christie opened the top right hand drawer of his desk and rummaged around until he found the antacid. “As if having to deal with genetic mutant super beings weren’t enough. Now what?” He took a swig and put the bottle back in the drawer.
“The locals were concerned about Lange, so a couple of cops went up to his place. Had to tase a big-ass dog to get on his property. It was clean. The guy had left.”
“So?”
“So, while they’re up there, the cops poke around in the area behind the house and find a freakin’ bone yard.”
Christie spun around and stared at Antonelli. “A bone yard? You mean a cemetery, a burial ground?”
“Yeah. Looks like Lange is a serial killer of some kind. Could explain the disappearance of the criminal element from the area.”
Christie sat down again in his desk chair and leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. He stared at the wall behind Antonelli. “I’m starting to see more here than just Whelan.”
Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening Page 19
