by John Moore
Before I could answer, he wheezed and breathed his last breath. The devil had collected yet one more debt. This was the second death I’d witnessed in the last 23 hours. What did they have in common? Bart Rogan. I walked from the room and told Detective Baker what I’d just heard.
“We can investigate but it will do no good,” he said. “A dead murderer’s word accusing someone else of putting him up to committing a blatant public killing will go nowhere with the District Attorney’s office.”
“I know,” I said. “The newspaper would not print the story without corroboration either. I just wanted you to know.”
Detective Baker and I left the Parish Prison more convinced than ever that Sarah was the victim of a conspiracy to silence her. What’s worse, the VCR tape had disappeared from Sophia’s purse. I called Jess Johnson to update her. She was my only true, trusted friend left other than Tom. I needed to talk to her about the recent incidents. She asked me to meet her at Cafe Du Monde.
Walking into Cafe Du Monde made me wonder where Zach was. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since he stopped by my place to apologize for disappearing the last time. Where the hell did he go this time? I called his phone and left a message for him to call me.
Jess was already seated at a table outside. It was indeed a lovely day. The bright sun lit the Quarter without scorching the sidewalk. An unusually gentle breeze vibrated tree leaves. I purchased my cafe au lait and sat next to Jess.
“So much to talk about, Alexandra,” she said. “I’m sure you’ve heard the Times is on the chopping block.”
“Yes, I know. Dan Broussard told me about it. He is heading the group negotiating to purchase the paper,” I said. “What do you think will happen?”
“Nothing good if those crocodiles are in the waters. He is owned by Bart Rogan, you know,” she said.
“I wasn’t sure but I figured as much. Do you think they can pull it off?”
“Not really sure. What I do know is that they are trying to kill the story of their dumping glyphosate in the Gulf. I want to run a series of stories detailing their environmental abuses through the years. They want to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“I discovered where the piece of paper with longitude and latitude coordinates led. The coordinates are about 50 miles off the Colombian coastline,” I said.
Jess smiled approvingly. “You’ve found the sunken barge. Rogan must be crapping his pants. No wonder he sent that killer after you. What was on the VCR tape?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get a chance to watch it. It was in Inspector Garcia’s purse before the serpent stabbed her. Now the police can’t find it,” I said.
“Those bastards,” Jess said. “They have bought someone on the police force. They’ve gotten their hands on the tape. How else could it have gone missing? What is on the tape that they want to hide so desperately?” she wondered out loud.
“I don’t know but Detective Baker is pissed off about it going missing. He is determined to find the tape. There is more I need to tell you about Dan Broussard,” I said. “He wants me to take a leadership role in the Times when he buys it. Jess, I don’t trust him.”
“Interesting,” she said. “They are afraid of you. They are trying to buy you off. Maybe you should lead them on. If they believe you can be bought, they may not hurt you. They have the tape.”
“I don’t think so, Jess. They are using the carrot and stick. Rogan had his lawyers offer me an attractive settlement but still sent the Serpent to attack me. They will either buy me or kill me. Either way I would be doomed. The only way out of this is to fight and win. That’s what I’m going to do. No deals. No retreat,” I said. “I am going to find the sunken barge.”
“How do you plan to do that?” she asked.
I hesitated for a minute. I couldn’t tell her about Tom’s secret life. If he were outed, he would lose his job and maybe even face jail time. “I don’t know, but somehow I’m going to find it,” I said.
I left Jess sitting at the Cafe Du Monde. She had ordered a second coffee and was working her phone. My mind was spinning, thinking of my next move against Rogan. I wished I knew what was on the VCR tape. Did Rogan really have it? Or did one of the cops get sloppy and pick it up and place it in an evidence bag and throw it in his car trunk? Would it turn up? I knew I couldn’t count on it surfacing. I needed to find a way to get to the sunken barge and prove Rogan intentionally dumped the glyphosate in the Gulf or Caribbean. I knew one thing for sure. Whatever I did, Rogan would be waiting in the shadows to stop me.
Chapter Twenty-Five:
Setting Sail
As I drove to the shelter I thought about my place being a crime scene. I couldn’t come or go without a policeman watching my every move. I didn’t know if I could spend another night there anyway. I saw a man shot, and watched his head explode. His warm blood and bits of his brain splattered all over me. And, yes, though it had freaked me out, I was glad he was dead.
But his blood– and Sophia’s blood – were still on my floors, most likely making it smell like a slaughterhouse. It made me queasy to even think about it.
I called Susan to let her know I was on my way. I wanted to make sure it was OK even though she told me it always made her and the other residents happy when I stayed. She said, “The ladies glom on to your energy. They tell me how much hope they feel when they talk to you. Your spirit lifts them. They dare to dream life still has something to offer them.”
“Wow! Thank you, Susan,” I said. “I had no idea. I get energy from them. Their lives are in turmoil but they are taking steps to begin a whole new life. A life of independence, standing tall on their two feet. Very inspirational.”
I watched my rear view and side mirrors, surveying the peripheries of my car to make certain I wasn’t being followed. The sun was shining, riding high in the sky, a slight breeze from the East. I felt comfortable that Rogan or his roaches wouldn’t be out on such a beautiful day. Still, when my phone rang, breaking the silence, I almost jumped out of my skin. It was Tom. He’d made it back from the Gulf.
“Hey, pretty girl, what’s up?” he asked. “My ship just docked and I’m two hours from your place right now. Can’t wait to see you.”
“Yeah, well, it won’t be at my apartment.” I filled him in on Sophia’s stabbing and the deaths and the tragedies I’d witnessed over the last couple of days.
“Oh, babe. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I knew I should have stayed with you! That bastard! I’m glad she nailed him,” he said, echoing my recent thought. He went on to say that he’d had a feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong ever since he left me. He couldn’t sleep while on the boat. He agreed with my decision to stay at the shelter tonight. He would go to his apartment to sleep in his own bed, thinking a good night’s sleep would do us both some good.
“After tonight, though, I am not letting you out of my sight,” he said. “Tomorrow, we go after Rogan. This shit has got to stop. The only way to stop him is to bring him down.”
“Deal,” I said.
I was more than ready to go after Rogan. Tom made my heart race vowing to protect me so gallantly. My mind turned on its afterburners and took me to a time when Tom and I were walking down the aisle, me in a white wedding dress and Tom in a tux. Luckily the bump, bump, bump of the warning track on the shoulder brought me back to the present. Not for long though. I couldn’t stop thinking about Tom. I projected myself back onto that balcony Mardi Gras night. Chills overtook me while other parts tingled as my feelings from that night returned. Was it only a few weeks ago? It felt so far away, like a lost paradise.
Lost. Yeah, I wanted to get lost in his arms. But for now, I’d better concentrate on the road.
Spending the night at the shelter worked its magic on me. I awoke refreshed and ready for whatever might be thrown at me next. I enjoyed morning coffee with Susan and the shelter
’s kaleidoscope of tattered residents. This was Sarah’s place. This shelter offered a respite from the horrors that people inflicted on each other. This magical place transformed victims into fighters, warriors claiming their lives back from bullies masquerading as lovers, fathers and friends. This was my place now.
Tom called and asked me to meet him at the Aquarium of the Americas. Odd, I thought, but I trusted him. The drive gave me time to reflect on all the recent events and how they affected me. It was clear the best part of me had not only survived but blossomed. I was now a special kind of fighter. I was a street fighter ready to do whatever it took. Sure, I was still afraid of danger, but my inner warrior wouldn’t let me run from it. Running only made troubles worse. I would stand and fight to win.
I entered the Aquarium and there was Tom with his beaming smile. My inner warrior wanted to lay down her arms and surrender to his touch.
“Hi, pretty girl, ready for this?” he said.
My pulse increased and warmth circulated through me with his words, not knowing exactly what he meant. I tried not to show my weakness.
“Hi yourself.”
We exchanged a brief kiss. Tom was all business. He asked me to follow him into a locker room reserved for employees. Laid out on a bench was a one-piece solid blue swimsuit, like the Aquarium’s women wore to get in the tanks to feed the fish. Tom started undressing and asked me to do the same and put on the suit. Once properly attired, we went into a room with a pool used to train new employees how to dive with scuba gear.
“If you look on the floor, you will see a mask, snorkel and scuba equipment. During the rest of the week I am going to teach you how to scuba dive,” Tom said. “First you will learn how to snorkel and clear your mask and ears. Then you will learn scuba. My friends here at the Aquarium will help and later we will go dive the Gulf. We need to go find that sunken barge. You and I will dive the wreck and retrieve the evidence we need to nail Rogan,” Tom said. “Are you in?”
“All in,” I said.
I probably would have swum to China if Tom asked me. But chasing the proof to bring Rogan down wasn’t something I was doing for Tom. I was doing it for me.
We spent a little more than a week training at the Aquarium. I was always a strong swimmer above the water but learning the world beneath was new to me. I learned how to fit the mask to my face to create a seal, then how to clear the tiny amounts of water that crept in by exhaling from my nose as I slightly lifted the bottom seal. The Aquarium staff took me into the tanks to help feed the fish. I developed a comfort level with all the species swimming around me while I comfortably breathed through my air hose.
Next Tom took me out to sea. The Gulf training was more intense. I learned the hand signals divers used to communicate.
“Always be aware of your surroundings while diving,” Tom instructed. “Closely follow weather reports before entering the water. Storms are more violent on the water. Your dive boat can be blown far away if the weather turns rough. Learn to feel the currents. They can carry you with them for miles if you aren’t cautious. The marine life won’t bother you unless you encounter sharks ready to feed. Do not hold bloody or injured fish in your hands. Sharks have a nose for finding wounded prey. The ocean is an intoxicating place to be. Its beauty can turn deadly without warning. Be careful. Be smart. Be safe.”
Tom loved the ocean and passionately cared for its creatures. I was amazed at how crowded the underwater world was, and how quickly it pulled me in, making me forget about everything else. He showed me how to use a spear gun and knife for protection, but only when necessary. We spent our days in the water and our nights in each other’s arms. Truly a magical time in my life. I’ll trade Jimmy Choos for flippers any time.
I felt comfortable in the water with or without scuba gear on. On Mardi Gras night, I never dreamed on that one day I would gladly exchange my Cinderella gown for Ariel’s flipper. I did and couldn’t have been more pleased with myself. Tom called me Alexandra, his mermaid. But my training was soon completed, my passport obtained, and the time had come to face the enemy.
I managed to fulfill my Superior Sugar responsibilities at night online and Mr. Morris was pleased with my preliminary work. I told him and Charlotte I would be gone on vacation for a couple of weeks. If they needed me, they could call my cell. They asked that we meet when I returned. I kept Jess informed on everything I was doing. She kept me up to speed on the investigation into the serial killer – stalled again – and Sophia’s condition. Sophia had been transferred to a ward equipped for monitoring comatose patients.
One night after dinner Tom laid out his plan. “I’ve arranged with a Colombian ROLF member to meet us in Barranquilla, Colombia. He will take us to the dive site. He will have kits on board for both of us to collect samples from the hold of the barge. We can field test them on the surface. The tests will tell us immediately if the barge contained dioxins or glyphosate.”
“Will the Colombian government give us any trouble?” I asked.
“Not if we are careful,” Tom said. “We will fly to Colombia as tourists. Our cover story will be that we are just a couple of American tourists going fishing and diving. Tourism is a prized industry in Colombia, and Americans who have money to spend are especially valued. The government rarely hassles North American tourists. Don’t tell anyone what we are really doing. There is still a great deal of corruption left from the days the narco-terrorists tried to rule Colombia. Remember, Barton is tied in with the narcos. The Serpent was a narco hit man recruited by Rogan.”
“When do we leave?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” Tom replied.
Tom and I packed for our trip at his apartment. We brought only the essentials with us. To maintain our cover, we had to have enough touristy clothes to fool customs: some flimsy dresses and sandals for me, shorts and T-shirts for Tom. Funny, I thought, I really was a tourist. You might call me an undercover, environmentalist, journalist, vigilante tourist. I had never been to Colombia. I had never been out of the United States for that matter, unless you want to call Louisiana a foreign country as so many do. But I didn’t hold out much hope for fun. Tom’s demeanor was intense and all business. Recreation and play were not on his agenda. I suppose he put this type of game face on every time he went on a mission for ROLF. Our mission was to get the goods on Rogan. He wanted to get Rogan as much as I did.
We boarded our plane at the Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans. Tom and I scanned the faces of the others on the flight to see if any were Rogan’s people. I’m not sure what we were looking for exactly. Maybe someone watching us too closely or striking up unnecessary conversations. We acted like a couple on their honeymoon laughing, kissing, & petting each other. Every old lady on the plane smiled and winked at me as if they were remembering their wedding night. Only the very old ladies winked. Times had changed. Brides and grooms sampled the goods well in advance of any ceremony these days. I think it works better that way.
We landed in Barranquilla, Colombia, collected our bags, and made our way to customs. I was a little nervous talking to the Colombian customs agent, concentrating to keep my hands and voice from shaking. I felt like the fly on my jeans was undone or something else was out of place. But we both made it through customs without any search. Immigration was a breeze. The agents looked at our U.S passports, issued in New Orleans, and asked us about Mardi Gras. We told them about the Rex Ball, omitting our balcony scene. Barranquilla is home to Colombia’s most important celebrations of folklore. It has one of the largest carnivals in the world. The immigration officers always love to speak to the New Orleanians about our common love of carnival. They stamped our passports and waved us through.
We took a cab to the Hampton hotel. Tom made reservations a week before our arrival just like any normal tourist would. He booked a room with a view of the pool. I couldn’t help but feel like I really was on my honeymoon. We settled in our roo
m. Tom went over the plan to dive the wreck one more time with me. He wanted to make certain we got what we needed in one dive. We might not get a second chance. He had arranged to meet the boat captain later in the evening. We had a few hours to relax. We rented motorcycles and toured the city. We motored through the tree-lined streets, dodging the aggressive taxi drivers. The pastel-colored buildings whizzed by one after another like a color wheel. Citizens walked the streets and rode bicycles everywhere I looked. The city teemed with energy and life. I could live in a place like this.
We arrived at the ship captain’s office wind-beaten and eager to map out our plans. As a member of ROLF, Carlos knew how important and dangerous our mission was. He and Tom went through the plans four or five times making certain all details were in order. When they were satisfied with everything, we all three went to a cafe for dinner. The food was excellent, even by New Orleans’ standards. We had tortillas with peppers, pork, cheese and a wonderful salsa. We wanted to have a rum drink but, since we were diving tomorrow, passed.
Tom and I returned to our room. We made love. Passionate love. Maybe it was the exotic location. Maybe it was the danger we faced. Maybe we were in love. Whatever was happening sent us hurtling into each other, transporting us from our bodies to a sacred place where only souls dwell. We were one, not two. We used each other up and crashed like two jumbo jet liners running out of fuel at 30,000 feet. After our explosions, no movement, no sound, just silence. I awoke the next morning as if I were coming out of a month-long coma. It took a while to get reoriented and realize I was in Colombia. Tom and I had coffee without breakfast and took a taxi to the marina where Carlos’ ship was moored.
