Bayou Blue

by Raquel Byrnes

  I put my hand on his arm, my jaw set. “This woman might have sent that monster after me. I’m talking to her if I have to get there on an alligator’s back.”

  He watched me quietly, his stillness unnerving. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you?”

  I took his hand and held his gaze. “Please, Jake. I need your help. I wouldn’t ask if there was any other way.”

  He threw his head back, groaning. “Ne fais pas ça, Riley.”

  I looked at him innocently, a smile on my lips. “Don’t do what?”

  Sitting up, he started the car. “Bat your lashes at me.”

  “Why, is it your kryptonite?” I whispered and ran my finger along the line of his jaw. “Did I find your weakness?”

  He turned to me, the heat in his eyes sending a flutter through my middle. “Your whole being is my weakness.”

  I wondered if he knew what he did to me. How he made this crazy place, this whirling mess of a situation, seem worth it just to be near him, just to see him look at me like that.

  We took the back roads of the parish, the giant trees that lined our way bending to the wind as we drove underneath their whipping branches. The gusts buffeted the squad car and we rocked like we were passing a line of semi-trucks on the freeway. I held onto the door handle, my knuckles white with my grip.

  “You OK?”

  “This hurricane is making me nervous.”

  “You’re not wrong to worry.” He looked out and up, his eyes scanning the sky. “She’s going to hit us hard.”

  “But we’ll be safe in a…” I gulped. “In basement, or something, right?”

  “No basements here, Riley. But we should get inside as soon as we’re done with this Lockhart woman.”

  The further we drove, the more it seemed that the forest of trees edged out any sign of man. Thick, dark branches let in almost none of the pitiful sunlight that managed to escape the dark clouds overhead. We took streets that turned to dirt roads, eventually rumbling over worn paths barely etched into the tall grass. All around, the wind hurled broken pieces of the woods at the car.

  Jake turned off the road, pulled up to a house that pushed up against the tree line. Overgrown weeds twisted through a once white picket fence, a car up on cinderblocks to the right of the house.

  “Couldn’t get a call through on the number Sheila dug up,” Jake said and pulled his radio from the dash. “This is Ayers.”

  “Come in Sheriff,” Sheila’s chipper voice crackled through. “Where are you? Toughie and the other guys are waiting.”

  “I’m at Lockhart’s right now.”

  “I couldn’t get through, but the lines are down out there. Could be that, or the phone could be turned off.”

  “OK, Sheila,” Jake hit the unlock button on his door and I started to push through, but he mouthed for me to wait. “I’ll check back in a bit.”

  “You’re not going to make me stay here,” I said with exasperation once he was off the radio.

  “Would I succeed?”

  “No,” I looked back out at the broken home. “I need to do this.”

  He let go and his hand slipped along my cheek to my neck, pulling me to him. “Just be careful.” He breathed against my lips, so close I could feel the heat and I leaned towards him.

  “I promise.” I brushed my lips over his, just a whisper of a kiss, and then pulled away.

  His eyes, out of focus for a second, found mine, held them. “You may not like what she has to say, Riley.”

  I swallowed against the ache in my throat. The worry building in my chest like a torrent. “I know.”

  We ran to the screen hanging on one hinge as it whapped with the wind.

  Jake knocked.

  “Mrs. Lockhart?” He used his arm against my waist to maneuver ahead. He stepped out, his leg crossing before mine, a shield of himself in front of me. “You home? It’s Sheriff Ayers, from the parish.”

  A thud from inside, and then the face of an older woman, grey hair, crows-feet at her faded blue eyes, stared out through the dirty window. She pulled back and I heard the lock disengage, a chain rattle against the wood, and then the door pulled open.

  “Sheriff?” She pushed the screen door out, letting us in. “What are you doing out in this storm?”

  He smiled easily, relaxed his stance. “Mrs. Lockhart. My name is Jake Ayers. I’m the sheriff over at La Foudre and the bayous. Can I talk with you a bit?”

  She looked at me, and then back at him, and nodded quickly. “Sure, is there a problem?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Jake said and turned to hold the door for me.

  I followed him in.

  “We have a few questions about your daughter, Susan. Is she in?”

  “Uh, not just now.” She looked at him quizzically. “She’s on her way, though. Went out for some supplies.”

  “I see.” Jake took out a leather notepad, clicked a pen open, and scanned the small mantel over the fireplace. He pointed with the pen to a framed photograph. “Is this her?”

  The picture was of a young woman, maybe eighteen, holding up a certificate. She was blonde, slightly plump, and her black-rimmed glasses took up the only part of her face that her long bangs didn’t cover. I was frustrated that there wasn’t a more recent photo. If she was a TA at Tulane, then she was a graduate student. That put her age closer to twenty-four.

  The rest of the house sat shrouded in dim light and dust. Old wallpaper and tattered furniture told of little money for upkeep. Mrs. Lockhart’s worn sweater looked decades old. How did she afford tuition for Susan at Tulane?

  “You don’t have any other pictures of her? Anything recent?”

  The woman looked at me, suddenly worried. “Why would you need a picture of Susan? Is she in some sort of trouble?”

  Jake shot me a look to cool off.

  I stepped back and left them to talk while I walked the perimeter of the small room. Pictures of Susan as a kid at a lake, in a costume for a play, graduating from high school. Nothing but the glasses and the bangs after that.

  I remembered going through an awkward stage, a time when I cringed from cameras and turned away from lenses. Still, something familiar about this girl struck me. I looked back at the one on the mantel, her face so proud. What was she holding?

  “I just came across her office number during a routine investigation and I needed to follow up, just to check her off my list.” Jake smiled and Mrs. Lockhart relaxed a little.

  “Well, won’t you sit down, Sheriff?” She cleared her throat. “And your friend?”

  “She’s fine,” Jake said dismissively.

  “Susan doesn’t work at the university this semester, she,” her voice cracked. “She’s had a hard time since we lost her daddy.”

  I turned to face Jake, Mrs. Lockhart’s back to me, and raised an eyebrow.

  “That’s terrible,” Jake intoned. “How did it happen?”

  “Well, at that plant, actually.”

  I froze.

  Oh, no.

  “But you said this was a few months ago? Before the explosion?” Jake prompted.

  “Yes, he was a workplace accident.” She fished a tissue from a box on the coffee table. A faded orange crochet cover was on the cardboard box. “He died at the end of spring, May.”

  Jake scratched his head, wrote something down then spoke softly. “Can you remember any details about that?”

  “Well, uh, I’m not supposed to talk about the case…”

  He raised an eyebrow. “There’s a lawsuit?”

  I stared out the window when she turned to look at me.

  She cleared her throat and blew her nose. “He was caught in a fire on one of the processing floors. Died of smoke inhalation, they said, but—”

  Jake put his hand on hers. “But there was something that didn’t sit right with you.”

  “Not just me,” she corrected and blew her nose again. “The coroner, he said to us that my George died of burns, only he changed his story after a few
days.”

  “Paul Lyle?” Jake asked. “Our coroner here in La Foudre? Why would he do that, do you think?”

  I caught her shrug out of the corner of my eye.

  “And your lawsuit?”

  “We got another lawyer, but to tell you the truth, it’s Susan who’s pushing for it. I just want this to be over.”

  “She thinks you have a case?”

  Mrs. Lockhart nodded, wiped her nose, and tucked the tissue in her sleeve near the wrist. “She was all excited a few weeks ago. Talking about our lucky day and how she would finally stick it to those, uh, parasites.”

  “She used that word, parasites?”

  Lockhart waved the question away. “She’s always using those terms. It’s because of her major.” She pointed to her daughter’s picture on the mantel. “She got a scholarship to study bugs.”

  “The insect or the computer kind?” Jake looked at me.

  “Entomology,” Lockhart went on. “She loved them even as a child. Always rattling off the scientific names and what not. Creeped her friends out, what little she had.”

  I walked over to the mantel, picked up the picture, and squinted at the certificate. “Is this an award of some sort?”

  Mrs. Lockhart frowned, stood up and took the picture from me. “It’s for raising bees.”

  “Bees?” Something ticked in the back of my mind.

  A drone under the noise of the storm pulled our attention to the window that overlooked the lawn. Pulling up the road, slowing next to the squad car, a beat-up station wagon came into view.

  “That’s her,” Mrs. Lockhart said happily. “That’s her right now.”

  Jake stood abruptly, his hand going to his holster, eyes on me. “You stay here.”

  “What’s going on?” Mrs. Lockhart cried, worry crumpling her features. “I thought this was routine.”

  “It is.” Jake put his hand up and walked to the door, his eyes on the station wagon idling by the squad car. “Hold on a second.”

  Pulling back the front door, he pushed through the screen and stepped onto the porch.

  Susan threw the car in reverse, the engine whining and spitting smoke from the tailpipe, as she spun back from the grass.

  “Hey,” Jake yelled and jumped the steps, running for the car.

  He got close enough to slap the hood with his hand before she skidded back, whipped the nose around and tore down the muddy path. Sludge sprayed over Jake and me as I ran down the steps, my hand already on the passenger’s door.

  Mrs. Lockhart stood on the porch, her thin dress already drenched. She yelled after Susan, waving her hands.

  Jake spun for the cruiser, spotted me, and hesitated.

  “I’m coming with you,” I yelled over the wind and rain and Mrs. Lockhart. I yanked open the door and scrambled inside, wincing at the pain in my ribs.

  He started the car, and hit the gas, spinning us around. We slid through the rutted mud and fishtailed.

  “Buckle up,” he shouted.

  I grabbed the seatbelt and pulled it, but the jarring car made me yank and it stuck too short to buckle. I tried again.

  The radio on Jake’s dash squawked.

  Toughie’s voice hissed over the engine and the rain.

  “Jake, pick up.” Toughie’s voice crackled through the car’s interior, the tension evident. “Jake, there’s trouble.”

  Up ahead, red and blue lights sliced through the rain, over Susan’s car as she took the curve with a screech of tires.

  Jake gritted his teeth and his eyes went to the dash. “Pick it up, Riley.”

  I grabbed the radio and pressed the talk button like I’d seen Jake do earlier. “What is it?”

  “The Feds, they’re on their way to you.”

  Jake looked surprised. “The Feds?”

  “They’re on their way,” Toughie said a second time.

  The lights flashed closer. Susan’s car was out of sight down the path beneath the trees.

  Jake looked at me, worry crossing his face as he hit the brakes. We spun in the mud, the momentum whipping me against the window. Bright lights flashed behind my eyes, and I screamed.

  Jake wrestled us to a stop. The sudden stillness and silence, except for the rain and the ticking of the engine, sent my nerves jangling.

  Up ahead, pulling out of the tree line like a hulking shadow, a black SUV skidded to a stop in in our path.

  “What’s happening? She’s getting away, Jake,” I shouted and struggled with the seatbelt.

  “Wait, Riley, don’t move.” Jake put his hand on mine, his words edged with stress. “Be still.”

  Two men flew out of the SUV, their hands up, guns and badges out front as they ran at us. The FBI.

  Jake turned to me, his eyes desperate. “Do you trust me?”

  I panted through the rising fear, barely hearing him. “What?”

  “Do you trust me, Riley?”

  Nodding I gripped his hand. “Yes.”

  “Then don’t fight them. Don’t talk to them. Just cooperate, OK?”

  “Me?” Panic hurled through me, tearing at my throat. “They’re coming for me?”

  My eyes on the agents, I didn’t hear his answer. Guns drawn, they flanked the squad car. The one on my side pulled open my door carefully, gun drawn.

  “Riley Love Drake?”

  I nodded, my breath caught in my chest. “Yes.”

  He nodded to his partner who pulled open Jake’s door.

  “What’s going on?” I cried as he reached in and grabbed my arm, a silver cuff closing over my wrist. “What are you doing?”

  “You’re under arrest for obstruction of justice and tampering with evidence,” the agent said and blinked the rain from his eyes.

  “What…I’m what?” I heard the pitch of my own voice hike up as he spun me around and clamped my other wrist. “Jake?”

  Facing me, his hands on the roof of the squad, his mouth set in an angry line Jake stared back at me, not speaking. Held there at gunpoint, his gaze caught mine, a silent plea in them.

  I looked back, in shock, unable to understand how things had gone so wrong.

  A spike of white light seared the sky overhead and sent a roar of thunder barreling over us.

  I flinched.

  The agent pulled me from the squad car and led me to the SUV.

  I stumbled on the way, going down on my knees as I shivered in the torrent.

  What’s happening, Lord?

  The answering rumble of the dark clouds overhead left me shaking. The storm was coming.

  28

  I struggled to control my racing thoughts and panicked breathing as we drove to the far edge of La Foudre. The wind rocked the SUV and I asked the agent sitting in the backseat with me where we were going, but he wouldn’t even look at me.

  I guessed we were going to the New Orleans field office, but when we got to the pontoon-bridge that led out of La Foudre, we discovered it flooded. Impassable. Being the only way out of La Foudre outside of a boat, we had to turn back into the parish.

  We showed up at the sheriff’s station and Sheila met us in reception area, her eyes wide with surprise. She took in my muddy clothes and pursed her lips.

  “Did you strap her to the roof?” She rushed around the counter and attempted to put her sweater over my shoulders, but the agent who cuffed me shook his head. “Please don’t touch Ms. Drake.”

  Toughie walked up, looked at me from head to toe, an angry look on his face. “What is your name, agent?”

  The one who cuffed me cleared his throat. “Agent Harris.” He nodded to his partner. “This is Agent Stubecky.”

  Toughie nodded to the other agent. “Well, Agent Harris, if she gets sick it’s on you. I’ll write up how you dragged her in here wet and shaking, and wouldn’t let us help her.”

  Harris sighed, nodded to Sheila, and let her cover me with her sweater. “We need to call into the New Orleans office, ma’am,” he said to Sheila. “Your phones work? We can’t get service on our cells
out here.”

  “That’s ‘cause the nearest cell tower blew down two hours ago.” She picked up her phone and wiggled the receiver. “Phones are down all over the parish.”

  Agent Stubecky checked his watch. “We can wait it out, drive out of here when the water recedes.”

  Sheila chuckled and put her hand to her mouth when the agents looked at her with frowns.

  “You don’t seem to understand, gentlemen,” Toughie said to the agents. “Waiting it out isn’t really an option. We’re expecting Erin to hit landfall in less than twenty-four hours.”

  “So?”

  “So once they issue a hurricane warning you need to be well underway with your storm preparations and figuring out where to be when it hits.” He looked at them with disbelief. “You going to stay here? ‘Cause you have at most, thirty hours, probably less ‘til she hits La Foudre. The weather service just announced a change in Erin’s trajectory. She could hit sooner.”

  Harris ran a hand through his gelled-back hair and let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Regardless of your weather forecast, Deputy…” he squinted at Toughie’s name plate and raised an eyebrow. “Toughie…I need to secure Ms. Drake and call in to my superior.”

  “How’re you going to do that with no phones?” Sheila asked, but Harris ignored her.

  Instead, he nodded to his partner.

  They looked like dual copies of the same former small-town quarterback gone thick with age.

  “Can we count on your cooperation, or are we to understand that she didn’t just pull the wool over your sheriff’s eyes? That she has all of you fooled as well?”

  The mention of Jake’s name and the fact that his association with me caused him trouble changed the vibe of the room.

  Suddenly, Sheila wouldn’t make eye contact with me. She fussed with the phone despite it not working. Down the hall, towards the back, near a cluster of old wood desks, Dan stood with his thumbs in his gun belt, glaring down at me.

  Toughie seemed to be the only one who could find my eyes. He held my gaze and nodded slightly, reassuring.

  “Put her in back. We got a spare holding cell.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder.