by BJ Bourg
BUT NOT
FOR LUST
A Clint Wolf Novel
(Book 19)
___________________
BY
BJ BOURG
www.bjbourg.com
BUT NOT FOR LUST
A Clint Wolf Novel by BJ Bourg
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
Copyright © 2021 by BJ Bourg
Cover design by Christine Savoie of Bayou Cover Designs
PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 1
Saturday, January 30th, 9:42 PM
Mechant Loup, Louisiana
Ty Richardson stared intently at the box on the doorsteps of his camper trailer. How had it arrived? He didn’t remember putting it there. Could it have been put there by the soldier in the army tank? He shot a quick glance toward the street in front of his camper and shuddered. It had been two nights ago—or was it last night? He shook his head, not able to remember, but realizing the date wasn’t important. What was important was that he had almost been killed.
Ty closed the door to his camper. There were surely snipers out there, and he didn’t want them to get him while he figured out what to do. He mumbled aloud to himself as he paced back and forth in the tight quarters. His foot made contact with a pile of garbage on the floor and he winced as an empty can of corn went crashing into the opposite wall.
“Quiet down, boy!” he hissed. “They’re gonna hear you and storm the place! Think! Think!”
Could the pizza box be a trap put there by the enemy to eliminate him? But why would they want to do that? What did he know?
“Damn it!” Ty slapped the side of his head with an open palm. “Think, son!”
He stopped pacing and pursed his lips. What did he know so far?
“Okay, I saw a tank driving down the street yesterday or last week,” he said in a soft voice. “A long-haired soldier was driving and he looked right at me. Wait a minute—was it a man or a lady? No, it was definitely a man and he was dressed like a lady.”
Ty nodded and began pacing again. The soldier had definitely seen him. Was that why he attempted to kill Ty later?
“Okay, video diary,” Ty said, speaking to the microwave, “if this is my last will and testimony, you need to know it was the soldier who was a man dressed like a woman who was driving the tank who planted the bomb on my front steps. The tank drove to the back of Orange Way and disappeared for about an hour or two. Or was it a whole day?” He turned away from the microwave and scowled. “How long was it back there?”
Ty walked away from the microwave and moved toward the window at the front of the camper. He carefully peeled back the curtain and tried to see the box on the steps. It was still there. Why hadn’t it exploded? What if they weren’t trying to kill him? After all, the tank stopped before running him over.
“Yeah,” he said breathlessly, “I was on my hands and knees reading the tracks in the road when it roared up. It stopped before hitting me. It could’ve run me over and exterminated me right there, but it hadn’t. Why not?”
Ty was confused more than ever now. He remembered bright lights illuminating the road. It had helped him to see the caterpillar tracks from the tank—and they were deep!—and he was thankful. But then he realized the lights were from the tank itself. He had jumped up and slapped the front of the tank with both hands and stopped it.
“Wait a minute!” He slapped his hands together. “They did try to kill me, but I stopped the tank with my bare hands! I’m stronger than they are! I can stop anything!”
With renewed confidence, Ty marched right to the front door and flung it open.
“Come and get me!” he shouted, beating his fists on his chests. “I’m right here! Come and get me if you dare!”
Ty stopped and listened. Other than the singing of frogs from the ditches, there were no other sounds. He laughed. It was a haughty laugh. He glanced down at the box. If there was a bomb inside, it wouldn’t hurt him. Nothing could hurt him now.
“What have we here?” He bent quickly and snatched the box from the steps. When he opened it, he was surprised to see a large supreme pizza. He suddenly gasped. It wasn’t a bomb after all! They knew a bomb couldn’t kill him. His outer shell was too strong. No, they were trying to poison him—trying to get to his inner cortex. He kicked the door shut and raced to the table, where he threw the box and started ripping it apart, searching for white powder.
Suddenly, his phone rang. He dropped to the ground like shots had been fired through his window, eyeing the device suspiciously. He didn’t know what to do. If he picked up, it would give them a peek into his thoughts. They would be able to outmaneuver him because they would know everything he was about to do. But if he didn’t answer it, it would keep ringing and make them think the poison had worked. He couldn’t have them thinking they had killed him.
He snatched up the phone and swiped his thumb across the screen. He placed it gently against his ear and held his breath, listening.
“Ty?” said a soft voice he recognized. “Did Pizza Bayou deliver your pizza?”
It was his mom’s voice. He trusted his mom. She was the only one who helped him—the only one who believed him. But what if they had captured her and turned her? What if she was a double agent now and was calling to spy on him?
Nodding slowly, he removed the phone from his ear and disconnected the call. He was about to put it back on the table when he heard what sounded like two men talking. The sounds were coming from behind his camper. The soldiers were back!
In a panic, Ty grabbed the pizza box and rushed out of the camper. He tripped on the metal steps and lost his balance, crashing against the outer wall of the camper. The pizza box flew from his hands and slices of pizza rained down on the d
riveway. Hungry, but in too much of a panic to stop, he abandoned the pizza and headed for the shed behind his mom’s house. It was the one place he felt safe. It was bomb-proof and the roof and walls were made of a material that could scramble the frequencies of even the most sophisticated of all listening devices.
As Ty ran, he heard pounding footsteps approaching from behind him. It sounded like they were gaining on him. Panic filled his chest. The soldiers would get to him before he could reach the bomb shelter! Letting out a scream, Ty pushed his legs as hard as they could go. The muscles burned and his breath came in gasps, but he finally reached the shed.
“I made it!” he cried as he pushed through the door.
His triumph was short-lived. Just as he started to slam the door shut, the soldiers burst in and came at him. There were two of them and they were heavily armed. One had a machine gun and the other had a sniper rifle.
I knew I could feel the crosshairs burning on my forehead! He thought as he glanced around, searching for a weapon. He grabbed the first thing he saw—an orange extension cord on the work bench.
Ty grinned wickedly when his hand wrapped around the familiar cord. This wasn’t just any old extension cord. No, it had disabling properties that could drop an elephant with a single swipe, and it didn’t even have to be plugged in to work. On its own, the electricity flowed like lightning and could kill a grown man with a single swipe.
This extension cord couldn’t hurt him, though, because he was immune to the vacant electrical charge. He didn’t know why—he just was. He had even licked the prongs on the cord and nothing had happened. This was different than regular electricity, he knew. He was susceptible to regular electricity. He had learned this the hard way when he stuck a screwdriver in an electrical socket one day. He had felt a jolt, and sparks had flown from the socket, throwing the entire shed into darkness. He didn’t dare do that again, but this extension cord was his secret weapon, and that’s why he picked it up now and turned to swing it at the soldiers. One swipe from this secret, praying mantis-type cord and they would both be put down hard.
“Die, both you sons of—”
Ty’s words suddenly caught in his throat and he gasped in mid-swing.
CHAPTER 2
It was a lazy Sunday morning, and it had been a lazy two months since our community had been rocked by a string of violent attacks that had left a Chateau Parish Sheriff’s deputy dead and one of our own officers critically injured.
“Be careful, Clint Wolf!” Susan hollered from the ground beneath me. “You’re gonna back right off of that roof!”
I stopped what I was doing and twisted around to look down at my wife. She was staring up at the roof of the outhouse, her hands on her hips.
“What?” I asked innocently. “I’m fine. I know what I’m doing.”
“You’re too close to the edge,” she insisted. “You’re gonna fall and break your neck.”
“Daddy gonna break his neck!” Grace cried with glee, running in a circle around Susan. Our German shepherds, Achilles and Coco, were sprawled in the shade several feet away. They lifted their heads and stared lazily at Grace, wondering what all the fuss was about. Once they were satisfied everything was secure, they lowered their heads and resumed their naps.
“I’ve got this,” I said, gulping inwardly when I realized exactly how close I’d come to walking off the edge of the roof. “I was a construction worker for a bit before I came to Mechant Loup, or have you forgotten?”
She grunted and went back to loading broken pieces of the old outhouse throne into the bed of my truck.
Keeping true to my promise, I’d been coming out to the Waxtuygi Wildlife Nature Park every weekend and doing my best to clean up the place. I had begun by clearing tree limbs and other natural debris from the trails. That had taken four days of can-see to can’t-see labor, with barely a break for lunch.
Next, I had finished cutting away the old throne to the outhouse commode. Melvin had lopped the top off with a chainsaw during a rescue attempt in November, but I’d had to remove the entire base so I could start rebuilding it from scratch. I had replaced the plastic throne with a solid wooden one that was indestructible and would last forever. I had applied ten coats of polyurethane to the seat and—upon Susan’s suggestion—had built a small shelf to house disinfectants and wipes. Once that was done, I had set about to replace the roof. I had been about to drill the last two screws into the ridge vent when Susan had stopped me from possibly stepping out into thin air.
“Done!” I shouted when I had installed those last screws. I began picking my way toward the ladder, trying not to dent the new green metal roofing panels. I was almost there when I caught movement from the parking area and looked up to see a gang of people piling out of a Suburban. I stopped and counted. In addition to the apparent mother and father, there were five children—two boys and three girls—ranging from the ages of four to seventeen. I waved when they looked in my direction. “Welcome!”
They waved back as they gathered up a picnic basket, a blanket, and folding chairs. I smiled as I descended the ladder. My hard work was paying off. I paused and corrected myself—our hard work was paying off.
Susan and Grace had come along and helped out when they could, which had been often. There had been a few times when Susan was forced to go to work, so Grace would have to stay with my mom or Susan’s mom. While I would’ve loved to have her along, she was four months shy of three and needed my undivided attention. Susan and I were raising her to be a tough one, but there were a million and one ways to die in the swamps, and I wasn’t taking any chances where she was concerned. I’d already suffered such a loss in my thirty-six years of existence, and I didn’t think I could survive another one.
The family reached us just as I made it to the bottom of the ladder.
“We saw a sign in town that said the park was open for hiking and camping,” said the wife. “Is it okay if we go for a picnic?”
I was beaming. “Absolutely! It’s beautiful. You might even see an alligator or three.”
One of the boys, who had seemed sullen up to this point, quickly looked up.
“Really?” he asked eagerly.
I nodded. “I can almost guarantee you’ll see one. Just walk easy and don’t talk. You’ll be surprised what you can see when you make your way quietly through the swamps.”
“Thank you!” the boy said, digging for a cell phone. “If only I can get a picture of one!”
The dad gave me a nod of approval and the family headed off down the trail. I frowned as I looked after them. There would be no forgetting the tragedy that had unfolded down that trail two months ago, but it was good to see people enjoying the area again.
Susan walked up to me and took my hand. “You’ve done a great job with this place.”
“So have you,” I said, squeezing her hand in appreciation. “You’ve been a big help.”
“When I’m able to get away from work,” she said with a sigh. “It seems like the job is getting more and more demanding every day. The town won’t stop growing. It’s like a baby—it grows by the minute.”
As police chief, Susan’s job never ended. She was often working nights or weekends to back-up her patrol officers, cover a shift, or to address concerns of the townspeople. Me, I was the chief of detectives, and mostly worked Monday through Fridays unless I was hot on the trail of a suspect. Of course, when I was working a homicide or other crime of violence, there was no such thing as a weekend, a holiday, or a vacation.
I began loading up my tools in my truck while Susan gathered up Grace’s toys. Just in case she might be called to work, Susan had driven to the park in her department Tahoe, while I had taken my personal truck.
“I’ll pick up some burgers for lunch on the way home,” Susan said when Grace and the dogs were loaded in her vehicle. “We’ve got leftover spaghetti for dinner.”
I only nodded as I watched her walk away. Although we were reaching the end of January, the temperature had
remained in the mid-seventies for the weekend and Susan’s legs were looking sexy in her short shorts. As though feeling my eyes on her, she stopped and turned. “Put your tongue back in your mouth and load up your shit, mister man,” she said playfully. “I’m hungry and I don’t want to eat without you.”
“Shit!” Grace said from the backseat. “I’m hungry!”
Susan clasped a hand over her mouth and stared in horror at our daughter. “No, Gracie, don’t say that!” she said once she’d recovered.
Grace only laughed. I was laughing, too, and didn’t stop until Susan’s Tahoe was out of sight.
CHAPTER 3
It took me another fifteen minutes to finish loading my tools and securing the debris from the outhouse in the bed of my truck. I was just cinching the last strap in place when I heard the tires of an approaching car crunching in the gravel. I looked toward the gate and saw a marked police car slow to a stop near it.
I mounted up and drove toward the gate to meet him. I knew without looking that it was Baylor Rice, one of Susan’s patrol officers. With only four patrol officers on the payroll, they worked one to a shift, and it was easy to keep track of who was working at any given time—except when all hell broke loose and they were all called out. This happened all too often in our little town, and it usually threw the shift schedule into a tail spin. However, one thing was always consistent—Baylor Rice and Regan Steed worked the day shifts while Melvin Saltzman and Takecia Gayle worked nights.
When I was beside Baylor’s cruiser, I buzzed my window down.
“I’m bored, Clint.” He rubbed a hand through his crew-cut hair and yawned. “There’s nothing happening in town. I saw the mayor on Washington Avenue earlier and asked her why she thought it was so dead. She said she didn’t know, but she hoped things would pick up.”
I smiled as I looked down at Baylor. He was a transplant from Sylva, North Carolina and had been in town for a little more than four years. Although new to the area, he had acclimated well and the townspeople now saw him as one of their own. In addition to fitting in with the townsfolk, he had also proven his salt as a police officer.
