by Jim Riley
The detective went to the first window and peered across the clearing. Only one deer remained feeding. The others fled, because they were full or from all the commotion at the camp.
Then she went to the next window and repeated the process with the same results. At the third window, a slight movement under a century-old live oak grabbed her attention. One huge bough extended all the way to the ground. Behind that limb, she was sure that she had spotted an unnatural movement. No squirrel or bird. As a youngster, she had been hunting with Samson and her dad enough to recognize the characteristics of small game.
But there was no more movement. Niki pulled up a chair to the window and stared at the spot. Two hundred yards distance was too far without a good pair of binoculars within reach. Again, the slim detective wondered about the wisdom of staying alone on Spirit Island. Already she had faced a venomous viper, had an alligator try to get into her lap on the boat, had a banana spider try to make a new home in her strawberry-blonde mane and had embarrassed herself by slipping in a mud hole. Now she had a maniac messing with her clothes.
The morning had begun with the tough decision of what to wear with her meeting with Bobby. Now that seemed almost irrelevant in the scheme of things. Niki placed the revolver on the window ledge and settled back in the chair. She had trouble focusing on the view.
Then she decided that she could not sit on her butt until Bobby returned. The first report to him had to list more than sitting in a chair overlooking the clearing by the camp. That would not make a good impression on the already skeptical client. Niki pictured the wording, 'Glued my big butt to the chair and never moved until I thought you might be at the bank to protect me.'
No, that would not work. She had to act. But how? If she went outside, the murderer might be waiting for her. On the good side, then she would not have to worry about what to put in the report. On the other side, she could not spend the large fee if dead.
She decided that doing anything was better than doing nothing. Taking the S&W in her hand, Niki began an inspection of the camp. She started in the kitchen. All she found of substance were the ham and turkey left in the fridge.
Then she started on the huge den or living area. The detective turned over every cushion. A few coins and scraps of insignificant paper were the only reward for the hour-long endeavor. The next step was the first bedroom. She inspected the bed, even under the mattress and inside the pillow slip. Then she searched the closet and the adjoining bathroom. Nothing turned up that indicated where Henry Welker might have gone.
Niki repeated the process until she reached the last bedroom, which also was the largest. It had to be Henry’s from Bobby’s description of the rooms. When she shoved the door open, the size of the room surprised her, even after what Bobby had mentioned. A leather recliner sat next to a king-size bed. A sixty inch television was hanging from the wall opposite the recliner. Beside the recliner was a rack of over one hundred movie discs.
Henry enjoyed a variety of movies, the detective determined with a quick inspection. Westerns. Thrillers. Sci-Ii. History, especially World War II. Comedy. Almost everything except romance and chick flicks. Loaded in the player was an old John Wayne classic.
A desk sat along the other wall. On it was an out-of-date PC. That drew the detective's attention. However, after opening it, she found that most of the files were password protected. Hacking into computers was not one of Niki's assets. She had no idea how to begin, except to try various common passwords. None of them worked.
One that lacked protection attracted her interest. It appeared to list the hunting club members and a payout. The list read:
Highway 61 Bridge Project: $15,938,394.30
Expenses$7,927,314.98
Henry$2,000,000
Bobby$1,000,000
Phillip$1,000,000
Bill$1,000,000
Gary$1,000,000
Wayne$1,000,000
Oberlin$500,000
Protection$500,000
Camp Fee$1,179.32
Niki tried to make sense of what it meant. She did not know enough about the construction industry in the state to make sense out of the list. Her only assumption was that the various members of the club had pooled their resources for a construction or repair job for the state. She made a mental note to check it out with some resources with the procurement department.
Holding the note, the martial arts expert went to the window and gazed across the clearing. Little did she know that someone was staring back at her.
Tuesday Afternoon
Spirit Island
Under a protecting huge oak bough, Dalton Bridgestone raised his rifle toward the face in the window. He had no confidence that he could hit anything with the World War II vintage carbine. It had probably not been fired long before Adolph Hitler committed suicide in the bunker in Berlin and the great military force of Germany had surrendered to the Allies. The rusty bullet he had earlier chambered showed more signs of aging than the gun. The combination of the two gave him second thoughts about utilizing them.
He extended the barrel and rested it on a clump of dirt in front of him. Aiming it at the camp, he focused on the target sitting by the window. A fit, wholesome face framed by the thickest strawberry-blonde hair that he had ever seen. Without the aid of a telescope, he saw the natural beauty.
Laying the gun aside, Dalton picked up a set of Zeiss binoculars. With those he could see every detail of Niki's face and upper body. The most catching were the sky-blue eyes. Intelligent. Piercing. Intuitive. Understanding. He had never been as entranced by such in a girl.
With the cover of the giant live oak, the senator had little concern about being seen. Even those unique eyes would have to have the magnification of an eagle to spot him in the small hollow. He almost felt guilty for spying on her. But for a reason he could not explain, Dalton could not put the binoculars down.
He thought about the rifle he was carrying. His father taught him to shoot with open sights with a BB gun when he was six. Their barn always had a problem with rats eating the grain meant for the livestock. At first, the hairy rodents almost laughed at him. Bit by bit, the problem with the pests disappeared. The senator became proficient with those sights.
But with the M-1 carbine, he was not sure if he needed to use a full sight with almost two hundred yards separating him and the girl. Maybe a fine sight was better for that distance. Using one instead of the other would mean a complete miss. He longed for the 7mm magnum with the variable scope that he used back at the exotic animal ranch he owned.
With that, he could have picked the tip of her button nose as a target.
Dalton wondered about the attractive lady. Who was she? Why was she here? Why had the two men left her here all alone? He had not found a license in her wet clothes. Was she looking for him? How could the police suspect that he had come to Spirit Island? He had no official ties to the place.
Maybe she was looking for the fellow he found. Dalton pondered that for a few seconds and decided that was the reason she was on the island. It had nothing to do with his decision to run from the law. She was looking for the old man.
He shifted his position under the live oak. There was no way to turn his patient over to the attractive young lady. The old man had not yet regained consciousness and had his head wound covered with bandages. The old geezer would start bleeding if Dalton attempted to move him and then he would be blamed for two murders instead of one.
The senator lowered his binoculars and shimmied backward on his stomach. When he wiggled behind a cedar, Dalton stood and faded back into the swamp. He found the familiar path with no trouble. Forty minutes later, he entered the hidden entrance to the bunker.
The old man slept on a cot of the same vintage as the carbine. An adjustable hospital bed was preferable, but Dalton had to manage with the meager accommodations available. Blood still soaked through the bandage around the patient's head, but the senator was much more concerned with his infected shoulder. Yellow and white puss
encompassed both the entry and exit wounds.
The gray-haired man's eyes fluttered open. He tried to speak. His words came out as a mumbled slur. Dalton took a cold bottle of water that he pilfered from the camp and let the fellow have a sip of the refreshing liquid. Then he took a washcloth and poured water on it. He massaged the face and shoulder.
The old man was burning with fever. Dalton took ice from the chest and wrapped it inside the cloth. Then he rubbed it all over the feverish body. After three passes, the old man gestured for more water, the first time he did so. A good sign. Soon he greedily sucked down the liquid.
“Not so fast, my friend,” Dalton told him. “We don't want to overdo it.”
“Where—where?” the old man stuttered.
“We're in a concrete bunker on Spirit Island,” the senator responded. “Somebody shot you Sunday night, and I hauled you out of the water and brought you here.”
Henry Welker groaned. “Where—my son? Where is he?”
“Don't have a clue,” Dalton replied. “I only know your name because I found your license in your pocket, Henry. Other than that, we're even about what we know about each other.”
“I need to—” The elderly man tried to lift himself off the bed.
Dalton gently pushed him back down. “You need to rest. I'm not a great cook, but I need to get something besides water down your gullet. I've got a ham soup on the stove from what I scavenged from the hunting camp.”
“Camp—the camp. It's—” Henry could not get out the rest of the words.
“Relax. We've got enough for tonight. Might be awhile before I can get back in. Looks like a pretty, young filly has taken up residence there.”
“Medicine—camp,” Henry mumbled.
“This soup will have to do for now,” Dalton told him. “I might sneak in after dark, but that lady looks like she knows how to handle that pistol she has. Can't risk getting shot. That'd leave you here to die before anyone found you.”
Dalton rose and retrieved a bowl of soup from the white gas portable stove, also pilfered from the camp. The ingredients were simple. Mashed up potatoes. Ham diced so small there was no way Henry could choke on them. A dash of salt and pepper. But it was all he could manage before the people had come this morning.
With a lot of patience, the senator got a few teaspoons of the concoction down Henry's throat. It was not much, but significantly more than nothing. Which was what he had fed the old man since pulling him out of the water almost forty-eight hours previously.
When Dalton turned to take the bowl back to the table, he heard a soft snore emanating from the old man. He smiled. Rest was the best cure for the awful wounds Henry had. If he could find some disinfectant or antibiotics in the cabin, they would help as well. The only obstacle was the fair-haired beauty with the sky-blue eyes.
Tuesday Night
Baton Rouge
Gary Dixon squirmed in his seat, a magnificently adorned leather chair that cost more than his first and second suit combined. Now it was a simple expense. Life was good. Wayne LaBorde sat across the desk in his office.
“Do you think Henry's disappearance will have much effect on our business?” he asked.
LaBorde stood six inches taller than his fellow construction company owner, but weighed fifty pounds less. The tall businessman maintained a strict regimen of exercise and diet. A rock hard discipline installed by his father at an early age ensured that he faithfully followed it.
Not a single day had passed since his heart by-pass surgery three years prior that he did not jog two miles, complete a hundred sit-ups and push-ups and abstain from red meat. Luckily for him, south Louisiana was abundant with all ilks of fish and fowl. Though he celebrated his fifty-third birthday in the past month, the tall owner appeared no more than forty years old. His hair was as jet black as it had been when he was twenty.
“Why should it?” the fit man replied. “We have no idea what happened to the old bastard yet. He may be humping some slant-eyed whore for all we know.”
“He wouldn't do that to Bobby,” Dixon replied.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Henry has a thing for yellow meat. When he finds a good one, sometimes he completely loses track of time.”
'What have the police said?”
“Not a hell of a lot,” LaBorde replied. “They don't have a clue where he's at. The only clue is the blood they found in his boat. After that, looks like he either got ate by the alligators or disappeared into thin air.”
“You know how I don't like loose ends,” Dixon fidgeted even more in his chair. “And this is a big one. One that could sink our operation.”
“Don't get excited. For all we know, Henry tripped and hit his head. Then he fell overboard and got caught up in the currents. Either the gators got him or he floated out to the Gulf of Mexico. Either way, it'll turn out better for us.”
“Do you really think that's what happened?”
“Hope so,” LaBorde laughed. “I can just see a bunch of loggerhead turtles snacking on old Henry. Though I bet he'd be an awful tough chew.”
“How can you make jokes at a time like this” Dixon asked. “We need a plan.”
“I have a plan,” Wayne LaBorde chuckled. “I plan on enjoying life without Henry Welker. I'm concerned. I'm concerned for the turtles.”
“What if he is alive? What if he is talking to someone this very minute? We could all end up in jail if he tells anyone what we've done.”
“Cool your jets, Gary. Even if he is alive, I doubt if he is blabbing to the cops. If he is, then he'll end up in jail with the rest of us. That includes Bobby and he wouldn't do that to his son.”
Dixon rose from his chair and paced back and forth. “I don't know. Under the right pressure, anyone will talk. You don't know what kind they might be applying.”
“Does that mean you're willing to talk?” Laborer’s voice became more menacing.
“No way.” Dixon stopped pacing in mid-stride. “Don't even suggest such a thing. I only hope that whatever happened to Henry it happened so fast that he wasn't able to talk to anyone. I just worry more than most guys, I guess.”
LaBorde stared at his lumpier counterpart. “You're getting me worried about you, Gary.”
Dixon said nothing. He tried to look at Wayne, but could not withstand his gaze.
“I'm not the guy that likes to worry,” Wayne continued. “You might better watch yourself. Talk like that is not good for my health. And if it's not good for my health, it's downright lethal for yours.”
“Wayne, what are you saying?” Gary looked up at him with widened eyes. “Are you threatening me?”
“I don't threaten people, Gary. I state the facts. It's up to you what you do with them.”
Dixon made the motion of washing his hands though there was no water in sight. “You don't need to worry about me talking to anyone. That means the police and the authorities. We're all in this together. We've made a lot of money and I don't want anyone to ruin that opportunity.”
“We'll continue to make money with or without Henry.” LaBorde replied.
“It'll be a lot tougher without Henry,” Gary began pacing again. “He's the one that put us together. Without him, we'd still all be trying to break even on the jobs.”
“I agree that he put it all together. But it's working and we don't need him. Besides, he was taking two shares on all the jobs. He was greedy. More money for all of us now.”
“You talk like you know he's dead. In the past tense, I mean. Did you do anything to help him get eaten by the turtles?”
LaBorde feigned innocence. “Me? Innocent ol' me? Look, I don't know if Henry is dead or alive. I hope to hell he's dead, but I didn't have a thing to do with it if he is.”
“Then how come you're talking like he's dead?”
“C'mon, Gary. Think about it. Nobody has seen the old coot since Sunday. There's blood in his boat. Bobby has hired a split-tail private eye to look for him. What chance do you really give that he's been poking fun at some s
lant-eye all this time?”
“Not much,” Dixon sighed. “But if someone killed him, how will we know he won't come after us next?”
Tuesday Night
Baton Rouge
John was a strong cop. Not strong enough to withstand the withering assault he was taking from Samson Mayeaux, however. The detective for East Baton Rouge Parish was trying to explain where he had been for most of the day while Dalton Bridgestone was still on the loose. So far his efforts had been fruitless. Until he mentioned Niki's name.
“Did you say that someone took a shot at her?” A stunned expression covered the massive Chief's face.
“I'm not sure if they were shooting at her or Bobby,” John replied. “Neither one of them were clear on that. All they told me is that someone was shooting from across the channel.”
“Were you able to find any trace?”
“None. You know Bobby. He's a helluva tracker, and he knows the island like the back of his hand. I'm guessing the shooter was in a boat. Water doesn't leave any tracks.”
“Is Little Girl okay?” Samson used the nickname for Niki that he had since she was born.
“She's fine. I can't remember meeting a young lady so strong.”
“That's because of her daddy. Did she ever tell you his favorite saying?”
“Uh—that wasn't exactly on my mind when I dated her back in high school. What did he say?”
“Jeb, that was her daddy's name. Jeb used to tell Little Girl that we are all either victors or victims. The choice was ours to make.”
“That's deep for a little girl,” John remarked.
“That's why she's not an ordinary girl. She's special. Do you know what she leaned over and said to her daddy when he was in the coffin at the funeral?
“I have no idea.”
“She had tears running down both cheeks, but I heard her tell him, 'Dad, I choose victory'. I'm telling you. She wasn't the only one crying when I heard that.”
