Murder On Spirit Island (Niki Dupre Mysteries Book 1)

by Jim Riley

  A sharp rap on the window brought him back to a foggy reality. In the drunken state, he barely recognized the face staring at him. He wanted to lower the window, but could not find the button. The guy with the familiar face opened the door.

  “Looks like you could use some help.”

  Bobby tried to reply, but could not manage the words. His tongue did not work.

  “That's what friends are for,” the man said. “I'm here to help you.”

  Bobby tried to reply, settling for a bit of a nod.

  The other driver found the keys Bobby dropped and put them in the ignition. The powerful two ton truck roared to life. The man started to close the door. He hesitated long enough to make sure that the seat belt was unfastened.

  “Don't want this thing to bother you on the ride home,” the man said. “You'd better hurry or that pretty little wife of yours will be mighty sore at you.”

  At the mention of his wife, Bobby sobered a slight bit. He backed out of the parking lot and got the big truck on the highway. The other driver waited until Bobby was out of sight before getting in his on truck and following.

  Less than a mile from the bar, flames were shooting up everywhere. Bobby had smashed headlong into an eighteen-wheeler carrying a load of pipe. There was no chance that anyone in the pickup truck could have survived the wreck. The other man smiled and did a u-turn in the middle of the highway.

  Tuesday Night

  Spirit Island

  Niki tired of the cabin. The long-legged detective felt its walls closing in as the darkness outside covered the clearing. Peering through the window, she saw a full moon with no cloud cover. Since going hunting for raccoon with Samson and her dad, she had always loved walking through the woods at night. There was a serenity that did not exist in the daytime.

  Feeling this was the best time for an investigation of her surroundings, Niki descended the staircase and stopped at the base. She listened for any man-made sound, hearing none other than a tug headed downriver on the far side of the island.

  She started with the barn. In the full light of the moon, she could see plainly with no need for a flashlight. The contents of the structure did little to advance the case of the missing father. Two modern tractors, plenty of attachments such as mowers and plows and building materials for hunting stands. She closed the door and walked over to the skinning shed.

  The huge cooler was empty. Stainless steel hooks gleamed without benefit of sunlight. Nothing else added to her knowledge of Henry Welker.

  Two silos produced similar results. At first, Niki tried to make sense of their presence on the island. Then she remembered that Louisiana had changed the law and permitted hunters to use corn feeders to attract deer to the stands. Sure enough, there was corn residue in the bottom of each silo. Several dozen mice were filling their stomachs on the leftovers.

  Then the detective ventured to the edge of the clearing. Almost subconsciously, she touched the butt of the S&W .38 with the tips of her fingers. The darkness did not concern her. The animals that fed primarily at night did. On a remote island like this one, they were accustomed to owning the darkness. Any intruder was fit for supper, whether human or not.

  Several small trails sprang from the clearing. Some were made by the animals that made Spirit Island home. Others appeared to have been opened to get to a nearby hunting stand by the members of the club. Then she found the one that she wanted to take. It was wider than the others and more heavily traveled. She saw four-wheeler tracks and ruts remaining from the previous hunting season.

  Walking down the path, Niki lost the benefit of the full moon. The overhead canopy prevented the light from reaching the floor of the swamp. She waited until her eyes adjusted to the darker environment before easing on down the trail. A doe snorted at her from no more than fifteen feet.

  Niki laughed. Hunters spent thousands of dollars pursuing the elusive whitetail deer. They bought expensive rifles, stands, camouflaged clothing, scent-proof soap and extravagant deer stands to the point of luxurious. Then they roared through the woods on loud four-wheeler alerting every deer within two miles of their presence. Yet somehow, a few were successful.

  Here she was walking through the swamp and had a doe within a few feet. She had on regular clothes and had not hidden her human scent. Seemed a lot easier this way than the other.

  She dodged a huge banana spider web and bent over. While looking down, she saw a fresh track. Even in the dim light, the lean detective could tell it was fresh. Made in the last few hours. A hiking boot. Size twelve. Either double 'E' or triple 'E'. A big man. But not heavy. The impression did not sink over the soles of the boots. The guy that made the track was athletic and able to maneuver through the swamp without bogging down.

  A splash in the water off the trail alerted her. The island had standing water all over it. Most of the mud holes and sloughs were only inches deep. However, pockets of quicksand hid just below the surface. One wrong step and a hunter or hiker could make it his last.

  Glancing in the direction of the sound, Niki saw only the broad palmetto leaves. The native plant thrived in this environment. Standing only a few feet high, it gave cover to the predators, allowing them to get within striking distance of their prey.

  Another splash. Then another. A field mouse raced across her foot, causing the long-legged detective to look down. The splashes got closer and closer. Still, she could not see the causes of the splashes. Her sky-blue eyes strained to find them in the darkness. Despite her rigorous training, he skin tingled. Something or some things were closing in on her.

  They got closer and closer. Niki pulled the revolver from the holster in the small of her back. Then the splashes went around her. At least some of them did. She heard at least two of the animals out in front of her still. Yet, the lean detective could not see any forms.

  One charged in from behind. Niki whirled, the gun extended. The wild animal, Niki hoped that was what made the noise, stopped behind a wide cedar. The detective stepped over two of feet to get a better view. All she saw was the wisp of a shadow.

  Then another charged from her left, making more noise than the first. Niki spun in that direction only to be frustrated again. The animal stopped behind a fallen live oak. It paced back and forth, never showing its full body. Niki stood on her tiptoes in futility. She still could not glimpse the dark beast.

  A guttural growl from behind caused her to spin one more time. This time she caught sight of the dog-like canine. Coyotes. They circled and closed in. The ring drew tight as Niki turned in every direction at once. After three or four such revolutions, she put the .38 back in its holster. She would rather rely on martial arts training to face such foes.

  Suddenly, a warm cocoon enveloped her entire body. Never had she felt a state of tranquility this deep. Surreal was the only word that described the new feeling.

  The coyotes retreated, no long interested. The strawberry-blonde stood, still wrapped in the warm air for a long time. Then she slowly returned to the camp. Well past midnight, she wrapped her body in covers on Henry Welker's bed.

  Wednesday Morning

  Baton Rouge

  “Chief, I swear we've looked under every rock in the parish.”

  John d'Iberville once again felt the wrath of Samson Mayeaux. They had been in his office since midnight. The chief controlled the vast majority of the conversation.

  “Are you telling me that you don't have a single solid lead about Bridgestone?” Samson roared. “It's not like he's a homeless beggar in the projects. He's a United States Senator, for crissakes. He's the son of our past governor. His picture has been in every newspaper and on every television station in Louisiana. Why the hell can't you at least get a sighting?”

  “We're doing everything humanly possible, Chief. I've got detectives that haven't slept in two days running down supposed sightings. Sometimes I think people just like to call to say they're involved in the case.”

  “What about his cell phone? His credit cards? It's been
over three days. The guy has to be staying somewhere and eating. I doubt if he's gone on a crash diet.”

  “There haven't been any activity on any of them. Nor his online accounts. The guy has become a ghost.”

  “What else are you doing? And I hope to hell you have some answers.” Samson demanded.

  “We've contacted his parents. The ex-governor was most cooperative, though he says it has to be some mistake. We've got bugs on the phones in his offices both here and DC. We've even tapped his local secretary's phone. Rumors are that he was too close to her.”

  “So you want me to tell the governor that the guy that slaughtered his daughter is a ghost? With all the resources in our department, we can't get one solid lead? Is that what you want me to say?”

  “I promise you, Chief. We're doing the very best we can. Sometimes it takes a while for a guy like Bridgestone to surface. He has a lot of resources.”

  “Your best isn't good enough, Son. Maybe I should turn this investigation over to someone else.”

  John reddened. He had been an All-American quarterback in college and had faced blitzing linebackers ready to tear his head off. He had not backed down then and he was not about to do it now.

  “Just who the hell do you have that is better than me?” he asked. “You put me in charge because I'm the best you have, Chief. I know you're under a lot of pressure, but no more than me and the rest of the guys on this thing. You have to give us room to breathe.”

  “So what am I supposed to tell the media? I can't tell them we have no clue.”

  “Tell them the usual balderdash. We're following every lead. We will find him. It's only a matter of time. Please report any sightings. You know the drill better than I do.”

  Samson snorted. “We both know that's a steaming pile of horse—”

  John cut him off before the chief could finish. “Do you have any better ideas?”

  Samson sighed and leaned his massive body on the reclining chair. “Nary a one.”

  “Either he's dead or he will surface,” John said. “When he does, we'll be there waiting on him.”

  “Alive or dead, I don't really care. Although if he's dead, it'll save the parish a lot of money. With his resources, he'd probably beat the charges.”

  John smiled. “I'll tell the guys you don't mind if we bring him back in a body bag. That'll make their day.”

  “Mine too,” Samson grimaced.

  Wednesday Morning

  Spirit Island

  Niki had no idea how long she had been asleep. It seemed to take forever for slumber to overtake her edginess. Tossing and turning, the sleek detective tried to make heads and tails over the incident in the swamp. The warm cocoon. The reaction of the coyotes. How could she explain either?

  Her thoughts wondered back to the legend of the rougarous. Their spirits, rumored to roam the islands up to the present day, were supposed to be dangerous. Evil even. Why would they protect her from a pack of hunger scavengers?

  She believe in guardian angels, though she had never seen one. Maybe those were invisible. Stories, handed down about how God sent them to inhabit human and animal forms, spoke of heavenly powers. Maybe they took the place of the Rougarou spirits.

  Either way, something happened that she could not explain. Whether it was spirits from slain swamp monsters or ones sent by her Creator, a divine intervention had taken place. It was beyond her ability to explain it.

  Satisfied that some extraterrestrial influence was safe-guarding her, Niki dropped off into a fitful sleep. Even as she accepted the premise of her conclusion, it was still hard to swallow.

  Then she felt another presence. This was not the warm cocoon she experienced amid the pack of ravenous carnivores. This was not cold, but it was not all that comforting either. Niki's eyes popped open, and she stared at the wall.

  When she turned over, the door to the bedroom was open. The slim detective remembered pulling it firmly when she entered so as not to make another mistake like she had with the mudroom door. As soon as she focused on the opening, she gasped.

  A man's face stared at her.

  Niki screamed. Not because she was scared. It was one of the defense mechanisms taught in Kempo. A woman's scream unbalanced most men. It worked. The Peeping Tom bolted from the opening. She could hear his footsteps racing through the camp.

  She had on only a long tee shirt and her underwear. By the time she yanked on a pair of jeans, she heard the door to the camp slam. Niki grabbed the revolver from under the pillow and raced barefoot out the door. Going through the den, she saw him through a window. He sprinted through the clearing with a bag in his hand. At least it looked like a bag in the darkness. It could have been a large gun.

  The detective burst through the camp door and scrambled down the stairs. By the time she reached the bottom, there was no sign of the intruder.

  Recalling the face, Niki knew it seemed familiar. At first she could not place it. But she had seen it. Where?

  She walked all the way up the stairs to the landing and stopped, peering out into the clearing in the moonlight. There, it hit her.

  Dalton Bridgestone. The killer of his fiancée. The fugitive that John d'Iberville and every other cop in East Baton Rouge Parish was trying to find.

  The man was right here on Spirit Island and Niki had no way to tell anyone. The phone she religiously carried did not have a signal. There were no boats left at the landing.

  She was trapped on this remote island with a savage murderer.

  For most people this circumstance would have caused panic. With Niki, she looked at it as an opportunity. She might not solve the disappearance of Henry Welker, but she could capture the most wanted fugitive in America.

  At daylight, she would begin her search for him.

  Wednesday Morning

  Spirit Island

  When Dalton returned to the bunker, he found Henry Welker awake and alert.

  “How are you, Mr. Welker?”

  “Where the hell have you been?” the old man demanded.

  Dalton threw the bag on the small table. “Getting you some antibiotics and some cream for those wounds of yours. From what I discovered in the camp, they belong to you anyway. So it's not like I was stealing them.”

  “My camp. How far away is it?”

  “Way too far for you to make it there. Besides that, someone else is using it right now, and she's better looking than you.”

  Dalton removed the cap of a bottled water from the chest and handed it to the old man. Then he took two pills from one vial and one from another. He handed all three to Welker.

  “Take these and maybe you'll live long enough to tell me who shot you.”

  Welker swallowed the pills, took a swig of water and glared at Dalton.

  “I don't have a damn clue who shot me. I also don't have a damn clue who you are.”

  “The second question is easy enough. I'm Dalton Bridgestone. You might have seen me in the news lately.”

  “Unless you were there before Friday, I haven't seen anything. We don't get any TV reception out here on the island.”

  “Why don't you use a satellite dish? They're good from anywhere on the planet.”

  “Yeah,” Welker snorted. “That's what the salesman told us. Evidently, the planet doesn't include Spirit Island.”

  “Do you mean it's still in effect?”

  “What?” Welker looked at him in surprise.

  “Years ago, the government used this old bunker for a nuclear fallout shelter. It was close enough to Baton Rouge to get the governor down here if the Russians sent a few big ones our way.”

  “What's that got to do with the communications?”

  “If you'll show just a tad of patience, I'm getting to that. After the cold war was over, the government got interested in paranormal spirits. They sent a guy here with all of those MREs and had him monitor the island for any suspicious emanations.”

  “I still don't get it,” Henry said.

  “To make sure they were
getting on the waves from the island itself, they put a—I guess you could call it a shield over the island. It prevents any airwaves from coming to the island or leaving it. I didn't believe it until I came out here myself.”

  “You've been here before?” Welker asked.

  “How do you think I knew how to locate the bunker? I bet none of you guys had any idea that it was here.”

  “Uh..I guess not,” Welker said. “Nobody ever mentioned it to me.”

  “As a junior state senator, I got stuck with coming out here once a year to check on the readings after the federal guys left. There weren't any, but I figured this was as good a place to hide as any other.”

  “What are you hiding from?” Henry asked.

  “The police think I killed my fiancée.”

  “Wait. You're that Dalton Bridgestone. Your girlfriend is—”

  “That's right,” Dalton nodded. “Juliette d'Iberville, daughter of the governor.”

  “Juliette is dead?” Henry asked disbelieving.

  “Saw her myself. Then someone, the lady across the hall, saw me leaving her condo with the bloody knife in my hand. I couldn’t leave it sticking in Juliette. It's no wonder the police think I'm guilty.”

  “Are you?”

  “Does it matter? I'm helping you stay alive,” Dalton responded.

  “I like to know who I'm with. That's all.”

  “You're with me. I've got to go out for a little while. Do you need anything before I go?”

  “A little more of that soup wouldn't hurt,” Henry groaned.

  Dalton ladled more soup in a bowl and helped Henry slurp it down. Then he pulled the covers up tight around the old man's chin. When he heard the soft snores, he slipped out of the bunker.

  Wednesday Morning