Mind Games (22 page)

Lucier embraced the old man. “Amos, talk about a sight for sore eyes. I didn’t know if you’d still be around.”

“Hell, you didn’t think I’d be dead, did you? You know me, Ernie. I’m too ornery to die.”

Amos had a family, probably more than one, but Lucier never questioned that part of his life. It was none of his business unless the old man chose to tell him. “No, no. I figured you went home to your wife and kids by now.”

“Been like this for years. Anyway, the kids are all grown with families of their own, and I doubt the woman wants me back full time anyway. Oh, I drop in every now and then so they know I’m still kicking. Got to pay those bills, you know. Besides, sometimes I get horny. Guess she does too, ’cause she always seems glad to see me.”

Lucier laughed. “Always tell it like it is, huh, Amos?”

“Truth’s truth. Now, come on board and tell me what you’re doing up this way. I got some special brew. Really good stuff.”

Following him onto the boat, Lucier took a seat under the canopy on the main deck. A red-tailed hawk soared above. The odor of fish and pipe tobacco mixed with the fragrance of cypress and water vegetation recalled the time when he was a boy and traveled with his father and Amos on their rounds. Comforting to know that certain things never changed.
The Backwater
, half fishing boat, half houseboat, served as Amos’s home most of the time. He chartered mainly macho types eager to explore the dark sloughs of the river that few people ever saw. Amos knew the river better than any man around, even better than Lucier’s father.

Amos Moseley was Remy Lucier’s childhood friend and partner during his last years. The two men shuttled up and down the bayous administering medicines and vaccines to the young and old and sick. Lucier hadn’t seen Amos since the funeral of his family eight years before. No matter. From Amos’s perspective, Lucier was his friend’s son, and therefore his.

The boat, large enough to sleep six and fish twenty, was comfortable enough. Moseley cracked open a couple of dark amber bottles he took out of a small refrigerator and handed one to Lucier, who took a long pull.

“Whoa, what is this?”

“Don’t ask, drink up, and then you can tell me what this visit is all about. Not that you aren’t welcome any time, but this isn’t exactly on your route.”

Lucier began at the beginning, filling him in on Diana, the murders and kidnapping. When he finished, Amos sucked on his pipe for about three minutes before speaking. Lucier tugged on his drink, remembering his father’s stories of life on the river with Amos Moseley in this very boat.

“A couple of places up there on the river aren’t accessible by car,” he said. “Roads are overgrown, covered by vines and downed trees from the storms. I doubt this Macon fellow is going in on the water. How much time do we have?”

“I don’t know. May already be too late. He hasn’t communicated with us, so it isn’t money. We never thought so.”

“You like this woman?” Amos asked.

Lucier studied the rim of the bottle, taking his time. He knew the answer, but verbalizing it wasn’t natural for him. “Yes I do, and I feel responsible on a certain level. She trusted me to look out for her. Some other stuff too.”

“She a white woman?”

“She is.”

“Hmmm, I see.”

An understanding passed between them. Lucier felt a certain comfort that Amos knew everything about Remy Lucier’s life in Boston and the heartache he went through when his wife died.

“She got folks?”

“Yup, and her daddy doesn’t like me at all. Wanna guess why?”

“Nope.”

“I don’t want her reliving my mother’s nightmare.”

“She may not. People are different. History doesn’t necessarily repeat itself, so not all things turn out the same.”

“I want to believe that, but if you don’t go looking for trouble, life can’t suck you under.”

“Yeah, but you might not get any of the good stuff either. Don’t forget all the beautiful years your folks enjoyed together. Why, when they came down here to visit I never saw two people more in love. Back in those days, they endured the stares and under-the-breath insults, but I know they never regretted their decision. Never. Even if the end was sad for both of them. There’s always a little pain in life, son. It’s what makes the good times that much sweeter.”

Lucier studied his old friend. “How’d you get to be so smart?”

Amos tipped back his bottle of brew and took a long drink. An appreciative sigh followed with a smothered belch. “I learn a lot about people on this here boat. You’d be surprised what folks tell me. They know they’ll never see me again and I just listen. I’ve seen things and heard stories…I might write a book one day.”

Lucier didn’t doubt for a minute that Amos could write a book. Both he and his father grew up in the segregated South; both went to first-class universities. Their friendship was based on intellectual pursuit and cemented by their achievements. The old man had a philosophy degree from Howard University and even taught there for a while before succumbing to a major case of wanderlust. The intellectual community stifled him, he said, making him yearn for the simplicity of real people. Lucier thought of Amos as a happy man.

“Okay, where do you think we ought to start? I don’t want to waste any time.”

Amos sat back in his chair, still chewing on his pipe. Even though he had aged—his close-cropped hair and beard turned almost white—he still looked fit for a man on the down side of sixty, lean and sinewy, dark skin creased from the sun as much as from the years.

“Well, like I said, a couple of those places would be unlikely. We’ll concentrate on the other three. Got any help?”

“Two men are coming up from New Orleans and Sheriff Jenrette over in Saint Mark Parish is loaning me a couple of his guys.”

The old man studied the list in his hands. “If it was me, I’d check out these three, and if I had to pick one, it’d be this one. These two,” he said pointing to the paper, “are a couple of miles apart. This one has four cabins on the property and the others have three. They’re in rough but tolerable condition, if you don’t mind sharing with a few of earth’s creatures. If I planned to stay a while, my pick would be the old campground on Fontenot Bayou. There are three cabins. Used to be owned by some Yankee, but he died and I guess his people didn’t want to pay the taxes on old run-down shacks. They’re sitting there, gone to seed like everything else not taken care of. Hell, to be honest, I don’t know for sure if they’re even there since Katrina. That disaster changed a lot of landscape. We’ll go on the assumption that things are maybe a little messier. The places used to be good fishing spots, which is why they were built in the first place, but when all these fancier spots opened, the baby boomers didn’t want rustic anymore, and most of the old folks have passed on. Fontenot would be my first pick. Yup, that’d be the one, especially if this Macon fellow looked them over first.”

“This case is making me do things I’ve never done, like guessing. I’m a planner, but this time it isn’t possible. Been going with my gut; now I’m going with yours.”

“You asked me for my best guess. That’s my gut.”

“We’ll move on all three, but when we’re ready I’ll take that one.” Lucier wanted another mystery drink, but decided not to compromise his reflexes. He might need them sooner than the effects of the drink wore off. “It’s getting dark. I’m afraid morning might be too late. What are our chances at night?”

“Might be better,” Amos said. “There’s probably no electricity, but this guy sounds like he’s planned this a long time. Maybe he has oil lamps or camp lights. That’d be a dead giveaway in the dark.”

“Will you go with us?” Lucier asked.

Amos grinned. “Thought you’d never ask. You know, your daddy and I used to go all over these waterways, up and down, seeing people who’d never see a doctor otherwise. Prolonged a lot of lives. He was a great man, but you know that.”

“Yes, I do. I wish he were still around. He’d be one hundred percent ready to go on this mission. I miss him.”

“Me too, son.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Collision Course

W
hen Cash and Halloran arrived from New Orleans, they joined Lucier, Beecher, and three of Jenrette’s men—Farley, Deacon, and Dumar—to plan their expedition. Lucier took one look at Carl Dumar, a twenty-two-year-old African-American who could pass for a New Orleans Saints linebacker, and figured a suspect would think twice before taking him on. Based on their expressions, Beecher and Halloran felt the same way.

Lucier divided the men into three teams, assigning Bayou Fontenot for himself and the other two to Beecher and Jenrette. Amos Moseley mapped out the best approach to each site, and at six o’clock, with the sun disappearing behind the trees, the three groups wished each other luck and climbed into their waiting SUVs, agreeing to keep in touch by cell phone.

After Lucier veered off the main roads, the terrain got rougher.

“Good thing we’re driving one of these,” Amos said. “I’d hate to think of us bumping along in a police sedan. I’d probably lose the rest of my teeth.”

Old Amos didn’t have a phony bone in his rangy body. Lucier snickered and made a mental note to keep in closer contact with the man when this was over.

“How far now?” Deacon asked.

“Another twenty minutes barring anything gets in our way, like a tree maybe or a wild boar or gator.” The remark cast an eerie silence inside the car, leaving only the crunch of gravel on the road.

* * * * *

D
eeper into the woods, Beecher’s team had to get out of the car three times to move debris.

“Used to go fishing around here when I was a kid,” Dumar said. “The guy who owned the place was nice back then, but he got old and nasty. His rotten disposition and neglected cabins reduced a popular fish camp into a wilderness overrun with snakes and gators and a few other things I didn’t want to come face to face with. After he died, alligator poachers started coming because there wasn’t anyone around to stop them. No matter now ’cause they lifted gators off the endangered list.”

“Well, I hope to hell we don’t find out how plentiful they are,” Halloran said.

Carl Dumar took out his gun and checked the load.

* * * * *

F
arley drove Jenrette’s team over the rough road like a stunt driver.

“Jesus Christ, Jake, I’d like to get there in one piece,” Jenrette yelled. “We ain’t gonna be any good to the girl if we’re all jumbled up with brain damage.”

“Sorry, Sheriff, got carried away, us bein’ in a hurry ’n all.”

“Well, slow the hell down. We’ll get there, and when we do, if we’re at the right place, I don’t want to go crashing through the cabin ’cause you can’t fucking stop.”

“Yes sir, I’m slowing down as we speak.”

“Might be she’s not in any of these cabins,” Cash said. “Or anywhere in the area. If she is, I’ll bet she’s in the one the Lieutenant’s going to. That’s why he went there.”

“Let’s hope we’re right,” Jenrette said. “Lot of time and energy wasted if we’re not.”

“Then what’d be our next move?” Cash asked.

“Lord help me, I haven’t got a clue. And I don’t think anyone else has either.”

They moved into darkness under the dense canopy of trees.

* * * * *

M
acon couldn’t wait to see Diana’s face when he got back to the cabin and showed her his token. He’d block her out. Close her off so she wouldn’t be able to tell him anything. Twenty years ago, he proved he was every bit as good as she was. Tonight she’d see for herself. No way in hell she’d be able to identify the location of his prize. No way. She’d fail, sure as she’d seen her last sunrise.

Excitement boiled over. He stepped on the gas, navigating the back roads as if he’d grown up on them.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Door One, Door Two, Door Three

D
iana awakened in total darkness. Her body felt as if she’d descended through the gates of hell. Is this how one feels after passing into the ninth circle? She tried to move but quickly realized her limbs were chained. Why had Macon done that? She couldn’t move off the bed if she wanted to. Every effort resulted in self-inflicted torture. No, she hadn’t died. Not yet.

Even though she was semi-conscious, her empty stomach growled with hunger. The morning’s solitary cup of coffee, greasy re-warmed chicken, and watered-down Coke had long since abandoned her system. A trace odor of French fries from her pilfered dinner clung in the air like humidity after a spring rain, stimulating her olfactory senses and causing the back of her mouth to water. Her usual healthy diet forgotten, she salivated thinking about biting into that hamburger, grease oozing down her chin. Closing her eyes, she ran her tongue across her cracked lips and could almost taste it.

How could she summon her diminished powers tonight to save a life? She hung on to her own by an unraveling thread. Would he keep his word or would he kill the unlucky person who crossed his path? This was all a game to him. A silly life-depending test.