Dead in the Water (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 4) (21 page)

“Then why are you pointin’ a gun at me?” she replied.

“Insurance. I just want to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.” He tapped the passenger side dash. “Let’s go. Faster.”

She drove as instructed, silent for a minute.

“You don’t have to do this, you know?” Gertie said. “Whatever it is, I’m sure there’s a better way out.”

“You don’t know what I did.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“I tried to kill a man. Two men, actually.”

“But you didn’t, did you?” She glanced over at Johnson, who stared down at his gun.

He shook his head. “I wanted to. But now I’ve become like the very people I detest.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, Mr. Johnson, it’s that bitterness and hatred will eat a hole right through ya—and you’re always more like your enemies than ya think. That’s why hatin’ never does anybody any good.”

“You might be right, but it’s too late now.”

“It’s never too late to stop hatin’.”

Johnson remained quiet for several minutes. “Turn here.”

Gertie turned into the entrance to the Saint-Parran airfield and put her car in park. The gate was shut and required an access code for entry.

“Get outta here, Gertie. You don’t want to be around to see this.” He waved her off with his gun.

She didn’t breathe for several seconds as she drove away. She watched him punch in a code on the access panel and the gate swung open. Gertie exhaled.

“Thank you, Lord, for keepin’ me safe,” she muttered under her breath.

She jammed her foot on the accelerator. She didn’t want to be anywhere near the airfield when the sheriff arrived.

CHAPTER 41

“HOLD ON, EVERYONE!” Sheriff Mouton shouted as he approached the airfield. This wasn’t the time to worry about destroying property. He rammed through the chain-linked gate, splitting it open.

“There he is,” Sanders said, pointing at Johnson’s hangar.

With the door open, the sheriff’s hunch—and Sanders’ too—proved correct. Johnson planned to fly out of the bayou and likely disappear. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not in Sheriff Mouton’s parish.

He parked the truck about fifty yards away from the hangar.

“If I were you, I’d go hide over there in the office. There’s a key around back under the mat. Stay in there until this is over. Back up is supposed to be here soon but who knows how long that will be because of that wreck earlier.” He paused. “How’s that leg of yours?”

“It’s only a flesh wound,” Cal said.

Sheriff Mouton chuckled. “We’ll make a bayou man out of you yet, city slicker. Now, get outta here.”

He watched Sanders and Potter hustle through the rain to the office while Cal hobbled behind them.

“Nowhere to hide,” he muttered to himself.

***

Johnson peered through the cockpit and onto the airstrip. He watched Cal, Potter and Sanders scurry to the office while Sheriff Mouton jammed clips into his handguns and loaded his rifle.

This isn’t going to be easy.

He needed to create a diversion, something that would draw the sheriff out into the open so he could take a clear shot and give him the time he needed to get the plane airborne. He glanced around the hangar for an idea.

In the corner sat a four-wheel vehicle. He found a flare gun on a worktable.

This oughtta do the trick.

In the back of the structure was a set of double doors, wide enough for him to push the four wheelers through and to the corner of the hangar, just out of the sheriff’s line of sight. He grabbed a few scraps of cloths and jimmied a way to hold the throttle open.

Then came a bullhorn announcement. “All right, Frank. Your little shenanigans are over. You need to surrender now,” said Sheriff Mouton, who stood outside his truck and used the driver’s side door as a shield.

He’s an idiot if he thinks I’m going to surrender.

Johnson fired up the engine and let it warm up. Timing was critical. He still held the element of surprise. Sheriff Mouton remained transfixed on the jet in the hangar. Johnson smiled.

Here we go!

Johnson edged the barrel of the flare gun around the corner and aimed it at the sheriff. He pulled the trigger. Orange smoke created a visible plume against the dark sky and startled the sheriff, who began firing his gun at the flare. Then Johnson turned the four wheeler lose, sending it speeding across the runway.

Instead of directing the vehicle straight toward the sheriff, Johnson set a perpendicular trajectory. It drew Sheriff Mouton away from his driver’s side door so he could get a better shot at it. The space and time was enough for Johnson to get a bead on him and take a shot with his rifle.

Take that!

Johnson looked through his scope to see the sheriff clutching his arm and blood spattered everywhere.

Adios, amigos!

He sprinted back toward the plane and made a few quick checks. He looked at the radar and plotted a course that would take him around the storm. His window to get his jet in the air thinned with each passing moment.

As he scurried around the hangar loading anything he deemed necessary into it, he looked back across the tarmac to see the sheriff still there writhing in pain. But he wasn’t alone. Sanders knelt over him and applied pressure to his wound.

“What in the—” Johnson said. Sanders picked up the gun and was inspecting the chamber.

Johnson wasted no time in hustling back to the corner of the building and training his scope on Sanders. He put it squarely on Sanders’ head.

Do it!

But he couldn’t. Not the head. Gertie’s words echoed in his head. He didn’t need to kill anyone.

He fired a shot that ripped through Sanders’ bicep and sent him sprawling to the ground.

He dashed back into the hangar, grabbed a few more belongings, climbed aboard and secured the cabin door.

Time to fly!

He eased the jet through the hangar door and onto the runway.

***

Potter looked out the window at Sanders and the sheriff, both bleeding. “We’ve got to do somethin’,” he said.

Sitting in a chair next to a window on the other side of the room, Cal nodded. He continued to record the action with his cell phone.

“There’s not much I can do,” Cal said as he gestured toward his leg. “I can’t shoot a gun and I sure won’t run anybody down in this condition. What’s your bright idea?”

“You think that rifle is still loaded?” “You can’t be serious, Potter? I’ve seen you shoot, remember. Besides, if you weren’t such a bad shot, I would’ve never come down here in the first place.”

Potter didn’t answer. He dashed out the door and toward the sheriff’s truck.

***

“What now?” Johnson asked. He watched Potter scramble toward the sheriff and pick up his rifle. “Oh, this is rich.”

He navigated the aircraft away from the truck and toward the far end of the airfield. Once he reached the end, he turned the jet around.

Then he laughed at the sight before him: Potter lying on his belly on the rain-soaked tarmac with a gun aimed at him.

“I like these odds!” he said to himself as he checked his flaps and eased the throttle forward.

CHAPTER 42

JAW SET, POTTER PRESSED his right eye against the scope of the rifle and steadied his aim. A few feet away, Sheriff Mouton applied pressure to his wound while he sat up against the back left tire of his truck. He ignored the deluge, unlike Sanders who huddled in the cabin as he tried to stop his bleeding.

“Where’s my backup?” the sheriff groused.

Potter didn’t flinch. “Right here,” he said.

“I’ve seen you shoot, remember? We might as well go fill out an incident report and turn this over the feds.”

“You got that much faith in me?”

The sheriff laughed. “Ever the optimist, Potter.”

The jet engines roared as the plane began to rumble toward them.

“You’re an LSU fan, right, Sheriff?” Potter asked.

“One of the biggest.”

“You remember the Blue Grass Miracle?”

“How could I forget?”

“Did you believe they could comeback then and win that game?”

“No, but at least they had a chance with a strong-armed quarterback and speedy receivers. All we’ve got now is a guy who couldn’t hit the ocean with a rock while standing on the beach.”

“But you’ve got a guy with a rock, Sheriff. Sometimes that’s all you need.”

Confident he had the shot he wanted, Potter he eased his finger onto the trigger and pulled. The first crack from the gun ripped through the air, then several more followed.

Potter watched as the plane’s front tire exploded from a direct hit. The jet began to teeter back and forth until one of the wings scraped the ground. Despite the drenched runway, sparks flew everywhere. The plane veered off the runway and toward the grass before it erupted into a fiery explosion. Dark plumes of smoke shot toward the sky.

He stood up and stared at the flames consuming the jet. Cal hobbled out of the office and stood next to Potter. He put his arm around the sharpshooter.

“Nice shot,” Cal said.

After a moment, Potter started to run toward the plane.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sheriff Mouton yelled.

“I’ve gotta get Johnson outta there,” Potter said.

“Don’t. He’s gone.”

“But—”

“Just leave him alone. It’s too dangerous.”

Sirens wailed in the distance.

“Now they show up,” the sheriff said. “Just in time to clean up this mess.”

CHAPTER 43

THE TOULON PARISH SHERIFF’S Office bustled with activity. On the sidewalk just outside the office, several deputies spoke with witnesses.

“Are the desks all filled?” Sheiff Mouton asked.

“All but yours,” one of the deputies replied.

The sheriff pushed his way through the doors and nearly bowled over several deputies blocking the major thoroughfare through the office.

“I ain’t seen this place so busy since a couple of days after Hurricane Katrina,” the sheriff said to Cal. Then to the rest of his entourage, “Follow me.”

Sheriff Mouton led Cal, Potter and Hugh Sanders to his office and told them to take a seat. He shuffled behind his desk and sank into his chair.

He clasped his hands together and put them on his desk. “Does anyone want to tell me what you guys were really doing at Devil’s Point tonight?” he asked.

All three of the men looked down and said nothing.

“I don’t think you want me drawin’ my own conclusions,” he snapped.

Cal took a deep breath. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Wasn’t a big deal? When I got there, I thought a gator was muchin’ on yer leg. And you’re gonna tell me it wasn’t a big deal?”

“I mean, nobody is going to be pressing charges, if that’s what you’re asking,” Cal said.

“That’s not what I’m askin’. I wanna know what happened.”

Sanders cleared his throat. “It was my fault, sheriff. I took Cal here with me as bait to draw out Frank. We needed to make a trade.”

“Took me as bait? That’s a nice way of putting it,” Cal snapped. “I wonder if shoving a burlap sack on someone’s head and tossing them into the back of a pickup truck is how you take all your friends along for a ride somewhere.”

Sheriff Mouton squinted and stared at Sanders. “Is this true?”

Sanders nodded. “I wasn’t tryin’ to hurt anybody. I didn’t think Frank would go that far.”

“Was he the one who threw Cal into the swamp?” the sheriff asked.

“Yep. And against my strong protests, I might add,” Sanders said.

“Don’t make yourself out like you tried to save the day,” Cal said to Sanders. “You’re not even close to being a saint, much less a hero.”

“We all know who really saved your day, Cal,” the sheriff said. “Now, what exactly was this trade about?”

“College football.” Cal grew more disgusted at the situation once he uttered the words aloud. “Johnson and Sanders here were going to make a trade over some video tape that would sink Bryant’s program.”

“Was there anything explicit on the tape?” the sheriff asked. “I need to cover all my bases.”

Cal shook his head. “No, but Sanders used me as insurance in a trade that ensured both these idiots got what they wanted.”

“I doubt Johnson wanted what he got,” the sheriff said.

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Potter said.

The sheriff stood up and walked around to the front of his desk. He put his arm around Potter and squeezed him. “Tonight, you’re the hero, Potter.” He paused. “I know you didn’t mean to kill him.”

Potter walked back toward the sheriff. “I just wanted to stop him from taking off.”

“I’m not talkin’ about Johnson.”

Potter froze. “What—what are you talkin’ about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about. That huntin’ accident, remember?”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to kill Tre’vell Baker,” Potter said. Tears began to stream down his face. “I only meant to scare him a little. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You weren’t thinkin’, except about yer stupid college football,” the sheriff said. “You were drunk on some fool’s ideal. I know you didn’t mean to kill ‘em, but it’s your cross to bear now. I had half a mind to throw you in a prison earlier this week, but Lanette Baker told me she didn’t want me dredging anything up unless it was murder—and I felt inclined to respect her wishes. It was stupid on your part, but it wasn’t murder. A stupid accident, just like tonight. Anyway, I’ve thought it over and there ain’t no use in ruinin’ two people’s lives over a momentary lapse in judgment.” Then to Cal. “Ain’t that right, Mr. City Slicker?”

Cal nodded.

“If I see this story of Tre’vell Baker’s death appear in any book or article with your name on it—or anybody else’s for that matter—I’ll drag you back down here to the bayou and find somethin’ to charge you with,” the sheriff said. “You got that?”

Cal nodded again.

“However, tonight’s tale is fair game. It’s up to you how you want to spin it. But if you’re gonna run around tellin’ everybody that you got kidnapped by a crazy car salesman from Birmingham, you better tell me now if you want to press charges. Otherwise, I’ll tell everybody my version of the truth.”