Dead in the Water (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 4) (6 page)

“Get up, city slicker,” Potter said. “Ain’t you ever heard gunshots before?”

“Plenty of times,” Cal answered. “And most of the time they were shooting at me.”

“I guess maybe big city life and the bayou ain’t so different after all.”

Cal resisted the urge to educate Potter on his dangerous real world exploits. If Potter was half the guide he claimed to be, it might be best if he believed Cal was a weakling who needed his protection.

They rounded the corner of the dilapidated house to find two uniformed law enforcement officers shooting rifles at targets several hundred feet away. A young, puny officer saw Potter and Cal approaching and tapped the larger man on the shoulder, a man Cal assumed was Sheriff Mouton. The man didn’t move, keeping dead aim on the target until he fired off a shot.

“Well?” Sheriff Mouton asked his deputy.

The deputy scrambled to put his binoculars up to his eyes and report his findings on the shot. “Just a little to the left of the bulls eye.”

“Dang thing still ain’t sighted in right. Here, fix it, Milton,” Sheriff Mouton said as he handed the gun to his deputy. Then he spun around to talk to his guests.

“Well, Potter, to what do we owe this visit—and who’s the carpetbagger you got with ya?” Sheriff Mouton said as he guffawed.

“Sheriff, this here is Cal Murphy, a reporter from Atlanta who is writin’ a story on a couple of our star athletes.”

Cal nodded and smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Sheriff Mouton.”

“The pleasure will be all yours, I’m sure,” Sheriff Mouton shot back. “Look, I don’t know what you think you’re doing down here, but this is my parish and I don’t really like people stickin’ their noses where they don’t belong. I’m sure you’re here about Tre’vell and Dominique.”

“Just writing about Dominique for now.”

“I doubt that. Don’t you be tryin’ to solve Tre’vell’s murder on your own. The swamp ain’t a friendly place to outsiders.”

“I understand, Sheriff,” Cal answered. “I’m not trying to do your job for you. I’m just here to write a story about Dominique and I’m sure some of that story will include how the community is handling Tre’vell’s loss.”

“You sure better not be here to find out how I’m handlin’ my investigation into Tre’vell’s death. Cause I’ll ride you hard and put you up wet. You’ll wish you never came down here, ya hear?”

“Loud and clear, Sheriff.” This wasn’t the first time someone in law enforcement tried to intimidate Cal. He remained resolute in his purpose for visiting Sheriff Mouton.

Sheriff Mouton then whipped his pistol out of his holster and riddled with holes another target about 20 yards away. He then jammed the gun back into the holster and spun around to look at Cal.

“Impressive,” Cal said without a hint of patronage. “So, I had a few questions for you, if that’s all right.”

“Shoot,” Sheriff Mouton said.

Cal pulled out his notepad and recorder before proceeding. “Do you have any suspects in Tre’vell’s death?”

“Not yet, but we’re looking into a few leads.”

“What kind of leads?” Cal asked.

“Good ones, I hope. But I won’t know until I investigate a little further.”

“Any leads that might give you a clue as to a motive?”

“This is off the record cause I don’t want this gettin’ out,” Sheriff Mouton said and waited until Cal stopped writing. “Now, we found a crumpled up note in Tre’vell’s bag that said, ‘Don’t make the biggest mistake of your life.’ Now, I don’t know if it’s from a girl or his mama or some punk who was mad about where he was goin’ to school. But that’s about all I’ve got to go on at the moment when it comes to determin’ motive.”

Cal scribbled down a few notes then flipped a few pages before asking another question.

“Did you know of anyone who would want to hurt Tre’vell? From all accounts I’ve heard, he was a pretty good kid.”

“Who you been talkin’ to? His mama?”

Cal bristled at the way Sheriff Mouton dismissed him. He wasn’t one to lie down for a pompous lawman, even if he was in a world he didn’t quite understand.

“Excuse me?” Cal retorted with a twinge of disdain.

“Listen, if there’s one thing I’ve learned as sheriff of Toulon Parish it’s that nobody’s ever innocent. Victim or accused criminal—they’ve all got somethin’ hidden deep that they don’t want anybody to see. Now, it’s my job to find out what they’ve done to suffer such a sudden demise. You find that out, you can just about find out every time who done it. Just keep hangin’ around me, son, and you might just yet become a good reporter.”

Cal seethed as he flipped his notebook shut and politely thanked Sheriff Mouton for his time. Then he turned to walk away.

“Where you goin’ so fast, son? Don’t you know Potter’s gotta get a round off first?” Sheriff Mouton asked.

Sheriff Mouton and his deputy laughed as Potter sneered.

“I don’t have to prove anything to you, Sheriff,” Potter said. “You know I’m a good shot.”

“Yep, you’re such a good shot that you don’t lead any more huntin’ expeditions. I’m sure you forgot to inform your companion about that fact.”

More laughing ensued. Cal watched as Potter grew enraged.

“Gimme that,” Potter said as he snatched the rifle out of the deputy’s hands.

Potter lay on his stomach and steadied the gun. He stared through the scope for several seconds before Sheriff Mouton distracted him.

“Don’t forget that we’re aimin’ for the target and not some random tree out there.”

Potter looked up and glared at the sheriff. He then returned his focus to the scope and aimed the gun. A crack ripped through the swamp, sending a flock of birds skyward.

After a few seconds, the deputy started laughing.

“What is it, Milton?” Sheriff Mouton asked.

“Potter better look out. There’s an angry tree out there that’s going to come after him,” the deputy said.

Potter bristled. “That gun ain’t sighted in right.”

“No, it ain’t,” Sheriff Mouton said. “But I doubt that would’ve made much difference to a guy who couldn’t hit the ocean standing on the beach.”

“Oh, you’re full of good one-liners today,” Potter said.

“I always am.”

Despite the fact that Cal found the situation humorous, he resisted the urge to laugh at his guide. The week was just beginning.

“Now, watch yourself with this ‘un,” Sheriff Mouton said to Cal as he pointed at Potter. “If you get yourself in a fix, call us. If Potter starts shootin’, you might not make it back to Atlanta in one piece, but that’d only be if he got lucky and hit you by mistake. If he’s aimin’ at you, you got nothin’ to worry about.”

Cal smiled, nodded and thanked the sheriff again before he turned and walked with Potter toward the truck. Another round of gunshots echoed throughout the surrounding woods.

“A lot of help he was,” Cal groused once he climbed into the truck and shut the door.

“Aww, that’s just Sheriff Mouton,” Potter said. “You get used to it after a while. He wasn’t elected cause he’s the friendliest son of a gun around here, but he almost always finds his man.”

“Almost always?” Cal asked.

“He’s not perfect, if you ask me. He’s a little arrogant and that’s his downfall sometimes.”

“Well, who do you think would’ve written a note like that to Tre’vell?”

“I ain’t gotta clue. The swamp’s got as many crazies as it does critters.”

CHAPTER 7

DOMINIQUE DIXON KEPT his standing appointment at the Texaco convenience store immediately after school. He and Tre’vell used to grab a couple of quarts of Gatorade and energy bars before football practice. Alone on this excursion for the first time, Dixon struggled to see through bleary eyes as he walked around the store. He grabbed double of everything he needed as he intended to set up a makeshift shrine at practice.

Dixon refused to make eye contact with Tammy, the clerk who worked the afternoon shift. She told him she was sorry to hear about Tre’vell. Dixon nodded, handed her exact change and stumbled outside. He wiped away a tear with his sleeve and then got into his car. That’s when Dixon lost it. He’d briefly cried when he first heard the news, but now reality weighed upon him. Tre’vell was gone, and he wasn’t ever coming back.

He rolled the window down on his Civic and turned the ignition key as it sputtered to life. Parked along the side of the convenience store, Dixon didn’t move. It wasn’t fair, he thought. Tre’vell Baker was one of the good guys, the kind of kid who’d do anything for you, even if it wasn’t convenient for him. Yet it was his good heart that put him on the losing end of a bullet fired by some mystery person for who knows what. None of it made sense. Tre’vell was friends with everybody. How could anyone hurt such a kid?

Dixon snapped back to reality when a silver Range Rover parked right next to him. It was Frank Johnson. Dixon eyed Johnson as he rounded his vehicle and approached him. Johnson put his hands on the door and stooped down to eye level with Dixon.

“Hi, Dominique.”

Dixon wasn’t in the mood. He didn’t want to talk recruiting with Bryant University’s biggest booster in the Louisiana bayou. He figured a cold response might get rid of him. “Sorry to hear about your loss.”

“My loss? What are you talking about?”

“That whippin’ LSU put on your boys two weeks ago.”

Johnson grunted and muttered something that sounded to Dixon something like “those crooked bayou refs,” but he couldn’t be sure.

“Look, I know you’re still grieving. Heck, we all are. Tre’vell was a great kid and I was hoping to see both of you join the Bryant family. But you’ve still got some big decisions to make. And I think you’ve got an offer you can’t easily dismiss.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it right now, Mr. Johnson.”

“Fair enough. But just remember that you aren’t going to get a deal like you’re getting with Bryant anywhere else.”

Dixon snickered but said nothing.

“Oh, has Alabama finally decided to get serious about you?”

Dixon shook his head and said nothing.

Johnson continued his pitch. “Cause if they are, I might be able to up the ante, so to speak.”

Dixon stared straight ahead, refusing to speak.

“All right, suit yourself. You know where to find me.”

With that, Johnson turned and walked away. However, he paused for a moment and dropped a plastic card on the ground. He looked at it for a moment and then walked away.

“Mr. Johnson, you dropped something,” Dixon said.

Johnson looked back at Dixon. “I didn’t drop anything.” He grinned and then climbed back into his Range Rover before driving away.

Dixon shook his head and looked up to see Saint-Parran quarterback D.J. Garnett staring at him.

“What was that all about?” Garnett asked Dixon as he approached his car.

Dixon shook his head. “Crazy old man won’t leave me alone.”

“Is that the Bryant guy?” Garnett asked.

Dixon nodded.

Garnett looked at the ground at the plastic card. “Did you drop this?” He handed the card to Dixon.

“I didn’t, but I’ll take it.”

“Oh, one of those ‘gifts’ you’re not supposed to get?” Garnett asked.

“Yeah, definitely not supposed to get those. But if that old man still thinks I might go to Bryant, I might milk him dry.”

“He’s definitely got a sweet ride.” Garnett then looked at Dixon’s beat-up Civic. “Maybe you can get him to get you a car next time instead of a stupid little gift card.”

Garnett flung the card into Dixon’s window and left.

Practice started in ten minutes and Coach Holloway didn’t tolerate tardiness.

***

A somber mood rested over practice. Dixon was convinced the Saint Parran Tigers were destined for the state championship game with some unlucky team in the Mercedes-Benz Superdome in New Orleans. It was the number one goal written on the chalkboard at the beginning of the season. And a few short days ago, it seemed not only possible but probable. The Tigers mauled their opponents all season long, including perennial powerhouse Haynesville. But Baker was the main reason why. Without Baker, Dixon felt like destiny had abandoned them.

Halfway through practice, head coach Hal Holloway ceased the current drill and ordered everyone to the center of the field.

“I know every one of you guys is hurtin’ right now,” Holloway began. “We’ve all lost a friend and dang good player in Tre’vell. But if we really want to honor his memory, we can’t sit around here mopin’ and goin’ through the motions. Life goes on. And if Tre’vell could speak to us today, he’d tell us to go out there and win this thing for him. There’ll be plenty of time to cry and think about our friend. But we’ve still got a football game Friday night and I want us to make him proud. He’s going to be lookin’ down on us and rootin’ hard. Let’s not disappoint him, OK?”

The players responded with a half-hearted “OK, coach.” Then Dixon stood up.

“Tre’vell and I were best friends, and I’m hurtin’, too,” Dixon said. “We’re all hurtin’. But nothin’ is going to make the pain go away. Tre’vell was the best friend and teammate we could ever ask for.”

Dixon paused and pointed toward the Gatorade and power bar sitting on one of the benches along the sideline.

“I don’t want to forget the sacrifices that Tre’vell made for this team each and every day,” he said as he looked at the small memorial. “He loved each and every one of us. And I want to dedicate this week’s game and the rest of the season to him. Let’s write his number on our shoes, our gloves, our pads, our helmets. But most importantly, let’s write his memory on our hearts. Who’s with me?”

The players’ responses were more animated than after Coach Holloway’s speech. But it wasn’t enough for Dixon.

“I said, ‘Who’s with me?’” he barked.

The entire team in unison responded with a roar.

Dixon looked over at Coach Holloway and winked. Coach Holloway smiled back. Then Dixon called the entire team into the center and they began a series of chants.

Dixon made sure nobody would forget Tre’vell Baker any time soon.

CHAPTER 8

POTTER TURNED THE CORNER past the Texaco gas station and onto the road leading to Saint-Parran’s football stadium.