John Ringo: Princess of Wands

He uncoiled wires as she opened the hood, then hooked up and gave her a sign. Click.

“Connections are tight,” he called from under the hood then shut it. “Got to take it to the shop.”

“Is there a mechanic available?” she asked.

“I’m the mechanic,” the man said, giving his first grin. “Mechanic, tow truck driver and owner. Claude Thibideau. I’ll get you fixed, long as we got the part.”

“And if you can’t?” she asked.

“Order it from New Orleans,” he said, drawling the name as “Nawleen.” “Sometime they can’t get out this far on a Saturday. Don’t deliver on Sunday neither. Might be Monday before I can get it fixed. You okay with the hotel?”

“Just fine,” Barbara replied, lightly, trying not to curse. It was getting very hard. “Very nice atmosphere.”

“What you doin’ down here, anyway?” the mechanic asked as he hooked the car up to tow. The truck was the old fashioned kind that actually pulled the car rather than putting it up on a lift-bed.

“Just… traveling,” Barbara replied. “Seeing new sights. Do you want me to come with you?”

“Be best,” the man said from under the car. “If it’s a part, I’ll give you a ride back to town. Ain’t much to see. Send word when I can get it fixed.”

“I’ve got a book,” Barb replied. “Could I take just a minute?”

“Sure,” the mechanic replied. “Gots all day.”

Barbara had dressed for the anticipated drive in her boots, a pair of jeans, a cream silk blouse and a dark leather jacket. But the outfit was far too warm to go wandering around Thibideau; already the town was steaming in the morning heat. So she popped back in the hotel, tiptoeing past the sleeping attendant or owner or whatever she was and slipped into the bathroom.

A quick rummage in her bag showed that she’d failed to anticipate heat at all. All of the blouses were long sleeve. The jeans she could survive and the boots were fine but she really needed something lighter. Right at the bottom of the bag her hand closed on what felt like a T-shirt. Pulling it out she frowned and shook her head. The shirt had been given to her as a joke by her sister. Once upon a time, Barb had been madly smitten with Middle Earth. When she was fourteen she had sworn that she was going to name her first female daughter Galadriel and she’d wanted, badly, to be an elven princess.

So her sister Kate, who still read fantasy and even went to those convention things, had sent her the T-shirt. Sighing, she pulled it out and changed, quickly, making sure that the color of her bra didn’t show through. It was the coolest thing she had to wear so for once fashion was going to have to take a back seat to comfort. It wasn’t like she was planning on making this place a regular stop or had anyone to impress. And if Thibideau, Louisiana couldn’t handle a… well-stuffed T-shirt with the caption “Aloof Elven Princess” on it, they could… well, that was just too bad.

“Carlane Lancereau was born in Nitotar, which is in Thibideau Parish,” Kelly said, tossing a file on Lieutenant Chimot’s desk. “Madame Charlotte says he’s ‘gone back to the swamps from whence he come.’ ”

“That’s gotta be a quote,” Chimot said, opening the file and glancing in it. “You’ve never said whence in your life. Isn’t much of anything comes from Thibideau Parish.”

“Except hookers, drug dealers and pimps,” Kelly replied. “I want to go down there.”

“Way out of our jurisdiction, Sergeant,” Chimot said, raising an eyebrow. “Why? It’s not like you don’t have enough work here.”

“Gut?” Kelly replied. “I want to see if I can find him. He’s still only a material witness, not even a suspect. Not much we can do but ask questions. And Thibideau’s got almost nothing in the way of police; we can’t just drop the detain order on them and hope they track him down.”

“We got a make on one of the johns Claudette was seeing the evening of her disappearance,” the lieutenant said, rubbing his chin. “Previous arrest for battery and a kidnapping that got downgraded to a misdemeanor solicitation charge. Judge decided he was telling the truth that he’d just picked up a prostitute and had a misunderstanding about the price.”

“Fine,” Kelly said. “Let somebody else run it down, I want to go looking for Carlane. I’ll be back on Monday, latest.”

“Go,” the lieutenant said, shrugging. “But you draw a weapon and you’d better have an iron-clad reason. One that will survive Thibideau justice.”

“You mean they’ve got a judge down there?” Kelly said, grinning, as he picked up the file and walked out the door.

“Ma’am,” the mechanic said, walking into the dirty waiting room and wiping his hands on a towel that was so grungy it was adding to the mess, “can’t hardly tell you how sorry I am. It’s the alternator, all right, and the local warehouse is flat out. Be Monday before they can get one to me. I’ll get you going quick when it comes in, though.”

“Fine,” Barbara said, closing her book and setting it back in her purse. “That will be fine.”

“I can give you a ride back to the hotel…”

“Is there a restaurant around?” Barb asked, her stomach rumbling. There was a concession machine in the waiting room but one look at the contents had convinced her not to try it. She’d rarely seen fly-specks inside of one before.

“The bait shop’s got a bar that serves food,” Mr. Thibideau said, shrugging. “They do a fine jambalaya. You can get bacon and eggs and such as well, but I do recommend their jambalaya.”

She’d had pork fried rice any number of times for breakfast in Thailand, but jambalaya for breakfast would be a first.

“Could you drop me off?” she asked, sweetly.

It was a two hour ride from New Orleans to Thibideau, even in what was clearly an unmarked police car. The roads for the last hour were all two lane and twisted in and out among the bayous. There was very little in the way of signs of habitation and what there was tended to be rattle-down tar-paper shacks. It was hard to believe that no more than sixty miles away as the crow flies there was a major metropolis.

Thibideau was in keeping with the rest of the area, not much more than a wide spot in the eternal swamps. He parked by the courthouse in a spot marked for police vehicles and walked inside, passing an untended reception area and looking for any signs of life. He finally found it in the county clerk’s office where a harassed looking woman in her forties was sorting through paper.

“Detective Sergeant Lockhart, New Orleans PD,” he said, holding out his badge and ID. “Was wondering if you knew where I could find the local sheriff?”

“Died,” the clerk said, shrugging. “Last month. Heart attack. Deputy Mondaine’s doing his job.”

“Sorry about that,” Kelly said, unconvincingly. “Where can I find Deputy Mondaine?”

“Around now?” the clerk said, shrugging. “Maybe down at the bait store getting lunch.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know a Carlane Lancereau by any chance?” Lockhart said, smiling.

“Never heard of him,” the clerk replied. “Some Lancereau up Nitotar way, but they live out in the bayou. Gotta take a boat and asking them questions won’t get you nowhere. Maybe the deputy can help.”

“Could you, perhaps, call him on the radio?” Kelly asked, smiling again.

“Broke,” the clerk said. “I got to find this damned title, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Lockhart replied. “Thank you for all your help.”

The jambalaya was good but it was also fiery with spice and the restaurant didn’t serve unsweetened tea. So she was drinking Diet Coke, which was the best of a bad lot, to wash down the fiery jambalaya, then having another spoon of the jambalaya to wash out the taste of the Coke.