John Ames - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 128, No. 5. Whole No. 783, November 2006

An hour later, a helicopter came from the direction of Lakefront Airport and flew out over the east, its running lights extra bright, two searchlights scanning back and forth. From the moonlight, Beau thought he caught a white sheen on the craft. Coast Guard chopper.

He settled back and thought of the word describing where he and Cruz lay in wait. It was called a batture, a colloquial term indigenous to New Orleans. Possibly from the French battre: “to beat.” Here on the land between the top of the levee and the water’s edge, along the lake and the river across town, was where the original French settlers beat their washing, against rocks that naturally dotted the area, long before the levees were built up. He could envision the women in long dresses leaning over with their wash as they chattered with one another to ease the boredom. His Cajun ancestors most likely did the same along Vermilion Bay and its bayous.

Beau spent the hours keeping his breathing regular, keeping his senses tuned, keeping himself calm. The Sioux called it the battle calm, a relaxed state bordering on tranquility so when battle was joined a warrior maintained the cool hand and struck true, while his enemies, particularly the white-eyes, let their blood rise to levels that made their aim unreliable.

Over the lapping of the waves, Beau heard the faint scrape of footsteps. He peeked around the concrete and eased off the safety of his .9mm Beretta model 92F. Its rubber grips were tacky from the humidity, providing extra grip, although Beau’s hand was not sweaty in the least.

A figure rose to the top of the levee from the other side, followed by a second, one carrying a rifle, the other a machine gun, and both wearing all black. When the first paused to glance up at the sky, Beau saw the man was wearing night-vision goggles. Damn! Who were these guys?

More footfalls, faint and yet firm, revealed a total of five men now. Besides the one with the rifle, two carried what looked like Steyr machine guns. One started down the levee their way. Beau inched around so he could keep that man and the others in his line of vision.

It didn’t take long for the man to realize and call out, “The boat’s missing!”

“You sure we’re at the right place?”

“Look for the red marker.”

One of the men disappeared beyond the levee momentarily and came right back. “It’s right here.”

“Dammit to hell!”

Feet shuffled and a sharp voice said, “Someone’s here!”

It was instantly followed by, “Police! Freeze!” The second voice was Cruz.

Beau peered around and saw his partner standing with her Beretta in the standard two-hand police grip, her knees bent slightly as she aimed her weapon at the closest man. The men had their weapons trained on her.

Beau flipped the safety back on his Beretta and holstered it, stood with his hands spread, and called out, “Over here.”

Three of the men wheeled toward him.

“We’re NOPD,” Beau said. “And there’s more of us in the boats.” A bluff.

No one moved for three heart-thumping seconds before one of the men in back, one carrying a handgun, eased forward and said, “Beau? Is that you?”

The hair stood out on Beau’s arms and the back of his neck.

“All right, everyone put your weapons down,” said the same man as he came forward, removing his night-vision goggles. Lieutenant Merten’s eyes shone like bright agates as he stepped up to Beau. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Behind Merten the men lowered their weapons and began pulling off their goggles. Beau recognized a robbery detective and an old buddy from the Second who was now on the SWAT team. The fourth man looked young and Beau didn’t know him. The fifth man, taller than the others, kept his goggles on. He was the only white man in the group.

“Put your weapon down, Juanita,” he called out, and Cruz slowly lowered her gun. Beau looked back at Merten and said, “Where’d you leave the latest one? Where it’ll be found easily. So word’ll get out. The criminals will know.”

“Jesus, Beau. What are you doing?” Merten seemed in pain. He leaned closer. “I told you to stay by the airport.”

“Only we know where to find our Most Wanted.” Beau’s voice was deep and even, without emotion. “Only we know who they are, know they’re bad enough to stay behind, too entrenched to evacuate. Wasn’t hard to figure it had to be us.”

“Is he solid?” from the fourth man, the young unknown face leering at Beau.

The fifth man finally removed his goggles and stepped forward. Beau felt a weakness momentarily in his knees. Assistant Superintendent Ashton Garner, the man most NOPD felt should be Chief of Police, the former head of the Training Academy who’d trained his men and women to be like brothers and sisters. It was Garner who made them all feel as if NOPD was family. Us against the world.

Garner tapped the fourth man on the shoulder as he passed and said, “He’s as solid as they come. Notice he’s saying we and us and not ‘y’all did this,’ isn’t he?” Garner arrived next to Merten and stared Beau in the eyes. Beau gave him a poker-faced, lingering, emotionless stare in return.

“This is John Raven Beau,” Garner went on.

“Oh,” said the unknown man. “I hearda him. He’s killed more’n us.”

Killed, Beau thought, not executed, but he kept his mouth shut.

Merten shook his head. “Can’t believe you brought the rookie.”

Beau turned to him. “Looks like we’re all in this now.”

Garner took in a deep breath.

Beau stepped around them and moved to his partner, getting between her and the men, nodding for her to holster her weapon, which she did reluctantly. He turned back and told them where the boats were.

“We’ll show you.” He led Cruz through them to the top of the levee.

No one moved behind them for a few moments before Merten and Garner came along. When they reached the spot where the speedboat was tied up, Beau pointed to it, then turned back to face his lieutenant and assistant superintendent. He waited until the stragglers arrived before he said, “That better be the last one.”

“Who the hell are you to tell us that?” snapped the unknown man. “What is your major malfunction? Man, we nailed Abdon Jeffries, didn’t we?” He raised the high-powered rifle in his hands, the one with the big scope. So this was the sniper, the triggerman.

Beau stared into Garner’s eyes. “If I figured this out, someone else will. And there’s no ‘us’ with the Feds. They’ll nail every one of us, me and Cruz, too, because we know.”

He waited for the recognition to come to Garner’s eyes. He turned to Merten with, “So we’re in this together and tonight’s the last one.”

Beau took Cruz by the arm and they went on to the pirogue, neither looking back. As they were climbing into the flat-bottom boat they heard the angry growl of the speedboat as it backed into the lake, growling louder as it pulled into the dark waters.

Just after they’d passed the 17th Street Canal, they hit something in the water and the outboard died. Beau got it started but it wouldn’t propel them. He raised it and saw why. They’d lost the propeller. So they grabbed the oars and rowed the pirogue over to the Bucktown levee, pulled it up on the grass, and shoved the anchor into the ground before going to the top of the levee to wait for dawn.

Cruz lay on her back, hands behind her head, knees up. Beau sat cross-legged, like a plains warrior sitting around a campfire, and looked out at the lake. He faced the eastern horizon and waited. Motionless, except for breathing and blinking, Beau watched the horizon. He tried his best to keep his heart from racing, as it had when the shadowy figures had closed in on him on the levee. But his heart raced as he watched the horizon; goosebumps covered his arms.