John Miller - Too Far Gone

Fifty seconds later, a woman in a business suit exited the elevator, strode over the composite-stone flooring to Alexa, and ordered her to follow her upstairs.

They rode up in silence with an assortment of police detectives and office workers. The escort stepped out and, walking fast down the wide corridor, led Alexa through a waiting room, an outer office, and to a door marked SUPERINTENDENT OF POLICE. The woman tapped twice and swung open the door, stepping aside to let Alexa pass into an expansive room where framed photographs, awards, and newspaper and magazine articles pertaining-and flattering-to Jackson Evans covered the walls like scales on a carp.

Jackson Evans sat regally behind his desk in his uniform. Michael Manseur was slumped in the chair opposite. Both men stood when she entered.

“Come in, Alexa,” Evans boomed in his finest microphone-ready voice. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“Detective Manseur,” Alexa said, nodding, “Superintendent Evans.”

“Please, in this room, it’s Michael and Jackson,” Evans corrected. “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Alexa?”

“No, thank you…Jackson,” she said, cordially, trying not to smile at how the men’s names fit together into what some would see as a comical arrangement. She took the chair beside Manseur. “Nice to see you again, Detective.”

“My pleasure, Agent Keen,” Manseur said, suddenly yawning into his hand. “Excuse me.”

“So I guess we all know why we’re here, Alexa.” Evans sat down and rocked back in his chair, crossing his legs. “I had a brief conversation a little while ago with your director. He asked me if it might be advantageous if the FBI were to maintain a presence in the form of one Special Agent Alexa Keen. He also offered expedited lab service and whatever additional manpower support we should require, which Agent Keen would coordinate. I must say that having the Bureau’s resources at our disposal is a plus. Let’s hope that Mr. West comes home with a hangover and his tail tucked between his legs and that we won’t need the FBI’s gracious assistance.”

Alexa nodded. Manseur sat in silence.

“If he’s going to return under his own steam, he’ll likely do it by noon,” Evans said. “Can we all agree on that? Hell, maybe he evacuated ahead of his wife and daughter.”

“I suspect that’s correct,” Manseur said. “Not that he evacuated. That he’ll come in by noon if he can do so.”

“Let’s hope so,” Alexa said.

Evans went on, smiling, “Alexa, I’ve been talking to Michael and this is how we both think this should work. Michael will be handling this as his case along with Kennedy of Missing Persons. I know this is a missing persons case and should be Kennedy’s baby until such time as the situation changes, but I believe that, due to Detective Kennedy’s lack of experience with high-profile, high-pressure cases, Michael should head the team. I hope you can work alongside them, Alexa, to monitor the situation as things develop and not seize the case.”

“If there even is a case,” Alexa replied. “Might just be premature evacuation.”

Evans nodded, his smile drying up.

“Michael has agreed to work on this case exclusively until it’s successfully resolved.”

Alexa nodded slowly. Evans wanted only to come out of this with applause from the right people, and hopefully a nice award for his wall. She heard herself say, “Of course.” As long as you don’t put up any walls I have to knock down.

“I hope it won’t take too long,” Manseur said, sadly.

“It shouldn’t take long,” Jackson Evans said. His words contained equal parts of optimism and threat.

If Gary West didn’t come back, Alexa wondered, how long would it be before she’d have to shove everybody to one side so she could do what needed to be done?

The rising sun turned the eastern windows of the listing cabin a brilliant hot-fire orange. Standing shirtless on the plywood trap-floor, Leland Ticholet stood in the doorway studying the murky surface of the still water in the channel and eating instant coffee granules out of the jar with a spoon.

His guest was still exactly where he’d laid him out on the cot. Bringing the guy out for Doc had cost Leland a day of taking care of his own business, but since he would own the boat moored to his dock for one job of work, it did sort of balance out. He was thinking about all the nutria that were, at that moment, swimming around in his water, eating his vegetation into extinction, pooping floating black pellets by the hundreds, screwing like rabbits, and just plain asking for it while he stood there with his thumb up his ass babysitting some worthless shit-hole, long-haired city boy.

Leland was not comfortable sharing his cabin with anyone, asleep or awake. He couldn’t remember anybody but his daddy, and some of his ’shine customers, ever being inside it. Not one visitor since his daddy passed, and Leland hadn’t ever wanted another one. He didn’t have any conversations he could avoid. In his world, he could go weeks without saying a word out loud, or seeing another human being except in a passing boat.

Leland didn’t own the waterways or any of the land that touched it, yet it was his to use as he saw fit, just as it had been his father’s, and his father’s father’s before him. Leland was like a female alligator that tolerated the presence of others as long as they didn’t get too close to her nest or she wasn’t hungry enough to go after them.

Using an electric trolling motor so’s not to be heard by their quarry, Wildlife and Fisheries Enforcement Officer Elliot Parnell and rookie Betty Crocker pulled up on the eastern finger of dry land, one of two thinly forested and weed-choked tracts that sheltered Ticholet’s shallow bay. The sixty-yard-long bay ranged from a width of twenty-five yards at its mouth to fifteen at the back, where a U-shaped dock, which was anchored on both ends, held the floating cabin in place.

Crouching and moving slowly, Betty followed Parnell to the hidden camera and watched as her superior removed it from the tree with the giddy enthusiasm of a child on Christmas sneaking downstairs ahead of the family to get a surreptitious look at his presents.

The new boat was gone, so their subject was off, presumably doing something illegal. As a kneeling Parnell was opening the viewing screen, Betty realized she was sweating to the point where her uniform was sticking to her skin. The still August air was muggy. She wished the hurricane would come on and push some wind through the swamps. They were supposed to be riding around the camps making sure everybody that lived around the area knew a monster-ass storm was coming right at them, and would most likely deroof and maybe remove any trace of the rickety-ass buildings that dotted the swamps. They were supposed to be helping the Sheriff’s office by making sure all these poor sons of bitches knew staying was dumb as shit. Like the rat-faced inbred scamps that lived back in here ever came upon a smart idea. Everyone they had told said something like: “She’ll turn.” “This camp’s been here through ten big hurricanes.” “If my dog runs for it, I’ll be right behind her.” Most of them were dumb, paranoid, suspicious, and as quick to pull a gun as crack dealers. Maybe no hurricane would be more apt to kill them than it would a snapping turtle. Parnell had been told that the investigation into Leland Ticholet was not a priority, but he had a hard-on for Leland, and that was it. And she didn’t like the way Parnell was always looking at her out of the corner of his piggy eyes. First time he tried to mess with her, she’d be filing one of those sex harassment lawsuits on his fat ass.