Too Far Gone

78

Alexa and Manseur listened in silence as the car’s radio informed them that refugees from Katrina, using everything from motorcycles to bus-sized RVs, were leaving New Orleans. All of the lanes of the major roads leaving the city were handling one-way traffic only, and the vehicles on the main roads were leaving at a crawl. Vehicles of every description littered the sides of the roadways, some with hoods raised, their occupants waving desperately at passing cars. Even the back roads were bumper-to-bumper. Gasoline stations were mobbed by desperate motorists or people wanting gas for generators, or the stations had run out of fuel.

Mayor Ray Nagin’s strong voice came over the airwaves, pleading. “…believe that. People, the plain fact is that Hurricane Katrina is going to be the most powerful hurricane ever to make landfall in the history of the United States, and it is coming in right here this evening. The water surge, a wall of water twenty feet high, is going to be pushed by two-hundred-mile-per-hour winds up the Mississippi River into Lake Pontchartrain, and it is going overtop the levees. It is suicide to remain in the city, because your homes are going to be flooded. The police are going door to door with orders to forcefully remove everybody found in any home or apartment, and those people are going to be taken to the Superdome, which is twenty feet above sea level. I urge you all to heed this warning and get out of your homes and businesses and remain out of the area until we give an all-clear to return. The police and National Guard will deal with any looters, using all necessary force. If you cannot get out of the city, go to the Superdome now. This is going to be the worst-possible-case scenario storm. I can’t say this any stronger. There are going to be bodies floating in the streets.”

The governor spoke about coordinating state and federal agencies. But a new voice had been added to the dire warnings. President George Bush talked about which federal agencies he was sending and finished his message with “I have just three words to say to the people of New Orleans and the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Get. Out. Now.”

“I guess he’s made himself clear,” Manseur said.

“It’s mind-blowing that people think they can ride this one out,” Alexa said.

“This is New Orleans, Alexa. Where fantasy and denial meet over drinks from sundown to sundown.”

“We need a helicopter to get us around this,” Alexa said.

“I tried to get one. There wasn’t any to be had for two hours.”

“Maybe we should have waited.”

“Look,” Manseur said. “We caught up to Bond and Kennedy’s car.” When Bond saw the blue lights coming up behind his Crown Vic, he slowed and let his ex-partner pass him. Seconds later Bond’s car was riding right behind Manseur’s bumper.

With sirens blaring and blue lights flashing, it took an hour and a half of hard driving on rural highways and snaking parish back roads to get to their destination.

The two-car caravan got to Moody’s landing, where Buddy Lee Tolliver’s sheriff’s department boat had just been unloaded from its trailer and now waited, moored to a dock beside a bait and tackle store. There was a cluster of small boats-a redneck armada-waiting their turn in the channel to be loaded onto trailers, one of which, behind a ratty pickup, was submerged to allow a young boy to drive his boat onto it. One of two deputies dressed in a brown-and-tan uniform stood at the vessel’s center console. He waved at Manseur when he saw him.

“Must be our guide,” Manseur explained to Alexa.

Larry Bond slid out of the other car, wearing hunting boots and camouflage pants like a deer hunter. Detective Kyler Kennedy was dressed the same way.

One of the deputies stood smoking a cigarette beside the truck that had pulled the boat’s trailer, looking up at the fast-moving clouds above him-the early feeder-band edge of a doomsday, two-hundred-mile-per-hour grass-skinner. As he made his way over to the arriving Crown Vics, Alexa noticed the large deputy’s shirt was darkly wet where it stuck to his torso.

“Detective Manseur?” the man asked, looking at the two detectives in camouflage at the second car.

“I’m Manseur.”

The deputy turned to the source of the voice. “Sheriff sends his regards, sir. Kip Boudreaux is going to take you back in there. Kip’s been fishing around here all his life. He’s the sheriff’s cousin by marriage. Going back in there without an experienced man is asking for trouble. Going in after Leland Ticholet anytime is looking hard for trouble. Sheriff said if you need any more men, he’ll try to send a couple. But you know what it’s like right now.”

“How will they find us?” Manseur asked.

“Boudreaux is going to leave markers floating so we can find y’all in case you need us. He was in on arresting Leland a few years back, and he can advise you some on him. Only thing for sure is, he’s one badass sombitch, and pepper spray don’t bother him any more’n a cat fart would. Most people live back in here are tough customers or they don’t make it, but people here go miles out of their way to avoid Leland.”

The deputy reached into his back pocket for an envelope. “It’s his mug shot. He’s six three, weighs two-sixty and he ain’t got a inch to pinch on him. If he decides to fight it out, I’d just go on and shoot him like a hog. Won’t nobody miss him. Y’all best be back out before two o’clock with or without him. Wind is going to be picking up by then and the water is going to get choppy.”

Alexa took the envelope, slipped out the picture, and studied the shirtless, wild-eyed young man with a full head of Medusa-like hair and a wild beard specked with twigs and a forehead marked with small crisscrossing scars. His chest and arm muscles looked like they’d been machined from surgical steel and covered with wet nylon. “His hair is short now,” Alexa said, handing the picture to Manseur. “No beard.”

“How’s radio reception out there?” Manseur asked.

“Real good. There’s repeater towers all over, and you can use cell phones most everywhere in the parish these days. Most of that is on account of the oil companies.”

“Okay, then we’ll advise the sheriff when we make the arrest,” Manseur said.

“I guess I could go along if you want extra help,” the fat deputy offered.

“Thanks anyway. You’ve got your hands full with Katrina. I think we can handle this.”

Alexa saw a flood of relief wash over the deputy’s reddened baby-face. He waddled back over to the truck at twice the speed with which he had approached, lighting another cigarette as he went.

Manseur popped the trunk of his car, picked up a 12-gauge Mossberg shotgun. He loaded the magazine with 12-gauge buckshot rounds. He did the same with a second shotgun. Alexa took a ballistic vest from the trunk and slipped it on. Manseur put his on, then pulled on a black baseball cap with NOPD emblazoned in gold. He handed Alexa a plain dark blue ball cap and a windbreaker with POLICE in three-inch letters across the shoulders in the rear and the same word in smaller letters over the left breast.

Alexa looked down and noticed that Manseur was wearing his brown wingtips. “Don’t you have any other shoes?”

“These are very comfortable,” he said. “I don’t own any Keds.”

“Keds?” Alexa laughed. “Do they still sell Keds?”

A sudden hissing made Alexa turn. Bond was spraying his ankles with repellant from a green aerosol can. “Chiggers,” he explained. He handed the can to Alexa. “Spray yourself good. There’s also mosquitoes, ticks-”

“I’ve had chigger bites before.” Alexa accepted the can and sprayed herself liberally. “Nothing short of losing an arm in a machine could be worse than chigger bites.”

Bond and Kennedy opened gun cases and removed high-powered rifles with telescopic sights and slings.

“The signal is coming from five miles west of here,” Manseur said.

“There’s a labyrinth of bayous and canals and you can’t go anywhere back in there by straight lines. This is by far the closest road in any direction,” Bond added.

Alexa looked toward the ramshackle store. She spotted an emaciated and hump-shouldered young man, whose nose was so long and sharp that-coupled with the shoots of blond hair radiating out from his head-he appeared as much bird as human. He leaned against the corner of the building watching the detectives through narrowed eye slits. When he saw that Alexa was looking at him, he averted his gaze and slipped around the corner like a starving but fearful dog.

“How many boat launches are there around here?” she asked.

“Not many,” Bond offered. “One other within five miles.”

“You’re familiar with this place?” Alexa asked.

“I’ve fished some around here a few times. With a guide.”

“We should ask inside if they know Leland,” Alexa said. “This is likely where he buys fuel.”

Manseur reached into his pocket and took out the picture of Grace and Doc, which he showed to Bond and Kennedy. “This other one is Andy Tinsdale. He’s the guy that Casey West shot. Hasn’t showed up in any clinics or hospitals and he isn’t home. Hopefully, he’s still with Leland.”

Alexa accompanied Manseur into the store while Bond and Kennedy went to the boat to load their equipment and meet the pilot. There were people shopping inside. A couple of rough-looking fishermen in oily clothes were standing at the counter, and they moved back as Manseur and Alexa approached. The radio droned warnings. The shelves, made of unpainted lumber, were almost cleaned of canned foods. The square-headed man behind the counter was built on the order of a potbellied stove. The cap perched on his head was so grimy, it was impossible to read the logo. He blew his nose into a red and white bandanna and shoved it into his back pocket. Coils of black hair seemed to be growing from his shirt up his neck like wisteria vines, and covered his forearms and the backs of his hands like fur.

“I’m Allen Moody, the owner. Can I help you folks?” he asked, lighting a cigar that had probably been lit on several previous occasions.

Manseur flashed his badge. “You know this man?” he asked, showing a mug shot picture of Leland Ticholet.

Moody leaned forward to get a better look, taking a pair of reading glasses from the counter and putting them on. The fishermen strained to look, without moving in closer.

“’At’s Lelun,” Moody said. “He’s crazy as a rat in a milk pail.”

“Tickerlay’s his name,” a young fisherman said, nodding. “Some call him Tickle.”

“You wouldn’t want him to catch you calling him Tickle,” another fisherman added. “He ain’t got a sense of humor. He’s a lot like his daddy was in that respect. A sorrier sample of a man than that Jacklon never drew breath.”

“He sure shit never drew a sober one,” Moody said, chuckling.

The older fisherman nodded in agreement.

“’At’s a pure-dee fact,” Moody agreed. “His redbone second wife, Alice Fay, killed him.”

“Red Bone?” Alexa asked.

“That’s an Indian and nigger mix,” the younger fisherman translated.

The older fisherman elbowed his younger buddy, who frowned, realizing he’d made a social faux pas. “I certainly didn’t mean to insult you by that, miss,” he mumbled.

“You get on Lelun’s bad side and you can go missing. Like some done recently,” the older fisherman said.

“What do you mean?” Alexa asked.

“Game warden name of Parnell was asking about Lelun a few days back, ’cause he was thinking Lelun bought that new boat he’s been riding around in with alligator hide profits. Wanted to know where he stayed at,” Moody said. “Now they’re looking for Parnell and a lady warden that was with him yesterday. I wouldn’t be surprised if they never found a trace of them.”

“That Parnell’s a pure-dee bastard,” the older fisherman declared. “He probably checks his own licenses hoping he can write his own self a citation ticket.”

The fishermen and Moody laughed. The sound was that of a donkey fighting with seals.

Manseur showed them the picture of the young man standing with Dorothy Fugate. “What about this one?”

“The woman, or him?” Moody asked.

“Him. Have you seen him before? Maybe with Ticholet?”

“Never seen anybody with Lelun. Well, this one time a few days back a man was with him, but I didn’t get close enough for a look. Figured he was taking him fishing or something. You could ask Grub. He’s right nosy.”

“Grub?” Alexa asked.

“What’d Lee do this time?” one of the fishermen asked.

“He stole that boat,” the store owner announced. “I knew he don’t have that kind of money sitting around. That boat cost thirty thousand if it cost a nickel. He was driving a beat-to-shit aluminum fourteen flat-bottom with an old smoke-belching Johnson on it one day, the next he’s in that new one, riding around like the king of the bayous.”

“What did he say about the new boat?” Manseur asked.

“I asked him about it and he said it was payment for some jobs he was doing for a somebody, who he didn’t name. I figured he was fulla shit and stole it somewhere. Maybe knocked some poor bastard in the head for it. I wouldn’t want him taking a fancy to anything I had.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Late last night he come by and fueled up.”

“You think he done in them wardens?” the older fisherman asked.

“Was he alone?” Alexa asked.

“Have to ask Grub. He was around. He always is.”

“Where is this Grub?” Alexa asked.

“He’s the retard works outside,” the younger fisherman said. “Wormy-lookin’ kid.”

Alexa decided she could talk to this Grub later.

“Any of y’all know where Leland’s camp is?” Manseur asked.

The men fell silent, blinking at him like owls.

“Okay. We’ll find it.”

“You do and you might wish you hadn’t,” Allen Moody said, with certainty.