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Chapter 29
September 2004
Marianne burned
up the telephone lines the next morning, sharing the news. Her
mother's joy at the engagement was tempered by Mari's wish to
be married in Lafayette, but she gave in to the bride-to-be's
choice. Emma's congratulations seemed a bit muted, but sincere.
Elizabeth's reaction could not be called muted at all.
"HE DID?" Lizzy's voice could be heard half-way
across Mari's den. "IT'S ABOUT TIME!"
"Calm down
there, Lizzy. I've only got two ears. Don't blow away one of
them."
"Sorry -
I'm just SO excited for you! So, how did he do it? I want details!"
"He proposed
here, after my concert. It was very lovely."
"Why do
I think you're leaving something out?"
Mari laughed. "I'll
tell you later; I've got too many other calls to make. Umm…hang
on." Chris was trying to get her attention.
"I've got Will
on my cell phone - he said yes," he reported.
"Wonderful!
I'll talk to him later." Mari returned to her call. "Lizzy,
I want you to stand in my wedding."
"I'd be
happy to. Who else is in the party?"
"Well, my sister,
Margaret, will be Maid of Honor. Then, there's you and Emma,
at least. Chris has already asked Will to be Best Man."
There was a pause.
"Will's going to be in the wedding? Wow, that's a first."
"What do you
mean?"
"Well, he
missed both Jane's and Emma's."
"Lizzy, do
you have a problem with Will? I thought y'all were friends."
"We are!
I'm just surprised…You know, it's really none of my business."
Chris walked over,
seeing the frown on Mari's face. "Something wrong?"
"It's Lizzy,
asking about why Will missed the Bingley and Katz weddings."
"No! It's
all right!" Lizzy
cried.
"I'll take
it," Chris offered. "Lizzy, you have a question about
Will?"
"No! I was
just being nosey. I'm sorry."
"Lizzy, I can't
speak for Jane's wedding, but didn't you know he was out of the
country for Emma's?"
"No, I didn't
know."
"He was living
in London that year."
"Chris,
please drop it. I'm really embarrassed I opened my big mouth.
I would be overjoyed to be in your wedding, and having Will in
it just makes me happier. All right?"
"Great. Having
you involved makes Mari and me very happy, too. Here's the pretty
girl, again." Chris handed the phone back to his fiancée,
who spoke to Lizzy for a few more minutes before hanging up.
She turned to Chris before calling the next person on her list.
"Will was really
in London when Emma and George got married?"
"Yeah. He was
working in the European offices of DGS."
"Well, that
makes sense, but what about Jane and Chuck's?"
"I think you
know the answer about that."
She nodded her head.
"He was avoiding us, particularly Lizzy." She looked
at Chris. "When did that change?"
"Sometime in
the last couple years. It's like he came to grips with everything
that happened: the scandal, his dad's death, running the company,
blaming himself…"
"Blaming himself?"
cried Mari. "Whatever for?"
Chris sighed. "It's
the way Will is. He took a lot of responsibility for how things
turned out five years ago." As Mari began to protest, he
held up his hand. "I know - water under the bridge. I think
it's best we let it go and be thankful he's back in our lives."
Mari sat quietly
thinking. Lizzy still loves him. Does William realize that?
Should we clue him in? Does he still care for Lizzy? Should we
help? Do we dare?
"Marianne,
no," Chris said.
"What?"
"We are not
setting up Lizzy and Will."
"How do you
know I was thinking that?"
"Because, my
love, you can't stand having your friends one bit less happy
than you are."
"So, you think
I'm happy, huh?" she grinned.
"Yes."
He leaned down to kiss her.
"Well, you're
right." She met his lips with her own, which kept them occupied
for some time.
~*~*~
Even with all the
death and destruction already visited on Florida that hurricane
season, Nature was not done yet with the Sunshine State. On September
26, Category 3 Hurricane Jeanne followed the path laid by Hurricane
Francis three weeks earlier, slamming into the Atlantic coast
city of Port St. Lucie. In this so-called Summer of Storms, Florida
had been hit by a record five tropical storms, three of them
major hurricanes, killing over one hundred Americans and causing
thirty billion dollars in damages.
The year 2004 would
have a total of fifteen named storms, including a rare tropical
storm in late November, with nine of them reaching hurricane
strength or beyond. Forecasters warned that the nation was entering
a period where more storms, and more intense ones, could be expected.
~*~*~
October 2004
Carrie Buford, a
permanent employee in the Office of Administration of the State
of Louisiana, walked the halls of the State Capital Annex building
in Baton Rouge, dressed in her usual power suit - navy pin-stripe
with a pencil skirt, a cream blouse and navy stiletto heels.
Her state ID badge swung from a lanyard around her neck. Her
red hair was pulled into a tight bun. Her intention was to appear
no-nonsense, and she would have pulled it off if she could just
stop yawning. But it was hard to impress the eagles in the morning
when your night owl kept you up all night.
Just wait, she thought as she vowed revenge on
that particular bird, just wait 'til the next time you have
an early tee time, Johnny-boy. I'm going to rock your world so
hard you'll have trouble breaking ninety.
She entered the
small conference room to find her appointment already waiting
for her. "Ellie, it's so good to see you," she said
as she hugged the African American woman.
Ellie Elliot, erstwhile
member of the LSU Golden Girls and currently an assistant to
the Mayor of New Orleans, returned the sentiment. "Girl,
you are looking good. That soldier-boy's taking care of
you?" Carrie's bawdy grin was her only answer, and Ellie
cracked up. "Oooo, I'm SO jealous!"
"No luck on
the boyfriend front?"
Ellie sat down,
crossing her legs. "Girlfriend, there's only one
thing on their minds, and since I'm no hottie from the 'hood,
they can just take their act somewhere else." Her blouse
had red, white and blue vertical stripes, the colors of the City
of New Orleans, and her suit jacket had a silver fleur de
lies on the lapel. "And how's that baby of yours?"
The two spent another
couple of minutes catching up, but they had work to do, and time
was wasting. The purpose of the get-together was to compare notes
prior to the meeting of the committee the governor had established
to review the response to Hurricane Ivan. Carrie was representing
the state; Ellie represented the city.
Carrie checked her
notes. "It seems the State Police has become a believer
in Contraflow. They report no problems."
"No problems,
you mean, once they started it," Ellie shot back.
"The governor
was taking advice from State Police."
"She should
have been listening to the local officials, Carrie."
"That's the
purpose of this committee, to fine-tune the response and improve
the communication and coordination between state and local officials."
"Sounds good."
"Now the local
reaction. It didn't help that the locals didn't follow the plan."
Ellie sighed. "Carrie,
there was nothing the city could do about Jefferson jumping the
gun." The evacuation was supposed to be staged, and the
majority of Jefferson Parish was last on the list, but the panicked
parish president broke with the very plan he had helped draw
up and ordered an immediate evacuation at 10:30 a.m., right after
the governor's speech.
"True. But
what about the city? Why didn't the mayor use the school buses
like the plan outlined?"
"Carrie, those
buses belong to the Orleans Parish School Board. We have to get
their cooperation."
"Then get it
- or force it. He IS the mayor."
Ellie sighed. "The
mayor's legal counsel disagrees. We're not sure the mayor has
the authority."
Carrie sputtered.
"Not sure he has the authority? Ellie, he's the mayor!
Believe me, he has the authority. Check your state law."
"We're more
worried about local ordinances. Another issue is the school board
is very territorial. They're already concerned about the possibility
of the city taking over the schools from them, like what happened
in Chicago. We take those busses and anything happens to them,
they could sue the city. We're self-insured, so it could cost
us hundreds of thousands of dollars."
Carrie's mind wrestled
with the fact that the mayor of the state's largest city was
more concerned with liability issues than public safety. "Is
that why he didn't order a mandatory evacuation?"
Ellie nodded. "Our
lawyers aren't sure he has the legal authority, and without it,
we're left hanging naked to lawsuits."
Her years in state
government had taught Carrie to hide her feelings, otherwise
Ellie would have beheld one disgusted woman. "Okay, enough
on that. At least the refugees didn't tear up the Superdome like
they did in '98 during Georges."
"Amen to that."
"Next item:
Did you have enough satellite phones?"
~*~*~
There are several
ways for a community to inform outsiders about what they have
to offer in the way of business opportunities. Many place ads
in magazines for people in the site selection industry, which
means site selection professionals have the opportunity to ignore
the ads. At least the magazines make money.
Another strategy
is to go directly to the decision makers - the business owners.
Instead of ads, they place stories about the community or its
region in national publications, like Newsweek, Fortune, The
Economist, the Washington Post, or the New York
Times. The stories have to be true, of course, or they won't
be printed. If enough of these stories are inserted, one can
change opinions about a region.
EDNO was using that
strategy. Newspapers and magazines were always looking for stories.
By using a strategic public affairs firm like DCI Group or Rosica,
the articles can be targeted to the right publications.
To sell a community
thoroughly to a bunch of writers and reporters, there was nothing
like the tried-and-true "dog and pony show" - a guided
tour of the places, industries and infrastructure one was trying
to promote. Lizzy's mission in October was to plan and produce
a two-day press junket promoting the Ports of New Orleans, South
Louisiana and St. Bernard. The members of the volunteer committees
offered their services, none more than DGS.
So on one of the
famous mild October days Louisianans live for, Lizzy and Eddie
Masters were hosting a water-borne tour of the ports along the
Mississippi on a DGS tugboat with the CEOs of all three ports
and Mr. DGS himself. The ten reporters joining them were from
national news publications, industry magazines and USA Today.
Lizzy was glad William
offered the use of the tugboat. It lent an air of authenticity
to the event that a pleasure boat could not provide. The engine
was loud, so the group huddled close together toward the bow
of the craft. Masters pointed out the facilities along the riverbanks,
including the Naval Support Activity Center.
"We're going
downriver, past the Audubon Institute's Species Survival Center,
and we'll turn around near English Turn," Masters informed
the guests.
"English Turn?
Isn't that the golf course where they play the PGA tournament?"
one of the reporters asked.
"No, it's got
something to do with the Battle of New Orleans," said another.
"Actually,
the incident you're speaking of happened in 1699."
Everyone turned
to Will Darcy.
"It was right
after the founding of the city by the Le Moyne brothers, Iberville
and Bienville. Bienville was heading down river when he came
across a British warship coming up river to choose a site for
a settlement. Bienville convinced the captain that the territory
was in the possession of the French and that they had a large
force in New Orleans. The ship turned around and left the area.
It was a lie, of course. Except for a handful of men with Bienville,
the place was completely open. The bend of the river where this
happened is called English Turn, and the golf course is named
after it."
Masters grinned.
"You didn't know you were getting a history lesson on this
trip, did you?"
"So that's
why the area is French?" the first reporter asked Darcy.
"Yes. The French
crown sent a lot of settlers here, and the Acadians came after
being expelled from Canada. The US bought the place in 1803 during
the Louisiana Purchase. Do you know that the original idea was
to buy only the City of New Orleans?"
The crowd shook
their heads, and William got into his story.
"President
Thomas Jefferson knew that the US would never grow if it couldn't
get its crops and trade goods out of the new territories east
of the Appalachian Mountains. He knew that whoever controlled
New Orleans controlled the Mississippi River and the central
part the continent. He sent his people to France to buy the place
from Napoleon. The Emperor needed funds to continue fighting
his war against Europe; and, after a slave revolt in Haiti, he
knew France couldn't hold the place against the British. So he
sold not only the city, but all of France's claims in the center
of the continent."
"So when was
the Battle of New Orleans?" asked the second reporter.
"That was during
the War of 1812. The battle was January 8, 1815."
"Oh, yeah,"
said the first. "I saw a movie about that. Jean Laffite,
the pirate, saved Andrew Jackson and beat the British, but it
didn't matter, because the war had already ended."
Will grinned as
he shook his head. "It shouldn't surprise you to learn that
Hollywood got it wrong. A little background first. The British
may have granted the US its independence in 1783, but they didn't
like it or respect it. The British Navy, in particular, didn't
recognize British citizens who had become Americans. During the
Napoleonic Wars, they would stop American ships and press men
- in effect, kidnap them - on the grounds that they were British
citizens and not naturalized Americans. Finally, in 1812, the
US declared war on Great Britain.
"For the first
couple of years, the Brits were too busy fighting the French
to worry about their troubles with us. But, after a failed invasion
of Canada by US troops, they changed their minds and thought
to teach us upstarts a lesson. First, they invaded Virginia in
1814 and burned Washington DC."
"The story
of Dolly Madison and the portrait of George Washington,"
someone in the back piped up.
Will smiled. "Right.
Do you remember what happened next?"
"Baltimore
and Fort McHenry. They attacked, and we beat them back. That
was when Francis Scott Key wrote The Star Spangled Banner."
Will nodded. "But
the British weren't finished. Their commander-in-chief really
hated Americans and wanted to hurt them for all time. He came
up with a plan to seize the City of New Orleans and begin a conquest
of the Louisiana Territory. He had a full British army brought
over, headed by the Duke of Wellington's brother-in-law, General
Pakenham. The plan was to grab New Orleans in a lightening strike
and use it as a base to take as much of Louisiana as possible.
"The Americans
got wind of the plan and rushed their best general, Andrew Jackson,
to the place. Louisiana had been a state since 1812. Once in
New Orleans, he got word from the privateer Jean Laffite that
the British had tried to bribe him to turn traitor. Laffite may
have been a smuggler and criminal, but he hated the Brits more
than he disliked American law enforcement officials. Laffite
sent several cannons with crews, including his brother, Dominic
You. But Laffite himself was never at the battle."
Will looked over
the side of the tug, and pointed out a tall structure on the
east bank, half hidden by trees. "See that obelisk? That's
where Jackson's line was. When Jackson learned that the British
had landed on December 23, he immediately attacked them and threw
off their plans. Both sides then built defensive positions. The
Brits would try twice to push Jackson off his position, but they
failed both times."
As William told
the tale, Lizzy watched him attentively. William grew more dynamic
as he described the hardships the British forces faced that bitterly
cold winter of 1814-15. She saw how he held his audience spellbound,
his usually closed features open and animated. Lizzy could not
but be pleased at his performance and his energy. Some small
part of her wanted to claim this man as her own.
But that's ridiculous.
Any chance of that happening is buried in the past. He's your
friend. That's all we will ever be, she realized with a twinge of pain.
Will continued.
"Pakenham grew desperate. He launched a full-scale attack
on the morning of January 8. A full British army, eight thousand
men, advanced upon the earthworks defended by some American Regulars,
local militia, Barataria Bay pirates, Choctaw Indian warriors,
and free black soldiers, about 3,500 men in all. The Brits were
murdered - three hundred dead, including Pakenham, 1,200 wounded,
and almost 500 missing or captured. American losses were thirteen
dead and about sixty wounded or missing. The British were forced
to withdraw from Louisiana. It was one of the worst defeats in
British history.
"About a month
afterwards, it was learned that the Treaty of Ghent, ending the
war, had been signed on Christmas Eve. That's why some people
say the battle was fought after the war was over."
Will looked around.
"Here's why that's wrong. True, the treaty was status
quo ante bellum, that is, everything back to the way it was
before the war. However, the treaty wasn't ratified until February
16, over a month after the battle. The Brits attacked New Orleans
because they knew it was the most strategic location in America.
Control New Orleans and you control the Mississippi River, and
therefore the United States. Do you really think they would have
given it back if they had won on the Plains of Chalmette on January
8? Have the Brits given Gibraltar back to the Spanish?"
Will was on fire.
"This is why New Orleans is so important. The largest port
in the nation is here. This is where we ship the food and grains
of the Midwest and Great Plains to the rest of the world. Much
of the oil and gas produced in this country flows through our
pipelines. Our chemical plants make the plastics and chemicals
we can't do without.
"Lincoln knew
this place was important. It was the first major city seized
in the Civil War. The Nazis knew this place was important. We
had U-boats crawling off the mouth of the Mississippi River during
World War II. The Commies knew this place was important. We were
a first-strike target for their nuclear weapons during the Cold
War."
He looked at the
reporters assembled. "And that's why we have you here -
to tell the rest of the country that this place is important
- maybe one of the most important places in the nation."
He leaned back,
his speech ended. "Sorry for the lecture. I hope I didn't
bore anyone."
"No, no, don't
apologize," cried Masters. "I don't think anyone could
have explained how important we are better than that, Mr. Darcy."
He turned to the reporters. "Now, if I can call your attention
to the side, I'll show you the Port of St. Bernard."
While the group
was thus occupied, Lizzy approached William. "That was quite
the talk, Will. I didn't know you knew so much history."
Will grinned. "It's
a hobby of mine. I'm sorry; I guess I got carried away."
"I think they
found what you said to be fascinating." She put her hand
on his forearm. "Don't ever apologize for your passion,
Will."
Because of his sunglasses,
Lizzy could not see how her words affected him. There was so
much he wanted to say to her, but he had no right. She belonged
to another. But I can put Tulane behind us. I can do that
now.
He opened his mouth
to speak.
"Hey, Lizzy,"
Masters called, "we have a question for you."
She smiled weakly.
"Back to work." She moved over to the other side of
the boat, slightly disturbed. She could have sworn Will was going
to say something.
~*~*~
The twenty-two foot
Bayliner cabin cruiser bobbed in the calm nighttime waters of
the Gulf of Mexico off the mouth of Bayou Lafourche near an illuminated
automatic production well about five miles off the coast. Every
thirty seconds an ear-splitting foghorn sounded, alerting nearby
watercraft that the structure was there.
"Do we have
to be so close?" whined Greg Wickham.
"This is the
rendezvous point. Just suck it up," advised his companion,
like him, dressed in dark clothing.
"It hurts my
ears, Pyke."
"Tough shit."
Pyke continued his watch out to sea.
Wickham sat on the
passenger seat in the cabin, enclosed on three sides and open
to the cockpit and stern, feeling very ill-used. Once, he was
the king of Uptown. Now he was barely making ends meet as an
errand boy for Carter Naquin, pain clinic owner in Houma and
small-time drug importer.
Wickham's downward
spiral began when he brought in Junior Jarvis to eliminate Bertram.
Wickham, for all his bravado, had never killed anyone, and he
was worried about the crime being traced to him. Unfortunately,
the price Jarvis demanded for his services proved to be greater
than Wickham had anticipated. He had offered forty percent of
his business; Jarvis took three-quarters. The gang-banger assured
his new partner that he would increase business so much that
G-Daddy would not see any difference in his bottom line. But
within two years, NOPD busted their mole, Jones, Jarvis was killed,
and the gang was broken up by arrests and desertions.
Wickham thought
he could pick up the pieces in the aftermath, but it was hard.
Other gangs had moved in. He found himself among high school
students again, an almost fatal mistake. He should have backed
off when he learned that the little girl he was flirting with
was a Darcy, but with the brother being out of the country, he
figured he was in the clear and the opportunity was too good
to pass up. It was a terrible shock to learn that Darcy had returned,
and Wickham didn't wait around for Fitzwilliam to find him. He
took off for the swamps.
For the last two
years, Wickham had kicked around the southeast part of the state,
doing odd jobs and minor dealing, with short returns to the city.
He was using more than he used to. He met Pyke, and through him,
Naquin. Naquin was strictly small stuff, but it was lucrative.
Lucrative for Naquin, that is. Wickham was still looking for
his route back to the Big Easy for good.
Pyke straightened
up. "Somebody's coming."
Wickham looked out.
It was a moonless night, and he could see the running lights
of a boat approaching, the roar of the engine a distant grumble.
There were two flashes from the craft.
"It's them,"
breathed Pyke. "Get the bag."
Wickham moved into
the forward cabin and retrieved a locked satchel. Inside was
one hundred thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. Usually,
these transactions were handled via electronic transfer between
offshore banks, but this was the largest deal Naquin had ever
scored. He didn't have the time to launder the last bit of cash,
so an exchange was agreed upon. As Wickham exited, his eye fell
on Pyke's favorite toy lying on the U-shaped mattress: a fully-automatic
M-16 assault rifle that Pyke had picked up on the black market.
Wickham stood in
the cockpit closest to the helm, while Pyke was hard against
the stern. Pyke nervously touched the Glock in his waistband
as he said, "Keep your eyes open, but don't make any sudden
moves, okay? Slow and easy." Wickham nodded. The Colombians
were known to shoot first and ask questions later if they felt
threatened.
The long, sleek
cigarette boat rumbled alongside, carrying three men, one driving
the boat and another holding an AK-47. Pyke waved once and said
something in Spanish. The third Colombian answered back in the
same language, the gunman watching closely.
Wickham would never
know why he moved. Something just felt wrong. One moment, everything
was cool, as it had gone many times before. The next, guns were
being drawn. Wickham didn't know who started it - didn't know
if Pyke had gone nuts, the Columbians were trying to rip them
off, or if everybody jumped to the wrong conclusion at the same
time. Whatever it was, the nighttime was suddenly filled with
the crash of gunfire. Wickham did not wait around to watch -
he was already half-way into the forward cabin.
Hitting the floor
hard, he tossed the satchel onto the padded seat. He lay still,
waiting for a bullet to slam into his back. He heard the go-fast
boat's engine rev up, but instead of leaving, he realized in
horror that they were coming around to board the Bayliner.
In one motion he
grabbed the M-16 and chambered a round. Keeping low, he crawled
halfway out of the cabin. He could see Pyke lying face-up on
the deck near the stern, his Glock near his outstretched hand.
Wickham heard shouts
in Spanish as the Colombians grew closer. He knew he had only
one chance, so he continued to play dead as a hand grabbed the
starboard gunwale.
There is something
for being lucky. Wickham's timing couldn't have been better as
he jumped to his feet and sprayed the M-16 on full auto. He caught
one of the Colombians in mid-leap towards the Bayliner; he fell
dead overboard. The rest of his rounds brought down both the
boat's pilot and Mr. AK-47 as he tried to bring his weapon to
bear. Wickham kept the trigger depressed until he had emptied
the clip. In a silence as sudden as the violence before, Wickham
found himself alone in the middle of the Gulf; the only sounds
were the rumble of the boats' engines and the bleating of the
horn from the rig nearby.
"Wickham…?"
Wickham turned at
the sound, to see Pyke struggling to move. "Did…did
you get…get them all?" he gasped.
"Yeah, yeah."
He moved over to inspect his partner. The wound in Pyke's upper
chest looked bad.
"Get…get
the package from the other boat. Then, get…get in touch
with…Naquin. He's a doctor…"
Wickham nodded and
turned to the helm. He was no sailor, but he was able to maneuver
the Bayliner alongside the cigarette boat. Meanwhile his mind
was racing.
We gotta get
outta here. The mother ship'll start gettin' suspicious when
that go-fast don't report back in. Crap, they'll be after us,
now! Can't use this connection again. Shit, a million street-value
in coke and a hundred grand in cash, and we could still end up
dead. What I could do with that…
What I could
do with that…and only two guys know I work with Naquin…
A plan started forming
in his brain.
The Bayliner bumped
hard against the cigarette boat and Wickham, after putting the
engine in idle, leapt aboard, rope in hand, and made it fast
to a cleat. He glanced at the carnage before returning to the
Bayliner.
"You…you
got the stuff?" Pyke groaned as Wickham approached him.
Wickham said nothing as he reached down and picked up the Glock.
He hefted it a couple times and glanced at Pyke's prone body.
Pyke's eyes started to grow wide as a terrible thought began
to occur to him. He opened his mouth to speak. Whether it was
to curse or beg or protest, Wickham would never know as he calmly
shot Pyke through the head.
Wickham looked at
the pistol again. Fingerprints, his mind screamed. He
tossed the gun overboard, and the M-16 joined it a moment later.
Donning some work gloves, he retrieved the satchel and returned
to the go-fast. He quickly determined that the drugs were on
board. He also found a bonus: a box holding a dozen hand grenades.
Wickham figured
that there was no way of keeping this incident secret. Therefore,
instead of trying to hide it, which would be almost impossible,
it would be better to sow confusion. The first step was to do
something strange and unexpected. He spent the next fifteen minutes
getting his clothes all bloody, manhandling the two dead Colombians
into the cockpit of the Bayliner. Stripping off his shirt, he
got a spare from the cabin and retrieved the extra jerry can
of gasoline. Before emptying the can over the bodies, he fished
Pyke's car keys from the dead man's pocket. He draped the macabre
assembly with his stained shirt and returned to the go-fast.
He was momentarily
startled by the squawk of the boat's radio. It reminded him he
had to hurry, for he didn't know if the drug-runners' mother
ship, several miles away, didn't have another go-fast boat. He
secured the money satchel and engaged the engine. Coming around
the Bayliner, he pointed the go-fast north as he pulled the pin
from a grenade. He tossed the tennis-ball sized bomb into the
cockpit of the Bayliner and floored the throttles. The twin screws
of the inboard engines bit hard into the waters of the Gulf and
the boat lurched forward.
He was almost a
hundred yards away before the night was lit by the explosion.
The grenade set off the gas, and bits and pieces of fiberglass
and flesh were blown in all directions. The boat didn't immediately
sink, but it was engulfed in flames, until the internal gas tanks
of the Bayliner went off. The secondary explosion almost shattered
the craft and the flames flew a hundred feet in the air. By then,
Wickham was almost a mile away.
The explosions didn't
go unnoticed by the manned oil platforms, as the flashes could
be seen for miles. However, when the flames died down, it was
difficult to pinpoint the location of the explosion. The calls
to the Coast Guard were not very helpful.
~*~*~
Wickham's luck held
throughout the night. He had no idea how to return to Port Fouchon
where Pyke had launched the Bayliner, but he was able to follow
a shrimp trawler to the ship channel. He cruised up the channel
to the deserted public boat launch. During his voyage, Wickham
had rinsed off much of the blood and gore in the go-fast, removing
the plug in the well to drain the water as he ran towards shore.
He replaced the plug and secured the boat to the dock. As calmly
as he could, he pulled Pyke's truck around to the boat, after
removing the trailer from the hitch. He quickly transferred the
drugs, money and grenades to the truck, as well as the AK-47
with a full clip, hidden in a blanket. From the truck, Wickham
retrieved the anti-theft device for the steering wheel. He parked
the truck on the opposite end of the parking lot from the abandoned
trailer and returned to the cigarette boat. He cast off and slowly
piloted the go-fast past the vast commercial port into the Gulf.
Coming around as
the sky began to lighten, he ran the go-fast up the coast a bit
before pulling close to shore. Making sure the beach was deserted,
he pointed the boat due south and fastened the device to the
steering wheel. Wickham took a breath, stood by the helm and
jammed the throttles forward one last time. As the powerful V-8
engines roared to life again and the boat shot forward, Wickham
leapt overboard. He swam inexpertly to shore as the smugglers'
cigarette boat flew towards the distant oil platforms. As he
waded onshore, he wondered if the boat could actually hit one
of the rigs. The chances of that happening were astronomical,
but it would be one hell of a thing to see. He looked one last
time at the go-fast boat, growing ever smaller in the pre-dawn
gray, its engines fading in the sounds of the surf. Wickham,
soaking wet, then began his two-mile walk back to the truck.
The sun was just
coming up as he turned on the ignition, still wearing the work
gloves. He pulled out just as an SUV hauling a Welcraft turned
in. He drove the truck up the main road to Highway 1, and then
followed the highway to a parking lot south of Golden Meadow,
where he had met up with Pyke the afternoon before. There was
little activity this early in the morning, so he was alone as
he moved the money and drugs to his own Camero. He made sure
that the car was secure before returning to the truck and beginning
the drive to Houma and the second part of his plan.
~*~*~
It is very hard
to sink a fiberglass boat, and the shattered hull of the Bayliner
was still afloat, drifting and smoldering, when a Coast Guard
patrol boat was able to reach it by mid-morning, having been
guided to it by a helicopter. It was the work of moments to determine
that some sort of explosion had taken place; and, with the number
of human remains aboard, it was decided to treat the remnants
as a crime scene. Smuggling was definitely involved; whether
it was drugs or terrorists could not yet be determined. The patrol
boat soon had the hull in tow and slowly made its way back to
port and the forensic people with the FBI and US Customs.
~*~*~
Carter Naquin had
always wanted to be rich and live in a big house. He became a
doctor because doctors made lots of money. What he didn't like
to do was work. When he found out that people would pay anything
to have their pain alleviated, he found his calling in life.
Prescribe pain killers, the more expensive the better, and he
would be the richest man in town. He wasn't cheating anyone,
he told himself. It was the insurance companies that paid.
He built his pain
clinics and made his money, but the arm candy he married proved
to be more high-maintenance than he thought. Especially since
Naquin still liked to date. It was cool with Mrs. Naquin, as
long as her extra-curricular activities went on unimpeded.
Political contributions to the right people gave him protection.
The price of their
expensive, open marriage was cocaine - coke to party with and
coke to subsidize the lifestyle. His cousin, Pyke, proved to
be a good man to handle that part of the business. And business
was good. Naquin built a 6,000 square-foot mansion - with a separate
guesthouse dedicated to their periodic orgies - in the highest
style of south Louisiana. That is, over-the-top: four-car garage,
swimming pool, Italian marble everywhere, a sauna with a tanning
booth for the little woman. For privacy, he chose a wooded lot
north of Houma, halfway to Thibodaux.
The place cost so
much that Naquin could only afford a massive entrance gate to
his pleasure palace. He would replace the chain-link fence that
surrounded the rest of his four-acre lot later as his business
grew. Unfortunately for him, Naquin forgot that in his line of
work, security came before keeping the wife happy.
At seven thirty
in the evening, as was his routine after work and a visit to
the gym, Dr. Naquin pulled his Cadillac into his driveway, across
the highway from a large sugar cane field, and opened his remote
controlled gate. As he pulled in, he never saw a man step away
from a tree near the driveway. Naquin's last sight on this earth
was the muzzle blast of an AK-47.
Wickham shot up
the windshield and driver's side windows. To his horror, the
car continued to roll slowly forward. Only when the car failed
to negotiate a turn in the driveway and ran into an oak tree
did he realize that the vehicle was moving on its own. Wickham
knew he only had moments. Looking into the car to make sure Naquin
was dead, he deposited the Colombians' assault rifle on the front
seat, reached in to the remote on the car's visor and triggered
the gate again with his still-gloved hands, and tossed a grenade
in for good measure before running for the gate. There was no
traffic, and Wickham was almost into the cane field before the
grenade went off.
He made his way
through the stalks of sugar cane until he broke through to a
dirt road used by a farmer where Pyke's truck was parked. He
drove back to the highway, about a quarter-mile from Naquin's
estate, and turned away, heading towards Houma, the smoke from
the Cadillac in his rear-view mirror in the gathering dusk. Five
miles down the highway, just before he reached US-90 and the
turn-off to Raceland, he saw two State Troopers flying past him
in the opposite direction, lights and sirens on.
The drive back to
Golden Meadow was as nerve-racking an experience as Wickham had
ever felt. His only chance of pulling this off was if the truck
got away unseen. If he was successful, then he had eliminated
any connection he had with Naquin, Pyke or the incident in the
Gulf. He would be safe.
Wickham was also
exhausted. He had been up all the night before, and had only
caught catnaps during the day in a couple of rest stops between
Golden Meadow and Houma. He had eaten nothing, not willing to
take the chance that some waitress or fast-food jockey wouldn't
remember him. But as much as he wanted to eat and sleep, he knew
he couldn't do that until he completed his plans.
It was almost ten
p.m. when he ditched the truck in the parking lot of a bar along
the bayou side. Making sure he left nothing incriminating, he
threw the truck keys into the bayou. He then walked the mile
to the other parking lot and his Camero. It was not unusual for
people to be walking along the highway, and he attracted no notice.
Soon, he fired up his trusty red steed and turned onto Highway
1, heading back to US-90.
He still had a duck-out
spot in New Orleans. There, with his newfound cash and product,
he would begin to rebuild his empire.
G-Daddy was back.
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