Not One of Us(75)

The absolute quiet was eerie. Oliver had elected to include as few law enforcement personnel in the sting as possible, handpicking several officers from the Mobile PD who he knew personally. He’d requested, and been granted, assistance from Homeland Security. A US Coast Guard cutter had been arranged. The beauty of involving the Coast Guard was that it had sweeping authority to board any vessel at any time or any place without need of a warrant or even probable cause. For over two hundred years, US courts consistently had upheld their right to do so.

So where were all these people awaiting delivery? If the drug smugglers already had their workers and a vehicle in place for the shipment, I wouldn’t be notified. Oliver had wisely ordered that radio silence be maintained as long as possible.

Churning water sounded, and I quickly rolled down my windows again to hear better. Was it the Zephyr after all? Had it broken rank from the steady procession of shrimper boats headed out for deeper waters?

The still of the bayou suddenly shattered as shouts emerged from across the woods. My radio crackled again with the same message as before.

“Proceed to location.”

Adrenaline flooded my body in waves. I stomped on the accelerator and emerged onto the dirt road, dust flying and tires squealing. No need for stealth anymore.

Another right turn, and I was upon the mayhem. The Zephyr swarmed with US Coast Guardsmen in their navy-blue uniforms. Alongside the Zephyr, their white cutter was moored with its red-and-blue bands, their official emblem, and the letters USCG. The Coast Guard standard flag whipped in the breeze, white with yellow fringe and a dark-blue US coat of arms.

Mobile cops escorted two handcuffed men from the boat. Another cop had a third man handcuffed against a nearby rusty truck and was reading him his rights. Everywhere, men and women barked orders.

Guardsmen began carrying out crates to waiting personnel. Oliver motioned to me, and we hurried over. One of the men cracked open a crate, revealing tightly wrapped bundles.

“What do we have here?” He smiled grimly. With a box cutter he carefully ripped off the paper on one of them. A solid brick of white powder appeared.

“Heroin?” one of the guardsmen asked.

“Definitely.”

A total of four crates were unloaded. In the last one, instead of white bricks, there was a large clear bag of bluish-gray pills.

“Pretty sure the lab will find this is fentanyl,” the guardsmen said. “Perfect for cutting with heroin.”

Oliver and I smiled at one another with grim satisfaction. Carter Holt had not been mistaken. Mayor Rembert’s political career was dead in the water. The men apprehended today would no doubt soon be spilling the names of everyone involved in their operation. It was a shame Holt couldn’t be here in person to witness the takedown. His bosses had insisted that he remain undercover and far from the action. That way, they could still use him to bust other drug operations.

I continued to watch the guardsmen unload the drugs, mesmerized at the large number of packages, each a bundle of misery and heartache for addicts and their families. It was much later before I finally noticed that I’d received a text from Jori.





Chapter 31


JORI


I rushed toward the shade provided by a copse of live oaks as I hurried to open the recording Tegan had sent. At long last, would I be able to recognize the voice and discover who’d killed Deacon? I paused at the edge of the woods and glanced around.

I was alone.

My fingers trembled as I turned up the phone volume all the way and hit play.

The past rushed up to greet me in an explosion of sound and color as the recording began.

Clotille spoke—pale lavender spiked on flowering lily pads.

A second ticked by, and then Deacon spoke.

Deacon. Dark-violet waves, crested with foaming whitecaps, flooded over me. I swayed, gasping as though doused, and my arm reached out automatically, finding solid grounding against rough tree bark.

A distant sound of gunshot was followed by Clotille’s scream. Lavender gushed and spiked with Clotille’s high-pitched cry. I’d never heard such a desperate edge to a sound. The closest I could compare it to was when I’d heard the pain and panicked screams of a feral cat in the death throes of a coyote attack. There was a rawness to it that could never be faked in a movie.

The camera fell to the floor with an abrupt crash.

A door squeaked open. My breath caught in my throat. Who had done this? Did Deacon and Clotille recognize whoever had appeared on the threshold? Or was this a hired gun paid to carry out brutal executions?

Clotille’s voice sounded again before a new voice murmured, garbled and indistinct. Umber swirled like a tornado spiraling toward a random target. It was a remembered musical note, but my brain couldn’t quite put the correct shape and shade to what the tornado tried to form.

A gunshot exploded, this time from close range.

“Mom!” Violet-and-white foam swirled with Deacon’s anguished voice.

Again, the new male voice muttered something.

Bam. Another shot rang out. The noise reached across time, squeezing my heart in a vise with the burst. My knees gave way beneath me, and I sank onto the ground, my back scraping against the oak for support. Footsteps thudded on the recording, their vibrations treading on my chest. A door opened and shut.

And then there was only the whirring of the recording, more menacing than the screams and the footsteps and the gunshots. It was the sound of death. Had Deacon and his mother bled out on the living room floor as the tape continued? I never, ever wanted to see the actual video footage; the audio alone was traumatic enough.