“She was being dragged by a bunch of guys? What did they look like?”
McNally pondered the question for a few seconds, then pointed at Jones.
“They were black?” Payne asked.
“No, you dumb ass, I mean they were butt ugly and had stupid nicknames! Of course I mean they were black.”
“Could you tell us anything else? Were they tall? Short? Fat? Anything?”
“They were black. That’s it. Everything about them was black. Black clothes, black hoods, black shoes. I don’t even know how many there were because they looked like shadows, for God’s sake. Shoot, they even drove a black van.”
Payne grimaced at the news. “Did you happen to see a license plate on the van?”
“As a matter of fact, I did!” McNally declared. “It was the only thing that wasn’t black.”
“You saw it? What did it say?”
“I have no damn idea,” he answered. “The numbers were just a big ol’ blur. But I do know one thing. The plate was from Louisiana.”
Skepticism filled Payne’s face. “How do you know that?”
“I got me a lady friend that lives down in Cajun country, and every year I visit her for Mardi Gras. When the van first pulled up, I saw the Louisiana plate and thought maybe she was coming here for a little lovin’, but obviously, when I, um . . .” The old man furrowed his brow as he tried to remember his train of thought. “What was I talking about again?”
“Actually,” Jones lied, “you had just finished. Is there anything else that you can tell us about this morning?”
“I’m kind of constipated. But I ate some prunes, so I’m hoping-”
“That’s not what he meant,” interrupted Payne. Even though he was sympathetic to McNally’s advancing age, he didn’t have the time to listen to him ramble about his bowel movements. “David wanted to know if you had anything else to tell us about Ariane?”
McNally pondered the question, then shook his head.
“Well, I’d like to thank you for your information.” Jones handed McNally a business card, then helped him back inside his apartment. “If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me.”
Once Jones returned to the hall, he said, “I have to admit things are looking worse for Ariane, but I don’t think we can go to the cops quite yet.”
“Why not? You heard what he said. A group of guys dragged her to their van early this morning, and no one’s heard from her since.”
“True, but Mr. McNally is not exactly what you would call an ideal witness. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think he’s lying or anything, but you have to admit he lost touch with reality a couple of times during our conversation.”
“Shit!” Payne thought they had enough information to go on, but Jones knew a lot more about police procedures than he did. “So what do you recommend?”
“Honestly, I think we should go upstairs and snoop around Ariane’s apartment a little more. Plus we can see if the peephole video camera recorded anything before they covered the lens.”
CHAPTER 10
INSIDE the plantation house, Theo Webster stared at his computer screen as he scrolled through page after page of painstaking research. After removing his wire-rimmed glasses, Webster rubbed his tired eyes and stretched his skinny 5’8” frame. The track lighting above him reflected off the ebony skin that covered his ever-growing forehead and highlighted the dark bags that had recently surfaced under his drooping eyelids.
After cracking his neck, Webster settled back into his seat and resumed his research, studying the in-depth genealogy of the island’s most recent arrivals. As he scrutinized Mike Cussler’s family, Webster heard a creak in a floorboard behind him.
“Shit,” he muttered as he reached inside his oaken desk.
Without looking Webster fumbled through various items until his hand made contact with his gun. Slipping his fingers around the polymer handle, Webster slowly pulled the .38 Special from his desk while staring at his computer screen.
The floorboard whined again, but this time the sound was several feet closer.
It was time to make his move.
In a sudden burst, Webster dropped to the hardwood floor and spun toward his unsuspecting target. The move stunned the trespasser so much that he dropped the cup of coffee he was carrying and shrieked like a wounded girl.
The pathetic wail brought a smile to Webster’s face. “Gump, what the hell are you doing sneaking up on me? Don’t you know we have nearly two dozen prisoners on this island that would like to see me dead? You got to use your head, boy! God gave you a brain for a reason.”
Bennie Blount lowered his head in shame, and as he did, his elaborate dreadlocks cascaded over his dark eyes, making him look like a Rastafarian sheepdog. “I sorry ’bout that. I was just trying to bring you something to wakes you up.”
Webster glanced at the brown puddle that covered the floor and grimaced. “Unless you have a straw, I think it’s going to be tough for me to drink.”
The 6’6” servant stared at the steaming beverage for several seconds before his face broke into a gold-toothed smile. “For a minute, I thought you be serious, but then I says to myself, Master Webster ain’t no dog. He ain’t gonna drink his drink from no floor, even with a straw!”
“Well, that’s awfully clever of you, but before I congratulate you too much, why don’t you run into the other room and get a mop?”
“That’s a mighty good idea, sir. I guess I shoulda thought of it since it’s my job to clean and all.” Blount slowly backed away from the spill as he continued to speak. “Don’t ya worry now.”
Blount had been hired by the Plantation for his strong work ethic and knowledge of the local swamps. Nicknamed Gump for his intellectual similarities to Forrest Gump, the dim-witted character from the movie bearing his name, Blount lived in the guest wing of the white-pillared mansion. During the course of the day, he spent most of his time cooking and cleaning, but twice a week he was allowed to journey to the mainland for food and supplies.
When Blount returned to Webster’s office, he was disappointed to see his boss working again. He liked talking to his superiors whenever he could, even though they often got upset when he interrupted their top-secret duties.
“Gump,” Webster asked without turning around, “what are we having for breakfast?”
The question brought a smile to his lips, and his gold teeth glistened in the sunlight. “Well, I figure since this be a big week for y’all, I should fix a big Southern meal likes my momma used to make. I makes eggs ’n’ bacon ’n’ ham ’n’ grits ’n’ biscuits ’n’ fresh apple butter, too. Oooooooweeeeee! I think my mouth is gonna water all day!”
Webster nodded his head in appreciation, at least until Blount’s statement sank in. He turned from his computer and faced the dark-skinned servant. “What exactly did you mean when you said this was a big week for us? What do you know about this week?”
With the soiled mop in his hand, he shrugged. “Not much, sir, but I can tell somethin’s up. There be an excitement in the air that’s easier to smell than the magnolias in May. I figured maybe it’s your birthday. Or maybe it’s ’cause the Fourth of July is coming!”
Webster studied Blount as he spoke, and it appeared that he was telling the truth. “I think it’s just the holiday that has everybody excited,” he lied. “I know I’m looking forward to it.”
