Moon on the Bayou - A Val Bosanquet Mystery: The Val Bosanquet Mysteries, #3

By A. J. Davidson

The third title in a series of Val Bosanquet mystery thrillers, A. J. Davidson's Moon on the Bayou combines murder mystery, body snatching and intrigue into a fast paced and entertainingly complex thriller.

East Feliciana Deputy Sheriff Val Bosanquet's day starts badly when a murder victim's body is snatched from his crime scene. The discovery of a second victim makes his day worse. Although the murders do not appear to be connected, Val suspects that Mungo Call, the charismatic leader of Rising Sun, a pressure group fighting miscarriages of justice, holds the key. Val is aided by his friend Dave McElligott, a former member of the Marine Corps Special Operations Command. Together they plumb the unfathomable evil and extreme cruelty of a Mexican drug cartel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. J. Davidson
• Release date: Aug 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476425085

A. J. Davidson

AJ Davidson is a traditionally published author and playwright, who, in Spring 2010, made the switch to Indie. He is keen to explore the potential of a rapidly changing publishing world, and is enjoying the closer contact with his readers that e-books afford. AJ has a degree in Social Anthropology. Married for 32 years, he has two children, a Harrier hound and a cat called Dusty. Not one for staying long in the same place, AJ has lived in many countries across several continents. He has worked as a pea washer, crane-driver, restaurateur and scriptwriter. A member of the ITW. Represented by the Jonathan Williams Literary Agency.

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Moon on the Bayou

By

A. J. Davidson

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

AJ Davidson on Smashwords

Moon on the Bayou

Copyright © 2012 by AJ Davidson

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Other books by AJ Davidson

Non-fiction

Kidnapped

Defamed!

Fiction

Churchill’s Queen

Paper Ghosts

Piwko’s Proof

Wounded Tiger

Decoys

An Evil Shadow

Death Sentence

For

Dr. Chris J. Scott

Q.U.B

The third title in a series of Val Bosanquet mystery thrillers, A. J. Davidson’s Moon on the Bayou combines murder mystery, body snatching and intrigue into a fast paced and entertainingly complex thriller.

East Feliciana Deputy Sheriff Val Bosanquet’s day starts badly when a murder victim’s body is snatched from his crime scene. The discovery of a second victim makes his day worse. Although the murders do not appear to be connected, Val suspects that Mungo Call, the charismatic leader of Rising Sun, a pressure group fighting miscarriages of justice, holds the key. Val is aided by his friend Dave McElligott, a former member of the Marine Corps Special Operations. Together they plumb the unfathomable evil and extreme cruelty of a Mexican drug cartel.

Chapter One

The boy could run.

Fast as the wind, his father had often boasted to his bar room sycophants. For a few of his teenage years he had been the star of his high school track and field team, the sprint distances his specialty. His bedroom wall adorned with gilded medals, ribbons, and posters of Usain Bolt and Michael Johnson. There was some talk of a college scholarship, but that was before hormones, cheap beer and cheaper women had proved an irresistible alternative to the hard hours of training.

His breathing labored now. Long gone were the days when he could run for miles just for the hell of it. A stitch ate at his side, gnawing his insides and draining his strength. His throat was raw from sucking in the cold night air. His denims were sopping with dew and the extra burden made each stride more demanding. What he would give to be wearing shorts, singlet, and a set of cleated track shoes?

It was close to midnight, and earlier a half moon lit up the woods well enough, until a cloud drew a curtain across. His foot caught on a cypress root and he sprawled onto all fours. He gathered himself and was back on his feet in an instant. His ears strained to catch the slightest sign that they were closing on him. All he could make out were the sounds of a wood at night: rustling leaves, creaking branches and the gurgle of water nearby. No mournful bay of a hound trailing his scent, no shouting, no thudding of feet on the red Louisiana earth. No angry hornet’s buzz as a metal-jacketed round ripped through the air.

He started to run again. This was a race he had to win.

The ground started to climb gently and the trees became denser, making progress trickier. He wiped away sweat and cursed himself for allowing his natural fitness to waste away. Three years ago, he would have raced up this hill like an antelope. He knew he could outrun them in an arena footrace, but out here in the unfamiliar woods …

The landscape was their ally, not his.

His eyes tried to pierce the blackness as the moonlight faded further. There had to be some sort of a road nearby; a track to a fishing shack or an access for lumber trucks. Why could he not see any lights? He should be able to see lights.

His forehead cracked against a low-hanging branch. He did not fall but pain blurred his vision, leaving him disorientated for a few brief moments. Raising a hand to his hairline, he could feel the warm tackiness of oozing blood.

A shout reached his ears. Damn it all to hell, they could be no more than a hundred yards behind him. He made a fist and pushed against his abdomen to ease the strain on his liver ligaments. He remembered the Thursday afternoon his high school track coach had explained that a stitch was not a build-up of lactic acid as commonly believed, but in fact the repetitive jarring of the runner’s liver was the cause. The more he trained, the better his insides would cope with the pounding, the coach assured him.

Without warning, the ground disappeared and he plunged down a near vertical bank of a coulee. His feet slid from under him and he bobsled the earthen slope on the broad of his back. His right leg wedged between protruding rocks and he heard bones fracture as his momentum ripped it free. A pool of evil-smelling black ooze terminated his graceless descent. He hoisted himself onto drier earth, feeling no pain until he tried to stand. Then a wave of nausea rose through his body, and to his disgust, he felt his eyes tear up.

It was clear his freedom run was over. He scrabbled across the ground and tried to push into the darkest shadow. His pounding heart would give him away; it was as loud as a drum.

Above him, on the lip of the coulee, a couple of flashlight beams pierced the black night, like special effects in a Spielberg movie. The boy had always admired the director’s deft touch with light and dark; now he cursed him silently. The murmur of hushed voices drifted down to him and he pushed back against the unyielding earth bank.

Maybe they would move on.

Or maybe they would spot the telltale traces of his ungainly slide down the bank.

He held his breath and waited for chance to decide his fate. The beams flitted further along the bank, filling the boy with hope. He allowed the air to flow out of his lungs.

One light stopped, swept from side to side, before backtracking until the handler aimed it at the coulee’s lip. A shout of victory.

Fate had sided with the hunters.

Chapter Two

Ruby, the East Feliciana Sheriff Office’s civilian dispatcher, phoned Val at his home.

It was early Monday morning, Val was up, but had still to shave and shower. He was skulking about his cypress-timbered shotgun house in a tattered t-shirt, munching on a slice of dry toast and trying to decide what to do with his day off. When he shook off the dust of New Orleans, he’d sold his preservation-listed timber-framed house near Magazine and put some of the money into the shotgun. He spent most of his free time working on the dilapidated property. Talking calls from Ruby had not featured in his plans.

You still in bed? Ruby asked.

Nope. Up and easing into the day.

Tried to get you on your cell phone. You weren’t answering.

Val picked up his jacket from where he had hung it over the back of a chair. He patted the pockets.

It must have slipped out of my jacket. Probably lying on the floor of my truck.

Ruby made a tsk sound. Took a crime report a few minutes ago. Nicki’s on her way to the scene, but the sheriff said to give you a shout out.

Val groaned. He had worked fifteen days straight and really needed some catch-up time. He had spent his last rest day in Clinton’s courthouse, giving evidence as the slime-ball defense lawyer grilled him in a fraud trial. What sort of report?

Deputy Collins responded to a 911 call. A couple of wildfowlers came across a body in the woods north-west of Slaughter.

Suspicious death?

About as suspicious as you can get. Ruby was reluctant to give much detail over a landline.

ID?

Not yet. Deputy Blemings would not have had time to reach the scene. Can I tell the sheriff that you’re rolling?

Val popped the last piece of toast into his mouth. Yeah. Text the directions and let Nicki know that I’m on my way.

Val wiped crumbs from the mouthpiece and replaced the handset. He opened the front door and in bare feet descended the steps to his SUV. After retrieving his cell from beneath the passenger seat, he activated the screen and noted that he had five missed calls. Four recent ones were from the office dispatch number and an earlier call he did not recognize. There was a chirp and Ruby’s text came through.

Back inside, he walked over to the ancient turntable the house’s previous owner had left behind and switched it on. He nudged the control with a knuckle and watched the arm lift and move across onto the track Sweet Jane from All The Young Dudes album. He had been listening to it before calling it a night around twelve o’clock the previous evening. It was by British band Mott the Hoople. Val admired the Lou Reed cover, but his favorite track was the titular All The Young Dudes, written for the band by David Bowie, who played sax on the recording Val had started collecting British vinyl of the seventies for no good reason he could explain. Sure, the decade was a golden one for the English, but the charts had not completely sidelined American artists. Still, every collection had to start somewhere and classic rock from across the pond was not a bad way to start.

The body could wait until he had a shower. It was not going anywhere.

The Slaughter town council constructed the barbecue facility in the sixties. Situated at the edge of a fifty-acre wood, next to a small bayou, there were eight picnic tables, their dark timbers showing signs of age. Heat from disposable foil tray barbecues lit by careless diners had charred some of the tabletop planking. Three large oil drum barbecues, mounted on a concrete dais, facilitated bigger cookouts. A standpipe and brass spigot provided fresh drinking water and a cinder block washroom was set back against the tree line. A couple of car tire swings hung from convenient branches. Overflowing trashcans revealed that the recreation site had seen a busy weekend. Saturday had been a fine day, though rain clouds had moved in from the Gulf late Sunday afternoon. The asphalt parking lot had thirty bays. Four vehicles were parked next to the wooden tables.

Val recognized Nicki Blemings’ SUV, Deputy Collin’s cruiser and the truck driven by the East Feliciana coroner. He took it for granted that the remaining vehicle, a pick-up with its best days far behind, belonged to the wildfowlers who found the deceased.

The interested parties were huddled around a body lying face down on the ground near to one of the oil drum barbecues.

The deceased was female.

Val stopped his vehicle and climbed down. He walked over to the huddle and nodded at Nicki and the deputy. Jack Chisum, the coroner with Brad Pitt looks, was busy taking photographs of the murder victim, for victim she clearly was. As best as Val could tell from the back view, it seemed certain her assailant had cut her throat, slicing through the carotid artery. Blood had heavily pooled around the dead woman’s head and a lengthy spray splashed across the gray concrete was a giveaway that the killer severed an artery. Death would have been rapid.

Any ID? Val asked.

The dead woman seemed to be on the younger side of thirty. She was African-American, of a slim build, with long, nicely toned legs. She wore a simple cream blouse and a pair of beige shorts. Her hair was bottle-blonde and medium length. There were a couple of rings on her left hand, but not of the engagement or wedding variety. There were no obvious signs of defense injuries or indeed any injuries other than the suspected deep throat wound, though they might find some other indication of violence when the coroner turned her over. Her nails were manicured in French tips and were undamaged.

Not yet, Nicki said. "The pockets of her shorts are empty and there’s no sign of a purse. I have asked the sheriff to assign some extra deputies a.s.a.p. to carry out a fingertip search of the scene.

Time of death?

Chisum lowered his camera. I took some preliminary temperature readings. She’s been dead between two and six hours. Her clothing is dry and it rained heavily during the early part of last night. I’ll phone the weather station and ask what time it stopped.

No animal bite marks, Deputy Collins pointed out. This site is swarming with wildlife because of the trash cans. So she can’t have been here that long.

Good point, Val said. No weapon?

Haven’t come on one yet. But it could have been chucked into the trees, or tossed in a trash can.

The coroner announced that he was finished with the camera. Give me a hand to turn her over.

The uniform deputy hunkered down beside the victim and assisted the coroner rotate the body.

Val recognized her straight away. Angel Moten, a former Bourbon Street prostitute and junkie who had managed to kick the life. He took a long, careful look at her face. It was a habit he had cultivated back in his New Orleans Homicide days. A couple of his peers had thought him soft, but he wanted the victim to know that there would be one person at least who would remember them; not something that could be taken for granted with some of the deaths in the projects. Though this unfortunate young woman’s family had been stalwart in its support during the twelve months it took to turn her life around. In Angel’s case, there would be parents, siblings, friends and lovers who would mourn her, though the odds were also stacked in favor of one of them being the guilty party. The lack of defense injuries suggested that the victim had known and trusted her killer. At least until the final few moments when she felt the blade slice through flesh, muscle and cartilage.

He checked her arms and legs for needle marks. Some old scarring but no recent blemishes. Few working girls ever fully embraced a second chance, but Angel appeared to have managed it. Her clothes were not designer label, but neither were they Wal-Mart.

Val stood and looked at Nicki. Her name’s Angel Moten. Have we received any recent reports of missing persons?

She shook her head. I checked with Ruby. But it’s early yet; Moten’s nearest and dearest may not yet be aware that she didn’t return home last night.

I knew her from New Orleans. She hooked the Bourbon and Rampart Street tourist bars. Took a bad beating about eighteen months ago and moved back in with her family to recuperate after the hospital discharged her. Cleaned up and found a job at a country store.

So who did this to her? Was she running from a former pimp or some john she’d stiffed?

Val shrugged. If it was easy, he thought, there would be no need for sheriff’s investigators. The day was shaping up to be a fine early-fall day, but the sight of Angel’s body diminished any beauty nature brought to the table.

Val signaled to the deputy to move the wildfowlers away from the body. The men seemed happy enough to leave the blood-soaked scene.

Val and Nicki moved after them. She made the introductions. Jim Glenn and Norrie Penouilh.

Glenn was white and Penouilh was black. Both men were wearing the usual mix and match assemblage of water-resistant camouflage clothing, padded body warmers and DayGlo baseball caps beloved by hunters. Glenn had an ammo belt strapped around his waist. Val could see the shotguns were still in the pick-up’s rack. A mile into the wood was a lake well stocked with waterfowl. It was Penouilh’s vehicle, as were the two gun dogs waiting patiently in the rear.

I know you? Val asked Penouilh.

Yeah. You questioned me about a truck hijacking this time last year.

Val remembered. Penouilh had once served six years on Angola Farm for theft, but had an unbreakable alibi for the hijacking. He had been in hospital as doctors stitched up a gash in his arm. He worked as an electrician for a timber mill and a falling safety shield sliced into his upper arm as he worked on repairing an electric motor.

What time did you find her?

Glenn answered. We got here about first light. Six o’clock, or there about. We didn’t see the body at first. We parked and let the dogs off. It was Obama who found her. He ran straight over to her as soon as we let him off.

Penouilh took up the story. We rounded the dogs up and called 911.

You didn’t help yourself to her purse or cell phone first?

Neither of the hunters appeared to take undue umbrage at Val’s accusation. He suspected both of them had crossed swords often enough with the local law to know what to expect.

If we had, there would have been no phone call. Plenty more lakes.

See any vehicles pull out? Nicki asked.

Nope. The place was as quiet as a grave. Penouilh pulled a grimace when he realized what he had said.

Either of you know her? Seen her about?

The men glanced nervously towards the body. Never clapped eyes on her before this morning, Glenn said.

What about you? Val asked Penouilh.

She seems kinda familiar, but I can’t tie it down.

Let me know if your memory improves any, Val said, handing him his East Feliciana Parish Sheriff Office contact card.

We can go hunting now?

Val glared at Glenn. Not around here, you don’t. Get your sorry asses out of here. You can expect a visit from a deputy about making a formal statement.

The two hunters turned to their pickup, but paused to watch as a funeral director’s hearse turned into the picnic site. The driver swung the vehicle around and reversed a few yards closer to the crime scene, leaving the engine running.

The rear door of the hearse swung open and three heavily armed men exited smoothly. Two of them aimed their Heckler & Koch MP7 machine guns, stocks and grips extended, at the crime scene while the third used his MG to cover Val and the hunters. The three were dressed in sneakers, gray overalls, latex gloves, bulletproof vests and red woolen ski masks.

One body’s enough on a fine morning like this, the largest of the three said. Do exactly as I say and there’s no reason why you all can’t live to see the sun go down. Ease your weapons out and let them drop. Nice and slow. Then take two paces back.

Val knew there was little any of them could do but cooperate. Do as he says. If we were the intended targets, they would have opened fire already.

The arrival of the hearse had caught him cold; he assumed the coroner had requested it to transport Angel’s body to the morgue. The MGs could spit out close to a thousand rounds per minute and would scythe him and his colleagues in half long before he could bring his Sig Sauer to bear. All the macho crap about no lawman ever giving up his piece went out the window when you were staring into the muzzles of three MP7s.

Like he says, nice and slow, Val said. He caught the eye of the uniform deputy and then Nicki. This was no time for heroics. Collins was a levelheaded young man; who exhibited considerably less macho bluster than many of the more experienced deputies. Nicki had just become a mother for the first time earlier in the year, and would not be in a rush to make any dumb moves. Jack would be unarmed, but his experience as a medic in Iraq would stand to him.

The three law officers slowly drew their weapons from their rigs and let them drop in the dirt.

Good boys and girls. Now two paces back, if you please.

The same man gave the order. Val listened for some distinguishing vocal giveaway to commit to memory, but could not even be sure what race the man was. His accent certainly was not local, and that was as much as Val could determine.

The gunmen’s leader gave a signal and one of his men darted forward to pick up the surrendered weapons before collecting the hunters’ sporting guns from the pickup.

What do you want? Val asked. He knew that Nicki often wore a backup pistol strapped to an ankle rig, but doubted if the three gunmen would afford her the opportunity to use it.

The leader seemed to be thinking along the same lines. Strip off. Down to your skivvies. Don’t make me ask twice.

So much for Nicki’s backup, Val thought. He kicked off his shoes and unbuckled his belt. The others followed suit. Nicki stared defiantly at the leader as she removed her blouse exposing a plain sports bra, its stark whiteness contrasting against her golden summer tan. Val allowed himself a grin when he noticed that Glenn was wearing a pair of camouflage shorts.

Val suspected the gunmen were ex-military. They seemed to be used to giving and following orders along a clearly defined hierarchy, going about their tasks with a smooth efficiency. It was evident that they were adhering to a well thought out plan. They would know time would be at a premium he realized; more parish deputies or a State Police CSI team could arrive at any moment.

Both Nicki and the deputy were sporting backup .38s, which the gunman quickly added to his stash. He carried the weapons to the passenger door of the hearse and placed them inside. The driver made no move to leave his vehicle. Val had no way of knowing, but he thought it likely that the man would be listening to a scanner.

Their leader gave another nod and the gun collector crossed over to Angel’s body. He slung his MG over one shoulder and hunkered down, lifting the dead woman in his arms. As her head fell