Bring Him Back Dead Page 11

  “How about our boys?”

  “There are only two I can really depend on, Ducros and Todd Kelly. The others are almost as bad as your big-mouthed brother-in-law. Those who didn’t report in sick are out in the office now, beating their gums together about why should they take a chance on getting killed or maybe killing one of their best friends trying to protect a practically convicted murderer and rapist. What’s really the matter with them is that they’re scared to death. They liked the ride on the gravy train. They liked it fine. But now it’s come time to pick up the tab, they’re all out-fumbling each other.”

  “How about the outside newspapermen?”

  “They’re hoping we do have trouble. It will give them that much more to write about.” Sheriff Belluche was indignant. “Why, there’s even a mobile TV unit out on the lawn, with its camera set up to cover the jail from every angle.”

  “A lot of good that will do me if the boys drag me out of here.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Belluche walked out into the corridor, leaving the cell door open behind him. “I just thought you ought to know.”

  “Thanks for telling me.” Latour added, “And, by the way, I wonder if you could tell me something, Sheriff.”

  “What?”

  “Did Jean Avart interview Mrs. Lacosta?”

  Belluche shook his head. “No, no one has seen her since she identified you. That is, no one but the parish prosecutor when he got that deposition. Dr. Walker’s orders. Why?”

  “I’ve a reason for asking. Now can you tell me this: What’s the name of the field engineer for Delta Oil?”

  “Feldman or Feltman or something like that.”

  “Has he an office in town?”

  “On the second floor of the Breton Block. But he spends most of his time on one of the barges of those rigs they’re sinking offshore. Why? What’s on your mind, Andy?”

  “Right now, getting out of this mess with a whole skin.”

  Belluche shrugged and walked down the corridor, leaving the steel door between the cell block and the office open.

  The little things, Latour thought. A picture was beginning to form in his mind, a picture so fantastic that he continued to have difficulty in fitting the pieces together. Still, where the female of the species was concerned, anything was possible. Kings had given up their thrones. Bankers had robbed their own banks. Brother had killed brother.

  He could hear voices in the office but the men in the cells around him had become strangely silent, as if they were afraid to attract attention to themselves.

  Lynch mobs were an unknown quantity. A man never could tell just what they would do.

  The rank stench of fear replaced the feral smell of the cell block. A boy in the colored section began a long-winded prayer.

  Todd Kelly came out of the office, a riot gun cradled in his arms, and clomped down the corridor on his way to cover the rear door of the jail. As he passed the open cell in which Latour was standing, he said laconically, “You and your goddamn zipper.”

  “I didn’t do it. Believe me, Todd,” Latour said.

  “I’m beginning to believe you. Mobs like the one that’s forming out in front aren’t spontaneous. Someone sure wants you out of the way.”

  “Who?”

  “If I knew I’d go to New York and get on ‘The Sixty-four-Thousand-Dollar Question.’ The worst I could wind up with is a Cadillac. And that would be a lot better than a hole in my head. My wife told me I should go back to commercial fishing.”

  The girl in the cell across from Latour tried to spit at him. “I hope the boys do it to you but good. Just like you done it to her. This is still a free country, ain’t it? A girl still has the right to say no, even if the guy is a deputy sheriff.”

  Latour ignored her. He could hear the men in front of the jail now. The constriction in his throat became more pronounced. His lips and the roof of his mouth felt dry. His groin and the small of his back hurt. It was difficult for him to breathe normally.

  A section of the now shouting mob raced around to the rear of the jail and an overripe tomato sailed through the high window and splattered against the wall. Booted feet and heavy fists thudded on the rear door.

  “Let us in or we’ll break the door down,” a man shouted.

  Kelly spat a stream of tobacco juice on the floor. “If I were you, I wouldn’t,” he cautioned the owner of the voice. “I’m holding a riot gun, and you’d be surprised how big a hole its slugs make.”

  The smaller section of the mob retreated from the door and turned its attention to a less dangerous pastime.

  Latour climbed up on his bunk and looked out through the high, barred window. Most of them reeling drunk, the group guarding the rear of the jail was building a bonfire from the stack of old boxes and cardboard cartons the trusties had heaped up for the weekly trash collection.

  He knew most of the men. They were derrick men, drillers, tool grinders, and local fishermen. A few of the faces were strange. They looked out of place in French Bayou. He imagined they would be more at home on Bourbon Street, lounging in front of the Old Absinthe House, waiting for a live one to come along, or whispering “Psst” from the mouth of any of the alleys in the old French Quarter.

  His mounting suspicion grew. Nothing had been left to chance. In case the local boys should lose their nerve, professional talent had been imported to make sure the job was well done.

  There was nothing to keep him in his cell. Drawn by the rhythmic thud against the front door of the jail, he walked down the corridor to Sheriff Belluche’s office. It sounded as if the men battering at the door were using a length of eight-by-eight timber, or possibly a piece of oil-well casing. The door couldn’t stand much of the treatment it was getting.

  Sheriff Belluche looked up from the phone he was trying to use. “It boiled over a little sooner than I expected. And some smart son-of-a-gun has cut the trunk line leading into the building.”

  The pain in Latour’s groin became more intense. He felt like a caged rat in a trap, about to burst open any minute.

  He glanced around the office. Bill Ducros, a drawn pistol in his hand, was guarding one of the two barred windows, while De la Ronde was guarding the other. Ducros was alert, but relaxed. No one could get through his window. Latour wasn’t so certain about De la Ronde. He looked as if he were about to cry. The other deputies in the office were almost as bad. They all looked as though they wished they were somewhere else.

  Belluche lit one of the dollar cigars he enjoyed so much. His voice was wistful. “I sure wish Tom and Jack were here. Both of ‘em are as crooked as a hound’s back leg.” He added pointedly, “But neither of them was standing behind the door when guts were passed out. And, with the exception of Bill and Andy, that’s more than I can say for anyone else in this girl’s seminary.”

  Latour felt begrudged admiration for the man. Whatever else Belluche was, he was a man. He belonged to the old school of men who believed that if a man danced, he should be willing to pay the fiddler.

  His cigar drawing well, Belluche spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. He seemed to come to some decision. “Well, I guess it’s up to me,” he said quietly. “The door won’t take much more of that. And once they spill in here, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  His face white with fear and beaded with sweat, De la Ronde asked, “Why don’t you wait until the state police get here?”

  Sheriff Belluche made certain that his pearl-handled revolver slid easily from its holster. “That could be tomorrow morning, son. The boys came too fast for me. I didn’t expect them for another hour. And when I did try to phone, I couldn’t even get the local operator. So how the hell are the state police going to know the mess we’re in?”

  A thrown brick shattered the glass in one of the windows. The shouting voices took on an even more ominous tone as they blended in a chant that took its beat from the thud of the battering ram.

  “Get Latour…. Get Latour…. Get Lat
our.”

  Sheriff Belluche strode down the short front hall and stopped just short of the door. “You out there!” he shouted. “This is Sheriff Belluche talking. Take a breather. I want to come out and talk to you.”

  The thudding against the door missed a beat, then stopped.

  Belluche shot the bolts on the door, then he walked out on the small front stoop of the jail. The men powering the battering ram instinctively took a backward step every step he took forward.

  Judging from the faces he could see in the leaping flames from the crude torches of pitch-pine roots, Latour estimated there were between two and three hundred men on the lawn. And behind the men, just as Belluche had said, there was a parked mobile television truck, with two cameramen on its roof.

  The chant had stopped with the last thud of the battering ram. The men were silent but sullen.

  Belluche took his time. “You boys all know me,” he said finally. “I’ve been sheriff of this parish for over thirty years. During that time I’ve arrested a few of you. I’ve given a lot more of you a break. Now give me one.”

  The silence deepened until there were only three sounds, the crackle of the pitch-pine torches, the whir of the recording cameras, and the ca-rump of the pumping wells under the spider-like derricks silhouetted against the night.

  Belluche puffed on his cigar with enjoyment before he continued.

  “Two crimes have been committed. One of them murder, one rape. The man suspected has been arrested and has been remanded into my custody to be held here in the French Bayou jail until the high court sets a date for his trial. Is there anything wrong with that? Has the law fallen down in any way?”

  None of the men in the crowd answered him.

  Belluche went on. “When the court sets a date and a place for his trial, I will deliver him in person. And if he is found guilty of the crimes with which he is charged, both of them capital offenses, he will suffer the full penalty assessed under the Louisiana code. On the other hand, during the over thirty years I’ve been sheriff of this parish no mob has ever taken a prisoner away from me. I don’t intend you shall.”

  Belluche puffed on his cigar with obvious satisfaction.

  “A lot of you boys out there are friends of mine. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want you to hurt me. So why don’t you boys go back uptown and buy each other another drink and let the law take care of Latour?”

  For a moment Latour was hopeful that Belluche had made his point. Then a man well back in the crowd called:

  “That’s a good speech, Sheriff. But we newcomers to French Bayou know how you old-timers stick together. We’ve got nothing personal against you, understand. You’re a nice guy. We like you. But the way I see it, just because his name is Latour, one way or another, the man we’re after will go free, or at the most get a few months in Angola and then be pardoned. And when he gets out again, we’ll have another series of young girls being beaten up and raped. How would you feel if Mrs. Lacosta was your wife or sister? Which side of this would you be on? You’d be right out here with us and you know it. So why don’t you step aside and let us have him?”

  The crowd found its voice again. It surged forward and stopped as Jean Avart fought his way through the milling men and stood on the stoop beside Belluche. The attorney had to shout to make himself heard.

  “Are you men out of your minds? I don’t think Andy Latour had a thing to do with either crime. But supposing he did. Jacques Lacosta was only an old drunk. And that wife of his, whom you’re so concerned about, is little better than a rip. Why risk your lives for her?”

  It was the wrong tack to take. The crowd surged closer to the stoop, shouting its anger now.

  Avart tried vainly to silence them. “Men!” he shouted. “Believe me, if Latour is guilty — ”

  A rotten egg struck him in the face and dripped down onto the lapels of his white silk suit.

  His voice no longer conciliatory, Sheriff Belluche rested his right hand on the butt of his pearl-handled revolver. “I’m warning you boys now. There are only a few of us, but we’re all well armed, and we know how to use our weapons.” He repeated what he’d said that morning. “And the only way you’re going to take Latour is over my dead body.”

  From somewhere back in the crowd there was a sharp, flat sound and a small red spot appeared in the exact center of Sheriff Belluche’s forehead. The old man raised his left hand and touched it. It was purely reflex action. His white Stetson fell from his head and he rolled down the short flight of stairs and lay face down, inert, on the walk.

  “What damn fool did that?” a man said.

  Then everything became confused. The men in the front rank of the mob pushed back. The men behind them pushed forward and the short hall was filled with shouting men.

  Latour saw De la Ronde throw away his gun. He stooped to pick it up and a rush of sweating bodies engulfed him and forced him back against the wall of the office. Fists beat at his face and body. Then two husky young roughnecks grabbed him.

  “We’ve got him!” one of them shouted.

  He felt himself being dragged down the hall and across the stoop and down the stairs. His feet got tangled, momentarily, in Belluche’s body.

  Voices shouted for someone to smash the camera on the truck.

  Latour looked for and found Jean Avart. The attorney was standing on the edge of the crowd, attempting to wipe the egg stains from the lapels of his white coat. Then the two men holding him hurried him across the lawn and into a waiting car.

  Chapter Seventeen

  LATOUR DECIDED they were taking him, with the logic of a drunken lynch mob, out to the Lacosta clearing, where the crimes had been committed.

  His mind had never been more alert. He knew who wanted him dead. He thought he knew why. Not that he had a chance to prove it. There were men, perhaps a lot of men, in the cavalcade of cars speeding down the dark back road who regretted Sheriff Belluche’s death, who wished they hadn’t become involved in this thing. But being in it as deeply as they were, they had no choice but to go on.

  He rode wedged into the back seat between the sweating bodies of the two young roughnecks who had muscled him out of the jail. Neither of the youths was quite as cocky as he had been.

  “I wish whatever damn fool fired that shot hadn’t killed the sheriff,” one of them said. “The old man never done us no harm. And now there’s sure to be hell to pay.”

  “That’s for sure,” his partner agreed.

  George Villere was riding in the front seat. He turned around and handed a pint bottle to one of the youths. “Forget it. We smashed those TV cameras, didn’t we? No one can prove a damn thing. Even if the state cops move in and snoop around, they can’t put a finger on any one of us. And they can’t put a whole town in jail.”

  The youth to whom he’d passed the bottle handed it to his partner. “I don’t need a drink. I’ve had plenty.”

  The second youth returned the bottle to Villere. “Yeah. That’s the way I feel. I’m kind of sick-like inside.”

  Latour fought for his life. “Then why go on with this? I didn’t shoot the old man. And I didn’t rape the girl.”

  Villere wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “The girl says different. And she has no reason to lie.”

  “Yeah. Sure,” one of the oilmen said. “And no matter how dark it was in the trailer, when a man and a woman are that close, it’s pretty hard for her to be mistaken.”

  Latour continued to fight for his life. “But you admit it is possible?”

  “Yeah. It is possible.”

  “Then why not let the law decide?”

  Villere passed the bottle over the back of the seat again. “Here. Both you guys have a drink before you chicken out on us. Remember, before Latour was a deputy he studied to be a lawyer. And all lawyers are weasels. Like that bastard Jean Avart. The nerve of him, standing up there and practically saying that what Latour did didn’t matter because the old man took a snort now and then. And calling the girl li
ttle better than a rip. Did either of you guys ever hear of a rip who had to have eighteen stitches taken in her after she finished her night’s business?”

  “No,” one of the men admitted. He drank from the bottle and handed it to his partner.

  Latour asked, “How much are you getting out of this, Villere?”

  Villere knelt on the front seat and punched him in the face. “Shut your mouth, you louse. You’re guilty as hell and you know it. So your wife wouldn’t put out. Why didn’t you do what the rest of us have to do — buy it?”

  Latour was damned if he would involve Olga. It wouldn’t make any difference if he did. None of the men in this car or in the cars behind would believe him.

  The only chance he had was to try to make a break before the noose was slipped around his neck. He knew the back country. Few of the other men did. He conserved his strength for the effort.

  The driver asked, “How much farther is this clearing?”

  Villere turned around on the seat and peered out at the dark tunnel of night through which the car was moving. “See that big bay tree just up ahead? Turn right about two hundred yards beyond that. There’s no mailbox, but you’ll see a lane.”

  The car reached the lane and turned to follow it.

  Latour’s feeling of unreality, of moving in a nightmare in slow motion, deepened. Sheriff Belluche couldn’t be dead. This couldn’t be happening to him.

  But it was. All because he’d walked up Lafitte Street when he should have gone home. He thought of the first night he’d parked beside the house trailer.

  “I’ll help you get him inside,” he’d told Rita.

  And the red-haired girl had said indifferently, “If he gets inside you’ll have to help him. I’ve got so I let him lie where he falls.”

  Latour tried to feel anger toward the girl. He couldn’t. She was as much a victim of this thing as he was. Rita had nothing to gain by lying. She thought he’d killed Lacosta. She thought he’d raped her. Physical contact between a man and a woman, even the most intimate contact possible, when it occurred in the dark unaccompanied by the murmured endearments that heightened its ecstasy, was much the same with one man as with another. And when it was accompanied by brutality and pain, lust seeking its target on the heels of a brutal murder, with hard fists hammering on soft flesh, any girl could be mistaken.