The house, if she could call it that, was little more than a shack. Its once-white coat of paint had long ago melted in the Saint Charles Parish humidity, leaving only flakes as a testament. There wasn’t anything wonderful about its location, either. Bayou Gauche. The end of the universe.
She released the button on the light, drew in a breath and tried to avoid thinking about what slithered behind her in the stagnant water. She’d never been afraid of the dark, but bayou dark had teeth.
Half-light radiated from the lightbulb and pierced the shadows around the house. Massive oaks dressed in long tresses of Spanish moss swayed in the breeze, mimicking the rhythm of a dancer.
Scanning the dappled landscape, she suppressed her apprehension. She was being paranoid, letting her over-active imagination scare her, but the sooner she got out of here the better she’d feel. Besides, the driveway was empty. She couldn’t take what wasn’t there.
Frustrated, she shoved her notepad and light into her pocket. Her ride out of this hole was a cell phone call away. Maybe she should abandon her hopes of snagging the car tonight and come back tomorrow.
Kate dismissed the thought and tried to focus. The idea of standing in the swamp all night scrutinizing every shadow wasn’t her idea of fun, but hard-to-recover assets were her specialty. There was a five-thousand-dollar bonus for the recovery of the car and she needed it, yesterday.
From somewhere in the bayou the low tone of a car engine hummed to her. Could it be the Beamer? Hope churned her insides. She closed her eyes, listening for the change in the motor’s rpms as it slowed for the corners and powered up in the straightaway. It was a BMW. She’d know the sound of its performance 290 horsepower V-8 anywhere and it was coming straight to her.
Adrenaline surged in her veins. She edged around the broad tree trunk as the car’s headlights swept her position. She was here for one thing and it was about to stop less than fifty feet away. It was her lucky night.
Her pulse quickened, sweat formed on her palms, it was a rush she’d come to need.
The engine rumbled, then raced as the driver gunned the motor a couple of times and shut off the engine.
She listened for the horn toot of the alarm. Nothing. The lack of a locked door would give her plenty of time to get into the car, start it and drive away.
Otis’s footfalls in the gravel were somewhere between a shuffle and a stumble. He garbled the lyrics to “Show Me the Way to Go Home.”
The catchy notes of his boozing song amused her. He was drunk. That explained the time. She’d almost feel guilty leaving the poor guy out here in this creepy place with no transportation. Almost.
The creak of ancient wooden stairs and the slap of the screen door were her signal.
She peered out from behind the tree. A single light came on inside the house. Shining through a sheer curtain in what appeared to be a living room. Five minutes and the BMW 540i was as good as gone.
The illuminated hands on her watch pointed to 2:00 a.m. Picking up her backpack from the base of the tree, she dusted the bottom for crawly hitchhikers and slipped it onto her shoulder. The weight of the air had gone two-ton, loaded with rain. There was a storm coming.
As if tapped into her time schedule, the light went out in the front room and came on at the side of the house. The bathroom she guessed. With his pants down, she doubted Otis could beat it out the front door in time to catch her.
She slipped from behind the tree, edging toward the car. Like a soldier on a mission, she focused on the automobile. Focus, move, attack, drive. Her method had never failed.
Pausing next to the car, she pulled the dealer’s key out of her pants pocket. Repoing a car with the key seemed too easy. She hesitated and looked around, her senses on full alert. The acrid smell of cigar smoke hung in the air. Maybe Otis liked them along with whatever it was he’d had to drink tonight.
She opened the car door.
The shrill scream of the horn blasted.
“Dang!” An auxiliary alarm? She jumped in, shoved the key in the ignition and turned it over. The hot engine roared to life. She pulled the gearshift into reverse and tromped on the gas pedal. The headlights came on, the auto locks clicked. The car shot out onto the road in a cloud of dust.
Kate jammed the brake and put the car in drive.
Pop. The screen door splintered against the outside wall of the house.
Her heart jumped in her chest. Otis was loose. Fighting panic, she stomped on the gas. The tires spun, trying to grab the road. “Come on!”
The spinout sent a spray of dirt and gravel out behind her. The tires bit. The car launched forward. She glanced in the rearview mirror as Otis stumbled through the dust.
He raised a long dark object.
Shotgun! Her heart slammed against her ribs. She leaned forward, tucked her head and pushed the accelerator to the floor.
The blast bit through her concentration. Simultaneously, the rear window shattered.
She jerked. Lead tore through metal and raked over her nerves. She straightened and slammed on the brakes. The car fishtailed, she countersteered, stayed on the pedal, feathered the brakes and kept the car on the road.
Cranking the steering wheel hard to the right, she maneuvered the sharp turn at the end of the road and jetted toward the main highway.
A sob formed in her throat, but she reasoned it away. The rear window of the Beamer was gone, but there wasn’t a scratch on her.
Should she call the police? Otis Whittley didn’t have any right to shoot at her. She was just doing her job.
Kate geared the car down and braked at the stop sign. Highway 306 was in front of her, Otis Whittley was behind her. She took a right and headed for the storage unit she’d rented in Paradise, seven miles away.
The sleek car devoured the distance and she was relieved when she pulled up next to the storage unit code pad. She punched in the numbers and waited for the wrought iron gate to open.
If Otis had transportation, she was sure he’d have been right behind her. A couple of people had chased her, but shooting was a first. Other drivers could be outrun, bullets were another story. Maybe she should reconsider her current profession.
A shudder built in her insides, its ripple effect forcing gooseflesh up her arms. It had to be because of the nip of April air that breezed through the missing window. She checked her rearview mirror. The red reflection of her brake lights shone behind her in the darkness, but the trunk lid was higher than it should be. A pellet must have damaged the lock.
The gate swung open and she drove the car to the back of the complex where she’d left a double garage-size unit open. She pulled the car in and killed the engine. The auto locks snapped. She climbed out of the car and flipped on the switch to a single fluorescent overhead.
A shower sounded good. Scrubbing the swamp off her skin was going to be priority one, she decided, checking her watch. Two-thirty a.m. Not bad for a night’s work. The paperwork could wait for tomorrow, but she wanted to have a look at the damage caused by the shotgun blast.
Kate rounded the left rear quarter panel.
The notes of a scream raced up her throat, but they came out as a whimper. Caught between reality and disbelief, she watched the buckshot-peppered trunk open without a sound.
“Move and you’re dead.” A man climbed out of the compartment and rose to six feet of lethal flesh and bone.
Time stopped. She stared at the gun in his hand, then back at his face.
“Who are you?” he asked above the buzz of the fluorescent.
She struggled