Chapter Thirty-Seven
Otis Dupuis sat behind Gormley on the elevated helm, in waterproof Helly Hansen rain gear and Xtratuf fishing boots.
Gormley’s rubber muck boots rested on the backs of two corpses. One was shirtless, muscles still taut in death. The other was a wiry man in a Pelicans T-shirt and sagging gym shorts, his face blue, tongue swollen, eyes bulging. Gormley pulled the phone from his poncho pocket.
Officer Dupuis eased off the foot throttle and flipped the kill switch.
The propeller spun down with a metallic whine.
The rudders behind it shifted as the airboat coasted into a slow drift across the marsh, gliding over sawgrass and shallow water, the sound of the engine replaced by the hiss of rain and the distant croak of bullfrogs.
Gormley pressed the phone to his ear. “Okay. I can hear you now. What’s up?”
“Jesus, Hound,” came Bates’s voice. “You sound like you just drove through a hurricane.”
“Feels that way.”
Gormley could picture Bates sitting dry in his corner office on Royal Street, probably sipping chicory coffee while the Quarter buzzed outside his window. Meanwhile, he and Dupuis were out here on an airboat, doing the wet work.
“How’s the boat?” Bates asked.
“Solid. This rig is a beast. Got a six-cylinder Lycoming, fast as fuck.”
They had launched out of Jean Lafitte and taken the long way through the Barataria. They were looking for a suitable location to dispose of their cargo.
“I had to listen to Army boy go on and on about his weapons collection,” Gormley said, looking back at the younger man.
Dupuis laughed as he scanned the waters ahead.
“Listen,” Bates said. “You sure there were no witnesses at that house in the Ninth where Rayne and Hendrick bought it?”
“Took us fifteen minutes to get there, so I can’t be one hundred percent, but I don’t think so.”
“That chick with the bat you put down with Rayne’s drop gun was the only witness?”
“Yeah. There was that kid upstairs in the tub, but he was out cold. He didn’t see shit.”
Steam hissed off the engine cowling as rain hit the hot metal. Gormley glanced at Dupuis, who gave a subtle nod. It hadn’t been the easiest cleanup, but they’d seen worse.
Gormley didn’t like Bates’s long pause back there in his comfy office. It felt like a rebuke he didn’t deserve. “We cleared the scene,” he said. “Bodies, brass. Why? You nervous?”
“Got a call from the Bureau. That agent, Jimenez. She wants to talk to me.”
“Jennifer Jimenez?”
“Yeah.”
Gormley wiped the rain from his eyes. “She came sniffing around me too. I told her it looked like a cartel war—no witnesses, no leads, our jurisdiction.”
“Think she bought it?”
“What else can she do? Now, if they’d identified these two boys at my feet and found out they were our informants, that would look suspicious as fuck and could have led back to us, especially with someone like Jimenez on it. This way, that connection disappears. We did the right thing, boss.”
Dupuis tapped Gormley’s shoulder. “Hey.”
Gormley cupped the phone. “What?”
“Gator nest. See that mound? Mama’s guarding it.”
A low rise of mud and reeds sat just off the bow. A pair of amber eyes glowed above the waterline nearby.
“There’s the bull floating off the bow,” Dupuis said. “Twelve-footer, easy.”
Gormley nodded. “Perfect.”
He brought the phone back to his ear. “Gotta go. We found a good spot.”
“All right. Make sure they don’t float.”
“They won’t.”
Gormley ended the call and slipped the phone back into the pocket beneath his poncho. He stood, the airboat rocking slightly beneath him. The bull gator’s eyes didn’t blink at the waterline.
“Come and get it,” Gormley said into the storm.
They reached for the first body.