Dead in the Water (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 4) (8 page)

Dixon delivered the half-truth to perfection. The whole truth was the recruits removed Bryant University from consideration. Yet, Dixon didn’t want to tell them that just in case he didn’t visit anywhere else he liked better. He doubted that would be the case since he had offers to visit half of the schools in the southeast. Based on his history with Bryant boosters and coaches, Dixon thought they would act like a stalker ex-girlfriend if he admitted the truth. But here they were on his front porch just days after he and Tre’vell had reneged on their commitment. Signing day couldn’t arrive soon enough for Dixon.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, son,” Coach Gardner said. “We had big plans for you. Still do, if you return to your senses.”

Dixon nodded and looked down. He kept silent.

“Just think about what’s best for your family. I understand if you think there’s a better opportunity elsewhere, but I’m quite sure you won’t find one. Don’t let an opportunity like this slip away.”

With that, Coach Gardner stood up and walked to the car. Johnson didn’t get up as he eyed the coach. Once Coach Gardner’s car door shut, Johnson leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.

“So, what did Alabama offer you?” Johnson asked. “You can tell me.”

Dixon furrowed his brow and stared at Johnson. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on,” Dixon said. “They didn’t offer me nothin’. Get outta here with that talk.”

“Look, I know something happened on your visit to Bryant that made you change your mind. And I think I know what it is. Don’t play games with me. You’re better off just shootin’ me straight than lyin’ to my face.”

Dixon rolled his eyes and stood up. “I think we’re done here. And you can tell Coach Gardner that I’m not interested.”

Johnson stood up as well. “You’re going to regret this as long as you live.”

Dixon stuck his chest out and cocked his head. He clenched his right fist as he glared at Johnson.

“Are you threatening me?” Dixon asked.

Dixon watched Johnson glance down at his fist before he answered. “No. I’m just trying to keep you from making the biggest mistake of your life.”

Dixon unclenched his fist as Johnson walked off the porch and toward his car. Dixon put his hands on the railing and leaned forward as he watched the pair drive away. He turned around when he heard the screen door bounce against the frame a couple of times.

“So, how’d it go?” his mother asked.

“Fine.”

“Did you make a decision yet?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Really?”

“Yep. I decided I won’t be going to Bryant.”

CHAPTER 10

TUESDAY AFTERNOON CAL RAPPED on the screen door to Dominique Dixon’s house. Mrs. Dixon answered the door.

“I don’t think we were expecting anyone. Are you another coach?” she asked.

Cal shook his head. “No, ma’am. I’m a reporter from the Atlanta paper writing a story about what happened to Tre’vell Baker. I was wondering if I could ask Dominique a few questions.”

“We’re just finishin’ up dinner. Have a seat out here in the porch and I’ll go fetch him.”

She disappeared inside and Cal chose one of the wooden chairs in desperate need of a paint job. Potter remained in the truck on a phone call, leaving Cal alone for the moment. Cal looked around at the surroundings. There were several clapboard houses nearby. A few chickens strutted around the area, meandering between the homes. Most of the cars parked in front of the homes looked like they belonged in another decade, if not century. Rust replaced missing swaths of paint. On one of the cars, a cinder block served as a stand-in for a missing tire.

Cal could hear the bayou stirring softly. A fall nip had replaced the warm sun preparing to make its exit for the day. It seemed peaceful despite the apparent poverty of the people who lived in this area lived. One elderly man rocked in a chair on his front porch and waved at Cal. Cal waved back and enjoyed the serenity of the moment. Yet the calm was shattered when he heard the angry voice of a man yelling inside of Dixon’s home.

Moments later, Dixon joined Cal on the front porch and shut the front door behind him.

“Sorry about that,” Dixon said. “My dad can get a little grumpy at times.”

Cal stood up and shook Dixon’s hand. “No need to apologize. Cal Murphy from
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
.”

“Dominique Dixon. Nice to meet you, sir. My mom told me that you wanted to talk about Tre’vell Baker.”

“Yeah, I’m writing a story on his death and was wondering if you could tell me more about him.”

“Sure, what do you want to know?”

“I’d like to know what kind of guy he was.”

Dixon didn’t hesitate to answer. “Tre’vell was the best. He’d give you anything if you asked for it. He was always looking out for other people.”

“What’s something he did that shows that?”

“Well, there was a time when one kid on our team didn’t have any cleats and his parents couldn’t afford it. So, Tre’vell gave the kid his cleats.”

“So, what did Tre’vell play in?”

“His sneakers. Caught eight passes that night and had a couple of touchdowns. Everybody was talking about it. The next Monday at practice, a new pair of cleats showed up in Tre’vell’s locker.”

“As I understand it, you guys were close, right?”

“Yeah, I gave him a ride home from practice every day. We went against each other in practice, which is why I think I developed the way I did. When you go against the best receiver in the state, maybe the best in the country, you’re gonna get better.”

“So, tell me about your trip to Bryant. What happened that made you change your mind?”

Before Tre’vell could answer, Potter wandered up on the porch. Cal watched Dixon eye the new guest before he clammed up.

“I’m not sure I want to talk about that.”

“OK, anything else you can tell me about Tre’vell?”

“Nope, I think that covers it,” Dixon snapped. “Look, I’ve got a lot of homework tonight so I need to get to it.”

Dixon stood up and Cal followed his lead.

Potter stared at Dixon and deadpanned, “Is it my new cologne?” Then he cracked a smile. However, Dixon still appeared tense.

Potter led Cal back to the car. Just as Cal was about to get in, Dixon called out.

“Wait, Mr. Murphy!”

Cal sensed that Potter’s presence made Dixon nervous. He hustled toward the porch, out of Potter’s earshot.

“Yes?”

“There’s more I want to tell you and something I want to show you. Meet me Thursday after school behind the Texaco station. But come alone.”

“Will do. See you then.”

Cal returned to the truck.

“What was that all about?” Potter asked as Cal climbed into the truck and buckled his seat beat.

“Just a kid trying to be polite.”

“Did he have anything interestin’ to say?”

“Not really. Just the same ole stuff everyone around here says about Tre’vell Baker. He’s a good kid, would do anything for anybody, never had a better teammate. It’s how people always speak of young kids who die. It’s like they were flawless.”

“You ever seen law enforcement dredge a river for a dead body?”

Cal shook his head.

“They bring out a barge that has a machine with grapplin’ hooks on it that reaches down into the water and pulls up whatever’s on the bottom. Most of the time, they don’t find any dead bodies. But what they do find is often worse than the dead body itself.”

Cal furrowed his brow and stared at Potter. “Your point?”

“My point is nobody likes to dredge up what’s beneath the surface. Most people are content to let whatever is under there stay that way. No need muddyin’ the water, if you know what I mean.”

Cal nodded. “So, you’re saying that nobody is going to tell me what Tre’vell Baker was really like?”

“People will say what they wanna say.”

Frustrated with Potter’s riddles, Cal didn’t respond. He hoped the silence would entice Potter to say what he meant instead of talking in bayou riddles.

They rode for several minutes without a word being spoken before Potter couldn’t help himself any longer.

“What I’m tryin’ to say, Cal, is that you’re not gonna solve Baker’s murder by askin’ his best friend what kind of guy he was or what his favorite food was or where he liked to eat or whatever it was that you were up there askin’ Dixon. Sometimes there are forces at work that we just don’t understand.”

Cal looked at Potter, who was pointing upward with his right index finger.

“You’re saying God did this?”

“Who knows? Maybe it was just Baker’s time to go.”

“That might be a good enough answer for you, but not for me—or my editor. Speaking of which, I need to give him a call. Also, I need to get some batteries for my recorder. Can you pull into the gas station here so I can grab some?”

Potter veered his truck into the Texaco gas station parking lot and jammed the stick into park. “Take all the time you need.”

Cal climbed out of the truck and pulled out his phone. He dialed his editor’s number.

“Gatlin.”

“Hey, Gatlin. It’s Murphy. How are things going?” Cal leaned against the ice machine sitting outside the entrance of the store.

“Just like normal. The Braves’ game is headed for extra innings and Tillman is late with his Hawks’ feature. I swear I’ve never met anyone who labored over his words like him. My gosh, just send the dang story in already. It’s not like anybody cares about that team anyway.”

“So, it sucks, huh?”

“Like I said, it’s another normal night at the paper. How are things going on your end?”

“Well, it’s been an interesting day.”

“Interesting enough to make for a good story.”

“Still working on that. I’ve got a colorful local guide and have met quite a few people that have given me some good background on Tre’vell Baker. But I’m still searching for an angle.”

“Well, don’t go snooping around the bayou at night. I hear the gators down there have been known to eat a man whole.”

Cal laughed. “You obviously haven’t been down here if that’s the tale you’re hearing. I’ve already heard far more terrifying stories about gators—and baby gators at that.”

“Be safe and check in tomorrow and let me know if anything noteworthy pops up. I think if this story pans out, we’ll have a winner on our hands.”

Cal hung up and went inside the story to buy some batteries. He eyed Potter, who was jabbering away on his phone.

Once Cal made his purchase, he pushed open the door and nearly hit an old man. “Excuse me, sir. Sorry about that,” Cal said.

The old man stopped and stared at Cal. He hadn’t shaved in quite some time and his clothes looked like something picked out of the Army surplus bargain bin. He wore a camouflage mesh cap with the bill pulled down just above his eyes.

“Hey,” the old man said. “Are you that reporter guy snoopin’ around here?”

Cal stopped. He glanced at Potter’s truck where his guide was still yapping away on the phone. “Yeah, I’m from the Atlanta newspaper. How do you know that?”

“New travels fast around here. But I wanted to tell ya to be careful.”

“Why’s that? Am I doing something dangerous?”

“Could be. Just watch yer back.”

Cal walked off and glanced back at the old man over his shoulder. The old man hadn’t moved. He stood glaring at Cal.

Once inside the truck, Cal remained quiet as Potter ended his call out of courtesy to his guest.

“So, ya got to meet old man Boudreaux?”

“Who is that guy?”

“Meanest man in a hundred miles of here. Rumor has it that he wrestled a bear to the ground and killed it with his bear hands. He knows where all the bodies are buried.”

“Maybe that’s why he told me not to go poking around.”

“Yeah, he’s scared of any outsider. He thinks they’re out to get him. He’s almost certifiable. But the people of Saint-Parran tolerate him. He’s pretty harmless.”

“He kind of creeped me out, to be honest.”

“He’ll do that to ya. But I’ve got a cure for that.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, Bons Temps is calling your name. You need a drink.”

CHAPTER 11

ACCORDING TO POTTER, the water and woods surrounding Saint-Parran buzzed with activity during daylight. For fisher and hunters, the daylight hours were spent on the water with a rod and reel or in the swamps with a shotgun or rifle. But at night, everyone returned to Saint-Parran, unwinding at the ever-popular Bons Temps, the only bar within twenty miles. A wooden porch fronting the grey cinder block structure appeared vulnerable to a strong gust of wind, much less a hurricane. In 1965, the bar gained legendary status throughout the region when it survived Hurricane Betsy with barely a scratch. Rumors spread of Bons Temps’ ironclad walls, starting a tradition of hurricane parties there.

Drunk patrons unable to hold their tongues made for fantastic background sources. On occasion, they also provided great leads.

“This looks like the place to be,” Cal said as they pulled into a gravel parking lot filled with outfitters’ trucks and SUVs.

“It’s the only place to be,” Potter said.

As Cal pushed through the large wooden door, the place looked more like a dance club than a bar. In an open area at the center of the room, several couples twirled around to the rhythmic sounds of Zydeco music, a Louisiana tradition. Fiddles, accordions, and an unfamiliar song wailing from the jukebox drowned out the chatter between patrons sitting at nearby tables.

Cal felt Potter poke him in his back.

“Head left,” Potter said.

Cal turned to his left and saw a small opening that led to another large room, one that had been added on. Instead of cinder block, the walls were made out of brick. The music switched to a Hank Williams Jr. song about a lying jukebox and followed them into the next room.

Potter stepped in front of Cal and headed straight for the lone empty table at the back of the room.

“Is this place always like this?” Cal said as he sat down.

“It is when there are a lot of fishermen in town,” Potter answered. “It’ll probably be like this until April or May when it thaws out up north. Saint-Parran is a great place to wait out Old Man Winter.”