KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set Read online

  “We still need one to make up for the kid your dumbasses spoiled.”

  “Well, what this time: black, brown, yella or white?”

  “One blonde female under twelve. And take her directly to the ship. But this time, hands off! Make sure she’s still a virgin when your perverts deliver her. Those fools getting a nut off cost’s us half — that’s $500,000, Sheriff.”

  * * *

  This conversation was getting me a little pissed. I couldn’t wait to get to these creeps.

  In my current elevated state of anger, when one of the guards came strolling around the corner of the cabin, I felt I had no choice but to strike him in the throat with the inside edge of my open hand. He fell directly to the ground like a limp rag, and I dragged him to the side before either of his buddies had a chance to see.

  After placing his Smith & Wesson .357 behind my back, beneath the waistband of my trousers, and replacing my un-tucked shirt, I listened at the window again. The dirty cop lay at my feet, his eyes bugging, not getting any air through his crushed trachea to gasp or even make a sound. When he glared at me in his final moment, I kicked him in the groin to give him one last thing to remember for his trip to the afterlife. After a few seconds he finally expired.

  One of his hands opened as the life left his body, revealing a pocket knife. He was the whittler, probably had come around the side of the cabin to take a leak or find a new stick. I took the knife and opened the longest blade.

  * * *

  Inside, the sheriff’s higher-pitched voice said, “I tol’ you, I’d kill ‘em if they mo-lest ‘nother chil’ again. I meant it an’ they know’d it.” The sheriff hocked up phlegm and spat. “What ‘bout that injun kid?”

  Legba’s deeper voice said, “We’ll take him with the items aboard the Mazu. If things go bust, we’ll sink the container ship in Sigsbee Deep and make sure his body’s found with the ship’s crew in the debris. With a little work, the FBI will think he was involved — maybe even in charge of the operation. All the items will be inside containers so, push comes to shove, they’ll sink like bricks. Under two and a half miles of saltwater, it’ll be years before they can get down there to investigate the wreckage in any meaningful way, and we’ll have everything cleaned up by then. They’ll never track it back to us. A small, worn out, Chinese-flagged feeder ship in international waters won’t be an attractive treasure hunt for anybody — not even Clive Cussler — especially being listed as empty. The FBI will only have rumors to go on.”

  With a long pause, I imagined Legba staring at the sheriff to punctuate his next words. “But we don’t want it to get that far, you understand, Sheriff? The Mazu is loaded with gold as far as we’re concerned. And that little antique container ship is key to this whole operation. Which brings the question about that Indian boy’s mother — she still alive?”

  * * *

  “Andy?” One of the remaining two guards asked as he stepped around the corner, following in the footsteps of his dead partner.

  I decided to make an impression with this asshole. As he turned the corner, I shoved his head back with one hand to his forehead and used “Andy’s” big pocket knife to slit the child molester’s throat from one side to the other.

  If I were Mafioso, I might have reached into the gash and pulled out his tongue to make one of those cute little Italian neckties out of it. That would have made a lasting impression on whoever found the body. But I’m not a sadist. I don’t like torture or brutality. I don’t even enjoy killing the scum of the Earth.

  But somebody’s got to do it.

  As I leaned back to the window, the cop fell to his knees with his hands around his neck. Blood poured through his fingers. His dying eyes glared at me, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

  Really, I don’t enjoy killing even child molesters. Honestly. However, I have no compassion for child molesters, kidnappers or cold-blooded killers and assassins — call me a hypocrite about this last one, if you want.

  I suppose if my beautiful wife were alive and standing beside me now, she would have said I was lying to myself.

  The flashback the thought induced came to me as if I’d stuck the knife I was holding into my own heart. I have to admit, I did enjoy killing the bastards who had brutalized her and took her life.

  The deputy finally collapsed over his partner’s dead body, and I threw the pocketknife to the ground beside them.

  I took the time to glance over my shoulder to the children’s guard in the dark swamp behind me. He seemed unfazed by my actions. He waived at me with his fingers and grinned again.

  I recalled what the voices inside the cabin had said. Five hundred kids? I was stunned considering it.

  My plan had to be modified, and quickly. I had no idea how I could gain the upper hand against an armed force of what was probably upwards of ten or twelve men, then somehow rescue five-hundred small children from their swampy cages and keep them safe from all dangers, besides.

  Regardless of how, I knew I must.

  * * *

  At the window, I heard the sheriff say, “Don’t see how that bitch can hurt us much. We take care of this E Z Knight guy, an’ we’ll have that fray cauterized. Sumbitch killed both those contractors, then has the balls t’fly into Naw-lins an’ go all psycho on Poppy, too.”

  “John Poppy?”

  “Yeah. NOPD found’m in his wrecked car ‘roun’ noon, one eye missin’ an’ stabbed in the chest with his own knife. Ran into the back a street-sweeper truck. Looked like he’d been through hey-ell.”

  “What are you doing to get Knight?”

  “APB on him — we’ll find the sumbitch.”

  * * *

  As the third cop came around the corner looking for his buddies, I realized this would be a great time to make an entrance.

  CHAPTER 13

  In the House of the Rising Creeps

  I gave the third sheriff’s deputy a chance to get a good look at his companions before I grabbed him by the shoulders and rushed him backward to the front of the cabin.

  A fourth and fifth guard had arrived in another sheriff’s car. They stood by the door, pulling their sidearms. I side-kicked the closest one in the knee, hinging it backward with a snap.

  The fifth officer was bringing his gun up as I shoved my human battering ram into him. Grabbing number five’s gun hand and pulling it past me, I hit the outside of his elbow with the heel of my other hand. His arm snapped with a loud crack as it bent in a direction it was never intended to go.

  Before my battering ram had a chance to consider any sort of physical protest, I yanked him up from his sitting position against the wall and heaved him into the cabin door, swinging it wide. The officer ended up sprawled onto the floor with me standing over him in the doorway.

  In the next second, half a dozen pistols drew on me, and I raised my hands to keep them from shooting first and asking questions later. Scanning the five men inside the cabin, I realized, besides the painted up dude in the black top hat and chicken feathers, I was by far the best looking, but smallest guy in the room — and I’m 6’1” and not a bit skinny.

  “Sorry!” I said, “I didn’t see the WWF sign on the door. Thought this was the Tammany Parish PTA meeting.”

  Who I took to be Sheriff DePue sat at the far end of the table. He hadn’t moved, but he was the first to talk. “How the hell’d this bastard get this close without somebody shootin’ him?”

  Another officer from inside the cabin had his piece leveled at me as he slammed the door back shut, and the sheriff’s deputy on the floor scrambled up and finally pulled his gun as well. It seemed they all packed Smith & Wesson .357s.

  My former battering ram said, “Don’t know, Sheriff DePue. He jus’ appeared from nowhere.”

  DePue said, “Jus’ like that damn Injun boy done ‘peared outa nowhere an’ caused all this mess?”

  The only man in the room smaller than me had stood from the middle of a long table when I burst in and was now glaring at me. With the
getup he wore, I was pretty sure this was the face that matched Legba’s deep voice. He was about average build and, other than the voice, Voodoo costume and face paint, just another guy. But something in his eyes seemed familiar. He wore some sort of leopard loin cloth or skirt, his body was finger-painted in myriad colors, he wore bones, feathers and teeth around his neck. And tucked into the band of his black top hat was an ace of spades playing card and a red feather.

  The deputy behind me at the door pulled the .357 from behind my back and also lifted my wallet. He tossed the wallet onto the table in front of DePue.

  “E Z Knight,” Legba stated more than asked.

  DePue scrutinized me, then glanced at my ID inside my wallet. “You the one-man army come to kick ass an’ take names?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Legba and his men sat down.

  The sheriff said, “You don’t look s’tough t’me.”

  The muffled moans and groans caused by the injuries I’d inflicted came easily through the closed door.

  “Who the hell’s whinin’ out there?”

  Battering ram said, “Charlie and Jimmy Ray, Sheriff. He done killed Ralph an’ Andy.”

  “What? Killed ‘em?”

  “This asshole slit Andy’s throat an’ did I don’t know what to kill Ralph. An’ he messed Charlie and Jimmy Ray up somethin’ awful. Broke Charlie’s arm at the elbow an’ Jimmy’s leg at the knee. Turned their limbs backwards on theyselves, like they’s double jointed.”

  “Shi-it! Four men?” He hammered the table and glared at me. “Boy, you gonna pay! Y’know how long it takes to cul-ti-vate good officers of the law into m’way of thinkin’?”

  My former battering ram spoke up again, “Sheriff, we gotta do somethin’ for Charlie and Jimmy Ray.”

  The sheriff said, “Them boys’ll be laid up for three to six months — useless — a damn liability. An’ how’m I gonna splain what happened?” The sheriff shook his head. “Cain’t splain no broken arm and a broken leg on my payroll. Looks bad, someone take ‘vantage o’the law like that. I can more splain how this here perpetrator come up an’ s’prised them boys, stole a gun and kilt all fo’ o’them with it, though. We’d have public sympathy on our side. Besides replacin’ the lost men, might get me s’mo’ officers an’ a pay raise.”

  The sheriff glanced at Papa Legba. Legba’s return stare was hard and cold. The sheriff shook his head remorsefully and sighed. “Grover, you know’d what t’do — an’ do it with Charlie’s own gun — not yours.”

  “Sheriff?”

  The groans continued from outside.

  “Don’t y’query m’none. Put Charlie’s gun in you’s hand an’ do what you’s gotta do!”

  The officer glanced at the .357 he was pointing at me. His eyes grew wide.

  The sheriff continued, “Now leave this here E Z fella up to us. You g’on out an’ take care o’you’s business.” He stared at the young officer. “An’ Grover ... this time y’see some fella walkin’ up the road — ya shoot ‘em, boy! Otherwise, gonna be me doin’ what’s gotta be done with you.”

  Officer Grover hesitated.

  “Now, g’on, I said.”

  Grover left. Ten seconds later, a gunshot rang out. After two more seconds of pleading, the powerful .357 discharged again.

  “Your reasoning is flawless, DePue,” I told him.

  “You makes the mess,” he said, “you cleans it up. You is the mess, you gets cleaned up.”

  Two of Legba’s men sat one on each side of their boss, fidgeting. They’d stuffed their weapons — looked like H&K .45s — back inside their jackets. It was obvious what they were; both in business suits, both with cropped hair and thick necks, one white guy, one black. These were bodyguards, no doubt. They weren’t dressed for play or ritualistic ceremonies, they were dressed for chauffeuring and protecting their boss.

  The sheriff said, “Now boy, y’try that bendin’ m’elbow backwards on me I’ll break you’s arm off an’ shove it up you’s ass, is what I do!”

  I smiled. “I’ll do more than try. And you won’t be able to do a thing but whine.”

  “Woo-who!” he said. “Boy, you’s mouth is writing checks you’s ass cain’t cash—you know that?”

  “I know you’re no Jackie Gleason, but you are a slimy ball of shit.”

  He laughed. “Keep talkin’ and smilin’, boy. Ol’ Bob Dylan here’s gonna have some lunch in a minute, an’ guess who’s jus’ invited hisself t’dinner.”

  That’s when I realized what I thought was some sort of Voodoo decoration on the floor in front of Legba was the head of a large and living alligator. The thing stretched out at least twelve feet, the end of its tail against the wall past the sheriff on one side of the room and its head sticking out from under the middle of the red-cloth-covered table.

  The sheriff kicked Bob Dylan’s tail.

  It opened its mouth and gave a hissing gator growl, as Legba held it back with a chrome-chain leash from under the table. I noticed a yellow spot with a deep scar in the middle of its forehead.

  The alligator turned its head toward the sheriff and growled again.

  “Who-who!” the sheriff said. He tossed my wallet inside the gator’s mouth and it clamped down on it. “Now you hold tight to ol’ Bob Dylan while he’s digesting our visitor’s ID, Legba. I don’t wanna be his dinner. This yeah-who here’s the one come delivering hisself to ou’door like Domino’s!”

  CHAPTER 14

  Witchy Woman

  From a side room, the beautiful black woman I’d met in the French Quarter, Marie Paris Dumesnil de Glapion, appeared and seemed to float up behind the sheriff.

  Her face was highlighted in white but darkened around the eyes and her cheeks were shadowed; all making her head look like a bare skull. Her mouth was painted as if it had been cut ear-to-ear and then sewn shut. Around her neck was a huge yellow and white python — an albino — and she held its head with one hand as the thing flicked its tongue. Marie’s breasts were bare and painted with a pink handprint on one and a red handprint on the other. With a second more scrutiny, I realized the handprints weren’t painted on but were tattoos. On her head she wore a red scarf with feathers sticking out and her hair was in dreadlocks.

  This time she didn’t smile at me, but glared, showing now blackened teeth in a snarl as she gently placed a hand on Sheriff DePue’s shoulder.

  Before them on the red tablecloth were a number of items, including what appeared to be a ritual dagger; a small, crude doll; some long pins with different color heads; and a whole lot of what I guessed were chicken bones.

  But one thing seemed very out of place among the gris-gris. It was a small and probably cheap cell phone — a simple clam shell. It seemed dirty, maybe dried mud on it.

  I thought of Billy White Cloud’s phone message to his mother, and how it ended abruptly after the sound of water splashing. I thought of the adult-size figure standing silently upright and bound in the enclosure behind the cabin, and I hoped when and if I got to him, he would still be alive.

  Marie took another cell phone from a pouch hanging from her side and laid it beside Billy’s. It was mine. The sheriff pulled them closer to him and took out his big hog-leg of a .357.

  “Son. Would ya like t’make you’s one phone call, now?” He chuckled to himself and used his sidearm’s handle to hammer the phones. He smashed them until they were obviously unusable.

  Marie gathered up the chicken bones, shook them in both hands and threw them out in front of Legba. Her head tilted side to side theatrically as she inspected them. Then her eyes went wide and she stared at me.

  “Him have little dust, Papa Legba,” Marie said. “Him duck an’ hold breath. An’ him get jus’ tiny scratch. Not enough. Need more.”

  Legba nodded.

  She said, “We make him zombie — might be useful, might be smart.”

  Legba nodded again.

  I said, “So bumping into you today wasn’t a coincidence — but how ... ?”

&nb
sp; “No coincidences, boy — nothing happen by coincidence. Always reason, always purpose. Your purpose be Papa Legba’s zombie.”

  “You’re serious?”

  She snarled at me.

  “And what’s your angle, Legba? Who are you really, and why do you want to dress up like a clown?”

  That got him fuming. He slammed his fist onto the red tablecloth even harder than the sheriff’s .357, and all the gris-gris went flying. His eyes bugged like his head was about to explode.

  Marie put her hand into the pouch again.

  I didn’t like where this was going — had a really bad feeling for what was about to happen. I could strike out, and take down a couple of these big guys, but I needed my surprise guest in order to have any more than the slimmest of chances of overwhelming this entire crew of perverts and low-life scumbags.

  I wondered if Zack had succumbed to the marijuana and Twinkies and was now taking a long nap.

  Legba picked up the crude doll in front of him on the table. He began chanting.

  I remembered Zack asking me if Marie had taken any of my hair, and I’d recalled feeling a pinch on the side of my head. I felt the pencil-eraser-size bald spot again. I was convinced the doll was made from at least a little bit of my hair.

  But I don’t believe in magic, black or white. I don’t believe in Voodoo or hoodoo. I don’t believe in things I can’t touch, see or taste. Still, I believe in mind control and thought manipulation. I’ve seen brainwashing techniques work during torture. I knew there was nothing to this zombie-Voodoo stuff, yet my backbone got as cold and stiff as an icicle as Legba picked up the four-inch, blue-headed pin before him.

  The powder Marie had blown in my face and the poison laced scratch she’d given me on my arm contained drugs administered to make my mind more pliable ... and I hate to admit, they were working. I feared what my mind might make of the pin being jabbed into the doll’s chest or head. From my years of experience being in Special Forces and as a contract assassin, I know the power of suggestion is a very powerful tool.