Chapter 12: Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot...

In the convoluted way the whisper stream worked, Lacy Danube heard a faint rumor about the Knife Man. Not who he was, not where he was; but just that the moniker had come up in a quiet conversation that surfaced out of Denver. A discussion that included a vague detail — some Senator might be the target.

Unlike Quintin Apache, Lacy didn’t call around for leads. Her dedicated cadre of listeners, skip tracers, Darknet infiltrators, reached out to her. Or, rather, to a bank of telephones in Omaha that was answered around the clock.

Among a certain set of people who lived on the fringe, or beyond it, Lacy had a stellar reputation. Her word, as well as her threats, were good. She paid top dollar for legitimate intel, even when it didn’t help her in any one specific instance. Over the past twelve years, she had built up a library of information, a roster of specialists, an aura of trust.

She wired $500 from a Cayman account to a man going by the name of Whitey Borgia in Vancouver, Canada. More of a down payment than a reward. A deposit against further information.

The Knife Man.

Ethan came to appreciate the slow pace of bayou life. The fog, the mist, the gentle haze that produced spectacular sunrises and sunsets. The millions of mosquitoes? Not so much.

He smiled at Marie, “Eulalie pointed out a black panther the other evening. He was stalking a rabbit. The more time I spend down here, the more enchanted I’ve become.”

“Interesting. Outsiders don’t usually get it.”

“In a way, the Cajun Bayous remind me of Wyoming, our family ranch.”

Marie didn’t scoff, just tilted her head to listen.

“My people worked the land for five generations. Expanded our spread in good times.”

“Just the opposite down here — erosion and hurricanes are shrinking the land. And sediment — sand and silt from the Mississippi and smaller tributaries — are clogging up the freshwater canals.”

“Yet the people persevere.”

“Yes. Yes, we do.”

“Wyoming has its own challenges — brutal winters, industrial rape.”

“Like Mr. Citron.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s one battle the Cajuns have won down here. So far, anyway. People compare this part of the world to the Atchafalaya Basin.”

“Over in Louisiana.”

“Yes. And I can see why. That’s the country’s largest wetlands, and it’s disappearing. Their whole way of life is vanishing. Towns disappear. A town of 500 — Bayou Chene — lost the battle to nature. It’s under 10 or 12 feet of silt now.”

“Erosion and hurricanes?”

“That too. Flooding. Acid from the Ohio River that flowed into the Mississippi. But look around you, Ethan, look at those magnificent trees.”

“Cypress, Eulalie said.”

“That’s right. Some old-growth cypress trees are over 500 years old. I heard of one that’s supposed to be a thousand, just west of here. And the Atchafalaya Basin used to be full of them. But the wood is too valuable. Know how many cypress trees are left in the entire Basin? None.”

“None? Not even a few along the highways like they did with the redwoods in some California forests?”

“Not a one. I haven’t been there in a few years, but the only trace you see are stumps and knees.” Marie smiled wanly, “Covered in moss, beautiful still.”

Raymond loved those nude photos. He masturbated to Gigi constantly. And dutifully wrote down the stats. His mother soon grew bored with the repetitive data but tried to show an interest. Until Eulalie told her different, the jack-off ritual was ongoing.

Then one day Eulalie stopped by after school. She told Gigi, “Have Ray-Ray come in. And tell him to bring his pictures of you.”

Eager as a puppy, Raymond bounced in.

“Let’s take a look, Ray-Ray.”

“Sure!”

Eulalie and Gigi watched over his shoulder as Raymond lovingly scrolled through the series. Gigi thought: Fuck, I still got it, even after four kids.

Eulalie pointed to a three-quarter shot — Gigi was standing in the flattering light; her nipples were erect and her freshly-bald pussy was on full display.

“Take this over to Tee-John’s this afternoon. Tell him to print one copy and one copy only for you.”

Gigi felt her heart rate pick up a little.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Have your mother autograph it and take it to school tomorrow. Show it to just a few of your buddies.”

Raymond beamed, “Yes ma’am!”

Gigi felt her cheeks redden with some mild embarrassment. But mostly she was excited at the idea. She and several other mothers had giggled and speculated about all those horny teenagers beating off to their Miss Kitty pictures. But this ... this was a whole different level.

Gigi knew better, but couldn’t resist, “Eulalie, what about that other one, the ... you know?”

Raymond scrolled to the blatant beaver shot and put it on display.

“I’m saving that for John Lee Hooker.”

Mother and son laughed nervously.

Eulalie stripped off her white tee, leaving her wearing only a neon green thong, “Beat it, Ray-Ray. Your mom and I have some unfinished business.”

Scarlet-cheeked, the boy did an about-face and headed off to Tee-John’s.

Coming out of the shower, Gigi said, “I love you, Eulalie Guidry.”

She smiled sweetly and placed her palm on the woman’s cheek, “I know, Gigi, I know.”

Marie grasped Logan under the water; her fingers couldn’t quite meet her palm. Then she felt the pulse rate pick up as it grew a little longer. And a little thicker.

She’d never been a size queen; most women weren’t, not once they’d outgrown adolescence. But she felt warm, knew her face and neck were red, even through her perpetual tan.

Logan picked her up, waded over to the little grassy hill. They scrambled to make a blanket out of discarded clothes and Marie lay back, her eyes closed, her knees in the air.

Logan touched her for a few moments — not much foreplay was needed — and entered her slowly, smoothly, easily. She sighed, a long, quivering sound that seemed to come from her soul.

Logan fucked her missionary style, slowly, smoothly, then faster and faster as they raced toward a mutual goal.

Ethan and Logan had a low-level sense that the hunt was ongoing. Maybe not drawing closer to the end, not yet. But ongoing. The killer that Paul Citron had dispatched was ... out there. Out there somewhere, searching for Dalton.

They had no way of knowing that that particular man — Quintin Apache — had veered off. Was now hunting for the Southern California woman who could disappear people.

For her part, Lacy Danube hadn’t changed course; she’d never been after the assassin. No one knew who he was. Nor how many of them there were. (She assumed there would be only one man — it was almost always a man. And more than one killer would be rare. An unnecessary complication.)

No, Lacy had been focused from the beginning on the principal — Paul Citron. Drawing him in, trapping him, would eventually lead them to the hunter. That had been Logan and Ethan’s strategy from the start; and she mostly agreed with it.

So, while Apache was trying to track Lacy, she was aiming at his boss, the paymaster.

Danube and Apache —- two independent circles; two different targets.

Ethan had relocated to Sausalito for a variety of reasons. He’d been going a little stir crazy in Baltimore. He and Madison never left that apartment.

In addition, as secure as Baltimore seemed to be, he wanted to distance himself from his daughter. Madison was bored too, that was certain, but she understood this would pass, that life would eventually return to normal.

Ethan was also curious about the two women involved in the plan that he and Logan had worked out. Marie Guidry and Lacy Danube. His safety, his life — to put a dramatic emphasis on it — depended upon their discretion, their talents, their paid-for loyalty.

He’d met both of them in Baltimore; his Gulf Coast trip would allow him to see Marie, and Rémy, and Sausalito, in situ.

Besides, he’d always enjoyed Cajun food.

Chase had decided to use women confederates, three of them, to spread the word on Jia Li Chi’ng. He told Ladyfingers, Reneta, and Slipstream, “The crowd at these charity events is wealthy, but second-tier. Not quite the pearl-clutchers that you’d find at the Met or the Lincoln Center.”

“Still millionaires, right?”

“That’s right, Ladyfingers. So you’ll want to be just a little catty, just a whisper of jealousy regarding Jia Li.”

Ladyfingers, in her 50s, would be a patron of the arts with a strong interest in intercity education for minority children. Reneta would be a 16-year old debutante due to come out next season. Slipstream would work for a caterer, cruising through the crowd with trays of canapés.

None of them would speak directly to Nelson and Drake Xing; rather they would be in the vicinity, conducting barely overheard conversations. They were merely setting the hook — Lacy would be responsible for reeling in one or both of the Hong Kong brothers.

The two young men were in the fourth generation of their family to prosper in the import/export business. And wealthy enough, generous enough, to be invited to some of Manhattan’s B-list soirées.

The upper echelon ladies and gents who liked to gossip — approximately 100% of the group — assumed, incorrectly, that Nelson and Drake were in the drug business. Nope, too much scrutiny from both the Pacific Rim and the United States.

Instead they dealt in Chinese antiques, jade, artwork ... some of it with a questionable provenance. What no one in America knew — and it was a source of mild embarrassment to the brothers — was that over 80% of their net revenue came from ramen — Chinese wheat noodles. Frozen and dry-packaged, sold to restaurants and grocery chains throughout the United States and Canada.

Drake had once complained to his grandfather, Wellington, “There’s almost no chicken in these packets.”

Nelson added, “No pork either.”

“Round-eyes eat too much meat.”

Word raced through Sausalito High. There was supposedly a Miss Kitty’s photo that showed actual pussy. Not some porn star, not some 10th-grade slut whose nude pictures were texted around, but a real woman. Someone many of them actually knew — Ronnie and Raymond’s mom, Gigi Fontenot!

Bikini pictures of her were already popular. And she was center stage in that Moms Gone Wild group photo.

But pussy? Gigi Fucking Fontenot?

Logan found himself thinking about Madison more than ever. Some guilt of course; he’d never wanted to hurt her. As he took his own emotional temperature, he couldn’t detect much remorse about his involvement with Marie. Rather, there was a sense of inevitability, of his affair with Madison coming to its natural end.

At least he didn’t have to worry about an overreaction. About Madison’s doing something irrational that would risk exposure, risk her father’s life. Their love — the love between a father and daughter — was simply a given. They’d always bonded; and her mother’s death brought them even closer.

Still.

Goose-Step Gorman called Apache on the stipulated burner phone, “Omaha.”

“I thought it was Southern California?”

“Still is. But Omaha is where you call if you need to disappear.”