Chapter 6: And I Think to Myself, What a Wonderful World...

Rémy drove Marie and Logan to Louis Armstrong Airport, just west of New Orleans.

Logan, spoke from the backseat, “We’re not actually flying to DC, Ms. Guidry. We’ll land in Newark and drive down to Ethan’s ... current abode.”

Marie turned to look at him, “Which you’ll tell me about when we get there.” She nodded to herself, “Good, the more security at your end the better.”

Rémy spoke over his shoulder, “I had your RAV4 moved to our impound lot, Mr. Kelly. It would have been okay at the Cajun Arms, but ... well, why not go to a little extra trouble.”

“Thank you.”

Quintin Apache was average looking. Average height, a wiry build with sloping shoulders and thick wrists. A hatchet face with black hair cut military style — ‘high and tight’ like he’d been doing in the 15 years since he left the Army under clouds of varying density.

People in the know would recognize his face. Well, not his specific face, but the look — too still and too careful. They would automatically categorize him as having something to do with the law — either enforcing or avoiding.

Apache was a loner without being unfriendly. He simply didn’t hang out with anyone. He knew several people, almost all men, in Northern Idaho, but maintained a certain reserve. Once in a while he accepted an invitation to join them at one bar or another. He didn’t drink, but was comfortable around men who did.

Now, that corner of the country was known for independent thinking, distrust of government ... hell, some survivalists lived almost completely off the grid.

Still, even the bikers and the most virulent white supremacists gave Apache his privacy, his singularity. There was something ... a quiet, stay-back radiance that seemed to emanate from him. And then there was that incident just outside of Cascade, Idaho.

It was unclear who started the argument, and no one else knew what it was about. The smaller of the two bikers had unwound a chain from around his waist and slashed it across the back of Apache’s head.

The three bystanders agreed, “It went down too fast to really see what the fuck happened. We called an ambulance for Reese and Hinton. Apache just got on his bike and rode away. Like he’d only stopped for a bite to eat.”

It was over three months before either biker had healed enough to ride again.

Apache was a quiet, polite man who didn’t thrust himself into the conversation. When the national anthem was played at a Little League game, he stood at plumb-line attention, hand over his heart. He saluted the flag. He obeyed traffic laws.

He would have made an ideal soldier — patriotic and eager to follow orders without question — except there was something ... off.

In basic training, he was a gung-ho platoon leader at Fort Leonard Wood, but none of the other young men related to him. He kept his gear in parade-inspection order, but never participated in the social life of the barracks. Never went off post during his entire six-month stint.

He was sent to Fort Carson, near Colorado Springs, for his Advanced Infantry Training. There, four months into his tour, Apache was discharged from the Army. The man was just too strange, even for the military to utilize. His whispered nickname was Plague.

Ordinarily, the experienced cadre would pay a lot of attention to the occasional odd duck. They’d already invested time, money, and effort in the man, and would be determined to ‘overhaul’ him. Almost without exception, they’d keep a man in a special discharge unit and, eventually, mold him to their specs.

But not Apache. The unit psychologist, Major Dennis Helmsly, administered a battery of tests and was puzzled at the results. A colleague, Rebecca Thomas, was a Combat Medic Specialist. She said, “Dennis, I won’t say for sure, not without a complete physical, but I once saw someone with similar ... traits once at Bragg.”

She explained her theoretical physical diagnosis and Helmsly again just shook his head.

Quintin Apache was given an administrative discharge, but his personnel file was sealed for security reasons. There was no pension earned when the words ‘Retirement on Conditions and Circumstances Not Constituting a Disability’ were included in the exit report.

Now, with the Dalton assignment, Apache was starting cold. The package that Paul Citron had provided contained both Dalton’s residential and business addresses. And all of his known contact numbers. Photos of Dalton and Madison and close associates. There was a separate, and thinner, file on his attorney, Logan Kelly.

There were also video links to several of Dalton’s public appearances. Sometimes his daughter, Madison, was in the background. Never Kelly, though.

A quick Darknet search, plus three phone calls to tracers Apache had used in the past ... nothing.

Apache, as he almost always did, chose not to fly. Weapons for one thing. Also, he wanted to avoid security cams and the need to use one of the three sets of ID he could select from. The one he had chosen for the Dalton assignment was Harry Barkley.

Apache had been an indifferent high school student, but for some reason doted on mid-twentieth century American History. The ‘Harry’ was for Truman, and the ‘Barkley’ stood for Truman’s vice president, Alben W.

He carefully prepped for the two-day drive to DC. He’d take his dark blue 2018 Honda Passport. First thing, he went through his small arsenal of weapons and chose one sniper rifle, one handgun, one knife. All would be concealed in a custom-fitted compartment that he’d had built into the shallow space over the spare tire.

The rifle? An Austrian-built Steyr SSG 69. Apache wasn’t particularly a weapons aficionado, but practiced some with the Steyr and was a decent shot. He regarded the rifle as backup. Most of his work was closer in.

For a handgun, Apache brought along his Beretta Px4 Storm. He was as indifferent to the Beretta as he was to the rifle. But he did like the extended barrel on this particular model — it provided the accommodations to thread a suppressor.

However, his weapon of choice was a survival knife that was highly recommended in certain northern Idaho circles — the KA-BAR. He didn’t particularly care which version he selected, but liked the looks of the BKR7-BRK Combat Utility knife. Quiet, deadly, and readily available via an anonymous purchase at gun shows throughout the country.

When he was hunting, Apache wore the knife horizontally in back — in a Kydex sheath on his custom leather belt.

He was as self-aware as he was meticulous in mission-execution. He noted that he had gotten a vigorous erection both times he had killed someone with a knife. He had been standing behind each man and was conscious of the fact that his engorged penis was pressing against his victims’ buttocks.

Apache didn’t ejaculate as he slit the throat; nor did he masturbate once he was safely away.

He also read up on serial killers, on compulsions, on how killing cycles escalated, sped up. None of that applied to him. He worked only when paid in advance; and used his weapons only on the job.

As he had done during his brief stint with the Army, Apache cared for his weapons conscientiously.

What Apache didn’t realize about himself was that there was something missing from deep down in an ancient part of his brain. A place where primordial inhibitions were either enforced or ignored. When Apache approached a target, there was no cautionary voice, no better angel whispering that it was wrong to take someone’s life.

Time to hunt.

Miss Kitty’s was unpretentious — a blue-collar bar in a blue-collar town. Kate Broussard understood value — delivering what the hard-working men of Sausalito wanted. And, she believed, deserved.

In a small-town, Southern way, Miss Kitty’s was like that TV bar — Cheers. Where everybody knows your name. Like Cheers, you had to be 21, or have some pretty good ID. But unlike Cheers, the permissive culture at Miss Kitty’s gradually began permeating the town. Including Sausalito High and John Lee Hooker Middle School.

And, as erotic as the entertainment was, the joint continued to deliver value in a practical way.

Lunch was one example. A lot of retired guys — those living on Social Security and the few fortunate ones who also had pensions — would stop in once a week or so for a sandwich and a beer. And, of course, to check out the pole dancers.

The po’ boys were large and tasty. The beer was icy cold. You could be in and out for around ten bucks. See some boobs, joke around with friends, have a good lunch ... around ten bucks.

And the day waitresses soon learned that flashing a nipple, or brushing a boob against an arm, would usually earn a dollar tip. Not that much, but it added up at the end of the week.

For the dancers themselves...

The dressing room lights at Miss Kitty’s were purposely bright. Particularly the ones along the south wall, which was simply a floor-to-ceiling mirror. As the nude girls inspected themselves, every blemish, every flaw, every sag was visible.

And that sort of set the tone for the girls’ relationships with each other. Oh, there were a few arguments, petty feuds, the normal give-and-take of any workplace. Serious disagreements were left in the dressing room though — nothing carried over to the stage.

Most of the dancers had known each other prior to taking up show business. They were friends, neighbors, former classmates, sometimes relatives.

And, a camaraderie had built up over the first few months of operation. There was a group awareness, an edginess at first, about how the town — how the ‘civilians’ — perceived them. That anxiety eventually abated, but a bond had been formed.

It wasn’t ‘us against them’; it was more of a feeling of belonging. Of a special sisterhood forged from baring it all on stage. And from a cheerful willingness to lead a customer back to the BJ Room and give him a $40 blowjob.

Over the years as new girls joined the troupe, they were pleasantly surprised by the sociability, by the group support. As Gigi explained to one of the newest girls, one of the most nervous — Ginny Pardon — “Look around, honey. Every one of us sucks cocks in the BJ room.” She winked, “And swallows.”

Ginny did look around. And saw about a dozen girls, most of them naked, chattering and giggling as they inspected themselves in the full-length wall-mirror.

Gigi patted her butt, “You’ll be fine, chere, just fine.”

After they landed at Newark, Logan rented a Monte Carlo in someone else’s name. Once they were headed south on the Turnpike, he turned to Marie, “Ethan is in Baltimore, about a three-hour drive, maybe a little longer with the rain.”

Marie pulled out her cell and pretended to type, muttering, “Target in Baltimore.”

Logan grinned; the city attorney seemed to be in a better mood once they began to move. He hadn’t made a money commitment to her — that would be Ethan’s call — but Marie seemed to take it as a sign of good faith that she would be meeting the principal.

Eulalie lived with her sister out on the bayou, had her own room with an en-suite bath, came and went as she pleased. When Marie invited Rémy to spend the night, he usually cooked dinner. Enjoyed doing it, and was more skillful than either of the two Guidry sisters.

With Marie out of town for one, perhaps two nights, he called Eulalie, “Want me to stop by, chere, and fry you up a mess of sac-a-lait?”

“Fresh?”

He snorted, “What do you think?”

As Rémy scaled, gutted, and de-headed each fish, Eulalie got out the blender and mixed rum and lime juice for daiquiris. She was barefoot and wore only a tank top that covered her butt. Just barely.

Rémy knew she wasn’t teasing him; the young girl simply didn’t care. She’d always been independent; no surprise given who her older sister was.

He used kitchen shears to remove the fins and tails.

Eulalie put in her AirPods Pro and started nodding and snapping her fingers. She ignored the preparations as Rémy made diagonal cuts into the small fish and seasoned them liberally. He put the fish into a plastic bag and stuck it into the refrigerator for a couple of hours.

They sat across the kitchen table from each other. She was lost in the music; he was engrossed with an old ‘Girls Gone Wild‘ video on his iPad. Neither one felt the need to talk, yet there was a friendly, companionable feel to the evening. Marie was who they had in common, but they felt connected even with her absence.

He got up every once in a while to prepare seasoned batter, to heat up the oil, and, finally, to fry the sac-a-lait. Eulalie contributed Zapp’s Hotter ‘N Hot Jalapeño chips and another pitcher of daiquiris.

She said, “I told Gigi to call you the other day.”

“She did.”

Eulalie nodded, “Good.”

“That woman is plumb in love with you, chere.”

Eulalie shrugged. No newsflash there.

“Okay if I sleep in Marie’s room tonight?”

“Sure.”

Marie watched with considerable interest as Logan left the car on the roof level of a seedy parking garage in a rundown section of Baltimore. They walked down five flights and went through an unmarked door that led to the basement. Logan punched in a key code to a door with no handle.