Moon On The Bayou - A Val Bosanquet Mystery

Without warning, the ground disappeared and he plunged down a near vertical bank of a coulee. His feet slid from under him and he bobsled the earthen slope on the broad of his back. His right leg wedged between protruding rocks and he heard bones fracture as his momentum ripped it free. A pool of evil-smelling black ooze terminated his graceless descent. He hoisted himself onto drier earth, feeling no pain until he tried to stand. Then a wave of nausea rose through his body, and to his disgust, he felt his eyes tear up.  

It was clear his freedom run was over. He scrabbled across the ground and tried to push into the darkest shadow. His pounding heart would give him away; it was as loud as a drum. 

Above him, on the lip of the coulee, a couple of flashlight beams pierced the black night, like special effects in a Spielberg movie. The boy had always admired the director's deft touch with light and dark; now he cursed him silently. The murmur of hushed voices drifted down to him and he pushed back against the unyielding earth bank.  

Maybe they would move on. 

Or maybe they would spot the telltale traces of his ungainly slide down the bank. 

He held his breath and waited for chance to decide his fate. The beams flitted further along the bank, filling the boy with hope. He allowed the air to flow out of his lungs. 

One light stopped, swept from side to side, before backtracking until the handler aimed it at the coulee's lip. A shout of victory. 

Fate had sided with the hunters.

Chapter Two

Ruby, the East Feliciana Sheriff Office's civilian dispatcher, phoned Val at his home. 

It was early Monday morning, Val was up, but had still to shave and shower. He was skulking about his cypress-timbered shotgun house in a tattered t-shirt, munching on a slice of dry toast and trying to decide what to do with his day off. When he shook off the dust of New Orleans, he'd sold his preservation-listed timber-framed house near Magazine and put some of the money into the shotgun. He spent most of his free time working on the dilapidated property. Talking calls from Ruby had not featured in his plans. 

"You still in bed?" Ruby asked.  

"Nope. Up and easing into the day." 

"Tried to get you on your cell phone. You weren't answering." 

Val picked up his jacket from where he had hung it over the back of a chair. He patted the pockets. 

"It must have slipped out of my jacket. Probably lying on the floor of my truck." 

Ruby made a tsk sound. "Took a crime report a few minutes ago. Nicki's on her way to the scene, but the sheriff said to give you a shout out." 

Val groaned. He had worked fifteen days straight and really needed some catch-up time. He had spent his last rest day in Clinton's courthouse, giving evidence as the slime-ball defense lawyer grilled him in a fraud trial. "What sort of report?" 

"Deputy Collins responded to a 911 call. A couple of wildfowlers came across a body in the woods north-west of Slaughter." 

"Suspicious death?" 

"About as suspicious as you can get." Ruby was reluctant to give much detail over a landline. 

"ID?" 

"Not yet. Deputy Blemings would not have had time to reach the scene. Can I tell the sheriff that you're rolling?" 

Val popped the last piece of toast into his mouth. "Yeah. Text the directions and let Nicki know that I'm on my way."