In the alley you will meet your escort to the boat. That way no one can follow you or recognize your car.

Happy cruising!

The letter wasn’t signed. It didn’t sound like Francois, but who knows what he had hidden in him. It was easier to believe Colombé wrote (dictated?) the letter. Cheerful callousness seemed to be his style. I stuffed the letter and smaller envelopes back into the bigger one and tucked it away in my jacket.

“Where are we going?” I chanced asking Algernon.

“To the boat,” he replied. “My instructions are by miles and turns. It lists no destination or place.”

“But just between friends, which direction are we headed?”

He laughed, then said, “Between friends, we are in Chalmette and will probably go a ways beyond it before we get to wherever it is we’re going.”

Now that I had gotten that hard-won information, there wasn’t much to do with it. My plan of action was to get on the boat, ride it to Biloxi, figure out some way to get the kids safe, then call the police. And maybe I could find something that would tell me who had written that letter.

The steady ride of the car began to lull me into drowsiness. I fought it, telling myself that I needed to be awake and thinking. It would be better if I could get a message to O’Connor. It might take a while to convince the Biloxi police that something this bizarre was actually true. But Algernon was not a man who would let me stop and call the cops.

It might work out for the best anyway. Get on the boat, check it out, get as much evidence as I could, and make sure the kids were safe before I brought in the police. Maybe there’d be a radio I could use on the ship.

Suddenly the car stopped and Algernon said, “You’re here.”

I tossed off the blanket and sat up. We seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. It was a dark road and I could only see trees on either side of it.

“Here?” I questioned, not seeing anything that looked like a “here” to me.

“There is a path in the woods. It will take you where you need to go,” Algernon explained.

“Here’s your gun back.” I handed him the Browning.

“Thank you.” He smiled. “I wish you luck and success. As you well know, they are not always the same thing.”

There was nothing for me to do but get out of the car, wave good-bye to Algernon, and watch him leave. As his car lights disappeared, the darkness became complete. There were no stars, no moon on this night. I had hoped to be able to move without my flashlight, but that wasn’t possible.

I switched it on and found the path into the dark woods.

Chapter 33

The path was a narrow footpath. The beam of my flashlight revealed that the overgrowth had been recently trampled down. About fifty yards into the woods, I heard men’s voices. I paused to listen. I couldn’t catch what they were saying. Probably my crew.

Another twenty yards and I could see a faint light in the distance. It was the wavering light of a lantern or powerful flashlight, perhaps several of them. I came to a clearing that revealed a tumbledown shack. Flickering lights shone from several windows and the men’s voices were a rumbling undertone. Pausing for a moment, I prepared myself to be a vicious, money-hungry bitch. I had to be cool and enough in control to walk off the boat in the next port and get the police. I thought about knocking on the cabin door, but decided that if I was in charge, I had the right to enter. I opened the door and walked into a kitchen with a rusted sink, a stove that didn’t look like it had cooked anything in years, and a place where an icebox had been.

One man, drinking a beer and sitting in a chair that was leaning precariously, was the only occupant in this room. His chair almost went all the way back when I came in. He wasn’t able to right himself without dropping his beer.

The thump of the beer brought another man to the inner door. A little taller than me, he had the wiry thinness of someone who does physical labor. His hair was a brown that had seen too much harsh sunlight and sea salt. It hadn’t been cut lately; scraggly ends hung over his collar. His dark eyes were hidden in weathered creases. Years of hard drinking and smoking had aged him. “Who are you?” he demanded of me.

“Who are you?” I returned, then added, “Is Quince here?”

“Who’s askin’?”

“Micky Knight.”

“You’re a girl?!” he exclaimed, obviously not at all prepared for my gender.

“Yeah, I’m a woman. What’s your name?”

“Uh…Vern,” he stammered out, still unable to get over my not being a man.