Louisiana Stalker Read online

  She hoped Clint would be back . . . soon.

  • • •

  Clint approached the Blood ’n’ Guts Saloon without a plan. He decided when he reached the door that the best thing to do was just walk right in and ask for Monk and not show himself to be a threat to the man.

  The problem with this kind of saloon was that everybody knew everybody, and a stranger walking in attracted a lot of attention—sometimes unwanted attention.

  As he stood in front of the door, he looked down and was surprised to see running water at his feet. Not a torrent, but enough to tell him that the levee certainly was not holding. Better to get his business here done and get away from the river.

  He opened the door and went in.

  • • •

  Keller found Clint just before he went into the Blood ’n’ Guts Saloon. Keller knew what kind of place it was, and he himself usually avoided it. He knew Monk Rathko was not a man to be trifled with.

  He decided to wait outside.

  • • •

  As Clint entered the crowded saloon, it fell silent and everyone turned to look at him.

  “A man could drown out there,” he said, breaking the silence.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The man stalking Clint didn’t follow him to the docks; he followed Lee Keller. He wasn’t sure what Keller’s intentions were when it came to Clint, and if the man had bad intentions toward the Gunsmith, he wanted to be there to stop him.

  He did not want anyone else killing Clint Adams . . .

  • • •

  Clint walked to the bar and asked, “Can I get a beer, please?”

  The bartender didn’t answer, but he drew the beer and put it in front of Clint—then he glared at him because Clint was dropping water on the bar.

  “Oh, hey, I’m sorry,” Clint said. He took a step back and wiped at his face and hair with both hands, but it didn’t help much.

  “Here,” somebody said, “try this.”

  He turned and saw a huge man tossing him a less than clean towel. It had already been used, but it would do the trick to get himself somewhat dry.

  “Thanks.” He dried his hair, face, and hands with it, then tossed it back.

  “The beer’s on the house, Dan,” the man said to the bartender.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man was monstrously huge, with a big black beard and a wild head of black hair. His sleeves were pushed up so that the black hair covering his forearms was very evident. Given the bartender’s reaction, he assumed this was Monk Rathko.

  “Thanks,” Clint said.

  “Seems to me you might prefer coffee, though,” the man said. “At least it would warm you up.”

  Clint sipped the beer and then said. “You might have a point.”

  “Why don’t you come with me and we’ll have some?” the man suggested.

  Clint studied the big man for a few seconds, sipped the beer again, and then asked, “What have I done to deserve this kind of treatment?”

  “Well,” the man said, “it ain’t every day we get somebody like the Gunsmith in our place. The least we can do is show you some hospitality.” He put out a hand the size of a ham. “Monk Rathko.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Clint shook the man’s hand, mindful of the fact that Monk could have crushed his gun hand very easily.

  “How do you know me?” he asked.

  “Come on,” Monk said, “we’ll have that coffee and I’ll tell you.”

  Clint put the beer down on the bar and followed Monk through the saloon. There wasn’t an empty chair in the place, and they all watched him go.

  Monk took him to a door in the back, and through into an office. There was a potbelly stove there with a pot of coffee on it.

  Monk walked to the pot, poured two cups, and handed Clint one.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Adams.”

  Clint was surprised by Monk’s civility. Cappy had made him sound like a monster.

  The big man sat behind his desk, dwarfing it as he did so. Clint sat across from him.

  “How did you recognize me?” Clint asked.

  “I have eyes all over the city,” Monk said. “They’ve seen you with Capucine Devereaux.”

  “And recognized me?”

  “No, but they found out who you were and told me,” Monk said. “So I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Expecting me?”

  Monk nodded.

  “In fact, I knew the moment you pulled up in your cab. Your driver’s out there getting soaked. Would you want to bring him in?”

  “I don’t think he’d want to,” Clint said. “He told me he avoids this place.”

  “Probably a smart thing.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “so you know who I am. Do you know why I’m here?”

  “I can guess,” Monk said. “Capucine’s having some trouble and she thinks I’m behind it.”

  “She doesn’t think so,” Clint said. “I asked her who her competitor was.”

  “She has lots of competitors.”

  “I asked who her biggest competitor was.”

  “Well,” Monk said, “I’m flattered. She has a high-class product.”

  “She does,” Clint said, “but she says your prices undercut her.”

  “That’s true,” Monk said. “But my girls can’t compare to hers.”

  “So you don’t see yourselves as competitors, at all?” Clint asked.

  “I don’t,” Monk said. “I think our customers are totally different.”

  The two men regarded each other across the desk for a few moments, sipping their coffee. Clint was surprised that the man’s coffee was comparable to the best he’d had on the trail.

  “So what’s this problem she’s having?” Monk asked.

  “Somebody’s following her,” Clint said, “stalking her.”

  “What do they want?”

  “We don’t know,” Clint said.

  “No contact?”

  “Not yet,” Clint said. “He’s just following her, and letting her know she’s being followed.”

  “Sounds like a war of nerves,” Monk said. “That’s not really my style.”

  “What is your style?”

  “I think you can tell by looking at me,” Monk said. “I don’t attack somebody’s nerves, I break their bones.”

  “I get it.”

  “What were you thinking, coming here?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “to tell you the truth, I was thinking about this. That we’d just talk.”

  “And why would you believe me when I say I have nothing to do with it?”

  “I pride myself on knowing when a man’s lying to me,” Clint said. “I don’t think you have any reason to lie.”

  Suddenly, Monk turned his head and looked behind him.

  “Sonofabitch!”

  “What is it?”

  Monk leaped out of his chair and rushed to the back door. Clint stood up to look. There was water coming in from beneath the door.

  At that point the door to the saloon opened and the bartender said, “Hey, boss, we got water coming in the front door.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Monk said, “the back, too. It’s that goddamned levee.” He looked at his bartender. “Get the bags.”

  “Bags?” Clint asked.

  “Sandbags,” Monk said. “We’ve got to block the doors and windows.”

  “The windows?” Clint asked.

  “If the levee goes, it could get that high,” Monk said.

  “Jesus,” Clint said. “Can I help?”

  “We’ll take all the hands we can get!” Monk said. “Come on.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Clint worked with Monk, the bartender, and a bunch of the customers to try to fortify the saloon against the oncoming flood.

/>   “What happens if this doesn’t hold?” he asked Monk as they piled sandbags in front of the door.

  “We’ll have to get out of here,” Monk said.

  “Have you dealt with this before?” Clint asked.

  “A few times, but we’ve never had to abandon the place,” Monk said.

  They stood back from the door and looked down. So far the water had been stopped.

  Clint had a thought.

  “What happens out in the bayou when there’s flooding like this?” he asked.

  “That depends on different levees and whether they hold,” Monk said. “Where are you talking about?”

  “I might have to go out to Iberia Parish.”

  “That’s Bayou Teche,” Monk said. “If the West Atchafalaya Levee goes, it’ll pretty much flood the whole area. But there usually has to be a hurricane for that.”

  “And what’s causing this flooding?”

  “Heavy rains north of here,” Monk said. “Apparently, other levees are holding, and the water is rushing down to us. If some of the northern levees break, it would bleed off some of the water, and save us.”

  “Why don’t they send somebody upriver to break those levees?”

  “Because doing that would flood other towns, like Vicksburg or Natchez, if they haven’t already been flooded. Smaller towns than that would be totally wiped out.”

  “Well, do you think this will hold?”

  “No way to tell,” Monk said. “The engineers are working on the levee. We’ll have to wait and see. If I was you, though, I’d get away from these docks.”

  “I intend to,” Clint said.

  “And if the levee fails completely . . .” Monk said.

  “Get out of Baton Rouge?”

  “No,” Monk said, “get out of Louisiana.”

  • • •

  Keller looked down at the water running over his feet, and decided to withdraw from the docks. If the levee went, he’d be hip deep in water, or worse.

  He headed for slightly higher ground, but if the levee failed completely, he knew he’d have to leave the city. Maybe he should make sure he took Capucine with him.

  • • •

  Simon Devereaux looked out his office window at the falling rain. If he’d been on the town council, he’d know what was going on with the levee, but the mayor and his cronies had made sure that didn’t happen. If the city flooded, he was safe where he was, and they had some supplies, but he wouldn’t be able to stay in his office for an unlimited amount of time. And if he didn’t get out before then, it would take a boat to get out.

  He walked to his office door and looked at his assistant, Maddie, seated at her desk.

  “Maddie, you better go home,” he said. “Fortify your house.”

  “I live on the second floor,” she reminded him.

  “Maybe you should just leave town,” he said, “before the levee fails.”

  “What about you, sir?”

  “I’m going to go home, get Mrs. Devereaux, and leave.”

  “Do you think she’ll go with you?” I’d go with you, the woman thought. She was hopelessly in love with her boss.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “If she doesn’t, I’ll just go.”

  “I could wait—” she started.

  He stepped forward and put his hand on her shoulder.

  “No,” he said, “go now. I don’t want to have to worry about you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She gathered her belongings and left the building. From a window, Devereaux watched her go.

  • • •

  When Clint came walking up to Henri’s cab, the young man got out of the back.

  “You made it,” he said.

  “I did.”

  “Did you see Monk?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did that go?”

  “I helped him sandbag his place.”

  Henri looked down at the water running at his feet.

  “I was hoping that was just rainwater,” he said.

  “It isn’t,” Clint said.

  THIRTY

  It was raining even harder, making it more difficult to see, but Clint thought that Cappy’s stalker was still in place. He’d lost track of his own, the man Henri had seen. He’d just have to keep watching his back.

  “Want me to wait?” Henri asked.

  “Yes,” Clint said, “and come inside. I don’t want you to drown out here.”

  The door was opened just moments after Clint knocked. Cappy looked confused when she saw Henri.

  “This is my driver,” he said, stepping in. “We both need towels.”

  “Of course.”

  She rushed away and came back with two white towels.

  “Come have some coffee and tell me what’s been going on,” she said.

  They followed her into the dining room. Clint saw her gun on the table.

  “Have a seat,” she told them. “I’ll have Mrs. McGovern bring coffee.”

  “This is some house,” Henri said while drying his hair.

  “Feeling uncomfortable?”

  “Very.”

  Cappy came back and Clint said, “Capucine, this is Henri. He’s been helping me.”

  “Ma’am,” Henri said.

  “Hello.”

  She sat with them. Mrs. McGovern came out with coffee and pie—apple.

  “I thought you might need something,” she said to them.

  “Thank you, Mrs. McGovern.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Henri said.

  The middle-aged cook went back into the kitchen.

  While Clint told Cappy about his talk with Monk, Henri shoveled the pie into his mouth.

  “So Mr. Monk is out,” Cappy said.

  “As far as I’m concerned.”

  “What does that leave us?” she asked.

  “Not what,” he said. “Who?”

  “Jacques.”

  He nodded.

  “So we’re going to Bayou Teche?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “In this rain?” Henri asked.

  “Maybe there’ll be less flooding there,” Cappy said.

  “Not if the Atchafalaya Levee goes,” Henri pointed out. “If that happens—”

  “I know,” Clint said. “Monk told me.” He looked at Cappy. “Pivot has a telegraph key, right?”

  “He does.”

  “Can we get a message to him?”

  “No,” she said. “The telegraph office wouldn’t be open in this weather.”

  “Then we have to go.”

  “When?”

  “In the morning.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “What about it?”

  “That man is still out there,” she said. “I’d like you to stay here.”

  “What would your husband say?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Where?”

  “Away from the water, he said,” she answered.

  “Did he ask you to go with him?”

  “He did, but we both knew I wouldn’t.”

  Clint looked at Henri.

  “Hey, I’ll come back and get you, boss,” he said. “Drive you all the way, if you want.”

  “Can we do it in one day?” Clint asked.

  “If it was dry and we drove at night, sure. But now we’ll probably have to stop in Lafayette first,” Henri said.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “let’s figure on that.”

  Henri finished his pie and coffee, and Clint walked him to the door.

  “Want me to check out that guy who’s watching you, boss?” the young man asked.

  “I don’t want you to do anything but drive, Henri,” Clint said.

  “But I could—”
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br />   “Just drive,” Clint said, putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Okay?”

  “Sure, boss. See you in the morning.”

  Clint closed the door behind him, and returned to the dining room.

  “Does Mrs. McGovern live in?” Cappy asked.

  “She does.”

  “Tell her to stay away from the doors and windows,” Clint said. “Maybe she should just go to bed early.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “Is our friend still across the street?”

  “Yes.”

  “You speak to Mrs. McGovern,” he said. “I’m going out the back.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe I can save us a ride to Bayou Teche.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  While Capucine went to tell her cook to go to bed, Clint put on the borrowed coat and went out the back kitchen door. This time, he wanted to try to get to the man before he was seen. He told Cappy in no uncertain terms to stay away from the windows.

  It was still raining hard, but he did not allow that to deter him. The rain would help him sneak up on the man in the doorway.

  Or so he thought.

  When he got to the doorway, the man was gone. It reminded him of his experiences with his own stalker, whom he was never able to sneak up on, or even get a good look at.

  These stalkers were very good at their game . . .

  • • •

  When he reentered the house by the back door, he removed the wet coat and set it aside. Cappy came into the kitchen.

  “Did you see him?”

  “Did you go near the window?”

  “No,” she said. “You told me not to. This time I listened.”

  “He was gone,” Clint said. “Maybe he was just too wet to stay out there.”

  “Speaking of which . . .” she said, handing him a towel.

  “Thanks.”

  “I prepared the guest room for you,” she said. “I don’t want Mrs. McGovern to see us together.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Come on,” she said, “I’ll show you where it is.”

  She took him upstairs and down the hall to a doorway.

  “This is your room,” she said. “Mine’s at the end. Mrs. McGovern’s is at the far end.”