Page 66 of The 9th Man

Stephanie rarely missed a beat.

Hackberry was small and, as advertised, cast an air of vacancy. But the streets were clean, the storefronts well tended, and most of the stilt-raised homes looked relatively new, probably rebuilds following the devastation two hurricanes wreaked. Plenty of marsh grass, live oaks, moss, and water, from brackish inlets to serpentine bayous to lakes miles across. It seemed more an archipelago than dry land. The address for Ray Simmons took them to a ramshackle saltbox building across from a Circle A gas station. The sign above the door read,KEN’S CONVENIENCE.

They stepped inside.

A bell tinkled and the screen door banged shut behind them. An industrial-sized ceiling fan churned the humid air. From the chain that controlled its speed a purple-and-gold LSU Fighting Tigers key fob dangled. A woman with a red bouffant hairstyle rose from her stool behind the counter and gave them a curt nod.

Luke grabbed a pair of soft drinks from the cooler and walked up. “Mornin’.”

He added one of his trademark smiles.

“And to you,” she said, with a grin.

He was back in his element. A country boy come home to the country. Like a hog in mud. Usually, he’d work her a bit, soften her up, but they were racing the clock. “We’re looking for a friend of mine. An old army buddy. Ray Simmons.”

“That’ll be $2.50.”

He paid her. “He gave me this address.”

“That so?”

“Is he around?”

“Not here. This is a, what do you call it—mail drop. Unofficial, of course.”

Jillian asked, “Does he live nearby?”

“Depends on your definition ofnearby. A few miles, give or take.”

“Can you give us directions?”

“Can’t get there by car. Swamp boat only.”

“Swamp boat?” Jillian asked.

“You know, fan boat. Might be able to get my boy to take you. Cost you, though.”

“Fine by us,” he said.

The woman disappeared through a curtain in an archway behind the counter. They enjoyed their drinks. She returned five minutes later. “Elijah will take you.” She found a pad from under the counter and drew them a map. “Our place is ’bout three miles at the end of Maggie Herbert Road. Right next to the solid waste place. Small dock, yellow boat. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks. Now?”

“Give him twenty minutes. And that’ll be fifty dollars.”

He happily laid a crisp U. S. Grant on the counter. “One of my favorite presidents.”

“Mine too,” she said, scooping up the bill.

“One more thing. You have a small plastic bag I could buy off of you?”

“Not buy, but I’ll give you one.”

“Deal.”

Outside, he folded the two pages they’d found in the lamp and slipped them into the resealable bag. Safe and sound. Way too much water here for loose paper.

They drove around for ten minutes.