~ The Sweet Smell Of Death ~

by

Sylvia Rochester

Marlon Gravelle crouched low in the small aluminum boat, pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and punched a pre-programmed number. Even with the drone of the plane’s engine overhead, he lowered his voice.

“Trent. I found it.”

“Marlon? Why are you whispering? Where the hell are you?”

“I’m on Bayou Creevé. Spotlights marked the target. A Piper or Cessna made the drop.”

“Dammit. I told you never to go out without me. Get your ass out of there. Now! You hear me?”

“Yeah, but… Lights coming. Gotta go.”

Marlon dropped the phone at his feet and frantically paddled for cover. A searchlight scanned the bank no more than a hundred yards to his right. The gurgle of a motor at idle speed drew near.

Come on! Come on!

Knowing he wasn’t going to make it, he grabbed the phone and slipped it into the black water. A second later, light targeted him. His breath caught in his throat. Perspiration streamed down his face.

The motor stopped. The boat drifted closer.

“Hold it right there.”

Marlon’s heart pounded in his ears, but something in the voice sounded familiar.

“Would you get that God awful light out of my eyes?”

There was no answer, only the double click of a bolt-action rifle chambering a round and a split-second flash when it fired.

~ * ~

Trent Harrington ran down the rain-slicked pier toward the burly frame of Sheriff Philip Lemoine. “Where’s Marlon?” he shouted.

The sheriff tied off his bowline and pointed downstream. “With the coroner in Louis’s boat.”

“What happened?”

“He took a bullet, not a pretty sight.” The sheriff glanced toward the building at the end of the pier. “Never thought I’d be hauling Marlon’s body into his own marina. Wasn’t easy to tell Laney, either.” The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “She’s the reason I called you. She wanted you here. Said she didn’t want her dad to be alone. What the hell, it was the least I could do for her.”

Trent knew all too well how much Laney and her father meant to each other. “Did she say when she’d get here?”

“No, just that she would take the first flight out of Los Angeles. I offered to send a deputy to meet her in New Orleans, but she said she’d rent a car. Laney ain’t changed a bit--always one to do things her way.”

If Trent had learned anything from Marlon, it was that Laney took pride in her independence. He reflected on their brief meeting a few days ago. The way she tossed her long auburn hair and the fire that flashed in her green eyes signaled defiance.

“I think I’d have to agree with you.”

Right now Laney’s independence was the least of Trent’s worries. Something bigger stabbed at his gut--her last words to him. She had tugged gently at his sleeve when she told him goodbye and said, “Take care of my dad.” He sure in hell blew that.

“You mentioned Louis. I can’t place him.”

“The Wildlife and Fisheries agent. Hunters flagged him down this morning before he could back out of his boat slip. Took him a while to calm them down and get the straight of it. I had him seal off the area until I could get there.”

The sheriff heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Damn. You could put a saucer through the hole in Marlon’s back. My guess is a deer hunter shot him. Stupid sons-of-bitches never learn. They hear a sound, see a movement, and bam! Happens every year.”

Trent pictured Marlon alone in the darkness, surrounded by the swamp and the thick aroma of cypress needles. To some, the fragrance mimicked a Christmas potpourri. For Marlon, it was the sweet smell of death.

Had Marlon recognized anyone? Said anything? Did he know the moment of his death? His vision of Marlon faded into the iridescent colors of an oil slick that shimmered around a piling, and the smell of gasoline brought him back to reality.

Raindrops pocked the surface of the water and splattered against the wooden planks of the pier. A taste of winter had suddenly come to the bayou. Whipped by a north wind, a chilling mist crept beneath his poncho, but it was no match for the coldness that gripped him inside.

The fear he had heard in Marlon’s voice echoed in his mind. He tensed, and the muscles in his neck quivered like the tendons of a cat poised to attack. The sheriff was wrong. Marlon’s death was no accident. What ate at Trent now was whether he could have saved him.

The sound of motors rumbled across the water, and two men in a large V-hull boat approached with Marlon’s outboard in tow. A uniformed officer followed behind in a small bateau--the locals’ name for a flat bottom boat.

“Bring her alongside,” the sheriff called out.

Trent spotted the Wildlife and Fisheries logo on the bow and on the driver’s jacket. A black body bag, wet from the rain, glistened beside the console. When the starboard side scraped against the pier, a small, thin man grabbed hold of a piling and stepped onto the weathered structure. He slapped his rain soaked hat against his legs and glanced at Trent.

“Who’s this?” the man asked the sheriff.

“Trent Harrington. I told you about him on the way out. Remember? Trent, this is Dr. Landry, the coroner.”

Trent nodded in response to the introduction.

The doctor stared at Trent but didn’t offer his hand. Instead, he called down to the agent. “Hand me my backpack.”

When the coroner reached for his gear, the sheriff motioned to his deputy. “Get in there and help Louis.”

The two men lifted the body bag and laid Marlon on the pier. The Wildlife and Fisheries man mumbled a grunt and hoisted himself up between the coroner and the sheriff.

“I’m Louis Blanchard.” He extended a hand to Trent. “I believe I met you on the water with Marlon.”

Trent shook hands, and recognition seeped in. “About a month ago, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. Man, I can’t believe this.”

For the moment, the rain had stopped. Trent pushed back the hood of his poncho and gazed at the covered remains of his friend.