Vigilare: Hell Hound

VIGILARE

Hell Hound

By

Brooklyn James

www.brooklyn-james.com

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Brooklyn James

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Edited by Janet Kilgore

Associate Editor - Leslie L. McKee

Cover design by Steve Richey

Text design and layout by Steve Richey

Published by Arena Books, Austin, Texas

First Edition—June 2012 (Vigilare Series; Book 2)

ISBN 1475086873

ISBN 9781475086874

NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM, BY PHOTOCOPYING OR BY ANY ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL MEANS, INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE OR RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS, WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE COPYRIGHT OWNER/AUTHOR.

To Atonement Found…

CHAPTER 1

I LOVE FALL in New Orleans, Aubrey Raines says through pursed lips as she efficiently coifs her blonde locks into a strict ponytail, employing the hair band resting between her teeth.

Emily Truly sits across from her at their window table in a quaint café in the French Quarter. She looks out at the perfectly periwinkle blue sky and colorful hues of flowers in bloom, their pleasantly fragrant design making ascent into the open eating space. Emily shrugs dismissively. I’ve seen better.

Of course you have, a muffled reply, an afterthought, escapes the perturbed lips of Gina DeLuca who sits next to Aubrey.

It’s too hot, Emily defends at the otherwise impeccably cool sixty-five degree temperature. She fans herself with her menu.

If someone gave you a gold brick, you’d complain about having to carry it to the bank, Gina huffs.

Aubrey eyes her menu, casually ignoring their incessant bickering.

A young, college-aged waiter approaches their table. The customary conversationalist seems to have lost his edge and his words. They fail him as he looks from one face to the next beaming back at him from the table. Their faces, although equally attractive, are the least of his intimidation worries. The posture of these women, tall and astute; their body language screams accomplished, from the subtle swiftness with which they carry out such rudimentary tasks as scanning the menu to the exactness with which they eye their surroundings, as if taking mental notes of all entrances, exits, faces and figures. They sit, shoulders squared in firmly-pressed black uniforms displaying spit-shined badges that read, Louisiana State Penitentiary, Correctional Officer. He scans Emily, her head down contemplating what sounds good for brunch, as he facilitates in his mind exactly what he will say to her to open the conversation.

Emily looks up from her menu, causing the waiter to dart his eyes from her intense violet gaze. He settles on Aubrey, seemingly the least intimidating of the bunch. She smiles, easing his worry and stroking his instinct, content with his starting point.

How are your mimosas? she asks, kicking things off, garnering a concerned glance from Emily and Gina.

Ah, they’re good, he replies with a less than convincing wink, pointing to her menu as a guide. If I may…I would recommend the Sazerac. It’s a local favorite.

When in Rome, she affirms with a nod.

And for you, Ma’am? he inquires of Gina, strategically leaving Emily for last, hoping his nerves settle by the time he gets to her.

Café au lait, please, she answers, to which Emily smugly rolls her eyes.

The young man clears his throat, preparing to address Emily. She saves him the trouble, not purposefully in an attempt to ease his anxiety but simply due to a lack of tolerance for further mundane exchange. Coffee, black, she keeps it short. The waiter nods and briskly pivots away from their table, his mission defined, awaiting follow-through.

What? Aubrey addresses the inquisitive faces beckoning her attention, her head down avoiding eye contact as she neatly arranges the linen napkin in her lap.

Go ahead, see how much attention you can draw to yourself, why don’t you, Emily challenges.

I don’t think it’s standard practice for people in uniform to order alcoholic beverages, Gina says gently, uncustomarily in agreement with Emily.

I need something to take the edge off, Aubrey replies, holding her hands together to keep them from visibly shaking. She smiles, attempting to make light of the situation. Besides, you’d be doing the same if you were me. Having to hang out with you two. Bicker, bicker, bicker.

What’s to be nervous about? Emily affirms. We’re legitimate, she references their newfound correctional officer status as of two days ago through the wiles of her mother, Dr. Patricia Ryan.

I just hope it all goes off without a glitch, Aubrey says lightly, eyeing her surroundings for eavesdroppers.

Stick to the plan, and it will, Emily iterates confidently.

About that…why can’t Gina go in with us? I’d feel better if we all stuck together, Aubrey divulges.

Gina drives. We can’t take the chance they recognize her.

It’s been years. Besides, she looks completely different now. Have you seen that place? Aubrey argues, her eyes wide with apprehension. Eighteen thousand acres. It’s the largest correctional facility in the States. It’s bigger than Manhattan!

Shh, Emily encourages, as Aubrey’s voice grows louder.

Aubrey sinks into her chair, her voice now matching her deflated body language, small, Over three-quarters of their population are lifers. We’re talking maximum security.

"They don’t call it Alcatraz of the South for nothing, Aubrey," Emily scoffs.

"I just want to be sure we make it out. It’s freaking eerie, Emily. She looks to Gina who is stone-cold in her expression. And how can you be so calm?"

There’s nothing to be nervous about. The wheels are in motion. Think of it like a grocery list…all we have to do now is check it off, Gina replies.

Aubrey crows nervously, I bet Betty Crocker’s grocery list never said, ‘Forge paperwork to become correctional officer, drive to Louisiana State Pen, contrive transfer papers for two convicted cons, exit from premises, kill said convicts.’

Emily leans in toward Aubrey, her body language intense, "Then maybe you should stay behind. If you can’t stand the heat, get the hell out of my kitchen, Betty."

It’s alright, if you want to stay behind, Aubrey. This isn’t your fight, Gina intercedes.

Oh no, that’s not how we do things, Emily bites. You, she says, pointing accusingly at Aubrey before continuing, brought her on board. Her finger shifts to Gina before finding its way swiftly back to Aubrey. You wanted her to be a part of this, not me. She agreed…under one condition. That one condition awaits us at the state pen. You wanted her, you got her.

The young man diligently on his way to their table with drink orders tries his best to tune out the conversation flying between Emily Truly and Aubrey Raines. His unsteady hand delivering drinks in the order in which they were requested, he starts with Aubrey.

It’s time to strap on your big girl panties and do what we came here to do, Emily’s words bounce off the waiter’s eardrums as he winces tensely, setting Aubrey’s Sazerac in front of her.

Thank you, she says politely to the young man before sharply returning to Emily. I plan on doing what we came here to do. And I thank you to leave my panties out of this conversation.

The image of Aubrey’s panties unwelcomingly implants itself in the waiter’s mind, causing him to fumble with Gina’s café au lait, the hot blend spilling over the edge of the cup. Oh…ah…ouch, he cries, attempting to recover. His efforts of no avail, the cup slips from his hands clanking and breaking against the floor beneath him.

With great precision and speed, Gina covers the spill with her linen, the brown cocoa color seeping into the white cloth.

I’m so sorry, the waiter begins.

It’s okay, Gina coaxes, her hands nimbly securing the remaining cup from his wobbly tray. She transfers the black coffee to rest in front of Emily, who is shaking her head disapprovingly at the entire scene.

The young man spins a few circles, wishing he could find a nice accommodating boulder under which he would most definitely crawl. He dips to the floor, attentively picking up pieces of the broken mug.

Watch your hands, Gina cautions, leaning down to help him.

Aubrey searches for a broom and dustpan. Emily remains seated, sipping her coffee, refusing to help in cleaning up a mess she did not make.

Thank you, the waiter eyes Gina shamefully. Don’t know what’s wrong with me today.

She smiles, easing his expression. We all have those days. From her vantage point, she faces the window. A man on the street stops in front of the café, looking in. Her instinct alarmed, her eyes trail up to set on those peering in at her. The piece of glass resting in her hand cuts into her flesh with the image. Lon, she whispers, disbelieving.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the restaurant manager. We apologize for the inconvenience ladies. The manager sets a plate of pastries in the middle of their table. Fresh beignets, on the house.

The waiter quickly pulls the glass from her hand discarding it onto his tray. Let me get you a towel, he assures at the presence of blood oozing from her palm.

Aubrey returns with a broom, diligently on task making quick work of the remaining shattered mug. Gina clenches her hand together, peering around Aubrey toward the window. The man from the street is gone.

Gina, Aubrey exclaims nervously noticing the red viscous substance dripping onto the floor from the edge of her palm. She kneels beside her. Gina continues searching for the man in the window.

Here. Let me see, the waiter joins them proffering a wet cloth.

What a freaking cluster, Emily spews from her seat, her arms folded sternly across her middle. And we haven’t even made it out of New Orleans yet.

Aubrey grows more troubled as the young man’s expression turns from concerned to mesmerized, fully cluing her in. Close your eyes, Gina, she coaches gently, taking the cloth from the waiter’s hands.

He points at Gina, somewhere between disbelieving and allured. Are her eyes glowing? He looks to Aubrey for clarification.

Aubrey giggles gingerly. No. She can’t stand the sight of blood, that’s all, she dismisses, quickly dabbing at the blood on Gina’s hand.

Gina does not close her eyes. She continues searching, quickly scanning the restaurant, the street, up and down, for the face from the window. The rims of her irises sparkle emerald green, flickering dimly as Aubrey gains control of her bleeding.

Close your eyes, Gina, Aubrey smiles through gritting teeth. She’ll be fine. She does this all the time, she consoles the waiter.

I swear they were glowing. Really. Didn’t you see it? he reiterates, continuing to kneel at her side.

Geez-us, Emily exclaims, rising from her chair and swiftly making her way to the group nestled on the floor. She pulls the waiter up by his tie. People’s eyes don’t glow. Her eyes were not glowing, understood? She cinches her grip on him.

Uh-huh, he agrees, nodding intently. Understood. Her eyes were not glowing. Definitely not glowing.

Emily pats his cheek. Great. We’ll take three breakfast omelets. She lets go of him.

He continues nodding as he turns to walk away before spinning back around, his order pad prepped and ready. Would you like those with bacon, cheese, veggies, andouille…

Emily interrupts with her best Jack Nicholson smile, Surprise us.

He nods, yet again, making a beeline for the kitchen.

Gina hoofs it to the street front, turning circles, scanning up and down, side to side, still searching for the man in the window.

What did you have to do that for? Aubrey rebukes, her hands on her hips.

What the hell is she doing? Emily points to Gina, making her way back to her chair, sitting down agitatedly.

You got that boy all ferklempt. Aubrey takes her seat beside Emily, delving off into her drink. And I thought he was kinda cute.

Emily rolls her eyes. You would.

CHAPTER 2

GINA, AUBREY AND Emily ride in their police cruiser, each preparing in their own unique way. They have been driving for two hours since leaving New Orleans. Gina turns onto US Highway 61, only thirty minutes left to go before arriving at their destination, the gates of the Louisiana State Penitentiary in Angola, Louisiana. Aubrey rides shotgun, pliable earphones stuffed in her ears, the gateway to her MP3 player, blaring a mix of relaxing and heart-pounding tunes in an effort to stimulate her courage while quieting her anxiety. Emily mentally prepares in silence from the backseat, head leaned back and eyes closed, envisioning the task at hand from beginning to end, fully prepared and committed to carrying it out as such, flawlessly, without a glitch. Gina, at the wheel, drives autonomically while her mind conjures up images from her past when she was Brianna Castille, providing the incentive pivotal in completing her future assignment.

I don’t like it, Brianna, her husband Lon’s words surface in her memory. This case. These men. It’s dangerous. Can’t you give the case to someone else? Not to sound like a chauvinist, but I would feel much better if you would step down and let your partner handle it.

By my partner, you mean Dean. Dean Benjamin. Give it to him because he is a man, she concludes agitatedly, walking from the kitchen stove to the table, placing upon it the evening’s dinner casserole.

Lon follows her, plates in hand, setting the table. "Exactly, because he is a man, and only because he is a man. Not because he can do a better job. He folds linen napkins, laying one neatly beside each plating. These men you’re prosecuting, they’re not to be messed with, Brie. They’re on trial for brutally raping three women…"

That we know of, she interrupts. Three women who are willing to come forward and testify. That’s not even a dent in the lives they have tortured and ruined. She returns her potholders to the drawer beside the stove.

A credit to my point, he clarifies. Women are not coming forward to testify because they’re scared. These men have ties to the most notorious gang in New Orleans. Why would you put yourself in this position? He leans over the table, both hands firmly planted, his expression somewhere between authoritative and pleading. I’ve never asked you to defer a case. But I am asking you to step down from this one. I don’t like it, baby. It scares me. It should scare you, too.

It does scare me. She leans up against the counter, forcefully exhaling, tears on hold in her eyes, her emotion surfacing. Lon walks to her, to comfort her. She holds him at bay with her arm. He leans against the kitchen sink across from her, his concern palpable.

But I can’t quit. Those women…the three who came forward. They trust me, Lon. I told them if they testify those men will go away for a long time. Dean…he’s great. But he likes to make deals. He’ll agree to three years. They’ll do half of that with probation. She busies herself wiping off the stovetop. That’s not good enough. I can get ten…ten years for each one…I know I can.

Of that I have no doubt, Lon affirms, pride in his inflection. I just want you to consider the position you’re putting yourself in. From their viewpoint out the kitchen window, a school bus drives off in the distance as a little boy runs up the long driveway toward the house toting his backpack. His trusty companion, Boudreaux (Bou Bou for short) meets him halfway, barking jovially, his tail jousting from side to side with fervid excitement. The position you’re putting your family in, Lon continues solemnly.

Brianna smiles at the exuberant joy radiating from her son’s face. Another reason I can’t quit. She turns around, facing Lon. Isn’t that what we do? As parents? We model for our children…hoping to instill in them pride, integrity, a sense of right and wrong. We tell him not to be afraid of the dark. We tell him school is not scary. We tell him to be brave and always stand up for what is right. She runs her hand down the side of Lon’s handsome face. I never fancied myself a hypocrite.

Gina quickly deviates her memory to something more stimulating, more ominous. Snapshots of Lon and Braydon lying on the floor of the bedroom in their suburban New Orleans estate flood her memory, blood encompassing their lifeless bodies. The sound of a twelve-gauge firing followed by Bou Bou’s whining rings in her ears. The images cause her jaw to clench, her grip on the steering wheel ever-tightening. She remembers her struggle. Her violated, battered body held fast to the bed beneath her, the vile sweat and stench of the man above. The spider web tattoo revealed on his neck. His menacing chuckle causing her to grow manic, accompanied by his sentiments, "What’s the matter, lawyer lady, cat got your tongue?"

Gina shakes her head, the memories causing too much emotion, stifling her clarity. She looks over at Aubrey who is lost in her music, and in the rearview mirror at Emily who remains deep in her meditation. After a few hard blinks her mind returns to her past, continuing to connect the dots.

She stands astute in front of a witness railing in a courtroom, one assigned to her case by the State of Louisiana. As Brianna Castille, attorney-at-law, a life only a few years departed, however seemingly a lifetime ago, she questions the witness. Manny Briggs sinks back into the witness chair, his lips twisted in a permanent smirk, his body language relaxed and confident, tending toward audacious. He is an average-sized man, nothing remarkable to note, with the exception of his greasy, black, curly hair pulled snugly into a low ponytail and a formidable spider web tattoo proudly displayed on his neck.

Mr. Briggs, please state your occupation for the court, Brianna directs.

I’m an independent contractor, he says.

An independent contractor of what?

You could say I’m a Jack of all trades, he replies with a smile.

Brianna smiles back, taking a step toward him. Construction, waste management, plumbing…show tunes. She shrugs her shoulders, turning her palms up to the ceiling. An independent contractor of what? she reiterates.

He shifts his weight in the chair beneath him, propping himself up on his elbow. You could say I do a little construction. Yeah, I’m pretty good with my hands. And I take the trash out, so I guess you could say I do a little waste management, too. Never had an interest in plumbing though. He grins, prepping for his big finish. Maybe I should look into show tunes. I do a pretty good Sinatra impersonation. He eyes the jury, assessing their response, if any. I could give you a little taste, if you’d like. He winks, causing Brianna to grow nauseous at the flirtatious gesture.

That won’t be necessary, Mr. Briggs. For all his flair and swagger, Sinatra was a bully. She eyes him accusingly. Never could stand a bully. She circles the area between him and the jury. Who do you work for, Mr. Briggs, as an independent contractor?

The highest bidder, he says, his smirk slowly retracting. "Hence, independent contractor."

What was the name of the employer on your last paycheck, Mr. Briggs? Brianna continues to dig.

He raises his eyebrows thoughtfully. I don’t recall.

Brianna pulls a file from her briefcase at the prosecution table. Funny you should mention that. She holds the file up for the courtroom to see. You know who else doesn’t recall? The State of Louisiana nor the federal government. They have no record of you employed as an independent contractor, or any occupation for that matter. Why is that, Mr. Briggs? She places the file on top of the judge’s bench as evidence.

Objection, the defense calls. My client is not on trial for his work history.

You don’t find it odd that your client has no record of employment? Brianna argues. "No record of payment of taxes. No W-4, no I-9, no IRS withholding whatsoever. That doesn’t make you question your client’s line of work?" She enunciates sarcastically.

Overruled, the judge confirms, looking over the evidence provided in the prosecution’s mock-up.

Brianna nods, turning her attention back to the witness stand. Can you explain why the federal government and the State of Louisiana have no employment records for you, Mr. Briggs? Why they have no record of IRS withholding nor payment from one Manuel Theodore Briggs? she reads his given birth name from her paperwork.

He leans forward in his chair, his once permanent smirk fully extinguished. "Some of us prefer to fly under the radar, lawyer lady. Maybe you should, too," he states, a hint of warning in his inflection.

Is that a threat, Mr. Briggs? Brianna asks, her head tilted slightly to the side.

I don’t make threats. His smirk returns.

Only promises, she deduces.

He holds his hands up, palms out at shoulder level, dismissively. "Those are your words, not mine, lawyer lady."

Mr. Briggs, the judge scolds. "The woman whom you are addressing is an attorney-at-law. On the basis of her education alone, you will refrain from calling her lawyer lady in this courtroom. You may address her as Ms. Castille or Ma’am, respectfully. Understood?"

Manny nods one solitary gesture, avoiding eye contact with the judge, maintaining an underlying tone of defiance.

"I can think of only a few reasons why a fully functional, able-bodied man would have no records, or chooses to fly under the radar, as you like to put it, Brianna returns to her point. You’re either, one, a recluse…anti-social, preferring to live your life off the grid. Or, two, you think you’re above the law and shouldn’t have to pay taxes the way the rest of us do in this country. Or, three, your work is illegal, thereby requiring you to live your life in stealth-mode so as not to get caught."

Objection. Speculation, the defense calls.