Stephen Frey - The Insider

THE
INSIDER

Stephen Frey

BALLANTINE BOOKS NEW YORK

Once again, to my wife, Lillian, and our daughters, Christina and Ashley, who make every day special for me

PROLOGUE

AUGUST 1994

Like distant headlights, pale yellow eyes burned the waters surface, reflecting in the beam of the high-powered spotlight that cut through the Louisiana night. Moths swarmed about the bulb while the man held the spotlight aloft with one hand and guided his Boston Whaler over the murky depths with the other. He smiled, satisfied at the number of eyes dotting the surface. He knew alligators as long as fourteen feet lurked beneathapex-of the-food-chain predators capable of ripping apart a human in the blink of an eye. He wiped away beads of perspiration dripping down his forehead with a red bandanna. It was August, and even at two oclock in the morning the heat and humidity of Bayou Lafourche were stifling.

A large moth landed on his upper lip. He grabbed the insect, crushed it, and tossed its fluttering carcass to the water. Almost instantly something rose from the depths and inhaled the moth in a swirl of black water. The man was momentarily distracted, and the Whalers fiberglass bow struck a thick tree stump almost submerged by the high tide. The impact, though not violent, still caused him to pitch forward. The outboard engine, which had propelled the sleek craft across the bay to Bayou Lafourche from Henrys Landing on the docks of the tiny shrimping town of Lafitte, stalled. He caught himself on the chrome steering wheel, cursed, refired the Mercury engine, once more aimed the spotlight on the water ahead, and proceeded slowly, guiding the boat around the stump.

The brackish channel, which a quarter mile back had narrowed to only twenty feet, widened again, making his progress easier. He flashed the spotlight on the muddy bank, then up into the cypress limbs looming over him. They were draped by thick Spanish moss, silky spider-webs ten feet across, and an occasional water moccasin lying in wait to ambush a bird or a rodent. Behind the trees were marshy fields and desolate swamps, all crisscrossed by an intricate labyrinth of waterways. Other than a few energy-industry employees and fishermen, humans rarely ventured this deep into Bayou Lafourche. The only significant inhabitants were alligators and coyotes, which hunted white-tailed deer and nutriaa strange, orange-toothed cross between a rat and a beaver. This was the middle of nowhere, and it was perfect.

The boats engine stalled again as water lilies thickened on the surface and wrapped around the Whalers propeller, ensnaring it like a boa constricting about its prey. The man turned off the spotlight and for several seconds stood behind the steering console, listening. Without the constant throb of the engine, Bayou Lafourche was deathly still save for the groggy symphony of frog and insect calls and the gentle lap of water against the boats smooth hull. He glanced toward a hazy, moonless sky, then back over his shoulder toward New Orleans. The city was only fifty miles away, but it might as well have been five hundred, so desolate was this place.

Hello.

The mans head snapped to the right and he flicked the spotlight back on, aiming it in the direction from which the voice had come. Paddling toward him was a thin, elderly man sitting in the aft seat of a battered metal canoe, a grizzled hound standing like an oversized hood ornament in the bow. The dog was wagging its tail excitedly and panting in the oppressive heat, its pink tongue dangling obscenely from glossy black jaws.

I thought I was the only person within ten miles of here, the elderly man called out in the odd drawl of his singsong Cajun accent. As he pulled alongside the Boston Whaler, he shielded his eyes against the spotlights fierce glare. Names Neville, he announced, exhibiting two rows of crooked, coffee-stained teeth beneath the brim of a soiled Mack Truck cap. This heres Bailey. Neville pointed at the sad-eyed hound, which had placed its front paws on the gunwale of the mans boat. The dog was sniffing intently, fixated on a large canvas sack lying in the Whalers bow. What the hell are you doing out here this time of night? he asked.

Im an inspector with Atlantic Energy. The man scrutinized Nevilles weather-beaten face for signs that this was anything but a random encounter. Just checking gauges on the wellheads.

Neville removed his cap and scratched his bald head. I dont remember Atlantic having no rigs out in this part of Lafourche. He replaced the cap on his bare scalp, then dug into a crusty leather pouch attached to his belt, removed a dark, leafy wad of chewing tobacco, and stuffed it between his cheek and gum. And I aint never met no energy-company inspector out here at this time of night. Even the state fish-and-game boys are in bed by now.

Theres always a first for everything, the man replied tersely. He had noticed Neville subtly eyeing the canvas sack as well as the .30-06 Remington rifle and the cinder blocks lying next to it.

Mmm. Neville glanced at Bailey. Easy, pup, he said gently. The dog was agitated, whining and wagging its tail furiously. Quite a rifle you got there, mister.

I never come out here without firepower. You cant be too careful this deep in Lafourche.

I guess so, Neville agreed. Christ, that thing would bring down a charging bull elephant with one shot. You wouldnt have any problem at all stopping an alligator with it. Not even them big territorial males.

Thats why Ive got it. The man was impatient to be on the move, but first he needed information. What are you doing out here this late?

Checking my nutria traps, Neville replied defensively.

On top of a large red cooler positioned between Nevilles knees lay a revolver, what looked like a Ruger.44 Magnum. The odds were excellent that Neville was really hunting alligators, which was illegal until September and probably why he was paddling through Bayou Lafourche in the dead of night. You live out here? the stranger asked.

Yeah, Neville said warily, checking the hunting rifle in the bow of the Whaler once more. He spat tobacco juice over the side. Instantly it spread out like a drop of oil hitting the water. Why?

I assume when September gets here youll be hunting alligators. The man knew that Neville could earn a significant amount of money selling the valuable skins and meat to black-market buyers on the docks of Lafitte buyers who didnt care that the strictly controlled and hard-to-obtain state game-and-wildlife tags werent impaled in the alligator tails. Im out here on a regular basis and Ive seen quite a few giants. Gators that would bring a nice price in Lafitte. Several were over twelve feet, and Ive seen them in the same places over and over.

Oh? Neville tried not to sound interested. But one twelve-foot alligator could bring him almost three hundred dollars cash at the docks in town, close to what he earned in a week as a deckhand on the shrimping boats. Where were they?

The man shook his head. Id have to draw you a map. Youd never find the spots without it. He picked at his cuticles for a few seconds, then looked up slowly. I could come by your camp sometime if you tell me where it is.

Neville was uncomfortable giving away the location of his home, but he wanted that information about the large alligators. Twelve feet, huh?

Yeah. And Id be grateful if you got them. I dont like those big ones swimming around out here while Im trying to check gauges.

After a few moments Neville nodded cautiously. Back down the way you come, then left at the first canal. Up there about two miles in a grove of willows. I got one of the only cabins this side of Lafourche. Now that I think about it, it might be nice to have a little company once in a while.

The man nodded. He had what he needed. Okay. He leaned down and gunned the Whalers engine in reverse, ridding the propeller of the choking water lilies. Bailey quickly retreated to the canoe. Adios! the man yelled above the roar as he powered forward once more and steered away.