The Rebel’s Revenge

Ben Hope was an unusually skilled and capable man who claimed little credit for his many gifts. One he lacked, however, in common with most people, was the gift of prophecy. If by some strange intuition he’d been able to foretell what lay in store for him at the end of the long, hot road, he would have pulled a U-turn right across the highway and jumped straight onto the next plane bound for France.

Instead, he just kept on going.

But that’s what happens when you have a talent for trouble.

Chapter 3 (#u0996fefc-3da0-5fb5-8429-1e493b385096)

For the next few hours, Ben drove beneath a sky burned pale by the sun. Trying to dial up a jazz station on the radio, he found only country music of the croony, schmaltzy variety with pedal steel guitars that sounded like cats yowling. It was either that, or the radio evangelists fulminating against the state of the modern world, or silence.

He chose silence, and eased back in his seat, steering the big comfortable Tahoe with two fingers as he worked his way through a pack of Gauloises and drank in his surroundings. The highway carved relentlessly onwards through the flat landscape, passing cane fields and sugar processing plants and oil refineries. It didn’t take much travelling through Louisiana to tell what the big industries were around here.

Deeper into country, the terrain was crisscrossed with bayous, waterways so sluggish and rimed with green slime that they appeared stagnant. He passed various settlements, a lot of them nothing but rag-tag clusters of dilapidated shacks along the edges of the bayous, where river folks dwelled and scraped their living off the water and raggedy little kids helped their fathers man flat-bottomed boats heavy with nets and lobster traps.

Third World poverty in the richest country on the planet. Maybe Rae Lee should come down here and check it out.

To a visitor from overcrowded Europe, the most vivid impression this landscape conveyed was of the sheer scale of its hugeness. Not even Montana and Oklahoma had seemed so spread-out and vast. The city of Shreveport lay a hundred miles to the north of his destination. Highway 84 connected Villeneuve to faraway Natchez, Mississippi to the east and Lufkin, Texas to the west. A whole different America to the one he’d experienced before. Especially as nobody was trying to kill him this time around.

Ben had done a little reading ahead of his journey to try and get a sense of Woody McCoy’s birthplace, its geography, its history and culture. Where most other North American states had counties, Louisiana divided itself instead into sixty-seven parishes, of which Clovis Parish was one of the smallest with a population of just over nine thousand spread over six hundred square miles of land that comprised mostly lake and bayou, swamp and forest. Woody’s home town of Villeneuve was the parish seat, historically best known for having been burned to the ground by Union troops during the 1864 Red River campaign of the American Civil War.

Long before the fledgling nation had decided to start ripping itself apart, this area had passed through the hands of various European colonists. First the French had come, back in the 1500s, and laid claim to the territory of Louisiane as part of what they dubbed ‘New France’, a vast tract of land that stretched from the Mississippi to the Rocky Mountains and encompassed bits of Canada and fifteen modern-day US states. After a couple of centuries of imposing their language, repressing the ‘heathen savages’ from whom they had wrested the land and shipping in countless thousands of African slaves to work on their plantations in the South, the French rulers had suffered a drubbing in the bloody and brutal French and Indian War and, in 1763, King Louis XV had been forced to cede his prize to the Spanish and British, who promptly set about forcing their own ways on their newly acquired colonial subjects. Napoleon Bonaparte had snatched back Spain’s land possessions in 1800 with a beady eye on re-establishing a lucrative French North American Empire, only to sell it all off again to the recently established United States in 1803, who had just a few years earlier kicked their British masters back into the sea and had their own ideas about developing their young nation.

The so-called ‘Louisiana Purchase’, a deal worth an eye-popping $15 million at the time, had formally ended France’s colonial presence and, at a stroke, radically expanded US territory by almost a million square miles to make it the third largest country in the world. Whereupon, less than sixty years later, the brave and bright new nation descended into a tragic civil war that turned neighbour against neighbour, brother against brother, ravaged the land from coast to coast and top to bottom, left as many as 750,000 of its citizens lying dead on its scorched battlefields and among the ruins of its levelled cities, and scarred the identity of the United States more profoundly than any other conflict before or since.

Such was, and always would be, the nature of human civilisation.

As for modern-day Louisiana, the result of so many centuries of ever-changing colonial ownership was a colourful blend of French, Spanish, African, Creole and Indian influences. Acadian settlers who had landed here from France by way of Canada added to the mixture, their descendants later to become known as ‘Cajuns’, forming a core part of this rich, multi-faceted culture rooted in so much dramatic history. Predictably enough, a glance at the map showed French names popping up everywhere. Villeneuve being just one of them, within a parish named after an ancient Frankish king. Many older Cajun folks still spoke their own form of French as a first language, although that tradition was slowly dying out.

The more Ben had read up on the background, the more he could see that he was going to have to abandon whatever preconceptions he might have previously had about this part of the Deep South. Here was a fascinating and unique place, and he was looking forward to learning more about it – almost as much as the bittersweet prospect of attending the Woody McCoy Quintet’s farewell performance two days from now.

The highway thinned out to an arrow-straight blacktop that carried him between fields and tracts of swampland and forest, past rambling farmsteads and abandoned gas stations and along the banks of a bayou with a waterside shanty restaurant signposted Mickey’s Crawfish Cabin – come inside! Ben hadn’t eaten a bite since his early breakfast with Jude and Rae in Chicago. However hungry he might be feeling, the delights of Mickey’s Crawfish Cabin were something he could live without. The roadside banner advertising FRESH COON MEAT, ½ MILE didn’t do much for him, either.

At last, a sign flashed by: ENTER CLOVIS PARISH, as though it were a command. A few miles later, the Villeneuve town limits appeared ahead, and Ben had reached his destination.

The afternoon had turned even sultrier, a threat of rain from the darker clouds drifting on the hot breeze. Ben had a room booked at the only Villeneuve hotel he’d been able to find online, called the Bayou Inn, which happened to be just a short stroll from the Civic Center where the Woody McCoy Quintet would walk on stage the night after next.

The directions he’d been given took him on a tour of the town. Villeneuve’s more affluent neighbourhoods were gathered on the south side, with ancient oak trees laden with Spanish moss, and old white wood colonial homes with all-around verandas. A mile north was the town square, featuring a pretty little parish courthouse with Georgian columns and a clock tower. The street was lined with a hardware store, a grocery market, a gun shop called Stonewall’s that had a Confederate flag displayed in the window, a pharmacy, a gas station and a bar and grill with a sign that said CAJUN STEAKHOUSE and seemed a lot more appetising than fresh coon meat or Mickey’s crawfish.

Off the square were narrower residential streets shaded by elm trees and lined with small clapboard shotgun houses, some well tended, others rundown with beaten-up old cars and rust-streaked propane tanks in their front yards, along with the obligatory chicken netting and tethered dogs prostrated by the heat. Every house had a mesh screen door to ward off insects, and sat up off the ground on brick pillars to protect against flood waters, with several steps up to the front entrance.

Ben found the Bayou Inn after a bit of searching, and checked in. The small hotel was owned and run by an older couple called Jerry and Mary-Lou Mouton. They greeted him with welcoming smiles and a ‘How y’all doin’? Travellin’ kinda light, aintcha?’

Which was true enough, out of long-established habit. His green canvas army haversack was a recent acquisition, to replace its predecessor which had been blown up inside a car in Russia. Another had been lost in a tsunami in Indonesia. He went through bags a lot. This one contained his usual light travelling kit – black jeans, a spare denim shirt and underwear, and a few assorted odds like his mini-Maglite and compass. When he got to his first-floor room he flung the bag carelessly on the bed.

The room was small and simple and basic, which was how he liked things to be. A tall window opened out onto a tiny balcony, where he pensively smoked a cigarette while gazing down at the quiet street below.

After a shower, Ben dug out his expensive smartphone with the intention of sending a couple of text messages to people back home, only to find that the damn thing had died on him. Terminal. Kaput. He’d had it a week. The joys of technology. He trotted downstairs and asked Mary-Lou where he might be able to buy another one, and she told him about a little store down the street that she thought might be able to help.

As it turned out, the only phones the store had were of the cheap, prepaid ‘burner’ variety. No names, no contracts, no frills. That suited Ben fine, and the untraceable anonymity of such a device appealed to the rebellious streak in him that objected to government surveillance agencies prying into the personal affairs of innocent citizens. The burner even had decent web access. He shelled out two ten-dollar bills for the phone itself, two more for credits, and was back in business.

By now it was early evening and Ben’s hunger was sharpened to the point where he couldn’t ignore it any longer. Remembering the Cajun Steakhouse he’d passed earlier, he set off at a leisurely pace in the direction of Villeneuve town square. The Moutons had given him a front door key to let himself in with, so he was free to take all the time he wanted and return as late as he pleased.

It felt strange to be so relaxed and at a loose end. He could get used to it, maybe, with a little practice.

The Cajun Steakhouse offered a baffling range of local fare like filé gumbo, eggs with shrimp and grits, Creole jambalaya and something called Louisiana-style crawfish boil. Ben decided to play it safe and ordered a T-bone with fries and a Dixie beer.

‘You jes’ sit tight, handsome, and I’ll bring you the best steak you ever tasted in your life,’ promised his teased-blond hostess called Destiny, who kept flashing eyes at him. But she probably treated every tall, fair-haired stranger who walked into the bar and grill just the same way.

Destiny’s promise was no empty claim. The T-bone was the biggest and most delicious he’d ever had, thick and succulent. After two more Dixie beers, Ben was definitely feeling at home. So much so, that he suddenly had a hankering for a glass of good malt scotch, the kind he’d occasionally – or more than occasionally – enjoy during quiet evenings at Le Val, sometimes over a game of chess with Jeff, or in front of the fire with his German shepherd dog, Storm, curled at his feet. At the bar, he asked Destiny what she had, and with an alluring smile she produced a bottle.

‘What is it?’ he asked. It was the colour of stewed tea.

‘This here is Louisiana Whiskey, hon. Or else, we got Riz.’

‘Riz?’

‘Uh-huh. Made from rice.’

Ben shook his head. ‘Not exactly what I had in mind.’

‘How about rum?’ Destiny suggested. ‘Folks round here drink a lot of rum. But you ain’t from around here, are you, sugah?’

‘Is it really that obvious?’

Ben settled for a tot of local rum, which was probably made at one of the cane distilleries he’d passed on the drive up from New Orleans. It wasn’t single malt scotch, but he was in a forgiving mood, and the Cajun Steakhouse was definitely growing on him. He spent the whole evening there, watching the place fill up with local colour and listening to the diet of rock and country music that streamed constantly from the jukebox. He might even get used to that, too.

Two more tots of rum, and he sat thinking about Jude, about life, about a lot of stuff. Such as his hesitant, awkward relationship with a woman called Sandrine Lacombe, who was a doctor at the hospital in Cherbourg a few kilometres from Le Val. Ben was drawn to her, and she to him, but it was as though neither of them could bring themselves to take the plunge. Like one of the stalemates that so many of his chess matches with Jeff ended in.

The truth was that, however much they liked each other, Ben was never going to be the love of Sandrine’s life, nor she of his. No, he’d already had that, and lost it, and there was seldom a day when he didn’t reflect on it with regret and guilt.

It was late when Ben finally left the bar and grill. He went walking through the warmth of the night, a little cooler and less sultry and far more pleasant. The stars were twinkling in an ink-black sky and the scent of magnolia trees was in the air. The streets of Villeneuve were quiet and peaceful. He didn’t feel like returning to the hotel just yet.

And that, as he strolled around exploring the small town, was when Ben spotted the lit-up store front with the sign above the door that said ELMO’S LIQUOR LOCKER, and decided to take a look inside. Just in case. You never knew what you might find.

Nine minutes to midnight.

Chapter 4 (#u0996fefc-3da0-5fb5-8429-1e493b385096)

Of all the late-night liquor stores in all the sleepy little towns of rural Louisiana, he’d had to walk into the one where a couple of morons were intent on sticking the place up. And on all the nights the pair of armed robbers could have chosen to do the deed, they had to pick the very moment when someone like Ben Hope was lurking just around the corner, fifteen feet away out of sight in the far aisle behind a stack of Dixie beer.

It had to be fate.

On the count of three, Ben stepped out where they could see him, and said, ‘Hello, boys.’

Ben was still clutching the bottle of Laphroaig Quarter Cask that he’d been about to carry over to the counter to buy. But at this moment, in his mind it ceased to be a vessel for seventy-five centilitres of one of the most venerable liquids ever crafted by human artistry, and became a usefully hefty club-shaped weapon weighing in at just under three pounds, perfectly balanced to inflict all kinds of damage to the human body. Ben’s mind often worked that way, especially at times like these. In the instant it took for the two robbers to lock eyes on the unexpected newcomer, before they could even begin to react, his brain was already calculating factors of distance, velocity, spin and drop.

Most important of all, though, was picking the right target to aim for. The big guy might have been just a trigger pull of a sawn-off shotgun away from blowing the storekeeper’s heart and lungs out his back, but Ben made him for the slower mover. If the big guy was a bear, then his partner in crime was a fox, nervier, whippier and more twitchy, hence more potentially volatile. Though he stood a couple of steps further away on the other side of the counter where he’d been rifling through the cash register, and thus presented a more distant target, Ben knew the foxy guy posed the greater immediate threat and needed taking down as a matter of priority.

True to Ben’s prediction, the foxy guy moved first. His lean right hand, marked by a faded blue star tattoo on the web between forefinger and thumb, let go of the bunch of mixed-denomination dollar bills he’d yanked from the cash register. The money fell like confetti as his hand dived down to close on the butt of the cocked revolver protruding from the front of his jeans.