Robert's Requiem Read online

  “Roger that.” Robert slipped the microphone back into its holder on the radio mounted under his dash and opened his door. Stepping out into the night, he stretched his back and took a deep breath. He turned and reached into the car to grab a thermos resting on the passenger seat. He straightened up, closed the car door, then climbed the embankment to the picnic table.

  He sat on the top of the table, putting his feet up on the bench, and looked around. The table was about 20 feet above the roadway on the crest of the embankment. He could see any traffic coming from a mile away in either direction.

  He could even see any shrimp boats or private yachts navigating on the Waterway. As he sat sipping coffee, the lights of a vessel on the Waterway approached from the west. The vessel likely came from Mobile Bay, and was heading to Perdido Bay.

  He watched as the vessel approached, and studied it as it motored past him. Robert recognized it as a barge, though not one pushing any cargo boxes in front.

  The 120-foot long boat was an accommodation barge, built like a large houseboat capable of carrying and housing a work crew. This barge carried a two-story building on its decks that made it almost look like a floating Motel 6, painted blue on the hull and white above decks. He could see lettering painted on the starboard bow, probably the name of the craft, but he couldn’t make out what it said.

  The craft’s diesel engines ran quietly, but as Robert watched, the droning sound of the engines dropped a notch. Then, the sound of water churning from the propellers stopped.

  The barge drifted ahead on the water. After gliding for a while, the barge pulled towards the north shore of the canal.

  It reached land maybe a thousand feet up the canal, and came to stop.

  Even that far away, Robert could hear voices of the crew across the water. That was followed by the sounds of something heavy being moved, metallic squeals and clanging noises cutting through the quiet night.

  He took a sip of coffee and watched. Lights on the barge flicked off, except for a pair of red lights on the stern.

  Robert was letting his mind wander and began thinking about how to finish a bathroom he’d been working on when the noises from the barge stopped. The night was suddenly very still.

  Robert had lived in White Sands for most of his life, spent much of his school break days fishing or swimming in the canal not too far from where the picnic table was where he first spotted the barge. As a kid, he used to dream of climbing aboard one of the luxury yachts that occasionally came by, or even taking a ride on a barge, working his way all the way up the Eastern Seaboard.

  But none of the bigger boats ever stopped here––and if they did, what could he do? Jump 20 feet to the deck? No likely…

  As he watched the barge, vehicle headlights approached the barge from the other side of the canal. A convoy of two or three vehicles broke through a row of thick trees and underbrush, then stopped near the canal’s edge.

  Robert stood and walked to the canal, trying to get a better view. He could see one of the vehicles that drove down to the canal was larger, maybe a small bus or a van, while the others were SUVs or possibly pickup trucks. The vehicles’ headlights all switched off as he watched, followed by doors opening and closing.

  Then Robert heard talking—no, not talking. The voices were firmer, harder, more like orders or commands being given.

  Another sound carried across the water, more voices, but higher pitched and lighter. Something that sounded like a short scream.

  He snatched his Thermos off the picnic table and jogged to the waiting Charger. As he cranked the wheel to pull out onto the road, he radioed in that he was back on duty and heading to check out a barge on the canal.

  “What’s your location, Robert?” the dispatcher asked.

  “I’m just past the three-mile marker on Intracoastal Road,” Robert said. “There’s an accommodation barge docked on the northside of the canal. It sounded like they were unloading something.”

  “Bobby, there’s no dock there. They can’t be unloading.”

  “I know, I know, but something is going on. I’ll check it out and report back.”

  He reached a small parking area near where the barge had stopped, and pulled off the road again. He grabbed a large flashlight and dashed up the embankment. From the top, he could see he had overshot the barge’s landing spot a little. He was now about a hundred feet ahead of the barge now sitting silently in the dark.

  Robert started walking towards the barge on a pathway that followed the canal’s edge. He wanted to find out why they’d stopped there, where there’s no dock. Maybe get the boat’s registration number and name from the forward side of the craft. But he’d have to get closer for his flashlight to be helpful. With that information, he’d be able to find out the owner, if any following up was needed.

  As he walked towards the barge, Robert tried to remember if there was any sort of a landing spot in this section of the canal. He was confident that no docks existed on the other side of the canal, other than the Havenport Marina, about a mile and a half back towards Mobile Bay. Another dock, or more accurately a shipping port, was located at the big storage facility built by BODE, Inc., the oil drilling company owned by billionaire Sandy Basko. The BODE facility was a little closer, but still more than half a mile from where the barge stopped.

  He was just under fifty feet from the barge. He lifted the flashlight with his finger ready to switch it on.

  A sudden bright spotlight above the barge’s wheelhouse switched on before he could, blinding him. He stopped and raised an arm to shield his eyes.

  Suddenly, the barge’s engines roared to life and the vessel began moving backwards, back towards Mobile Bay.

  Robert tried to run to catch up, but he couldn’t see the path because of the blinding light. He had to slow down on the uneven pathway. When he tried to jog, he stumbled and nearly fell on the path.

  The barge was gaining speed now, easily pulling further and further away. Across the canal, the three vehicles he’d seen pull up when the barge stopped started up and sped away.

  “Damn it!” He stopped and turned to run back to his car. As he stepped off the path to run down the hillside, he caught his left foot in a rut. He fell and rolled several times before springing up to his feet halfway down the hill. He tried to jog, but a shot of pain in his ankle made him stop. Hobbled by the injured ankle, he limped towards the car as quickly as he could.

  When the Charger’s engine roared to life, Robert hit the gas pedal and slammed the gearshift into drive, spinning rocks and loose sand behind him. The rush of torque to the rear wheels pushed the back of the car sideways. He cranked the wheel and let the over-powered rear wheels push the car around in a spin until it was facing the direction he’d just come.

  He was heading back in the direction he’d come from earlier, hoping to pass by the barge and get to the top of Mobile Road bridge where he could see the boat from above as it passed on the canal. If he could make it in time.

  But getting to the bridge meant having to negotiate a series of turns before the bridge, where Intracoastal Boulevard ends. He’d have to take a hard left turn on Old School Road, go three blocks, then make a right. Mobile Road would be another two blocks down, and after another right turn onto Mobile Road, go half a mile back up to the bridge.

  Robert kept his foot on the gas pedal as the car approached 100 miles per hour. He snatched the radio microphone and was about to report what he’d seen, but then put the radio microphone down. What had he seen? A barge heading down the canal? He needed more details before reporting it. Sure, there were some trucks driving on the other side of the canal, but what did it all really mean? In hindsight, he couldn’t be sure.

  He saw trees lining the canal illuminated by the barge as the Charger zoomed passed it. He flew down the road and reached Old School Road, where he had to slam the Charger’s brakes, made the hard turn, then punch the gas again to speed up for three blocks.

  He flew through the quiet residential
neighborhood, then took the first right at 40 miles an hour. He slowed for traffic on Mobile Road, but was soon swinging around the corner and zipping towards the top of the bridge.

  At the crest of the bridge, high over the canal, the Charger skidded to a stop. Robert jumped out of the car, momentarily forgetting about his quickly-swelling ankle until another flash of pain hit when he put his weight on it. He gingerly limped as quickly as he could to the railing over the canal.

  The front of the backward-traveling barge was just going under the bridge. Robert turned and began to head across the roadway to the other side of the bridge, but had to stop for oncoming traffic. As he stepped onto the south-bound lanes, he could hear the sound of the barge engines clearing the bridge. By the time he reached the rail on that side of the bridge, the barge had sunk into the dark black shadows. It was too far away to see anything identifying the craft’s registration or name or port.

  He slowly limped back to his car, then drove it to the end of the bridge where he pulled off the pavement and parked. He pulled a notepad from his shirt pocket and started writing notes of things that he’d want to remember later, things like where the barge stopped, the color, size and markings on the barge, the sound of something being moved when the barge stopped, the voices.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE EASTERN SKY was noticeably lighter by the time Robert pulled into the department’s parking lot. He parked the Charger and lurched his way across to the sidewalk, wincing every time he put weight on his left foot.

  He carefully stepped into the department’s front office, where two other officers and the desk sergeant, a lean, deeply tanned man the other officers called “Shooter,” were laughing about the upcoming Alabama football game.

  “I’m taking the spread,” Patrick DiCicco said. DiCicco believed he could predict games from the grumblings in coffee shops and diners he heard when out on patrol, despite his abysmal record in office bets. “No way we’re beating LSU by ten.”

  A round of boos arose from the others, but was cut short when Shooter noticed Robert limping his way through the door. He quickly made his way to Robert and put an arm around Robert’s shoulders to help him.

  “What’s happened to you?” Shooter said. He helped Robert walk to one of the office desks.

  “I tripped, twisted my ankle,” Robert said, slumping into an office chair. “I was trying to catch up to the barge I saw on the canal.”

  “Barge on the canal?” DiCicco said. “Kinda small water for a barge, ain’t it?”

  “No, we used to get barges along here all the time,” Shooter snapped at DiCicco before turning back to Robert. “Why were you chasing a barge?”

  Robert relayed the full story, including how he fell as he was running to his car to try, and his race to catch up to the rapidly departing barge.

  “Ain’t no barges on the canal anymore,” DiCicco mumbled. “I can’t remember the last time I saw anything like that.”

  “Yeah, well, if you were on the boulevard this morning, you would have seen one,” Robert shot back. He was lifting his leg to carefully slide his shoe off.

  “I can check with Pensacola Coast Guard to see if any shippers reported coming this way,” Shooter offered. He watched Robert peel down the sock and was expressionless as Robert’s ankle, which looked like a red softball, was revealed. Robert tenderly felt the swelling, then pulled the sock back over his ankle.

  He picked up his shoe and started to put it back on, but winced and put the shoe down.

  “I’ll take you to urgent care.” Shooter stood over him, measuring the level of pain registering on Robert’s face.

  “OK. Thanks, Shooter,” Robert said. He stood up, holding his shoe in one hand and grabbing Shooter’s shoulder with the other. “I’ll do the reports when I get back. I tell you, this was something weird.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When the barge stopped, there were these three vehicles came down from Airport Road, I guess. I heard some yelling and stuff and then…” He grimaced as he absent-mindedly put too much weight on his injured ankle standing between two desks. “I heard some women or girls, I think. Talking at first, but then it sounded like a scream or a yell.”

  Everyone looked at him.

  “A scream?” Shooter sounded dubious.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know. Sounded like a scream.” Robert wasn’t sure what he heard now, back in the office, and surrounded by the others. “Something weird, though.”

  “Could it have been an owl or some bird?” DiCicco asked.

  “Maybe a wild dog?” Joseph Hancock, the third officer and the department’s newest. His lack of experience and insecurity showed in the lack of confidence with which he offered his suggestion.

  DiCicco glared at him. “Shut up, Hancock.” He crumbled up a sheet of paper and threw it at Hancock, hitting him squarely on the forehead.

  “No. It wasn’t birds and it wasn’t dogs,” Robert said. “I’m telling you, it was something else…something…not right.”

  Shooter exchanged looks with DiCicco, who turned back to his desk.

  Shooter grabbed hold of Robert again. “DiCicco, call over to Mobile Bay, and see if they can find this barge before we lose it in the bay traffic.”

  He helped Robert navigate through the counter that extended across the front of the office, keeping the public on one side of the room, and working officers on the other.

  “Hancock, I got a job for you. Are you up for it?”

  Hancock jumped up. “Yeah, Shooter. What do you need?”

  “I need you to go to the store and get some fresh rolls for us for when we get back.”

  Hancock’s shoulders dropped. He stood glumly for a moment, then started packing things in his uniform pockets: a pen, his phone, his notepad that was blank but for the little animal figures he’d drawn in the corner of each page to make a short animated cartoon.

  He took three quick steps and got ahead of Robert and Shooter so he could hold the door open as Robert limped through it.

  “Hope that’s nothing too serious, Bobby.”

  “Thanks,” Robert said. He was through the door and focused on stepping off the sidewalk without putting too much weight on his left foot. Once safely on the parking lot pavement, he turned towards Shooter.

  “What do you think? I think maybe it was some kind of illegal business going on,” he said. “Why else would they meet up with someone in the middle of the night, middle of nowhere?”

  Shooter opened the passenger door to a police SUV for Robert.

  “Doubt it.” Robert stepped into the vehicle and Shooter shut the door. He walked around to the driver’s side and got in before continuing. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Bobby. Probably just stopped for some kind of repairs. Maybe the motor wasn’t running right and they met up with some mechanics.”

  As Robert thought about this, Shooter turned around to back the vehicle up and then headed to the urgent care center on Mobile Road.

  “But what about the sounds? I’m telling you, something was off about the whole thing.”

  Shooter drove in silence for several blocks.

  “You know this one night, I was setting out by the lagoon on break from patrol, just sitting there and I heard this really loud scream coming from just over a dune behind me. I ran over towards it, then heard it again further away so I chased after the sound. I came running around this bend and fell in the sand. When I did, this big…bird took off. It made the sound I heard and thought was a scream.”

  Shooter turned towards Robert and added, “It was a loon, those birds like a goose. Never seen one—or heard one—before or since, but they sound like someone screaming.

  “I didn’t know anything about them, had to look it up. Then I talked to this guy used to walk the beach every day who was into birds. He said it could definitely have been a loon.”

  He drove another few blocks.

  “Guess it was, beings as we never found any body in the dunes…”

&nb
sp; Robert was silent. He thought back about the sounds he heard and began to feel less confident of what he thought he’d seen and heard.

  “I suppose. I don’t know what I heard.” He was looking out the window, watching the buildings and houses they passed.

  Shooter filled the time telling Robert about some of the other calls the other officers had dealt with overnight, including a disorderly, and several people in a new development near the town’s airport complaining about a loud plane landing and taking off after midnight.

  “Overall, a pretty quiet night,” he said. “I kinda like the quiet in these off-season months.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Robert said. “Reminds me of the way it used to be in town, before all them condos were built along the shore.”

  Both men knew what White Sands had been like before developers took advantage of cheap land and cheaper financing to buy up and build on the beach. For years, White Sands had lay fallow, drawing little interest from outsiders because of a series of catastrophic hurricanes in the 1970s that nearly wiped the town off the map.

  But the memories of those storms eventually faded, and with a boom in vacationers heading to Florida, it wasn’t long before town leaders in White Sands decided to become more friendly with well-financed developers.

  Robert was in high school when builders completed a row of condo towers that lined the beach from the east end of White Sands to the middle of the growing town. Before then, local kids enjoyed miles of open beach, where they could play and swim most of the year on the beaches that gave the town its name. They were lords of the waves and dunes, spending sunny afternoons after school running up and down the shoreline, fishing for redfish and snappers and kingfish. During breaks between school terms, they all but lived on the beach, gathering early in the mornings and not heading home until well after sundown.

  But as he watched the expanding line of condominiums, he knew his life in White Sands would not be the same. After high school, he enlisted in the Army and when his stint was over, he almost didn’t return.