Free Dead in the Water (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 4) by Jack Patterson Page B

Maybe it was just Baker’s time to go.”
    “That might be a good enough answer for you, but not for me—or my editor. Speaking of which, I need to give him a call. Also, I need to get some batteries for my recorder. Can you pull into the gas station here so I can grab some?”
    Potter veered his truck into the Texaco gas station parking lot and jammed the stick into park. “Take all the time you need.”
    Cal climbed out of the truck and pulled out his phone. He dialed his editor’s number.
    “Gatlin.”
    “Hey, Gatlin. It’s Murphy. How are things going?” Cal leaned against the ice machine sitting outside the entrance of the store.
    “Just like normal. The Braves’ game is headed for extra innings and Tillman is late with his Hawks’ feature. I swear I’ve never met anyone who labored over his words like him. My gosh, just send the dang story in already. It’s not like anybody cares about that team anyway.”
    “So, it sucks, huh?”
    “Like I said, it’s another normal night at the paper. How are things going on your end?”
    “Well, it’s been an interesting day.”
    “Interesting enough to make for a good story.”
    “Still working on that. I’ve got a colorful local guide and have met quite a few people that have given me some good background on Tre’vell Baker. But I’m still searching for an angle.”
    “Well, don’t go snooping around the bayou at night. I hear the gators down there have been known to eat a man whole.”
    Cal laughed. “You obviously haven’t been down here if that’s the tale you’re hearing. I’ve already heard far more terrifying stories about gators—and baby gators at that.”
    “Be safe and check in tomorrow and let me know if anything noteworthy pops up. I think if this story pans out, we’ll have a winner on our hands.”
    Cal hung up and went inside the story to buy some batteries. He eyed Potter, who was jabbering away on his phone.
    Once Cal made his purchase, he pushed open the door and nearly hit an old man. “Excuse me, sir. Sorry about that,” Cal said.
    The old man stopped and stared at Cal. He hadn’t shaved in quite some time and his clothes looked like something picked out of the Army surplus bargain bin. He wore a camouflage mesh cap with the bill pulled down just above his eyes.
    “Hey,” the old man said. “Are you that reporter guy snoopin’ around here?”
    Cal stopped. He glanced at Potter’s truck where his guide was still yapping away on the phone. “Yeah, I’m from the Atlanta newspaper. How do you know that?”
    “New travels fast around here. But I wanted to tell ya to be careful.”
    “Why’s that? Am I doing something dangerous?”
    “Could be. Just watch yer back.”
    Cal walked off and glanced back at the old man over his shoulder. The old man hadn’t moved. He stood glaring at Cal.
    Once inside the truck, Cal remained quiet as Potter ended his call out of courtesy to his guest.
    “So, ya got to meet old man Boudreaux?”
    “Who is that guy?”
    “Meanest man in a hundred miles of here. Rumor has it that he wrestled a bear to the ground and killed it with his bear hands. He knows where all the bodies are buried.”
    “Maybe that’s why he told me not to go poking around.”
    “Yeah, he’s scared of any outsider. He thinks they’re out to get him. He’s almost certifiable. But the people of Saint-Parran tolerate him. He’s pretty harmless.”
    “He kind of creeped me out, to be honest.”
    “He’ll do that to ya. But I’ve got a cure for that.”
    “Oh?”
    “Yeah, Bons Temps is calling your name. You need a drink.”

CHAPTER 11
    ACCORDING TO POTTER, the water and woods surrounding Saint-Parran buzzed with activity during daylight. For fisher and hunters, the daylight hours were spent on the water with a rod and reel or in the swamps with a shotgun or rifle. But at night, everyone returned to Saint-Parran, unwinding at the ever-popular Bons Temps, the only bar within twenty miles. A wooden porch