Free KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set by Gordon Kessler Page B

octogenarians Jacques and Agrippina Margoles.
    To avoid further contact, we cut through the woods to the bait shop, Zack figuring it to be about two miles away “as the bunny runs”. That was probably a good estimate, but the trees, vines, swamp grass and wading through waist-high bogs and marshy pools made the going difficult. I hadn’t seen this kind of foliage since my days in Marine “Super Squad” competition training in the swampland of North Carolina. But even at Zack’s age and size, he proved himself quite the swamp monster when it came to taking on the terrain.
    In the shop, after buying two bags full of Twinkies and other junk food, Black Zack asked about people coming and going, especially the sheriff’s men and Papa Legba or any of his henchmen. While we listened, we dug into our bags of goodies. But I could tell the elderly proprietors of the country store were reluctant to talk around me, so I backed off a few steps. They whispered to Zack, but I could still hear them.
    There had been considerable traffic in recent months going down in a hollow past what they called Legba’s cabin — a sort of scary, dark place that “ anybody with sense know’d better than t’nose ‘roun’ ‘cause they got guns and gris-gris ”. But in recent weeks, there had been a steady stream, including windowless panel vans and a couple of container semi-trucks.
    “Soun’s like they’s col-lectin’ up sumpin,” Zack said.
    The couple nodded with knowing eyes. “Chil’ern,” the woman said. “Know’d that ‘cause the drivers come in f’some candy — whole shitload o’candy, lotta canned stuff — an’ a whole buncha o’er the counter drugs, mos’ly col’ and flu-bug stuff.”
    Zack described Billy to them, and they said they’d seen him just yesterday, early morning. He’d asked for their phone, but they didn’t have one, so he’d charged up his cell for about thirty minutes and then headed on foot back into the woods in the direction of Legba’s cabin.
    Billy had told them he was going back to save some kids. He said he’d rescued a couple the night before, but had to let them get recaptured in order to evade capture himself.
    The old woman looked around Zack to examine me and said, “Billy asked fo’ help. Neither us ca’drive, anymo’. Tol’ ‘im, we’d get word out t’anybody pass by.”
    Billy had made arrangements to buy the couple’s Mighty Mite Jeep when he returned and gave them a two-hundred-dollar deposit. An unusual, aluminum bodied machine with an air-cooled Porsche engine, it was made specifically for the US Marines. This one had a snorkel for driving through water up to six feet deep. The 1960 Jeep was parked in front of their store with a hand printed sign that read $900 — It Runs! He’d told them he’d bring seven hundred more when he came back.
    Billy had walked out of the store with his cell phone to his ear. The old woman thought he’d said something to his “mom”. A few seconds later, they heard gunfire, and they hadn’t seen him since.
    She said, “Then those sheriff’s dep’ties come in an’ tol’ us keep our mouth’s shut, o’ be us dead alayin’ in the swamp.”
    I bumped Billy’s bid, paying the elderly Cajun couple two thousand dollars up front for their nine-hundred-dollar Jeep. With wide eyes, Jacques Margoles said they’d hold it for us. He’d park it out of sight in back with their Cadillac, and it’d be gassed up and ready when we returned.
    When we left, Jacques pointed to the way Billy had ventured and we followed his lead deeper into the swamplands. Zack said he knew the place we were going — that he and some friends had wandered there when he was a teenager over forty years ago, while unsuccessfully poaching alligators. They’d only found one gator.
    “Damn near ate all three o’us ‘live,” Zack said and laughed. “Meanes’ damn thin’ — wa’n’t n’mo’ than three-fee’ long, an’ damn nea’ kilt us! Don’t like no