Free Blackmail by Robin Caroll Page B

make their living fishing or hunting in the swamp.” Agent Lockwood wore a trimmed goatee that made Jon think of those clichéd villains in silent films.
    â€œMay I ask for what?”
    â€œWe’re looking for suspects who could be involved with the sabotages of Vermilion Oil’s facilities,” Agent Ward replied.
    Ah, grasping at straws because they had nothing. “Why is the FBI involved? Seems more like state agencies would be handling the investigation.”
    â€œThe contaminants that were leaked into the bayou in last night’s sabotage have spread to a federal wildlife reserve.” Agent Lockwood squared his shoulders. “That makes it our jurisdiction.”
    Jon nodded and slipped behind his desk. He logged in to his active database, highlighted and printed those sorted by violent crimes. He did the same thing with those who worked at, or had worked for, Vermilion Oil. The printer hummed as the papers fed through the feeder. “There are about twenty names on each of these lists.”
    â€œWe’ll cross-reference them with the evidence we have.” Lockwood spoke to Ward, ignoring Jon and the sheriff. Arrogance seeped from his every pore.
    Jon took the papers and handed them to the sheriff. “Here you go.”
    Agent Lockwood intercepted, almost yanking them from Sheriff Theriot’s grasp. He narrowed his eyes at Jon before turning and striding from the office. Agent Ward followed silently.
    â€œYou’re welcome,” Jon said to their retreating backs.
    â€œI’m sorry about that.” The sheriff held his hat in his hands.
    â€œNot your fault.”
    Sheriff Theriot chuckled. “Thanks for understanding. Appreciate your getting that so quickly for them.”
    â€œI learned my lesson long ago to just do what the men in black ask. A lot less aggravation that way.”
    â€œAmen to that.” The sheriff moved to go. “Thanks again.”
    Jon returned to his desk and reprinted the lists he’d given the agents. Which one were the FBI about to focus on?
    And what could he do about it?

SEVEN
    D esperation guided Sadie’s drive to Vermilion Parish Fellowship, Spencer Bertrand’s church, despite her resolve not to involve him. She just knew she needed to find some peace.
    Her life had been sucked into hurricane-strength velocity and she needed something to cling on to. Some form of peace and direction. Blackmail, work, Caleb…how was she to cope with the enormity of it all?
    She couldn’t, which was why the shelter she’d found last year in Jesus beckoned to her as she left Lagniappe’s city limits.
    But Sadie couldn’t stay long—she had the afternoon appointment with the group of fishermen. Deacon expected her to put out all the media fires, including the outcry of these men, but she had something else in mind. The timing of it all struck her as suspicious—the wells went up in the bayou, these men complained with a vengeance, then the sabotages began. Maybe she could ferret out something in her meeting with them. Of course, now they had a legitimate reason to be outraged—the leaking of contaminants into the bayou would directly affect their income and way of life. Would they have stooped so low as to damage the facility for the sake of proving their claims about the danger they represented?
    But on the other hand, she’d called the investigators recommended by the company’s lawyers and turned over her suspect list of five laid-off workers to them. She’d also given them thenames of the nature-loving protestors Georgia had compiled. So many people had motive to sabotage the facilities. So many people, individually or as a group, could be the guilty parties.
    Which group were the blackmailers aligned with?
    Sadie parked in the loose gravel lot outside the church. Oppressive heat and humidity cloaked the air. Her legs felt sluggish, as if stuck in the swamp, as she climbed the rickety