Bayou Corruption Read Online Free PDF Page A

flashlight. Nurses bustled, handing confounding-looking instruments to the doctors. Suddenly, as if one, they moved Bubba’s bed into the hall.
    â€œWhere are you taking him?” Jackson asked a nurse who rushed behind the group.
    â€œSurgery,” she called over her shoulder as she jogged to keep up.
    Lord, please protect Bubba. He’s a good man. A Christian. Guess I didn’t need to tell You that, huh? Just watch over him, please, God.
    Jackson ran a hand through his hair and shuffled to the waiting room. Maybe there’d be coffee available. It’d be bad, he knew, but nothing could be worse than the sludge he’d become accustomed to at the Times-Picayune. He maneuvered his way among the throng of activity in the emergency room. For such a small hospital, a lot happened. And the stench. Man, he hated the smell of hospitals, as if clouds of death and illness permeated the halls.
    He recalled what Alyssa had said. Bubba pleading not to let someone get away with something. Using his name, obviously trying to give him a message. Two men hurrying before they were caught. What had she said about the car? Metallic blue Pontiac. Could he trust her impression? She hadn’t seemed hysterical. Upset and shocked, yes, but hysterical and unreliable, no. As a journalist, she’d been trained to pick up on minute details. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his BlackBerry. Within seconds he’d accessed the e-mail address for his friend at the New Orleans FBI office. He punched buttons.
    Â 
    NEED INFO ON ANY STOLEN BLUE PONTIACS IN VERMILION PARISH. ASAP. WILL EXPLAIN LATER.
    Â 
    He hesitated a moment, then he added one more sentence:
    Â 
    ALSO, ALL INFO YOU CAN FIND OUT ON AN ALYSSA LEBLANC. REPORTER IN SHREVEPORT. THANKS.
    Â 
    Once he sent the message, he turned off the BlackBerry and slipped the gadget back into his pocket. His thoughts were jumbled and he fought to organize them. While following up on a report of underage drinking, Bubba had found money dropped in the bayou—a payoff for something being smuggled. The sheriff had hooked Jackson up with a family friend, Frank Thibodeaux, to help him land a temporary job on the docks ten miles from Lagniappe. The local union allowed the intercoastal port to hire temporary workers at their own discretion. Jackson was scheduled to start work tonight. He glanced at his watch. Scheduled to start work in two hours, to be exact.
    The hospital’s automatic doors slid open with a whoosh. The splattering of rain against concrete echoed. Three uniformed deputies, including Gary Anderson, stomped inside. Their steps rang out sure and determined, and their wet soles squeaked against the linoleum floor.
    â€œDeputy Anderson,” Jackson called out.
    â€œMr. Devereaux.” Gary strode toward him. The other officers trailed two steps behind. “How’s the sheriff?”
    â€œThey took him to surgery.”
    â€œSurgery? For what?” one of the other deputies asked.
    â€œI’m not sure. They just left a few minutes ago.”
    Deputy Anderson stared at him. “Did he say anything?”
    â€œHe never regained consciousness. That’s really all I know.” He hooked his thumb in his jeans pocket. “Anything come up with the case?”
    Anderson huffed. “Guess you know the Feds will be here soon to take over. Assault on an officer of the law. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you in the morning. Why don’t you plan on coming back by the station first thing tomorrow?”
    A question sounding more like a directive.
    One of the other lawmen cleared his throat. “We’ll go check on the sheriff.” He turned and headed for the nurses’ station, the other man walking in perfect step alongside him.
    Deputy Anderson tossed Jackson a steady look before joining the other two men.
    Taking a sip of the tepid coffee, Jackson studied them. Yep, the FBI would rush in to take