Bring Him Back Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

kill him, why had they waited till now?
    Latour drove slowly out of town, the lights and the blare of the music fading until they were absorbed by the chirping of the cicadas and the creaking of the tree frogs.
    There was something almost amateurish about the two attempts on his life, amateurish and hurried. His would-be killer didn’t want him to die tomorrow or next week. He wanted him to die right now.
    He could be a punk he’d pushed around. He could be Georgi. Still, most of the punks in the delta were good shots. They hit what they shot at. And Georgi didn’t have a car, nor did he know the back country.
    Then there were Belluche and Tom Mullen. By refusing to take what they offered, he was a pain in their necks, a potential witness against them. Still he doubted, he doubted very much, if either of them wanted him dead, at least violently so. Mullen had said as much in so many words when he’d asked him to walk a little more lightly. The last thing that they wanted was to call state-wide or national attention to French Bayou.
    Latour stopped and looked in his mailbox. There was no mail. Getting the mail was one of the self-appointed chores that Georgi had taken upon himself to help pay for his board and keep. Latour hoped he wasn’t straining himself.There was usually nothing in the mail but bills, and God knew there were plenty of them.
    He turned into the tree-lined lane leading back to the old manor house that had been in his family’s possession for over 150 years. Time was when he’d hoped to remodel and refurbish it, restore it to its former grandeur — for Olga. It was just another one of the dreams that had died in that dry hole.
    It was dark here and quiet. The only sounds were the chirping of insects and the soft lap of the tide on the beach. The only light was a distant glow from the powerful lights on one of the floating platforms belonging to an oil rig out in the Gulf. The night air was fresh with salt and spiced with the fragrance of jasmine and climbing honeysuckle.
    This was the French Bayou he knew, the French Bayou he’d hoped Olga would learn to love.
    Latour got out of his car and crossed the open gallery to look through one of the sagging French windows. With her pale golden hair drawn straight back from her forehead and fastened in a shining chignon, wearing a simple white cotton dress that accentuated the curves and hollows of her body, Olga was watching a television program. Latour smiled wryly as he thought of the price he’d paid for the massive combination television receiver, radio, and record changer he’d bought when he first came home, when he still thought he’d be rich.
    Latour looked from his wife to his brother-in-law, and burned, as he did every time he looked at Georgi.
    He walked into the living room. Olga arose from her chair. “Oh, you are home.”
    Latour laid his hat on a table. “So it would seem.”
    “Quiet, please,” Georgi reproved them. “They are just coming to the interesting part of the story.”
    Latour started to tell him off and thought better of it. Every time he opened his mouth he merely dug himself in deeper. It was incredible how both Olga and Georgi, by a single word or gesture, could make him feel like a field hand in his own house.
    Olga ignored her brother. “You are probably hungry. I have kept some food warm for you.”
    “Thanks,” Latour said shortly, “but I ate in one of the cafés uptown.”
    He walked into the wood-paneled den to build himself a drink before going to bed. Georgi had been working on the bottle. There was a scant inch of whisky left. It had been almost full that morning. It was possible, just possible, that Georgi had something on his mind.
    Latour took his rifle from its pegs. The .30-.30 Winchester had been used and cleaned recently, just how recently he had no way of knowing. He returned the gun to the wall and walked upstairs to the bedroom that he and Olga shared.
    It was as hot in the high-ceilinged room as