Moon On The Bayou - A Val Bosanquet Mystery

For 

Dr. Chris J. Scott 

Q.U.B

The third title in a series of Val Bosanquet mystery thrillers, A. J. Davidson's Moon on the Bayou combines murder mystery, body snatching and intrigue into a fast paced and entertainingly complex thriller.

East Feliciana Deputy Sheriff Val Bosanquet's day starts badly when a murder victim's body is snatched from his crime scene. The discovery of a second victim makes his day worse. Although the murders do not appear to be connected, Val suspects that Mungo Call, the charismatic leader of Rising Sun, a pressure group fighting miscarriages of justice, holds the key. Val is aided by his friend Dave McElligott, a former member of the Marine Corps Special Operations. Together they plumb the unfathomable evil and extreme cruelty of a Mexican drug cartel.

Chapter One

The boy could run.  

Fast as the wind, his father had often boasted to his bar room sycophants. For a few of his teenage years he had been the star of his high school track and field team, the sprint distances his specialty. His bedroom wall adorned with gilded medals, ribbons, and posters of Usain Bolt and Michael Johnson. There was some talk of a college scholarship, but that was before hormones, cheap beer and cheaper women had proved an irresistible alternative to the hard hours of training.  

His breathing labored now. Long gone were the days when he could run for miles just for the hell of it. A stitch ate at his side, gnawing his insides and draining his strength. His throat was raw from sucking in the cold night air. His denims were sopping with dew and the extra burden made each stride more demanding. What he would give to be wearing shorts, singlet, and a set of cleated track shoes? 

It was close to midnight, and earlier a half moon lit up the woods well enough, until a cloud drew a curtain across. His foot caught on a cypress root and he sprawled onto all fours. He gathered himself and was back on his feet in an instant. His ears strained to catch the slightest sign that they were closing on him. All he could make out were the sounds of a wood at night: rustling leaves, creaking branches and the gurgle of water nearby. No mournful bay of a hound trailing his scent, no shouting, no thudding of feet on the red Louisiana earth. No angry hornet's buzz as a metal-jacketed round ripped through the air. 

He started to run again. This was a race he had to win. 

The ground started to climb gently and the trees became denser, making progress trickier. He wiped away sweat and cursed himself for allowing his natural fitness to waste away. Three years ago, he would have raced up this hill like an antelope. He knew he could outrun them in an arena footrace, but out here in the unfamiliar woods ...  

The landscape was their ally, not his. 

His eyes tried to pierce the blackness as the moonlight faded further. There had to be some sort of a road nearby; a track to a fishing shack or an access for lumber trucks. Why could he not see any lights? He should be able to see lights. 

His forehead cracked against a low-hanging branch. He did not fall but pain blurred his vision, leaving him disorientated for a few brief moments. Raising a hand to his hairline, he could feel the warm tackiness of oozing blood. 

A shout reached his ears. Damn it all to hell, they could be no more than a hundred yards behind him. He made a fist and pushed against his abdomen to ease the strain on his liver ligaments. He remembered the Thursday afternoon his high school track coach had explained that a stitch was not a build-up of lactic acid as commonly believed, but in fact the repetitive jarring of the runner's liver was the cause. The more he trained, the better his insides would cope with the pounding, the coach assured him.