Scorpion Nest

By Alan Scott

Everyone in Opelousas, Louisiana hated Agnes Seyfert. The sheriff, local businessmen, the gay priest she outed, even her own family. When her body is discovered in her booby-trap laden house, nobody seems sad she’s dead. Paranormal sleuth, Randy Arsenault, of the Psionic Corps is brought into the investigation and discovers she was suffocated, murdered in her own bed. It is soon discovered she suffered from an advanced form of cancer and had high levels of arsenic in her system.

Randy realizes he has more suspects than he can count: The dead woman’s three daughters, her grandchildren, a gay priest she outed, a local stylist, a mechanic and his own fiancé.

With a hurricane bearing down on Louisiana, Randy races against time to find out what actually happened to the old lady before Hurricane Abigail destroys everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Purple Sword Publications
• Release date: Sep 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005532116

Alan Scott

Alan Scott was born and raised in western Oklahoma where he attended college. Later, he moved to north Texas where he obtained his doctorate in analytical chemistry. He now lives with his husband and Boston Terrier in Florida.He is an avid reader and, after reading his first Agatha Christie novel, mysteries have been one of his biggest enjoyments. He has always enjoyed reading comic books and loves the superhero genre as much.

Book preview

SCORPION NEST

Alan Scott

Published By Purple Sword Publications, LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

Copyright © 2022 ALAN SCOTT

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Version

ISBN 9781005532116

Edited by Shoshana Hurwitz and Traci Markou

Cover Art Copyright DusktilDawn Designs

www.dusktildawndesigns.com

Table of Contents

SCORPIONS NEST

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

About the Author

Bibliography

Dedication

Thanks to:

David Koonce, Gary Ticknor, Phillip Laura, and Thaddeus Wingate

How sped the outlaws? stand they well prepared,

Their plunder’d wealth, and robber’s rock, to guard?

Dream they of this our preparation, doom’d

To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed?

—Lord Byron, The Corsair, 1816

Chapter 1

A cold sense of dread came over Deputy Franklin Cousins as he approached the two-story, plantation-style house rising out of the surrounding field of tall grass and weeds like a huge tombstone: neglected and long forgotten by time. Twenty years in law enforcement had given him a gut feeling in certain situations, like this one. He pulled his cruiser through the wrought iron gates, supported by tall, brick pillars, the white paint peeling and flaking off, much like the house. The undeveloped driveway stretched before him as well-worn tire tracks through the overgrown lawn. He looked out the window at the brush and weeds that reached halfway up the car door. The tracks ended at a large dirt patch in front of the house, where an old Cadillac kept a tired vigil. Dirt and grime caked all the windows, obscuring the interior.

Right out of ‘Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte,’ Aaron Bourgeois, Frank’s partner, muttered. They looked out the windshield at the once white railing lining the second-story balcony that circled the entire house. A porch, the same width, ringed the ground floor. The old woman who lived here hadn’t been seen or heard from in almost a month.

You haven’t seen Old Lady Seyfert’s house before? Frank asked with a teasing in his tone.

Never had the pleasure. Is the place haunted?

No. Mrs. Seyfert would’ve scared away any ghosts a long time ago.

Bourgeois let out a half-hearted laugh as if he couldn’t decide whether Cousins was joking or not. The veteran deputy parked his unit next to the rusty Cadillac and they stepped out into the stifling heat and humidity, oppressive even for early August. The thick moisture in the air seemed to suck up all the sound. The increased silence unnerved Cousins. There should be, at the very least, insects in the tall grass making noise.

Something wrong, Frank? Apparently, the rookie had not developed the sixth sense the vet had.

Deputy Cousins shook his head, not wanting to appear nervous or unconfident in front of Bourgeois, but when nature was silent, something wasn’t right.

Where was the old lady? He stepped onto the wooden stairs leading to the porch. The creak it omitted echoed off the magnolia trees on the spacious property. The vicinity reverted back to its gravelike silence as the echoes died away.

Why couldn’t Mrs. Dunn check up on her own mother? Bourgeois asked.

Frank detected a note of trepidation in his partner’s voice. You really are out of the loop, aren’t you? Mrs. Dunn lives up in Shreveport. He hoped the lighthearted retort would ease the eeriness of the situation. He continued across the porch to the double doors with oval, stained-glass windows. The colored panes showed nothing inside. Peering through them, Frank couldn’t make out anything in the darkness beyond. He stepped to one of the side windows and tried to wipe off the dirt, but the grime appeared to be on the inside as well.

Despite his repeated knocks and punching the doorbell button, no one responded, and no sounds could be heard from inside. With a glance at Bourgeois, he tested the doorknob. To his complete surprise, it turned. He hesitated a second, listening for any indication of movement in the house. Hearing none, he pushed the door open.

It swung inward a few inches, then stopped as it bumped against something behind it. A putrefying stench overwhelmed his nostrils and he staggered back, covering his mouth and nose with a hand.

What is it, Frank? Bourgeois asked, alarmed. He stepped up behind Cousins. Oh! He clasped a hand over his nose and darted off the porch. He fell to his knees behind the cruiser, and Frank heard the unmistakable sounds of retching.

The city of Opelousas, Louisiana, had its fair share of death, and Frank was regrettably familiar with the odor of a decaying body.

Now we know why no one’s heard from her in almost a month, he muttered. Throwing his weight against the door, he managed to open it just wide enough to squeeze through. His foot caught a string stretched taut from the other double door to somewhere in the room, buried under mountains of clutter and trash.

His hearing registered a click just before an arrow pierced his upper chest near his shoulder, pinning him to the door. He stared at the quiver in disbelief before his world went black.

* * * *

Psionic Officer Randy Arsenault forged through the cool water in his backyard swimming pool with strong butterfly strokes. When he reached the edge, he shoved off in the opposite direction. Since the pool was considerably smaller than Olympic size, he had to repeat the process numerous times to elevate his pulse, but he didn’t mind. He had finished his weight lifting routine an hour ago, so the opportunity to continue his exercise in a humid environment while staying cool was serendipitous. Exhausting but exhilarating. Work but fun.

At least until his cell phone rang.

It had to end sometime. He took a giant, telekinetic-powered leap out of the pool and landed near the lawn chair, where his phone trilled again. He enjoyed the past few days off, granted by Congress and Governor Theriot of Louisiana. The Jazz Festival in Baton Rouge the previous weekend had gone well, but the beer flowed freely and, mixed with the record heat, law enforcement and Randy’s powers were taxed to depletion and exhaustion. The brief reprieve was necessary and appreciated.

Being born and raised in southern Louisiana, he knew all too well the wilder side that came out of revelers at the annual festival and Mardi Gras, and every year, there were new surprises as well as the same old antics.

This year’s festival was no exception but no worse than those in the past. The several days of recuperation restored his abilities to their fullest, but he wouldn’t have minded a little more time off. With his upcoming nuptials, his fiancée, Melissa, had a daily list of honey-dos, which he was charged with completing.

Right after they set the date for their wedding, Melissa began planning for her big day. She had little for him to do in the beginning, but as time grew shorter, so did her patience.

And temper.

Most of the time, Melissa was the glowing bride-to-be, but woe to Randy if he failed to complete his daily tasks. She could turn on a level of bat-shit crazy he had not ever experienced before in all the years he had known her. If his luck held out, the moment would pass quickly, and Melissa would revert back to the gentle woman he loved.

Perhaps this phone call could be used as an excuse for not accomplishing anything today.

He glanced at the caller ID before answering.

Officer down! The familiar voice of Sheriff Rene Guillory from nearby St. Landry Parish uttered two of the most feared words for any law-enforcement agency.

What? What’s going on? Randy blurted out.

A couple of my deputies were checking up on an old lady who hadn’t been seen in a while, Guillory said, shouting and sounding out of breath. Randy heard sirens through the receiver. One of them entered the house and was shot by an arrow. The other deputy managed to escape. Right now, no one has eyes in the house, so we don’t know how many perps are in there or what sort of weapons they have at their disposal.

Randy’s pulse and breathing accelerated as he listened to the sheriff. These were the situations he was trained for, the reason his powers were developed.

On my way.

He ran into his house, putting on clothes while cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder. While the sheriff gave him an address, Randy threw on a pair of gym shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers and ran to the garage, where his pickup was. Guillory had summoned him to Opelousas, about sixty miles west of Baton Rouge. It would take almost an hour to drive there.

He would have to teleport away without having to conceal his departure. Fortunately, the garage door was closed, so he could.

But materializing would present a problem.

Opelousas’s population lingered around thirty thousand, which limited the number of secluded places near his destination. However, he had the advantage of knowing the city quite well since Melissa had lived there.

Extending his clairvoyance ahead, he found an empty stretch of highway on the south side of the city a few miles from where Sheriff Guillory reported the problem. Summoning his teleportation ability, he imagined himself and his truck at the spot on the highway and made the jump, disappearing in a flash of light and materializing almost fifty-five miles away in the same instant.

Wasting no time unless a car came around the corner, he turned the ignition and slammed the F150 into gear, the rear wheels spinning to gain purchase. The truck lurched forward, and Randy gripped the steering wheel tighter to control his vehicle and his rising anger.

Officer down meant that a member of law-enforcement personnel had been seriously injured or even killed. It was almost certain to be someone he knew since he was familiar with just about every policeman, sheriff, deputy, and highway patrol officer from the delta to Houston to Arkansas and Mississippi.

This isn’t supposed to happen. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Using Sheriff Guillory’s mental signature as a homing beacon, he drove to the scene.

A plethora of ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks sat on the road outside the wrought iron fence and gate. Randy checked in with the officer guarding the entrance. He was allowed to proceed, not the normal procedure in situations where a sniper might be hiding, but Randy had abilities to protect himself and others from danger.

He found Sheriff Guillory and a number of St. Landry Parish deputies and Opelousas police officers crouched behind a ring of squad cars that surrounded the house. Keeping his power wrapped around him in a telekinetic shield, he climbed out of his truck and joined the sheriff behind his unit.

We got a bad situation here, Randy, the sheriff said without greeting or preamble.

Sniper?

It seems so. Cousins entered first while Bourgeois threw up all over the place. He said it smells like a dead body. Guillory pointed to a patch of vomit a short distance away. Someone inside shot Cousins with an arrow. Bourgeois was about to follow Cousins when he saw him stapled to the door. He moved his arm in an arc.

Randy followed the direction of the sheriff’s outstretched arm to the front double doors. The right door stood slightly ajar. The left remained in place, but the head of an arrow protruded from it. A thick trail of blood ran down from it, staining the white paint.

Shit, Randy muttered.

We haven’t been able to determine who’s in the house. Sheriff Guillory cast a side glance at him. That’s why I called you. Should I be curious as to how fast you got here from Baton Rouge?

Randy gave him a cockeyed smile. Rising, he focused on the house, alert for any indication of movement but sensed none. He kept his power wrapped around him. He probed the house with his clairvoyance but couldn’t detect anyone inside. So, who shot Deputy Cousins? Had they escaped? Still, he approached with extreme caution.

The first step creaked under his weight, and he froze. After a few tense seconds with nothing happening, he stepped onto the porch. As he approached the open door, a powerful stench overwhelmed his sense of smell, almost causing him to vomit. He fought down the nausea rising in him, covering his nose and mouth with a hand.

With a slight shove from his telekinesis, he pushed the door open. He saw a pile of trash that rose three feet from the door just inside. Peering into the gloom, he saw the deputy beside him pinned to the door by an arrow.

His percipience picked up a faint heartbeat and shallow breaths.

He’s alive, Randy thought in jubilation. He scanned the front room for any danger or more arrows. Again, sensing nothing, he put a hand on the deputy’s shoulder. His gaze followed the angle of the arrow back to where it must’ve been fired. In the shadows of the high ceiling, he spied a crossbow, held in place by brackets, pointing in their direction. Fortunately, the weapon sat empty. It took an instant for Randy’s power to trace the crossbow to the trip wire the deputy must’ve triggered.

Deputy Cousins? He whispered. Frank? The man’s head rolled around on his shoulders as he slipped in and out of consciousness.

Randy’s telekinesis sliced through the arrow at the door, freeing the deputy, who slumped into his arms. Although he was alive, he still had a shaft of wood running through his body. Randy couldn’t risk moving him without risking more damage.

Just because he could not sense any immediate danger in the room did not mean there wasn’t. Holding the deputy as immobile as he could, Randy focused his power on the door hinges. The latent energy in the chemical between the metal atoms held enormous power, and he needed only a fraction of that energy to…

Detonate!

The hinges split apart with a loud blast, and the threshold around them disappeared in a shower of splinters. He diverted his telekinesis to his leg and delivered a psionic-powered kick to the door. It split in half and clattered onto the wide porch with a crash. Randy moved the deputy as far as he dared and laid him down on the porch next to the remains of the door. He shouted for the medical personnel.

He’s alive but just barely, Randy said to Guillory. He triggered a trip wire that activated a crossbow.

A booby trap? What the fuck? Sheriff Guillory turned purple with rage.

I don’t think there’s a sniper inside after all, but I’ll make sure. Randy turned back to the house while Guillory shouted into a radio.

Call Louisa Dunn, he commanded. And find Margot Carroll and Jacqueline Anderson!

Randy had no clue who the sheriff was talking about but didn’t have the time to worry about it.

He stood guard while Sheriff Guillory assured that the EMTs would be protected by Randy’s abilities. The emergency personnel managed to transfer the deputy to a gurney and whisked him away to the hospital. He returned to the ruined doorway.

The stench remained despite the gaping entry. Randy proceeded into the room that must have been a living room with extreme caution. Clutter was piled almost to the ceiling. He stepped onto a pile of trash, testing its ability to hold him. When it didn’t shift, he put his full weight on it and looked around for the next place to step. An odd contraption around the front window caught his eye. He stared at it from his perch in the middle of the room, and a rush of horror surged through his limbs as if ice water had been injected into his veins. A metal apparatus hung from the inside window frame, and an angled blade sat at the top of the contraption, waiting to fall. Anyone trying to enter through the window would be cut in half.

A guillotine! His mind cut the cord holding the blade in place. He disarmed an identical trap on another window in the front room. Recognizing these dangers helped him locate more.

He searched the rooms on the first floor but found nothing that would explain the horrendous stench. He approached the wide staircase that led to the second floor. Clothing rolled into wads, newspapers, and magazines covered the steps except for a narrow path against the wall and a bare patch in the middle of the flight.

Alarms went off in his head, warning him. But of what?

He fished a penny from his pocket, injecting his power into it, and tossed it into the air. Halfway up the stairs…

Detonate!

An ear-shattering explosion and bright light flooded the area and rocked the house to its foundation. A section of the staircase fell away, forming a gaping hole into darkness. Another surge of adrenaline raced through his body as he stared into the shadows. His eyes adjusted to the gloom. The portion of the stairs swung back, opening a gap to the basement far below, cluttered with old, broken, worn-out furniture. Wooden slats, chairs, and tables sat splintered and broken, ready to impale anything unlucky enough to fall on top of them, as evidenced by the fate of several boxes and plastic bags of trash when the trapdoor opened. Newspapers, clothes, and shoes lay among the deadly spikes. Randy wondered if someone had met their doom here.

He leapt over the gaping hole and made it to the top of the staircase without further incident. The putrefying stench became overwhelming and forced him to pull the collar of his T-shirt over his nose and mouth to act as an air filter. The amount of clutter increased as well. Piles of clothes clogged the corridor that ran past doors opening into rooms with more trash and filth.

Randy explored each one with extreme caution but didn’t find any more booby traps. In the last room at the end of the hallway, he discovered the source of the smell. Clothes and trash were piled up as high as the top of a mattress and hung from the four-poster bed. Thick clouds of flies swarmed throughout the room and over the decomposing body lying on the bed.

Chapter 2

Pierce Anderson cradled his phone between his shoulder and second chin, trying to keep it from slipping. He would hate to have to take his fingers off the controller of the video game he was playing. If that happened, he could lose valuable seconds, points, or even a life.

All of which were important.

The person on the other end of the phone answered.

Grandma’s dead, Pierce said without a greeting.

Who? Chloe Dunn asked in an annoyed tone.

Stop it, Pierce snapped. I figured you’d want to know, so you can tell your mom.

How did you find out?

A friend in Opelousas just called me. Pierce tried to sound like a know-it-all. He said there were all sorts of police cars and ambulances and a van marked ‘coroner’ at her house a little while ago. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what happened.

Lucky for you that you aren’t a rocket scientist.

Shut up. You aren’t surprised. Unless you already knew.

What’s that supposed to mean? Chloe snapped.

Nothin’, Pierce muttered. Just thought you or your mother—

Pierce, either turn off that fucking video game or speak louder, Chloe shouted.

He muttered a curse and shifted his fingers on the controller to turn down the volume. Better? he asked sarcastically.

A little. Now, tell me why you thought Mother and I could have known before now?

Pierce grimaced. He hadn’t expected his cousin to go on the offensive, but somehow, he had put her on her guard. When was the last time you saw Grandma?

A couple of months ago. Why? When did you last see her?

About the same time. Weren’t you taking food to her?

So? I seem to recall you doing the same thing, trying to suck up to her all the time.

Pierce ignored the insult. But I haven’t been to the house for a while. I was just wondering if she starved to death.

She was old. She wasn’t infirm. If she wanted food, she got out and got it herself.

Pierce had been watching his words. If he divulged what he knew, she would deny everything and he would learn nothing. I’ll let you know if I hear anything more.

* * * *

Amelia Morton dashed into her kitchen and dialed a number on her phone.

Two Heads are Better Than One Hair Salon, Rosslyn speaking, a voice said on the other end.

Roz, something’s going on over at Agnes Seyfert’s place, Amelia said, breathless with excitement. There are police cars and ambulances all over the place with more arriving. She parted the slats of her mini-blinds, peeking through them with caution as if one of the law-enforcement personnel would catch her spying despite the fact that her house was at least fifty yards from the action. I think something bad has happened to her.

We should be so lucky, Rosslyn said without emotion.

Amelia gasped. A white van that says ‘coroner’ on the side of it just pulled up. She must be dead.