Chapter 10

 

Lucy stumbled as a gust of wind blasted through the door. Other than that, I was amazed at how well she held her liquor. We found the sidewalks soaked, water pouring down the street, but at least it had stopped raining.

“How far to the West End?” she asked.

“Twenty miles, as the crow flies. Plenty of time to get there if we haven’t missed our bus.”

“You and your buses! Why don’t you own a car?”

“I told you, I like public transportation.”

“You’re a dork. Why do Armand and Tony call you Cowboy?”

“My parents were socialites, jet-setting all over the world. They didn’t have much time for a child, so I spent most of my summers and holidays on a cattle ranch in southwest Louisiana with my aunt and uncle.”

“They raise cows in Louisiana?”

“Lots of them,” I said. “I learned to rope and ride so well, my cousins nicknamed me. The name stuck and most of my friends still call me Cowboy.”

We waited for fifteen minutes beneath a covered bus stop. Though the heavy rain had ceased, pools of water reflected in the flickering light of a lone streetlamp. Lucy had a sudden chill; her arms clasped tightly against her chest. She must have been cold because when I put my hands on her shoulders, she didn’t move away.

“When I make it to a hotel I’m going to fill a tub to the brim with water hot as I can stand. I’m going to soak up to my nose until it turns cold. Then I’m going to crawl beneath a big down comforter and sleep until noon tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan. Won’t be long. Here’s our ride.”

We had our pick of seats on the nearly empty bus. Lightning flashed outside the hazy windows as we passed miles of streetlights on the way to the West End. Lucy sat in silence, not bothering to wipe the drops of water beading her thighs.

“You okay?” I finally said.

“Why don’t you come with me? Sandy and the network will protect you until this mess blows over.”

“You don’t hate me anymore?”

“I don’t hate anyone. Detest, maybe.”

“That’s the girl I know and love,” I said with a smile. “I was starting to worry about you.”

“What’s that wall?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Floodwall,” I said. “There’s a canal on the other side that’s designed to relieve flooding if the water gets too high. It empties north of here into Lake Pontchartrain.”

“It must be eight feet tall. Does water ever get that high?”

“It’s precautionary since some of the levees became breached during Katrina.”

“I can only imagine what it would be like here during a hurricane. Doesn’t it ever stop raining?”

“Every so often,” I said.

“I wasn’t kidding about you coming with me.”

“Can’t. I’m going no place until I find out who killed Dr. Mary.”

“Or get killed first.”

“That’s not in the plan.”

“How do you intend to prevent it?” she asked. “The people chasing us seem to know every time we burp.”

“Maybe, but they don’t know the city as I do.”

“Even if you find out who killed Dr. Mary, it’s not going to call off the killers. How do you plan to solve that little problem?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“You're just bull-headed,” she said. “Sandy and I will find Dr. Mary’s murderer. Step out of the picture until then.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You’d better think fast. Once Sandy and I drive away, you’ll be on your own, and I won’t be able to help you.”

“My client must have stolen the Rex doubloon from the Hollingsworth estate,” I said.

“That’s what has me puzzled,” Lucy said.

“Are you on to something?”

“Armand and Mr. Haney both said the doubloon is valuable. The people chasing us want it badly and have already killed to get it back. Why do they covet it so?”

“It’s one of a kind. Maybe it’s like the Holy Grail for the Forces of Darkness.”

Lucy glanced at me. “Now and then you say something that almost makes sense.”

The bus let us off a few blocks before we reached West End Park. It was drizzling again as we backed against the floodwall and huddled beneath a tree on the dark street. About ten minutes later, a white Mercedes pulled slowly to the side of the road and stopped.

“That’s Sandy’s car. You coming?”

“No, and I don’t think you should either.”

“It’s just Sandy. What’s the matter?”

“Don’t know. I have a nagging feeling something’s wrong here.”

“That’s just crazy,” she said.

“Then why didn’t he want to pick you up on Canal, or someplace with lots of people around.”

“Don’t know. Coming or not?”

When I shook my head, she stood on her toes, put her hands on my cheeks, stared into my eyes a moment, and then kissed me.

“You’re a stubborn fool, Wyatt Thomas. Try not to get yourself killed.”

She turned away and hurried toward the big Mercedes before I could reply. As she did, my warning whistles began blasting a clamorous siren in my brain. Feeling around on the ground for something to use as a weapon, I found a fallen branch. I hefted it to test its weight, hoping like hell I wouldn’t need it.

Lucy had almost reached the car when I glanced up. She stopped when a man dressed in coat and tie burst out of the driver’s side.

“Sandy,” Lucy called. “It’s me.”

“It’s a trap, Lucy. Run!” he yelled.

A man in a black sports coat came crashing out of the car behind him with pistol drawn. Lucy screamed when the weapon erupted, destroying the night’s serenity. The impact knocked Sandy to the sidewalk where he lay struggling, trying to stand. The assailant put his foot on the small of Sandy’s back, and then shot him again, this time in the back of the head. Lucy continued to scream.

“Lucy,” I yelled. “Run!”

She turned and ran toward me as the lights of a black sedan came sliding in a squeal of rubber around the corner. After kicking the fallen Sandy for good measure, the man in black hurried after her. He wasn’t expecting me when he reached the tree. I cold-cocked him in the head as hard as I could swing. Lucy had stopped running when I picked up the pistol, unloading it into the black sedan barreling toward us. At first, I thought I had missed. I hadn’t.

The speeding car’s tires screeched. It did a sudden three-sixty, almost turned over, then crashed in a burst of flame into the floodwall. I didn’t wait to see if there were survivors as I grabbed Lucy’s hand. She was in near hysterics when we reached Sandy’s body.

“Oh my God!” she said, squatting beside his body.

“No time, he’s dead,” I said, looking to see if he’d left the key in the ignition.

I didn’t bother opening the passenger door for Lucy, pulling her unceremoniously into the car. Cranking the engine, I wheeled the car around and headed west on the first major street, my foot crammed to the floorboard. After a few miles, I stood on the brakes and slid to the side of the road, leaving the car running. Lucy was in shock when I yanked her out and hurried away in the opposite direction. She was crying as she shook my hands away.

“Don’t fight me, Lucy. We have to get away from here.”

“That man killed Sandy,” she said.

“Grieve later, unless you want to join him now.”

“You’re an asshole!”

“No time for feelings. The man that killed your boss could have killed you just as easily. He wanted you alive for some reason. We need to find out why.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . .”

“I’m the one who is sorry,” I said, grabbing her shoulders. “I know you’re in shock, but you have to fight through it, or we won’t survive.”

She pushed my hands away. “I’m okay. I’ve covered Afghanistan, Bhopal, and the earthquake in China. Believe me; I’ve seen my share of dead people. Stop treating me as if I’m a child.”

“Good, then let’s hurry before the clouds open and drown us.”

“We won’t get far on foot.”

“There’s a bus stop ahead.”

“Then what?” she asked.

“Shut the hell up for a few minutes. I’m doing the best I can.”

I managed a weak smile when she said, “Now who’s acting like a baby?”

We must have looked a sight when the bus driver picked us up on Lake Side Drive. Likely used to seeing many strange things, he didn’t comment as I paid our fare and directed Lucy toward the back of the empty bus.

“Sorry I yelled at you back there,” I said. “You okay?”

“I feel so responsible for Sandy’s death.”

“You’re not. He was just doing his job and you yours.”

“How did you learn to shoot like that?”

“Like I told you, I practically grew up on a ranch. I started shooting by the age of ten, though I haven’t used a pistol in more than twenty years until tonight.”

“Like riding a bicycle, huh?”

“Something like that.”

Any idea where we’re going?” she asked.

“Bertram has a fishing camp near here. I know where he keeps the key.”

“Who is Bertram?”

“Someone I trust with my life,” I said.

Lake Pontchartrain was a shadow in the distance, dark clouds draping the water. We soon reached a long wooden walkway jutting far out into the lake. At the far end sat a rustic cabin. Rain began falling in sheets as I fumbled for the key and opened the door.

“What is this?” Lucy asked.

“Bertram’s fishing camp. Used to be hundreds like this one on the lake. Katrina changed all that. Bertram’s is one of the few remaining.”

I expected the smell of must as I turned on a fluorescent lantern. There wasn’t any. Bertram had recently visited and left an ice chest filled with lemonade, cold drinks, and a pot of gumbo. The lantern even had fresh batteries. I lit the propane stove and sat the pot on it.

“Good old Bertram,” I said.

Bertram had also left the windows cracked, the storm flapping faded curtains. The floor was unpainted wood, as were the walls. There were no pictures; just some functional cabinets stocked with canned goods. My stomach churned when I smelled the fresh loaf of French bread on the counter.

Lucy popped the top on a soda, holding the cold can against her neck a moment before taking a sip.

“Your friend’s an angel. I wish he’d left a bottle of gin.”

She grinned when I opened a cabinet, showing her Bertram’s larder.

“Bertram never goes anywhere without his liquor,” I said.

Lucy flinched when thunder shook the cabin. “This isn’t a hurricane, is it?”

“Just a normal summer storm for New Orleans. We’ll be fine.”

I lit the candle on the kitchen table and then turned off the lantern to conserve batteries. There were other candles in strategic locations and Lucy lit them as well. Shadows, flickering light, and flashes of lightning soon filled the little cabin.

“The wonderful aroma wafting from the pot is calling to me. Now, if I just had a shower and change of clothes I’d be in heaven.”

“Don’t know about clean clothes, but the cabin has a shower and chemical potty. Want to clean up before you eat?”

“Lead the way,” she said.

There was no stall. The bare showerhead in a shallow basin drained into the lake.

“This place has running water?” she asked.

“A cistern on the roof that collects rainwater. You’ll have to take a cold shower. It’s all we have, so go easy on it.”

“Great,” she said, stripping off her clothes in front of me.

When I turned away to give her some privacy, she grabbed my arm.

“No, you don’t. You stink as much as I do, and I’m not sleeping with a smelly man.”

I didn’t take much convincing.

Tepid water was soon pouring off our bodies producing smiles on both of our faces.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” she said.

“Just trying to soap your back.”

“That’s not my back.”

“Sorry, it’s just that beautiful naked women have an effect on me.”

“Stow it. It’ll get you nowhere.”

When lightning struck so close to us that resultant thunder rocked the walls, Lucy practically jumped into my arms.”

“Change your mind?” I said.

“You wish.”

At least she was laughing as she pushed me away.

Though the water was lukewarm, it felt like heaven. Despite our banter, neither of us wanted the shower to end. Moreover, we didn’t want to put our dirty clothes back on. Bertram’s little closet almost solved our problem.

The closet provided sleeveless tee shirts and cutoff blue jeans. We dined on gumbo and hot buttered French bread. Lucy’s pants were about five sizes too large, and she had to hold them up with her free hand as she fished a cold beer out of the ice chest. Wind shook the little cabin on stilts, rain peppering its tin roof.

“You sure it’s not a hurricane?” she asked.

I shook my head and said, “Not even close.”

“Good. My body’s clean and belly full. All I need is more gin to help me forget the sight of Sandy lying dead on the sidewalk with half his head blown off.”

I sat my spoon on the table, hugging her. She didn’t pull away.

“I don’t care how many tours of the Middle East you’ve had. It’s okay to feel sadness and grief. At least we’re safe.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“We’ll lie low a few days. Bertram will return soon and bring us some clothes. He can also drive you out of town to someplace safe.”

“Where would that be? Someone has even compromised my network.”

“Looks like it,” I said.

“I’m staying with you. We can’t let this go.”

“I never intended to.”

“Then now what?”

“You heard what Armand and Madam Toulouse said. Nothing goes down in New Orleans unless the power hierarchy wants it that way. Whatever we’re into apparently extends beyond the city limits of New Orleans.”

“Conspiracy? But why?”

Lightning flashed outside the windows and nearby thunder rocked the cabin as I pondered Lucy’s question.

“One of my close friends is the Assistant Federal District Attorney of New Orleans. We have to find a way to contact him without giving up our location.”

“What’s wrong with one of your vaunted pay phones?”

“Maybe. I’m having another bowl of gumbo. How about you?”

“I’ll get it,” she said, grabbing my bowl. “This was my first taste. Now I’m hooked. Your friend Bertram is a fabulous cook.”

“You should try one of his fried oyster po’boys.”

“If we ever get out of this mess alive.”

Thunder shook Bertram’s little fishing cottage on stilts before I could reply.