Bywater didn’t have its name until 1947. Over the years, it had been known as a variety of Faubourgs--Montegut, Clouet, Montreuil, and de Lesseps. By 1836, the area came to be known as Faubourg Washington, but a lot of people just called it Downtown. The moniker Bywater was the submission of a contest winner from Nicholls High School. The neighborhood was downriver from the Quarter and Jerry’s downtown office, near the canal. We could have taken the Streetcar named Desire, but Jerry opted to drive. Just as well, we had enough melodrama going on.
It was like driving into the past. Victorian was the primary style of architecture, the sound of ships on the river and the occasional church bell were louder than Jerry’s Taurus. We passed a number of small businesses and turned onto Urquhart. It was a quiet street with a cozy-looking tavern on the corner. Jerry parked there and we walked down the street.
“Hard to see street numbers in this light,” I muttered.
“I’m just as glad for only a little light,” he said. “If we have to do something not quite legal, I don’t want it to be where I can be easily identified.”
“Here,” I said softly, wishing I’d worn sneakers instead of boots with my jeans and sweater, “Three thirty-two.”
“No car in the driveway,” he said. “There aren’t any lights on either.”
“And no neighbors, which I’m happy about.” The house next door had scaffolding outside, tarps over some of the windows.” I followed Jerry up the steps to the front porch. To our mutual surprise the door was open. We walked into a room of about fifteen hundred square feet.
“Nice space,” I said. “It’s about the size of my upstairs, but would let in lot more light.”
Jerry walked around a bit, kicking up dust. “Hardwood floors, too. They’ll get a mint from renting or selling this if they ever get it finished. No one’s been in here for a while, though.” He rapped on the inner wall, the sound was solid. No answer, either.
The house appeared to have three apartments to it; this studio took up the front. “Check the back,” I said to Jerry. “I’ll try the side door.”
“Nothing,” he was back in less than five minutes. “Is that door locked?”
“Yes, damn it.”
Jerry leaped the railing. I hadn’t seen him this active, this animated for a long time. “Here, hold this,” he handed me a penlight that was attached to his keychain, “and keep an eye peeled, would you?”
Sure, I’m a contortionist. I stifled a sneeze in the shoulder of my jacket and tried to hold the light steady, occasionally glancing over my shoulder to see if anyone was coming by. The only noise came from cars pulling in and out of the pub’s shell parking lot. I was getting cold and beginning to wish I’d worn gloves. Jerry’s lock-picking tools sounded louder than Feliz’s jewelry on a dressy day. After an eternity, I heard a click and he got the door opened.
“Success!” He cheered in a stage whisper. “I wasn’t sure I remembered how to do that.”
“Shh! I thought I head something.”
He hushed and eased the door open. The hinges didn’t make a noise, which was a relief. I shined the penlight on a dirty carpet that might have been taupe or slate or some other designer version of a neutral color. My brother would have just said “off-white” and left it at that. There were footprints in the dust, small ones with heels. I heard a thump, but I couldn’t tell from where or if it was my imagination.
Jerry went up the stairs first, I followed him, not thinking to shut the door, just keeping one hand on his shoulder and both eyes on the penlight. Halfway up, the staircase turned at a right angle, then ended in a hallway. Another gorgeous apartment, or would be, once all the debris was cleaned out. A galley-style kitchen to the left had food and bottled water in the stainless-steel fridge. Someone came in here regularly.
Turning right, I had what could be a living/dining area to my left, a hallway straight ahead ending in two doors. Two more doors were on the right-hand wall. Jerry stopped and listened. “Woo?” he called out softly. “If you’re here man, say something. Another thump, this time to the right.
“That way!” I jumped ahead of Jerry and opened the first door I came to. A familiar shape was on a thin mattress on the floor in a heap. “Jerry, get in here!”
“Zo, be quiet!” I ignored him, dropped the penlight and put my arms around Michael. He was barely conscious. Jerry picked it up and shone the light around the room. I didn’t like what I saw. Michael’s hands and feet were tied, he was still in the clothes I’d seen him in on Thursday. Near the mattress I saw a strip of rubber tubing and a syringe. “Oh my god, they shot him up,” Jerry said.
“No we didn’t.” Jerry jumped. I cursed. Michael moaned. There was a shadow in the doorway, too short to be imposing. Then she hit a switch and turned the light on. Holly Mason Fisher stood in the doorway with a very unladylike gun in her hand.