Catacomb (17 page)

“There was a drop spot, though,” Sabrina said. Her bright, hazel-green eyes widened, catching the sun as she added excitedly, “A mailbox, yeah? You told me you two would use some mailbox in the middle of damn nowhere to communicate.”

“Not really ‘communicate.’ We did get our assignments there when we were first starting out, and they’d always come with instructions for where to leave what we found. I suppose it’s something,” Oliver said. He didn’t mimic her enthusiasm. “Long shot, if you ask me.”

“Better than nothing.” Dan shrugged and stood, watching Jordan chug the last of his coffee. “So how do we do this? Where’s the mailbox?”

“It’s on Roman, but it’s a drive. We’ll have to take my car.”

“That’s fine. Let’s go,” Dan replied.

“Can’t, not now—gotta get back to the shop before I lose a full day of business. But we can head over after closing. If things are slow I’ll shut the place down early.”

“Of freaking course it has to be at night.” Jordan rolled his
eyes. “Why don’t you just give us the address and we can go now? You know, streamline the process a little.”

Sabrina burst out laughing, shaking her head. “Yeah. No. You three should not be going anywhere near the Ninth Ward alone. You’re tourists. Just trust me, it would not go well for you.”

“And you’re gonna be, what, our bodyguards?” Jordan shot back defensively.

“Look, the French Quarter it is not. It’s better if Ollie’s there. One quick look and then we can go.”

For a second, Dan was certain Jordan was going to press the idea of going without their help. Dan didn’t relish the idea of exploring a grave robber’s old stomping grounds without a getaway car in close proximity, and somehow he didn’t think Uncle Steve would be game to chaperone.

“You’re here on vacation, to have fun,” Oliver said gently, pleadingly. “So have fun. Put all this out of your head for a few hours and enjoy the city. We’ll catch up with you tonight.”

They managed to take Oliver’s advice, for the most part, at least. Abby and Jordan seemed more than happy to forget all about Oliver and Micah and hit the outdoor market again to shop for souvenirs. A short trip back to Uncle Steve’s had allowed Abby to grab her camera, and she didn’t hesitate to drag them all over the historic areas she wanted to capture.

Dan remained a million miles away. Or maybe just eighteen years away, back to when his parents had uncovered the corruption at Trax Corp. and died because of it. Was it really worth Dan
risking all their lives in the same way to find out what was happening here now? He knew he should at least tell Jordan and Abby about the connection he’d found from Trax Corp. to Brookline, so they’d know how deep it all ran. But like the picture of his parents, he was jealous of the information, holding it close as if it was a prized possession.

Plus, even with Abby photographing and Jordan giving a nonsensical, made-up guided tour of everywhere they went, Dan already sensed their unease. Not with each other, but with him. No one brought up what had happened with Maisie Moore that afternoon or the picture of his parents. It was like they were determined to pretend none of it was happening.

Just before dinnertime, they returned to Uncle Steve’s. The door to the building was open, and a man and a young woman stood on the stoop, chatting with Steve. Jordan’s uncle leaned against the door to prop it open, a half-smoked cigarette tucked behind one ear.

Dan, Jordan, and Abby paused at the bottom of the stairs, sharing a glance while obviously eavesdropping.

“Friends of your uncle’s?” Dan asked.

“Never seen ’em before in my life, but now doesn’t seem like the time to make new friends,” Jordan replied. He had bought a monumental number of board games at a bookshop they’d found, and now he was sinking under the weight of the shopping bags.

“They look fancy,” Abby added in a whisper. Her dark eyes drifted to the young woman. “I
need
her dress.”

“Well, you know I absolutely depend on your vote this year,”
the man was saying. He was tall and, as Abby had noted, well dressed. Dan didn’t know the first thing about designer clothes, but even he could tell the man’s suit was probably worth a small fortune. The two made a tidy pair, him in light, summery gray and her in a peach-colored sleeveless dress.

Jordan took one step up toward the door and the others followed.

“What happens in the voting booth stays in the voting booth,” Uncle Steve replied, but he winked.

The other man laughed, jutting out his hand and taking Steve’s, pumping it vigorously. Dan didn’t tend to like politicians, but the man had an infectious energy to him and a laugh that was warm and booming.

“You’re a pillar of the community, Mr. Lipcott, and having your vote is a true honor.”

“Pillar of the community?”
Jordan repeated in an undertone. He snorted, setting his heavy bags down on the cement stairs. “What a load of—”

“Ah! And who are these three bright young things? Are they of voting age?” The man opened his hands wide as if to hug all three of them in one go. The woman turned, too. Dan had a hard time not staring; she was stunningly pretty, with glossy dark skin and hazel eyes like Abby’s. Her lips were lacquered red. It looked like someone had cut her hair with a very sharp razor.

She hugged a clipboard to her chest, eyeing them up and down with a pinched smile.

Dan looked away. Her eyes made him want to wither on the spot.

“This is my nephew, Jordan,” Uncle Steve said, shuffling out
another few steps onto the stoop. “His friends are just visiting for a summer vacay and helping him settle in. He’s moving here for a bit. They’ve been scampering all over the city, making friends with the folks over at Berkley and Daughters. Kids, this is Connor Finnoway—sorry—
Councilman
Connor Finnoway. He’s running for reelection and shamelessly courting my vote. But he plays a mean saxophone, so I don’t mind too much.”

The councilman gave another booming crack of a laugh and turned to smack Uncle Steve on the arm good-naturedly. “Shameless, yes, and not too proud to admit it.” His green eyes sparkled behind a big, patrician nose. His hair was thinning and almost bald on top, but it didn’t detract from the bright, youthful energy that poured out of him.

Some people were just born to be politicians.

“You made a fine choice by visiting our city. I trust you’re enjoying yourselves so far? Oh, and you have a photographer among you, too.” He adjusted his tie and took a step down toward them, gesturing to the camera around Abby’s neck. Dan suddenly didn’t like the man’s enthusiasm or his smooth smile.

“Yeah, I’m doing a photo project about some of the old gin runners that used to operate in the South. It’s a fascinating history,” she said.

“Any history buff worth their salt visits Madame A’s while they’re in town. Berkley’s is nice, but it can’t hold a candle to her establishment,” Mr. Finnoway said, glancing first to his assistant and then to Steve for confirmation. He was given enthusiastic nods. Then his eyes redirected to Dan and lingered. “It’s really not far. Here, I’ll show you.”

His assistant offered him his phone. He deftly brought up a
street view of the neighborhood and traced his finger along the route for her.

“See? A brief walk from here. It’s an absolute treasure trove for the hungry historian,” he said, chuckling. “I go often myself.”

“You’re a historian?” Abby asked, her brow furrowing as she studied the map.

“Oh! No,” he laughed, throwing back his head. “Dentist by trade, but it can get a bit grim staring down throats all day. We all need our hobbies, right? And one would have to be dead inside not to love history, living in a place like this.”

“It’s a shame you can’t be there to show them around the shop yourself,” Steve said, smiling. “That place can be overwhelming for first timers.”

Mr. Finnoway actually paused to consider this.

“Say, Tamsin, what’s my schedule like tomorrow afternoon?”

“Busy, sir. But Ms. Canterbury did cancel her noon appointment.”

“Fantastic.” The councilman clapped his huge hands together and then opened them again. “Why don’t I join you all over my lunch break and show you the lay of the land?”

“Take it easy now, Connor, they don’t live in the state. Hardly future constituents for you to butter up,” Uncle Steve said with a snort. It was the exact snort Jordan gave so often.

But Abby was already nodding and hugging her camera. “Would you? That would be amazing.”

“Tomorrow around noon then,” Finnoway said. He glided past them down the stairs, his assistant following. A sharp, lingering perfume followed her. Dan didn’t know how
anything could smell
French
, but she did.

“Get out of here, you old rascal,” Uncle Steve called, waving to the backs of Finnoway and the woman. With one last burst of strength, Jordan gathered up all his bags and pushed up the rest of the stairs. “Did you buy the whole store?” Steve asked, grabbing one of the bags to help.

“Making decisions is too depressing. . . .” The rest of their conversation was lost as Dan and Abby trailed behind.

“It’ll be fun to see that shop tomorrow,” she said. “I know your mind is on other things, but we should try to relax a little, too.”

Dan nodded, but relaxing was out of the picture. “Let’s get something to eat. Oliver will be calling soon.”

D
an pressed his nose to the window, staring out into the bleak, naked expanses of the northern neighborhood. It was immediately and terribly apparent why Sabrina had refused to let them go alone; the houses on these blocks were sparse, entire lots emptied and never reclaimed after the hurricane had washed them away.

The devastation rippled visibly across the neighborhood. The farther they went, the worse it got. It was destruction on a level Dan had never seen before, and scariest of all was the fact that they were just a few miles from the vibrant French Quarter. He watched the road wander in and out, no real edge to it, its surface so pocked with holes they could barely go above fifteen miles an hour.

The sad silence that had descended over the car was interrupted by the sound of Dan’s phone dinging. For obvious reasons, they all tensed—but it was only Sandy texting. She wanted to know how his second full day in New Orleans had gone. The empty message return box glowed up at him, so tiny and inadequate to answer that question.

We’re having tons of fun, sorry for not messaging sooner. What kind of souvenirs do you guys want?

He returned to staring out the window, turning from one unhappy thought to another.

“There’s people with heart here,” Sabrina said to no one in particular from the passenger seat, slicing through the silence. “And they don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Dan said. He didn’t know
what
it was. “I just . . . didn’t expect it to look like this.”

Abby had brought her camera but hadn’t lifted it once since they’d entered the fringes of the dilapidated streets.

“You weren’t dumb enough to tell your family where you were going, were you?” she asked.

“No,” Jordan answered. “Uncle Steve wanted to take us on a barge ride. I told him you guys were taking us to a concert.”

They were quiet for the length of a few more blocks, and then Oliver slowed the old Challenger and veered to the side of the road. A light came on in the house two lots down, and Dan stiffened. A dog barked in a long, lonesome wail. The streets weren’t exactly empty, and each driver who moved to pass them gave their car a thorough look.

“Let’s make this quick,” Oliver muttered, kicking open his door.

He told Sabrina to wait in the car and left it running. Abby and Jordan chose to wait in the car, too, but that was fine. The fewer of them out in the open, the less attention it would draw. It was hard to see, but Oliver and Dan used their phones to give themselves minimal visibility.

“This area is seriously rough,” Oliver said. “I don’t know if that’s why the Artificer chose it, but there it is.” He moved swiftly to a mailbox sitting at the edge of a bedraggled lawn. A few sluggish weeds poked up from what had been a sidewalk.
The mailbox was crooked, slumped over, the box perching at such a severe angle it seemed to be regarding them skeptically.

Someone dumped a bag of garbage into a bin a block or so away, the sound of shattering bottles sending a finger of cold up Dan’s spine.

“Hold this,” Oliver said, shoving his phone into Dan’s hands. He worked by the tiny bit of light, yanking on the lid of the mailbox until it gave with a screech of protest. It looked to Dan like there was nothing inside, but all the same, Oliver thrust his hand into the open box and groped around the edges. “Christ, I’m gonna need a tetanus shot after this.”

He withdrew his hand, and a tattered, waterlogged scrap of cardboard was pinched between two fingers.

“Is that it? A new assignment?” Dan asked.

“That’s it. Now we’re getting out of here.”

They swapped, Dan taking what Oliver had found and the other boy taking back his phone. That noisy dog bayed again, closer, and Dan half threw himself into the backseat. Oliver pulled away from the curb, making a messy U-turn and then picking up speed.