Great. I’d been reduced to a blinking red dot. I handed it back without comment, shuffled my bloody feet to a nearby chair, and flopped. Never mind the upholstery. The energy I’d used fighting Lafitte was catching up with me, not to mention the stress of Gerry’s disappearance, the horror of seeing all the Katrina destruction, and the appearance of the enforcer. I closed my eyes and waited for the sensation of vertigo to pass.
A few minutes later, I heard chairs being pulled across the
floor. I flinched and cracked an eye open as he positioned one facing me and sat in it. He pulled another chair alongside him.
“What are you doing?” Did I really want to know?
He opened a black case he’d set next to his chair and pulled out wet wipes and a long pair of tweezers. My first aid kit, which I guess he’d found rummaging through my kitchen. It had been a popular spot for plunderers today.
He handed me one of the wet wipes. “Here, use that on your face.”
I didn’t argue. It felt good after the heat and the blood and the plaster and the floor. My cheek felt swollen and throbbed in sync with my headache. I’d probably look like an abuse victim by morning.
“You need to get that glass out of your legs. Put them here.” He grabbed an ankle and yanked it onto the chair next to him. What was it with guys pulling on my ankles today?
I jerked it back. “I can do it myself, thanks. Go away.”
He lugged my leg back in place, holding it immobile with one hand, and stared at me until I quit squirming. “It’ll be easier if I do it. If you’ll shut up and sit still it won’t take long.” He began tweezing slivers of glass from my skin.
He only had my right leg immobilized and seemed to have forgotten I had another one. I raised my left foot to push him away but in one smooth motion he grabbed that ankle and pinned it too. Bully.
“I assume you’re mainstreamed,” he said, tugging on a slice of red glass embedded deeply enough to make my eyes water when it came out. The stained-glass panes had been red, blue, green, and gold. Made for a colorful leg.
“I’m mainstreamed as a risk-management consultant for Tulane University.”
He paused, tweezers in midair, and gave me a skeptical look. “Which is what, exactly?”
“Minimizing insurance and lawsuit liability. It’s a cover.” Well, not entirely, but I could almost see a neon sign above my head flashing the word
geek
.
He snorted. “Hope they don’t have to call you too often. You can’t seem to manage your own risks very well, much less anyone else’s.”
I’d have kicked him if I had access to my feet. Instead, I watched him pick out the glass for a while, then closed my eyes again and let him go at it. At least I’d shaved my legs this morning, so I was spared that humiliation.
The sound of hammering startled me from a doze. How long had I been asleep? I couldn’t believe I’d fallen asleep with an assassin hovering over me with tweezers.
Alex had already put the first aid kit away, found my toolbox, and was nailing a piece of plywood to my antique cypress door. I groaned in defeat. I’d do damage control on the house tomorrow. Tonight, as long as he left me alone, Mr. Fixit could do whatever charged his chain saw.
To give him credit, he offered to finish cleaning up. It was almost six p.m., my head was pounding, and my arms sported blackening bruises in the shape of Jean Lafitte’s fingers.
I got a few things from the truck and unearthed a couple of fluorescent lanterns from the back of the pantry, one for each of us.
I yawned. “Guess I should reestablish my security wards. Storm tore them down.”
Expressionless, Alex stared at me and tossed the grenade up and down, catching it without looking.
“Then again, I guess you can handle anything that comes along.”
I sidled out of the parlor and left him alone, heading upstairs with my headache, a cereal bar, and a lantern. The enforcer should be a sufficient security system for one night.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 2005
“Today in New Orleans, a traffic light worked. Someone watered flowers. And anyone with the means to get online could have heard Dr. John’s voice wafting in the dry wind, a sound of grace, comfort and familiarity here in the saddest and loneliest place in the world.”
—CHRIS ROSE, THE TIMES–PICAYUNE
I
woke to stillness, a new New Orleans reality. Birds no longer sang in the trees; they’d either flown off in their own hurricane evacuation or been blown to Ohio. The streetcar lines had been destroyed, so no sounds of rumbling metal broke the quiet. River traffic hadn’t resumed, so no foghorns boomed through the riverside neighborhoods. The evacuation hadn’t been lifted, so little traffic moved on the streets. The soundtrack that ran behind life in New Orleans had fallen silent.
My bedside clock remained blank and dark, and the house already felt steamy. I lounged in the throes of half sleep for a minute or two before thoughts of Gerry and my new partner jolted me awake. I groaned and buried my face in the pillow. I was stiff and sore. The list of body parts that didn’t hurt was shorter than the ones that ached.
I had washed off most of the blood last night using bottled water and sterile wipes from the first aid kit, and then had fallen asleep without pulling back the covers. I was seriously overdue for a shower.
I peered cautiously into the tub and turned on the water.
The plumbing knocked and complained, but after a few spits a steady flow streamed out of the faucet. It looked like water, which was a positive sign. I wet my fingers and held them to my nose. The water didn’t smell bad—or no worse than usual. I’d read online at Gran’s that you could probably use it for bathing without boiling it first.
The
probably
part was scary. Almost as scary as the herds of tiny gnats that had begun swarming out of the drains. A local academic had identified them as “coffin flies.” Ick.
For now, however, grime trumped health concerns in my post-Katrina version of rock-paper-scissors, and I braved the shower. Maybe the coffin flies would drown.
The soap lathered and the shampoo got sudsy, but nothing else felt right. Jean Lafitte and the enforcer had diverted my attention last night, but now Gerry’s disappearance claimed its place of priority. My heart felt too large for my chest, the effort of filling and releasing air from my lungs too ponderous. My memories before I’d come to live with Gerry existed only in fragments. The clear memories, the deep ones that formed the bedrock of my every thought, every movement—he lived in all of them. I didn’t know how to spend my days without having him at least a phone call away, where he’d been every minute for the last eighteen years.
I stood in the tub, staring at the tile, water cascading over my head and running down my body in rivulets. It had covered my feet before I even realized I’d dropped the washcloth. I bent down and pulled it out of the drain, and then scrubbed it across my face, not sure if I was wiping away tap water or tears.
This wasn’t accomplishing anything. I swallowed down the bad thoughts, the ones that kept whispering
he’s gone
. I’d focus on what I could do today and let tomorrow take care of itself. Today, I’d go to Gerry’s house. I’d call Tish and tell her about
his disappearance. I’d see if I could find a datebook in his study and start making a list of his recent contacts.
When he came home, I’d do whatever he asked me to do and be happy for it. I’d never bitch about pixie-retrieval again. I’d debate arcane issues and laugh with him and appreciate the normalcy of it. We’d figure out a way to help New Orleans recover from this mess. When Gerry came back, everything would be okay.
And the sooner I found him, the sooner Bullet Boy could be on his way back to Jackson. He was probably downstairs now, planning target practice, leafing through a copy of
Guns & Ammo
, and thinking of ways to undermine me with the Elders.
I towel-dried my hair and opened a window, wishing for a rain to cool things down. Ironic how dry it had been since Katrina, as if the city had used up its quota of water for the rest of the year. I left the window open, figuring it would be safe enough during the daytime, at least for a while. I wasn’t sure how Jean Lafitte had found out where I lived, but it should be a week or two before he was strong enough to cross over from the Beyond again.
That had been some fight—my first real physical battle. Despite Alex’s late arrival, I thought I’d done pretty well considering I didn’t have any advance warning and was magically unarmed. The smoke bomb was a stroke of genius. I couldn’t wait to tell Ger—
I forced myself to finish the thought
. I couldn’t wait to tell Gerry
.
I dug out a pair of black shorts and a lightweight sleeveless top that set off my eyes. Then, realizing I’d done it so I would look presentable to the chiseled war machine downstairs, I tugged it off and pulled on a black tank that washed me out, but would be cooler. If my partner was wearing all black again, we’d look like a goth matched set.
I pulled my damp hair into a ponytail to keep it off my neck
and stuffed my makeup bag in a drawer. It was too hot to try and cover my bruised face. Besides, it matched the cuts and bruises on my arms and legs. The enforcer could think what he wanted. I was the soul of indifference.
I tugged on white socks and Nikes—no more bare feet for this wizard—and padded into the library, stopping to mourn my poor, violated door. With damaged houses in town numbering in the hundreds of thousands, the home-improvement warehouses would do a killer business as soon as the power came back on. I wondered if there was time to buy stock in Home Depot before the rush hit. Then maybe I could retire and spend my days hiding from Jean Lafitte.
I strapped my watch on my wrist and did a double take at the time—almost ten a.m. I’d lost nearly half my day already, buried in sleep. First things first, though. I threw a cushion in the middle of the library floor and set lavender and vanilla candles on either side of it. I stuffed my earbuds in, turned my iPod playlist to chamber music, and pulled out the magically treated rubies I used for grounding. I needed to be in control when I went in Gerry’s house today.
He always told me empathic skills were both a blessing and a curse. So far, I was taking his word on the blessing part. Oh, being able to ferret out a liar came in handy, but sometimes believing the lie was less painful. And in a situation as emotionally charged as going to Gerry’s ravaged house? I could only hope my preparations would keep me from turning to Jell-O and embarrassing myself.
After a quiet half hour, I put everything away, prepared to fend off emotional assaults. Well, almost. I pulled out bottles of dried acacia and hyssop and refreshed my mojo bag, then stuck it in my shorts pocket. Now I was ready.
Next on the agenda: food. I went downstairs and stopped in the office to make sure the landline phone was still out of
commission. I’d have to see if local towers were repaired enough to call Tish on my cell. Funny that calls to and from the Elders didn’t seem to have problems going through. I stared at the daybed. Alex’s briefcase and arsenal were neatly arranged on top of it, but it didn’t look slept in.
“About time. Thought I was going to have to drag you out.”
I jumped at the smooth-as-pecan-pie drawl coming from behind me, and turned to see New Orleans’s new
cosentinel
leaning against the office doorjamb, a coffee cup in one hand and what looked like a bagel in the other. His black T-shirt had an outline of two canoers with the words
Paddle faster. I hear banjos.
“Cute,” I said, pointing at the shirt. “I didn’t think you had a sense of humor.”
He gave me a sly smile. “I have an excellent sense of humor. You just haven’t said anything funny.”
I sidestepped him and went into the kitchen, where a huge pile of MREs—military freeze-dried Meals Ready to Eat—had taken up residence in one corner, each wrapped in identical mud-colored plastic with the entrée name stamped on front. On the table sat a notebook and pile of papers.
“Looking for an apartment?” I asked.
“Paperwork.” He thumped his pen on the notebook. “Lafitte was an unauthorized kill, so I have to explain it in triplicate to the head of the enforcers and the Elders. You know, about how I came in and had to save my new
partner
, who was unarmed and rolling around on the floor with the big bad pirate while wearing not much more than good intentions. It’ll make a great water-cooler story back at headquarters.”
Jerkwad. I ignored him, grabbed a bag of Cheetos off the counter, and ripped it open. I dug out a fluorescent-orange fried stick of perfection and crunched on it while I pondered the idea of Alex, my supposed equal in this partnership, filing paperwork with people who outranked me on the magical food chain. I’d
need to file my own report to the Green Congress, asserting his gross overuse of violence, and copy the Elders on it as well. Alex wouldn’t out-bureaucrat me, by God.
He snatched the Cheetos out of my hands, pulled out an MRE that said
Cheese & Vegetable Omelet
, and ripped off the top.
“You need real food. If you’re going to be my partner, you should at least be moderately healthy. There was nothing to eat in this kitchen but junk.” He handed me ajar of instant coffee, a bottle of water, a mug, and a battery-operated mug warmer. I eyed my warm Diet Barq’s with longing.
“Food nazi.” I leaned over and retrieved the Cheetos bag from the trash. I considered my lack of domestic skills a badge of honor and, besides that, who the heck did he think he was? “I eat out a lot. Didn’t really even have to clean out my fridge before I evacuated.”
“Well, at least we don’t have to drag it out to the median,” he said, fiddling with the MRE. “When I was out running this morning, I saw at least one dead refrigerator on every corner.”
I’d seen them as I drove in yesterday, and most were either duct-taped shut or had rotten food spilling out. Two weeks of ninety-degree weather without electricity had turned them into maggot factories.
I spooned some coffee into the mug, stirred in the water, and set it on the warmer. “We call them neutral grounds, by the way, not medians.”
“Whatever.” He walked to the table and shuffled through the papers, pulling out the sketch of the symbol from the voodoo murders. “I found this same symbol on the sidewalks in front of several houses this morning. Where can I find out what it means? We need Internet access.”
This town no longer had electricity or safe drinking water. Internet access was probably way down on the recovery priority list.
I took the paper and looked at it again. “It could be a gang tag, but it’s awfully detailed. The gang tags I’ve seen are simpler than this.” I turned the sheet, looking at it from different directions. “I can give you the addresses of some of the voodoo places in town—they sell supplies for rituals, although I haven’t heard of anybody using this kind of black magic in decades. And there’s the Voodoo Museum down in the Quarter. Of course, nothing’s open right now since the evacuation orders are still in effect. You really think this symbol has anything to do with our breaches?”
“I’m not sure, but I thought I’d send it in with my report to the enforcers.”
“No, why don’t I include it with my report to the Green Congress?” I would not be one-upped in the Report Olympics, at least not until I figured out what Alex Warin was up to.
A hint of a smile crossed his face. “Fine. We’ll both report it.”
We stared at each other until the MRE omelet got hot. I sat in a chair at the old chrome and red Formica-topped table I’d found at a yard sale and looked at my military meal: the rubbery omelet and hash browns with bacon-like chunks in them, plus some saltines, a candy bar, and a packet of Dijon mustard. Whatever military genius devised these meals obviously hadn’t had to eat them. Maybe the mustard was for the crackers, and the candy was to get rid of the lingering aftertaste of everything else.
I dug in anyway. The texture caused a gag reflex at first, but I was hungry enough to push past it.
“Love a woman with an appetite.” Alex sat at the table opposite me, arms crossed, watching me eat.
Sarcastic cretin. I glared as I chewed, but it was halfhearted. I hadn’t eaten more than a cereal bar in almost twenty-four hours. I didn’t need to be skipping meals. I couldn’t look for Gerry if I got sick.
“How was the daybed last night?” I asked. He was way too big for that frilly little single bed. “It didn’t look like you used it.”
“I stayed in the living room, on one of the sofas,” he said. “I wanted to keep an eye on the doors.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course you did. Kill anything?”
“No. I thought I smelled mold, though. Sneak any dead pirates in your bedroom window?”
Now he was just being petty.
“Thanks for breakfast,” I said. “Now, when are you leaving?”
It was like pulling hen’s teeth, as Gran would say, but I finally weaseled enough information out of Alex to find he’d made arrangements to take an apartment in the French Quarter over a bar that belonged to his cousin Jacob. I wondered why he hadn’t moved there in the first place. Either he saw me as a damsel in distress who needed a big bad protector, thought he might get a taste of eye candy, or had some other agenda, like sabotaging me with the Elders during this so-called probationary period. Maybe all of the above.