This Wicked Game (13 page)

S
asha’s house was quiet except for the distant sound of her younger brother, Maddox, playing Xbox in the den.

If Sasha was right, hanging out in the kitchen was their best bet for cornering her dad long enough for Claire to look on his computer. Sasha’s dad drank coffee all day, every day. It was only a matter of time before he emerged from his study to top off his cup. Her mother was doing the grocery shopping and wasn’t home.

“Want some sweet tea or something?” Sasha asked her.

Claire nodded nervously. “Sure.”

Sasha poured the tea and they sat at the kitchen island, waiting.

Claire took a drink from her glass. “So tell me again what I’m looking for.”

“I honestly don’t know,” Sasha said. “I don’t dig around in my dad’s work. I’d say go to all the document folders first. Look for a main folder that has to do with the Guild and then a sub folder titled Addresses or Contacts or Members or something.”

“And we don’t have a last name for Crazy Eddie?” Claire asked.

“I’ve been trying to remember it. I know I’ve heard it before, but it must have been a long time ago. Just look for any name with Ed, Eddie, or Edward. We can compare them against existing members later if we have to.”

Claire nodded, rubbing her sweaty palms on the side of her shorts. “What if you can’t keep him in here long enough?”

She patted something on the counter. “Taken care of.”

“What’s that?” Claire asked.

She held it up. “The Louisiana State DMV rule book. I finally convinced him I’m ready to take my road test. I’ll ask him to quiz me.”

“What if he says he’s busy or he has to get back to work or something?”

Sasha thought about it. “I’ll say something really loud. Something like . . . ‘Do you want me to make you a sandwich, Dad?’”

Claire laughed. “A sandwich?”

“Yeah, I could kind of shout it when he turns to leave without it seeming too weird. If you’ve got something better, I’m listening.”

“I don’t,” Claire admitted. “But won’t he be suspicious?”

“I don’t think so. I make him lunch sometimes when I make my own, especially when my mom’s not home. It’s the most normal thing I can think of.”

“All right,” Claire agreed. “I’ll listen for the sandwich.”

They turned as they heard someone making their way down the hall, the footsteps purposeful and heavy.

“Sasha? You home?” her dad called. He stepped into the kitchen. “Well, hello, Claire. I didn’t know you were here.”

“Hi, Mr. Drummond. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you. And you? How are your parents?”

Moving through the expected niceties of conversation was second nature. She was pretty sure her first word wasn’t “mommy” or “daddy” but “please” or “thank you.” It had been bred in Claire since she could speak.

“We’re all fine. Thank you for asking.”

He moved to the coffeepot on the counter, preparing to fill his cup.

This is it,
Claire thought, her stomach in knots.
Do it now. Do it for Xander and Sasha.

“Excuse me,” Claire said. “I’ll be right back.”

She was counting on the fact that Sasha’s dad would assume she was going to the restroom and wouldn’t say anything. He didn’t.

Claire tried to be leisurely as she left the kitchen, but once she was in the hall, she booked it to Mr. Drummond’s study.

She was careful not to bump the door, already half open, on her way in. It was easy to feel someone else’s presence, to notice little things that had been moved or were out of place, when you were intimately familiar with a room.

She took a few seconds to orient herself. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d been in Mr. Drummond’s study, and she took in the large, ornate rug in the center of the room, the Haitian and African art on the walls. The desk dominated one area of the room, a sleek laptop open on its surface.

She forced her feet to move, her heart thudding in her chest every step of the way, adrenaline surging through her veins at the possibility of being caught.

Moving around to the other side of the desk, she let her hand graze the touchpad. The black screen lit up, opening to a spreadsheet that seemed to contain expense reports or something. She minimized it, feeling guilty for even glimpsing the Drummonds’ private finances.

Luckily, Mr. Drummond used a Mac. It made everything a little bit easier, and she started by pulling up the Finder. She chose Documents first, relieved when a folder labeled GUILD appeared. She clicked on it, sucking in her breath when it opened to reveal multiple subfolders and more documents than she could count. How much paperwork did it take to be head of membership for such a selective organization?

The answer, apparently, was a lot.

Labeled by country, there were folders for England, Ireland, Scotland, France, Spain, Germany, and almost every European country she could think of, including countries in Eastern Europe. Her eyes lingered on the folder labeled GUILD_ROMANIA, but she continued down the list.

She didn’t have time to browse.

She glanced at the door of the study, listening for sounds from the hallway, before clicking on the folder titled GUILD_NOLAHQ.

It didn’t exactly narrow the field. There were dozens of documents.

She started at the top, scrolling down and trying to gauge the contents of each file from its title. She had no idea how long she’d been gone. But it was only a matter of time before Sasha ran out of ways to keep her dad in the kitchen.

The amount of paperwork was dizzying. There were reports for dues and other membership expenses, documents that seemed to have something to do with narrowing the qualifications for membership in the Guild, and finally, something labeled CONTACT_INFO.

She clicked on it, and it opened to reveal a spreadsheet with names, addresses, and phone numbers.

Jackpot.

It was alphabetical by last name. She started at the top, skimming the list for someone that could be Crazy Eddie. She came across six Edwards, but they were all families whose last name she recognized. She started again, looking more closely.

And this time, she found what she was looking for.

Edward “Eddie” Clement.

Next to his name was an asterisk. She looked at the bottom of the document for a key. There it was: another asterisk with the word “INACTIVE” next to it.

She continued scrolling, wanting to make sure there weren’t any others. But no. Eddie Clement was the one and only name with the asterisk that denoted inactive membership.

Voices rose from the kitchen. Claire’s eyes darted to the door, and she held stock-still for a few seconds, listening for Sasha’s code words. They didn’t come.

Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she made a note of Eddie’s address.

“Do you want me to make you a sandwich before you go back to work, Dad?”

Sasha’s voice carried through the house.

“Damn,” Claire muttered, eliminating the screen with the addresses, backtracking through every document until the screen was empty. She half expected Mr. Drummond to appear in the doorway of the study while she brought his original document back up.

When everything on the screen looked the way it had when she got there, she slid out from behind the desk and started for the door. She was almost out of the room when she remembered something.

The screensaver had been up when she’d first gotten into the study.

Sasha’s dad called out, his voice too close to the study for comfort. “Ham and cheese, but would you mind bringing it to me? I have to get back to work.”

Claire ran back to the computer and hit the keys that would put the computer in sleep mode. She was at the study doors when she heard Mr. Drummond’s footsteps coming to the bend in the hall.

She slipped out of the study, trying to slow her breathing down. She came to the powder room just as Mr. Drummond’s feet appeared at the end of the hallway.

Ducking into the half bath, she closed the door and turned on the light. Waiting, she listened as he approached. Then she opened the door and turned off the light, trying to act surprised to run into him in the hallway.

“Oh! Hey, Mr. Drummond.”

“Hello again, Claire. Nice to see you. Tell your parents hello.”

“Will do.”

They went their separate ways, Mr. Drummond toward his study and Claire toward the kitchen, where Sasha was waiting. When she got there, Sasha looked at her with terrified eyes.

“Did you get caught?”

Claire collapsed onto the tile floor, lying on her back. “No.”

“And?”

Claire lifted her head, pulling out her phone and holding it up. “I think I got it.”

B
y the time Claire texted Xander to let him know she had an address for Crazy Eddie, it was too late for them to go looking for him. The Treme District was iffy during the day.

She wasn’t about to go there after dark.

They agreed to go the next morning. They would meet up afterward with Sasha and Allegra at the Cup.

Claire tossed and turned all night. Her dreams were full of things she didn’t understand. Fires and chanting and powder being blown in her face while drums beat out a rhythm that seemed to move through her bones, the scent of sage and verbena drifting to her on the winds of her dreams.

The smell woke her up, heart racing. Sweat slicked her forehead and dampened the hair at the back of her neck. She reached under her pillow, pulling out the gris-gris bag. Was it possible that it was the source of her dreams? That the craft her parents and the Guild believed in was real and trying to show her something she didn’t yet understand?

Lying back down on her pillow, she threw the gris-gris bag across her room.

She didn’t dream again.

Xander picked her up at ten and they headed toward Treme. They had just gotten on North Rampart when Xander reached over Claire’s knees, opening the glove box with one hand while he drove with the other.

“What are you doing?” Claire asked.

He shut the compartment and handed her something. “Giving you this.”

She took it reflexively, opening her palm to a tiny gris-gris bag on a leather cord.

“What is it?”

He took a deep breath, like he was bracing himself for something difficult. “It’s a potion I worked for protection.” She started to protest and he stopped her. “Just listen to me for a minute, okay?”

She hesitated before nodding. “Okay.”

“I’m still having dreams, Claire. And they’re all about you. I see you tied up and bleeding, just like I did that first day. I can’t see his face, but the Houngan is chanting, working a spell to use your blood.” He glanced at her, his face turning dark before he looked back at the road. “I can’t get to you, Claire. I don’t know why. But I feel far away, and the place where you are, it’s . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s hard to reach or something. I . . .” He swallowed hard, glancing at her again. “Just wear it, okay? For me?”

She looked down at it, catching a whiff of aloeswood. It was a small thing, wearing the gris-gris for Xander. And maybe it wasn’t just for him. For the first time, she had a legitimate reason to question her disbelief.

She put the cord around her neck. “I’ll wear it. Thank you.”

His face relaxed before her eyes, and she realized what it cost him, worrying about her. She reached for his hand, lifting it to her lips.

“What are we going to do if this isn’t Crazy Eddie’s address?” Xander asked, changing the subject.

“I don’t know,” Claire said. “We have to hope that someone would know where he went. My mom once told me that in New Orleans, most people spend their whole lives in the same neighborhood. I guess we have to hope she’s right.”

Xander grew quiet, and Claire turned her face to the window. Treme was a completely different world from her little corner of the city. Fascinated by the Creole architecture and the African flags flying from crumbling porches, she suddenly felt embarrassed. She’d lived in New Orleans her whole life and had never once been to this part of town.

She was thinking about that—about the fact that people and things and places could be right under your nose and you might not know them at all—when a black SUV pulled up next to the Mercedes. The panic was instinctual. She didn’t even have time to feel it build, to talk herself down. It didn’t matter that the SUV wasn’t a Range Rover. All she could see was the car that had followed her home from the Cup, the slow drive-by it had done when she’d finally reached the safety of her driveway.

A minute later, the SUV accelerated, passing them and turning right at the next corner. Claire took a slow, deep breath.
Get it together. You’re losing it.

“You okay?”

She looked up, following Xander’s eyes to her fingers, nervously tapping the armrest of the door. She didn’t want to tell him about the man who’d followed her from Lafayette back to Myrtle’s, about the Rover that had seemed to be following her home. He’d only worry. He might even tell her parents, and there was no way to do that without telling them everything else.

“A little nervous,” she admitted.

“I can’t say that I blame you.”

The voice on the GPS announced that they’d arrived at their destination, and Xander pulled next to the curb. He glanced out the windows, looking for numbers on the houses as she did the same. If they were there, Claire couldn’t see them.

The street was lined with small stucco structures, the windows all barred. Many of the houses still had circles and numbers spray painted on the outside from the recovery efforts after Hurricane Katrina, and Dumpsters still lined the streets in greater number than the cars parked there.

The area bore almost no resemblance to the leafy, shady New Orleans that Claire called home. This was a distant relative, stark and hard with no relief from the sun that beat down on the concrete that surrounded them.

“You ready for this?” Xander asked softly.

“Yeah.”

They got out of the car, and he locked the doors with the remote. When they stepped onto the curb, he walked up to a guy sitting there with a trash bag full of stuff.

“Hey, want to make a quick forty dollars?”

The guy blinked a couple of times, like he couldn’t believe his luck. “Forty dollars?”

“Yeah,” Xander said. “All you have to do is watch that car. Make sure nobody messes with it.” He took a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and handed it to the guy. “I’ll give you the other twenty when I come back.”

The man’s eyes were full of suspicion, but he took the money, stuffing it into his pocket.

“You know where Eddie Clement lives?” Xander asked him.

The man shook his head without even thinking about the question.

“Okay, thanks, anyway. We’ll be right back.”

They turned their attention to the house in front of them. Claire scanned the street, wondering if maybe they’d missed the house numbers from the car, but it was just like she thought; none of the houses had any identifying characteristics.

“Now what?” she asked.

Xander pointed to some guys huddled on the porch of a house a couple doors down. “I guess we’ll have to ask them.”

Claire swallowed her nervousness. “Right.”

She could hear the men laughing and talking as they approached. When they spotted Claire and Xander, a murmur went up through the group. They were all quiet by the time Xander started up the walk, his hand firmly on Claire’s arm.

“Hey,” Xander said. “How’s it going?”

Claire was surprised by the change in Xander’s voice, in his mannerisms. He was still Xander. Still dressed in nice clothes with the manners of an old-school Victorian. But now his speech was slightly slower, the words almost running together, and instead of standing perfectly straight, he was slouched just a little.

She didn’t know if the change was because of the neighborhood or the fact that they were around a bunch of guys. Maybe a little of both.

One of the men, tall with a chest the size of a wine barrel, stepped forward a little. “Good, good. What can we do for you, my brother?”

“I’m looking for Eddie Clement. Any idea where he lives?”

“Eddie Clement?” the man said. “Crazy Eddie Clement?”

The men erupted into peals of laughter, muttering to one another words that Claire couldn’t quite make out.

“That would be the guy,” Xander confirmed. “Crazy Eddie.”

Their laughter slowly subsided. The man in front slid his gaze to Claire before turning his eyes back to Xander. “Shit, man. Crazy Eddie moved after Katrina.”

Claire’s heart sunk a little.

“Any idea where he went?” Xander asked.

“Don’t no one ’round here go far,” the man in front said. “Crazy Eddie moved three blocks north. Used to live there.” He pointed to a house across the street, its roof caved in, a dark, moldy waterline just under the eaves.

Xander nodded in understanding.

It was easy to forget there were places in New Orleans, not far from where Claire lived, that were still totally devastated by Hurricane Katrina. She’d always thought of herself as a strong person, but these people were stronger than her by a mile.

“Any idea which house?” Xander asked.

“For Eddie?” the guy on the porch confirmed.

“Yeah.”

The guy thought about it and then turned to confer with the group behind and around him. They spoke softly to one another for a couple of minutes before the guy in front turned back to face Xander and Claire.

He pointed to a street on the left. “Take that three blocks up. It’s the green house on the corner. Probably see Miss Thelma on the porch.”

Xander stepped forward, extending his hand. “Thanks.”

The man looked at his hand in surprise before stepping forward slowly. He clasped Xander’s hand in his own.

“No problem, man.” His eyes drifted again to Claire. “Watch your girl up there, now.”

Xander nodded, his jaw tight. “Always.”

He steered Claire down the walk. Claire could feel the eyes of the men on the porch as she and Xander headed for the street on the left. She breathed a sigh of relief when they turned the corner, though it wasn’t any better here.

“You okay?” Xander asked softly. “I could take you home. Come back alone.”

“No way,” Claire said. “I’m fine.”

They continued up the street. Most of the houses looked like the ones where they’d parked; water-damaged, condemned stickers on the front, and roofs caved in with only a few semihabitable structures still standing.

The Guild didn’t discriminate according to wealth. You got in because of your heritage, your connection to the old voodoo families that helped establish the city. Still, because of the niche market, most of the supply houses did well—somewhere between middle class and really affluent like the Toussaints, who catered to the oldest, richest families and to authentic wholesalers.

This didn’t look like a place for a Guild member, and Claire couldn’t help wondering if Crazy Eddie regretted whatever he’d done to get kicked out.

“Think that’s it?” Xander was pointing to a house on the corner up ahead. The siding was only slightly green, faded now from water and sun.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

A figure became visible on the porch. As they came closer, Claire saw that it was an old woman, swaying back and forth in an old-fashioned rocker and staring off into the distance.

“That must be Miss Thelma.”

Xander nodded, loosening his hold on her arm a little when he realized no one was around but an old lady in a housecoat.

They approached the porch slowly, not wanting to startle the old woman. Even when they stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her only acknowledgment of their presence was the movement of her eyes in their direction. She didn’t pause in the rhythm of her rocking.

Xander seemed to hesitate.

Claire cleared her throat before speaking. “Hello. You must be Miss Thelma.”

Silence stretched between them. Claire was preparing to repeat herself when the old woman spoke.

“Maybe, maybe not. Who’s asking?” Her voice was cracked and low with an undercurrent of sharpness. Old woman or not, Claire wouldn’t want to mess with her.

Claire stepped forward and held out a hand. “I’m Claire Kincaid. This is my friend Xander Toussaint. We’re actually looking for Cr—” Claire stumbled over the nickname, realizing it probably wasn’t polite—or smart—to put the word “crazy” in front of someone’s name when you didn’t know exactly who you were talking to.

“Eddie,” Claire finished. “We’re looking for Eddie Clement. We were told he might live here.”

“Might be, might not.” The woman was still rocking.

“We’re not looking to give him any trouble,” Xander said. “We were just hoping he could help us.”

“What folks like you be needing help from Eddie for?” she asked, her eyes shrewd.

Claire swallowed hard, debating their options. On the one hand, she hated to give too much away to someone she didn’t know. Even an old woman like this could be connected to the Guild one way or another.

On the other hand, Crazy Eddie was their only hope for information about Maximilian without going directly to the Guild.

“We were kind of hoping Eddie might be able to answer some questions,” Claire said. “About the Guild.”

It was a test. A risky one, but necessary. Either the woman would know what she was talking about or she wouldn’t, but at least they’d know who they were dealing with.

For a split second, the woman paused in her rocking. She started up again, but it was enough for Claire to know she’d gotten the woman’s attention.

“What Guild you say?” The woman’s question was sly, but Claire wasn’t playing.

Miss Thelma knew exactly what Guild, and Claire looked at her without flinching until she spoke again.

“He’s inside.” She tipped her head to the door. “You go on in, but don’t be giving my Eddie any trouble now, ya hear?”

Claire nodded, stepping onto the porch. “Thank you.”

Xander followed her up the steps, stopping when Miss Thelma reached out, lightning fast, and grabbed his arm.

She tipped her head at Claire. “You best be watching her now.”

Xander nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Claire reached for the screen and glanced back at Miss Thelma, wondering if they were supposed to knock or ask permission. But the old woman was back to her rocking, and Claire pulled open the door. The squeaky springs would announce their presence to whoever was inside anyway.

They stepped into a hallway, the light minimal, barely leaking from the rooms on either side. Hesitating, Claire listened for something that would tell them where Crazy Eddie might be. A television, a radio, anything.

But it was deathly still.

Xander stepped in front of her. She recognized it as one of his many protective maneuvers. Letting Claire take the lead with an old woman was one thing. Letting her lead the way through a house in Treme when they had no idea who was inside?