by G A Chase
Money never did make much sense to Sere. “Even if they did skip out without paying, eventually they will have had to refuel the motorcycles they stole. You worked some impressive financial magic last time to figure out the identities of the last doppelfuckers. Find me the direction these new hellholes are headed.”
Fisher pushed his files aside and slid his laptop in front of him. “You think they’ll be using bank cards?”
“All I know is they’re more than a step ahead of me this time. It would have taken a small army to subdue Bart, so we’re not looking at a lone demon finding his way in from the swamp like the last two times. Since they were coordinated enough to be waiting for him, it seems logical they would have arranged for the economic necessities before setting the ambush.”
Fisher opened his cell phone. No matter which icon he pressed, nothing happened. The energy Sere projected had a way of screwing up wireless communication.
“I’ll reach out to my bank contacts once you’re out of the office.” He half turned toward the corner of his office, where her backup single-barrel shotgun leaned at the ready. “What else do you need?”
“It’d be helpful if you didn’t do anything stupid like putting your life at risk.”
“Just following your lead. Is there any point in me rounding up Thomas? He might have some insight on what your latest band of demons are up to.”
Fisher must have wanted a rematch with the professor’s old assistant—demonically possessed to demonically possessed. Thomas had started it by abducting Sere and giving Fisher a concussion.
“I’m responsible for both of you having to share your bodies with your evil doppelgängers,” Sere said. “Having you two try to kill each other again isn’t going to help me find Bart.”
“Fair enough.” Fisher turned back to his desk and pointed at the computer screen that was still trying in vain to load the Internet. “Give me half an hour, and I’ll have a direction for you.”
Sere never was much good at waiting for answers. Sticking around the office would only make the already gimpy French Quarter Internet connection move even slower. She headed out of the CPA’s office to clear her head and stretch her legs. No matter which direction Fisher sent her, she was in for a long ride.
What she really wanted was a shot of Jameson, but she’d promised herself, as well as Bart, that she’d try to face reality sober for a while. As she passed out of the narrow business-lined street in the center of the Quarter, the gleaming marble facade of New Orleans Bank and Trust dominated her view. The fifteen-year-old structure had been designed to match the one Joe, Kendell, and Myles had bombed. Rubble from hell’s version of the original two-hundred-year-old building had provided the material for the paranormal shotgun shells that could cut the link between a doppelgänger and its real.
But it wasn’t the history of the demolished building housing the interdimensional gate that made Sere stand with her fists at her sides. In the middle of the stone-slab-covered promenade that stretched out from the building’s twelve-foot-high grand entrance was a new bronze statue of Baron Malveaux, complete with top hat and cane. “They just had to go and build you a goddamned monument.”
“He did fund the construction of most of New Orleans after the War Between the States.”
The voice behind her made Sere cringe. She turned to see a group of tourists reverently listening to a guide in a long coat and top hat. “A bit early in the day for such attire,” she said. “Gentlemen didn’t dress in tails unless they were attending a formal affair, and those were usually conducted after dark.”
The tour guide bowed slightly. “Very good, my lady. However, after the war, it wasn’t unusual for a fine gentleman to be left with a limited wardrobe.” He spoke plaintively as if he himself had endured the hardship.
“Whatever.” She turned back to the statue, grateful that at least the bronze remained silent.
The guide continued to address his crowd of families and hungover tourists. “As I was saying, as the head of the bank, Baron Malveaux had his hand in nearly every business transaction. The man was a true hero to the city. Most of what you see now was due to his generosity and savvy. Where others saw financial institutions in ruin, the baron saw opportunity. His lending practices were considered revolutionary at the time.”
Sere really wanted to fight the arrogant prick. The expansive stone walkway would make for a wonderful field of combat. But she resisted her natural urges. Without turning away from the statue, she yelled, “His practices, as you call them, landed the women of most of the city’s prominent families in his dens of prostitution. I’d hardly call that generous. The man was evil personified.”
A gasp went up from the tourists behind her.
“Purely negative press,” yelled the guide over his flock’s rumbling. “Every failed business needed someone to blame, and the unfortunate baron bore most of the post-war animosity by those unable to capitalize on the city’s rejuvenation. And unfortunate he was, for though he made and distributed his wealth to get the city back on its feet, his personal life was anything but enviable. His only son died in the war. His wife was committed to the care of the nuns—a discreet way of saying she lost her mind. And worst of all, his beloved daughter died from an evil curse.”
Sere scuffled down the broad steps and away from the uneducated know-it-all before she lost her cool. Now they’re fucking using my life story to sell tours?
She was still seething when she returned to Fisher’s offices. “Tell me you’ve got something for me.”
Fisher slid an old-fashioned folded map across his desk. “I called Bubba’s Bar and Grill. As I assumed, they skipped out without paying for their drinks. However, Rampart Thibodaux’s bank card was used at a Stop ’N Go outside Mason’s Corner for ninety-two dollars’ worth of gas. I don’t imagine his Ducati holds anything near that amount.”
Sere stared at the map. Mason’s Corner was a good hundred miles north of Jackson’s Bluff. “Damn it. They’ve got quite the head start. How long ago did they fill up?”
“Early this morning.”
She unfolded the map to study a dot much closer to New Orleans. “What’s this mark?”
Fisher took a Post-it Note off his desk phone and stuck it to the map. “Joe said to meet him at this address. He said he’d have everything ready to go.”
32
Chapter 4
Sere took the freeway exit to Myers, convinced that Joe was pulling a prank on her. The middle-class tract houses looked like something straight out of the 1980s. Rows and rows of nearly identical homes with practically the same conservative sedans parked out front made it impossible to differentiate the streets. As she consulted the small signs, she wondered how reality could be so damn boring compared to the make-believe existence she’d left in hell. She made a right onto Luther Lane and continued until she found the mailbox labeled 322. The dwelling looked exactly like the buildings on either side of it.
“Well, I guess that’s one way to hide in plain sight.” She got off her Triton and walked up the small incline to the front door. “I hope I don’t scare the shit out of the occupants.” After ringing the doorbell, she pulled her leather riding jacket tight around her bare midriff.
An old woman with a grandmotherly smile opened the door. “Can I help you, dear?”
Sere held up the Post-It as if it were some sort of pass to a hidden nightclub. “I was given this address, but there must be some mistake. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
Sere was just about to turn and leave when the woman said, “You’re looking for Mr. Joseph, aren’t you?”
“Is he here?” This is some fucked-up hidden cache.
“He rents the garage from me.” The woman leaned out the door and pointed to the side of the house. “Just go through the gate. You’ll see the side door to the garage. And tell him dinner is almost ready if he’s hungry. That man never eats enough. There’s plenty for both of you if you’re hungry.”
“Thank you.” Sere wa
lked away, genuinely confused by the woman’s hospitality to a complete stranger.
As she pushed open the fence gate, a hand reached out and pulled her into the small alleyway. “Did anyone follow you?” Joe asked.
“How was anyone going to follow me? This is the most messed-up hiding spot ever. What the hell are you thinking, using a middle-class neighborhood to stash your weapons?”
He checked the street before closing the gate then rushed her into the garage. “I occasionally need a street address for deliveries and cover registrations.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Once he had the garage door closed, he flipped on the lights. Other than his vintage BSA motorcycle in the corner and the two black-tarp-covered objects in the center of the concrete floor, the place looked deserted. He yanked the first tarp off, revealing a completely blacked-out motorcycle. “Honda Blackbird. This is one of the fastest production bikes on the market. She’ll hit a top speed of one hundred ninety miles per hour.” He pulled the covering off a second all-black bike. “BMW S1000 RR. Not a very elegant name for a superbike. She’ll also do one ninety, but she’s lighter and more maneuverable. I thought you’d find this one more comfortable. Since the demons abducted Bart, they’ll be expecting you to chase them. That means they’ll have a trap set for you. The way the rat avoids being killed is by moving faster than the spring after stealing the cheese.”
Holy shit. Sere walked around the high-performance machines. “These bikes will make Bart’s Ducati look like a moped.”
“Our foe is a good eighteen hours ahead of us. Even on those lumbering Harleys, they’ll have us at a disadvantage.” Joe picked up the black helmet from under the BMW. “Try this on.” He retrieved the matching one from under the Honda.
I hate full-face helmets, she thought, but she forced it over her head without complaining. “I can’t see a damn thing.”
“You can slide the screen up and out of the way if you want, but once you see what the computer display can do, you won’t want to.” She felt his hand press something under her chin. The screen lit up, displaying the room in shades of red with readouts too numerous to figure out.
“You realize this thing isn’t going to do a damn bit of good out on the road, right?” Her energy had a way of fucking up anything not directly wired to what it was supposed to be reading.
“Maybe not.” His words in her ears made her grip the sides of the helmet.
“What the hell, Joe?” She looked around for some connection between the two helmets.
“You’ve been working under a misconception. It’s not that you can’t use cellular technology. It’s simply that your energy wavelength differs so much from what’s currently in use that a distortion is created. You’ve been hooked up to the equipment in my cabin enough times for me to get a pretty good idea of what frequencies might work. I developed these helmets with Bart’s help. That boy does know his covert communications.”
She looked around the room with a renewed sense of awe. “So we’ll be able to talk on the road?”
“More than that. Bart borrowed the technology in that helmet from fighter jets. You’ll have readouts of practically everything you can imagine, including some that weren’t part of the original military design.” He touched a button under his helmet. His face instantly appeared on a little square in the corner of her view screen.
She looked at him past the readouts. His android-like black outfit meshed nicely with the color of the bike. “Are you saying we’ll be able to identify the demons?”
“That’s my hope. If they’re on your energy wavelength, my modifications should help us zero in on their locations.”
“What are we waiting for?”
He pointed at the package on the seat of the BMW. “There’s a Kevlar riding suit for you. It’s not as sexy as your leathers, but when you hit north of one hundred miles per hour, the wind can beat on your skin something awful. Just lose the riding jacket and shotgun, and the suit will fit over what you’re wearing.”
She looked at the closed garage door. “What about my weapons and saddlebags?”
He reached into the front cowling of the superbike. “I rigged up a couple of pump-action shotguns. All we’ll need from your bags is your paranormal shells. I grabbed what I could from my cabin, but we can’t be oversupplied with ammunition.”
She hated the idea of leaving her snakes behind, but when it came to paramilitary actions, Joe was the boss. “That sweet little old lady I met at the door isn’t going to object to a couple of snakes hanging out in her garage?”
She could see the snarky response beginning on his face in her view screen. “I’m sorry you won’t be able to bring your teddy bears with you on this adventure. Madeline knows how to keep a secret.”
“I deserved that. I suppose my snakes aren’t much good against demons anyway.” Sere wondered if the sweet-old-grandmother persona of the homeowner was just a cover identity. She was probably some spy Joe had worked with in the good old days.
He threw his leg over the Honda. “You always said you wanted to go on a covert operation with me.”
“I get that these bikes are fast, but aren’t they going to attract a lot of attention?”
He fired up his ride. Other than a soft continual huff, the bike was as quiet as a gator on the hunt. “The mufflers are fitted with silencers of my own design, and the black paint is military-grade radar resistant. The cops aren’t going to notice us. With your helmet’s night vision, you won’t need the headlight unless you want to blind some oncoming vehicle. We’ll be nothing more than wraiths in the night. Once I open the garage door, get your bike in here. Now that it’s getting dark I want to cover as much distance as we can.”
Joe kept his speed below eighty on the curvy swamp highway. Sere had grown fond of the Triton café racer she’d borrowed from Joe’s cache near her swamp cabin. The BMW, however, was in a whole different category of motorcycle. At eighty miles per hour, the bike handled the curves like a swift diving for midges.
“How am I supposed to use this helmet if I don’t dare take my hands off the controls?”
“Swipe your eyes across the screen like you’re using a smart phone.”
That made her ears cringe in frustration. “I don’t fucking know how to use a smart phone.” Her yell filled the small helmet.
“Sorry, my mistake. Look off to the side of the helmet. You’ll see logos for the various functions. While staring at what you want, move your eyes back to the screen. The computer will do the rest. Ready to add a little throttle to these babies? I don’t want them building up engine carbon from us reining them in for too long.”
Excitement and fear were so close together in Sere’s emotional catalogue that she wasn’t sure which was making her heart beat so fast. “Let’s do it.”
Joe shot out in front of her as if someone had waved a starter’s flag, leaving her standing still. She hunched down behind the small windscreen and opened up the throttle. Though the bike didn’t make the roar of acceleration she thought it should, the backward pull to her body made her clamp her legs tighter to the gas tank. “Holy shit.”
“Do I need to slow down?” His voice came through loud and clear even though he was little more than a red silhouette far down the road.
“Don’t you dare,” she said. His patronizing had the effect of bringing out her inner daredevil. She laid harder into the throttle, bringing the front tire off the pavement. “Last one to Bubba’s Bar buys a round for the house.”
The wind rushing over Sere’s helmet drowned out the hush of the BMW engine. They were going one hundred miles per hour. On a long stretch of straight road, she held her body as balanced over the rocket as she could manage while keeping the small section of rubber tire in contact with the pavement, and she spun the throttle even further. And still Joe was pulling farther ahead.
“How the hell are you outrunning me? I feel like an airplane about to perform a liftoff.” The speedometer on her visor rea
d 113 miles per hour. The red dot far ahead that represented Joe read 126.
“Stop thinking and trust your instincts.”
“I hope you’ve got a lot of paranormal bandage in that cowling in case I crash,” she said.
“I thought you’d grown beyond that type of defeatist attitude.”
She knew the argument well. Focusing on the worst-case scenario usually brought it into existence. Only by concentrating on what she wanted could she remain in control. She tucked her legs, arms, and torso even tighter to the high-powered machine and twisted the throttle until it wouldn’t go any further. As she passed 120, control of the bike became more an extension of her thoughts than something she was operating. Instead of sliding off the roadway, she sliced into the curves like a figure skater carving up the ice with her blades. She breezed past a pickup truck as if it were a remote-control toy that had accidentally wandered into the roadway. Towns appeared on the horizon and faded out behind her without her ever noticing a single storefront. If a cop had noticed the blacked-out bikes, he didn’t bother engaging in pursuit. And the motorcycle still had a higher gear.
By the time she realized they’d passed Riley’s bar, Kelly’s Diner was in her rearview monitor. I’ve only got another twenty miles if I hope to pass Joe. At least he was no longer putting more distance between them. I know this stretch of highway well. This is my chance.
The straight, smooth section of highway that the road crew had been laying when Sere had escaped Bart—what now felt like years ago—was finally paved though still coned off. In a split second, she made her decision. With a firm jerk to the BMW’s handlebars, she jumped the bike over the uneven section of pavement and onto the fresh asphalt.
“That’s cheating!” Joe yelled as she rocketed past him.
“You were the one who taught me to use every advantage.”
Sere used the entire length of the gravel parking lot to slide the BMW sideways to a halt. Joe was so close behind her that she could smell his brake dust. “Don’t feel bad, old man. Even with my shortcut, if it hadn’t been for my demon side, I’d never have beaten you. There were a couple of corners where I was certain I would go off the road and into the trees.”