by Martha Reed
“Jane?” Gee screamed. “It was him.” She started shoving her way through the crowd spilling into the alley. “Ryan’s friend! Tyler. He saw me, Jane. Come on!”
The bathroom door swung open in her face and a confused and stupefied couple stumbled out. Pulling them clear, Jane slammed the door shut. How did the Fire Marshal miss this hazard? “Police!” She screamed, using the points of her elbows to force her way through the mob. “FBI. Make a hole.”
The crowd carried her down the hallway, almost on tiptoe. Jane felt compressed to the point of breathlessness as PTSD triggered a blistering memory. She saw the rising golden staircase and the black bannisters that looked like dead iron bars.
“Gee! Wait for me!” She screamed. “We need backup! Don’t go it alone.” Jesus, Mary and Joseph, M’su Diable, anyone who is listening, help me! Jane implored. Don’t take Gee. I need her. Her legs turned to water as the struggling mass of people swept her off her feet and she completely lost sight of the door.
Chapter Fifty-One
“Carter! Mayas!”
Jane shrieked into her wire. Gripping the emergency exit doorframe with both hands, she squeezed herself gasping through the mass of people struggling to escape Club Femme du Monde. “It’s Tyler Shank. He’s with Gee.”
She bounced off a man’s broad back and skidded through a muddy puddle that slathered her boots with slime. The panicking horde thinned as it spilled out of the alley into Frenchmen Street. Where’s Gee? Her view was blocked by a pulsing mass of screaming, sobbing people and a dumpster piled high with bagged trash. She ran on.
The heels on her cheap new boots collapsed. She fell against the brick wall, shredding the skin off both palms like confetti. Jane hobbled forward, shaking the scorching pain from her hands. I need to find Gee. She’s chasing a killer.
Mayas suddenly blocked her way. He grabbed her arms.
“Which way did they go? Jane, look at me. Point it out. Which way?”
“I don’t know!” She howled in frustration as she twisted free. “I didn’t see them hit the street. I lost her, Mayas. I lost her!”
“Was it Tyler Shank?” Cesar stared unblinking. “You saw him? You know that, CJ? You saw him?”
“I don’t know that.” Wincing, Jane pressed her bloodied hands to her skirt. “That’s what Gee said. That’s what I heard her say.”
Carter ran up, skirting the dumpster like a feral cat. Cupping his ear, he lowered his voice, bellowing over the street noise. “SSG thinks he’s heading for the Bourbon Street. Makes sense he’d try to lose himself upriver in the crowd.”
“Use the technology,” Mayas barked, looking as intent as a hunting bird of prey. “What does her wire say?”
“Negative. GPS indicates she’s still in the club.”
Jane flashed on Gee’s discarded denim jacket. “You’re pinging her coat. She left it behind. I’ll text her.” She swung her bag forward. “Shit! She left her phone, too!”
“SSG go active.” Carter spoke into his cuff. “Code Orange. We’ve lost contact with Gigi Pascoe. Initiate immediate foot search. Distribute the suspect profile on Tyler Shank.” His eyes scanned the milling crowd. “Apprehend with extreme caution. I’ll meet you on the street.”
“Let’s go.” Jane ran two steps forward. She pulled up short as Carter and Mayas exchanged a knowing look. “What? What?”
Firming his mouth, Mayas looked at Carter and shrugged. “You’re the lead. I’ll meet SSG.” He melted into the crowd.
“What is it, Carter? Tell me.” Jane insisted. “What?”
“You need to stay put. Civilians would only get in the way.”
Jane widened her stance. “I am not a civilian.”
“You are and you’re already slowing me down.”
“Fuck you. I don’t have time for this.” Jane stubbornly shook her head. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” Carter grabbed her hand. “You need to do what I say. I can’t run the team, track Shank and protect you at the same time. Jane? Stay put. Stay safe. That’s a command.” Releasing her hand he slid off into the night. “I’ll update you ASAP.”
Protect me? Why does the FBI need to protect me? I’m not an LGBTQ target. Jane gasped as the complete truth dawned. This isn’t FBI protocol. Carter’s worried I’ll get hurt. He’s worried about me. Huh. She paused. Do I follow his command?
She took two hesitant steps toward the flaring rainbow of neon light that lit the sky before her instinct flagged the play. Tyler was smart enough to avoid the surveillance cameras around The Boat at Lafayette Square. She slowed her steps even more. Would he head for Bourbon Street? He’d do the opposite of what we think he’d do. She spun around. He’d go deeper into the Lavender Zone and try to slip out down Decatur.
And he’s with Gee.
“Sorry, Carter. I don’t take orders from you.”
She started trotting toward the river, crossing the street to avoid a gang of smokers blocking the sidewalk outside a stripper bar. Stepping up to the curb, her ankle turned and her left boot heel snapped clean off. Jane limped on. Fuck! Fuck! I’ll never catch them wearing these stupid boots. Do I try running barefoot? She scanned the filthy street and the stained sidewalk glittering with broken glass. How long before I nail something with my foot? Inspiration sent up a flare and turning back, she cut down an alley. Grab the Ducati.
Monster’s dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree as she drew near. Swinging her cross-body bag forward, Jane hiked up her skirt, straddled the seat and thumbed the ignition button. Monster coughed to life before settling into a contented purr. Heeling the kickstand, she cocked the throttle, leaned over the deck and sped back into the Lavender Zone.
At the intersection, she dropped Monster into neutral and pulled up short. Scanning left, Jane noted the intermittent red and blue strobe lights of the first responders at Club Femme du Monde’s front door as Gee’s voice echoed inside her head. He saw me, Jane! Come on.
A singing bachelor party scattered with a combined shout as she straightened her line down the center of Frenchmen Street. Multiple Google map images started clicking like an insane slideshow in her mind as she desperately tried to re-orient herself. What’s next? Esplanade Avenue? She ground her teeth, berating herself. Shit. I got lazy. Should’ve memorized the streets by now. I knew every towpath on Nantucket in my sleep.
She roared into the traffic at the next wide intersection, scanning the groups clustered in the doorways and the sheer mass of people parading from bar to open bar. Monster’s digital dashboard clock read 1:17 AM as the trumpety brass sound of NOLA jazz serenaded the night. Laughing groups strolled along the sidewalk. Nothing looked violently disturbed or out of place.
Was I wrong? Fear drilled her bones hollow as she imagined Gee lying in an alley, throat-slashed, covered in blood, already scalped and dying or dead.
“Gee!” Jane screamed, double-clicking the clutch and pushing on, slowing only to peer into each dank courtyard. “Answer me! Gee?” Was I wrong?
Her focus began to wobble as rubbery panic sickened her stomach. If anything bad happens, take me instead of her. She implored the voodoo gods. I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t hurt Gee because of me.
“Yo, bitch! One-way street! Wrong way!”
A protesting bouncer lunged at her from a tavern on the corner. Jane swerved and Monster growled as she notched it up a gear to avoid his grasp. Her ears caught the tinny ringing of overturned metal garbage bins and a beaky looking silhouette skittered out of an alley onto the sidewalk to her right.
It was Tyler Shank.
Jane smoked Monster’s tires as she roared forward, the rapture of a successful hunt blossoming in her chest and tightening her focus like a laser beam. Got you now, you bastard! Leaning over the handlebars, she shrieked into her wire. “Carter! Mayas! Embry’s on Esplanade heading for North Peters!”
Gee stumbled out of the alley on Tyler’s heels.
“Jane!” She screamed, pointing. “Get him. Get him!”
Seeing Gee still on her feet, Jane felt a rush of relief so strong it felt orgasmic. Thank you, voodoo gods. I owe you big.
Pushing off a lamppost, Tyler shoved a path through a huddled midnight NOLA ghost tour. Gee followed, crouched low and as intent as a panther. She made a quick grab, but Tyler dodged sideways and she missed. Off balance, Gee fell to one knee, executing a controlled shoulder roll, springing back up and lunging again.
The tour group scattered like a flock of frightened pigeons as Tyler reached behind his back. Jane’s core froze solid as an emerald green bar sign flashed like neon lightning off the steel blade he suddenly held in his hand.
“Gee!” Jane raced forward. Shit! I’m not going to make it. It’s over thirty feet.
Waving the knife uncertainly in Gee’s face, Tyler unexpectedly kicked out his leg and sank his shoe into Gee’s gut. She took it hard, retching and reaching out one hand to block her fall as she collapsed onto the sidewalk.
“No!” Jane roared. I’ve got to stop this. “Gee!” She screamed. “Gee!”
Tyler heard the Ducati coming. Turning, he bent his knees and settled his stance, staring down the wicked steel blade and pointing the kitchen knife like a lance. Smiling ghoulishly, he flicked his left hand, beckoning her on.
“Come on, bitch.” He spat thickly. “You want some of this?”
Jane skidded the Ducati to a sideways stop. Wrenching her skirt up over her hip, she slid her fingers over her belly feeling for her appendix carry. Pulling Lucy free, she cupped the 9MM in both hands, sighting down the stubby barrel, her focus suddenly so hyper tight she experienced tunnel vision as she aimed for Tyler’s skull. She knew a center shot offered better take down odds, but she had never felt more certain of her action.
CRACK.
Tyler flinched as the bullet chipped the cement block wall behind his head. Raising his hand to his cheek, he blinked stupidly. Jane saw the dawning of stunned realization reach his eyes as his fingers limply dropped the kitchen knife. The steel blade rang like a buoy bell when it hit the pavement. Stooping, he snatched the knife back up before sprinting across the street for The French Market.
“You had a gun?” Gee retched. Clutching her ribcage, she struggled to rise, pushing up off the street with her elbow and her toes. “Where the fuck did you hide that?”
I missed. Jane felt stunned. Why did I pull my shot? “Are you okay?” She shouted.
“Fuck that.” Gee retched drily again. “Shoot him, Jane. Shoot him.”
Jane slipped Lucy back into the appendix holster. Straightening the yoke, she gripped the Ducati, twisting the throttle and roaring the wrong way down N. Peters, weaving in and out of the traffic hazards with a focus so intent it felt surreal. She felt unbeatable like an avenging fury, like a great pantheon of pagan gods were suddenly on her side and they were cheering her on.
Tyler tumbled over a wire guy rope supporting a tented booth. Falling to his knees, he raised the knife to fend Jane off, his eyes widening with sudden knowledge and open fear. Leaning over the dashboard, Jane felt the glorious tidal might of true oncoming justice, shrieking like a Valkyrie as she closed in.
She heard the blaring air horn in her left ear. Looking up, she saw the looming chrome bulldog logo centered on the massive grill, registering the screeching locked air brakes and the freight driver’s panicking pale face behind his high windshield.
Shit! Shit! She swerved Monster so viciously she lost control. The front tire and yoke dropped into a jagged pothole jolting Jane so hard she bit her tongue as the Ducati jackknifed.
Still gripping the bike, she skidded along the street, her ears filled by the sound of squealing brakes and even more blaring horns. Monster’s steel foot peg started carving a groove into the asphalt road surface and seeing sparks, Jane raised her left foot as she continued to slide, screaming as the red hot flame of gravel road rash shredded her bare skin from knee to thigh. Oh, shit, no! Not my knee again. Not my knee!
Releasing the Ducati, she surrendered to centrifugal force, limply rolling off of her shoulders and her butt and raising her arms to protect her un-helmeted head, staring out from between her elbows at an oncoming row of antique cast iron horse head ring posts above four fat concrete steps. Throwing her arms out to slow her roll, she felt a thump that jolted her skull. There was a single tiny bright white pinpoint of light and it winked out.
Chapter Fifty-Two
“God help me.” Jane groaned, gently pressing her eyelids with her fingertips. Her skull felt ready to split. She desperately wanted to dive into oblivious slumber, but the ringing pain held her suspended in a dozing limbo land halfway between awake and asleep, a bizarre neutral dimension where even the passage of time lost its meaning.
She recalled opening her eyes to find Gee kneeling by her side. Crimson blood splashed Gee’s hands to her wrists.
“Don’t move.” Gee cried. “911 is coming.”
“He’ll get away.”
“Carter and Mayas are on it.”
Jane had almost blacked out again when she tried rolling over to get up. That move had been instinctive. Get back on your feet and you’ll be okay. No matter what it costs you, stay up, stay on your feet, stay with the herd. Her head had lolled drunkenly. Gee had caught her when she collapsed.
“No hospital. No insurance. Take me home.”
Gee had ignored her, glued to Jane’s side while the paramedics fitted her with a neck brace and then watching as they strapped Jane to a backboard before lifting and loading her into an EMS van. The trip to New Orleans East Hospital’s emergency room was a blurred memory now, strangely out of rational sequence. At Admittance, she remembered Gee saying that Jane had no health insurance as she handed over her VISA card. When the RN asked Gee if Jane was family, Gee had firmly answered ‘yes,’ claiming Jane as a sister.
Cautiously leaning forward, Jane resettled the gallon Ziploc baggie full of melting ice cubes on her swollen knee, resentfully staring at her new tripod cane before reaching for and scanning, yet again, the hospital’s statement receipt. Fuck. What am I supposed to do with this? Frame it as a souvenir? Over Gee’s protest, she had pridefully paid Gee back every cent of the VISA charge in cash as soon as she got settled back home. Gee had tried refusing it, but Jane had screamed ‘Take it! Take it all!’ and thrown the money at her. Gee had backed down, promising to come back and check on Jane at least twice a day and to bring her treats.
“What am I? A dog?” Jane had snapped.
She had the total hospital debt memorized. The out-of-network emergency ambulance, transportation plus ground mileage charge came to $1,062.53. Critical care ill/injured patient 75 minutes (bill code 94761) was an additional $1,574.96. The CT scan, of all things, was the cheapest charge at $967.74. The extremely sympathetic examining doctor had given Jane free samples of antibiotic ointment for her gravel rash saving her $32.05. Jane carefully rested her sore head against the chair. The total from her wreck came to $3,605.23. Her entire cash cushion was gone. She was negative $5.23 in the hole with payday still three days away and the rent due again by the end of the month.
She studied the orange prescription pill container on the kitchen counter, a dozen steps away. After picking the gravel and ashes out of her hide with local anesthetic and a needle probe, the doctor had scolded her for not wearing a helmet. No shit, Sherlock. He had warned her against taking any painkiller, even over-the-counter Ibuprofen or Tylenol while following a concussion protocol. He had also ordered 48 hours of rest, with no running or other strenuous activity, although light exercise was permitted. Looking at her soccer ball sized knee and the handlebar shaped plum colored bruise on her thigh, Jane snorted. Like that’s going to happen anytime soon. Raising her hand, she counted the stitches in her newly shaved scalp. Lucky thirteen. I’m bald on one side like Delilah was only she claimed fashion.
Jane shifted uneasily in the chair. Maybe I should try getting cleaned up. She stared at the steps leading up to her loft and the shower. The thought of navigat
ing the staircase clutching her cane drained her desire and left her feeling limp and depressed. I could use the kitchen sink and a dishtowel. Do a quick spit wash. She slumped deeper into the chair. The thought of that much effort overwhelmed her. She felt like she was peering up from the bottom of a well. Fuck it. Everything I touch turns to shit. Why even try? She returned her gaze to the prescription OxyContin bottle on the counter. Twenty-one pills left over from my knee surgeries. What if I swallowed all of them right now? Would that finally fix everything in my sorry ass life and turn my fucking head off?
She felt the narcotic’s magnetic allure. Closing my eyes would be so easy, so sweet. Reaching for her cane, she scrabbled up. Hobbling to the counter, she snatched up the pill bottle with its dire warning label: LIFE-THREATENING RESPIRATORY DEPRESSION. For opioid-naïve patients, initiate with one 30 mg tablet orally every twelve hours. DO NOT EXCEED MAXIMUM RECOMMENDED DOSAGE. Her hand trembled as she tightened her grip. How did it get this bad? Even during my court hearing I never thought of giving up.
She limped to the sink. Reaching for glass in the dish rack, she turned on the tap, studying the silvery water streaming clockwise down the drain. It felt hypnotic. It could be that easy. Twenty more minutes, lights out, nighty-night. No more pain.
Blocking her protesting mind to any rational objection, she thumb-popped the white plastic cap and shook the round tablets marked either OP or 30 onto her palm. Twenty-one would do it. She paused as another option crossed her mind. Street value for these babies should be around $630. That would help me out. Inhaling deeply, she made her decision, tipping her hand and spilling the tablets down the drain, counting out loud as the dark hole swallowed each one.
Whatever it takes, I’m not going that way. Not now, not ever. And that I swear to God. Pushing the curtain aside, she studied the courtyard and Plessy Street. The mid-December sunlight was dappling the treetops and the sky was china plate blue. The Bywater neighborhood looked and sounded Sabbath day quiet. She could see the Embry’s shotgun cottage at the intersection. Their driveway was empty. I wonder if Carter and Mayas are done with Ryan yet? He’ll be ready for a little peace and quiet once they get done grilling him over his boy, Tyler.