Natalie's Revenge

by Susan Fleet

  This was what I imagined the angry Ancestor spirits looked like.

  A violent shudder wracked me. I was certain this was no accident.

  Mom's ancestor spirits had sent me a message. Tears filled my eyes.

  Mom had been waiting for me to avenge her for 11 years and I had done nothing. I felt so ashamed. I went home, took out her photograph, lit some incense and chanted: I shall be a champion of freedom and justice.

  By the end of August 1999 I had saved $6,000. I figured that was enough to hire a detective. On the Internet I found a directory for private investigators in the United States. I didn't want to use anyone in Louisiana so I called a man in Tennessee. Closer than New York, but not too close.

  He answered in a southern drawl. "Nicolas Hart Investigations, how can I help y'all today?"

  "I need information about a murder in New Orleans. October 1988."

  "Waahl, that's a while back. I take it the cops didn't solve the case?"

  "No, but they had some suspects and I want to know who they were."

  "Why don't y'all call the New Orleans police and ask them?"

  "If I wanted to do that, why would I call you?"

  He laughed. "Ya got me there. Call me Nick. What's your name?"

  This time I was ready with my fake name. "Virginia Smith."

  "Smith, huh." He paused and I heard him light a cigarette. "Okay, Virginia. Tell me what you want me to do and I'll tell you if I can do it."

  So I gave him Mom's name and the date of the murder. Jane Fontenot had said her prime suspect’s wife had given him an alibi. I couldn't imagine why. Didn’t she know he was a monster? But I didn't say this. I gave him Jane's name and said I wanted a copy of the file to see who her suspects were.

  Another pause. "Is your name on the list of suspects, Virginia?"

  I had to pinch myself to keep from laughing. "I wasn't even old enough to drive in 1988."

  "Okay, Virginia, but it's gonna cost you. I gotta drive down to N'Awlins and find a friendly cop without too many scruples. Probably have to pay him a bundle to copy the file."

  "No problem. How much do you think you'll need?"

  "To bribe the cop? A grand, maybe two. I'll do the best I can for ya."

  "And how much will your services cost?"

  "I need three grand up front as a retainer. Hard to say about the rest. Depends how long it takes me."

  "Okay, but how do I know you'll get me the file?"

  "Don't you worry 'bout that, Virginia. Might take me a while, but I'll get it. Once I do, I'll give you an itemized account of my expenses and send you a bill for the balance."

  So I agreed to wire $3,000 into his bank account.

  What choice did I have? Jane wouldn't give me the names of her suspects and I needed them to find Mom's killer. I gave Nick my cell number and said I was in Paris so he'd know how to reach me. He gave me his bank information so I could wire the money and said he'd call me when he verified that it was in his account, and that was it.

  I slumped in my chair, my hands damp with sweat. But my heart was singing. At last someone was going to help me find Mom's killer. I got up and did a dance around my kitchen. Nick had said it might take a while, but I felt like I had taken the first step in my journey. An important step.

  I called my Swiss bank and told them to wire the payment to Nick. It cost extra to keep my name and account number off the transfer, but I didn't care about that. Then I poured myself a glass of red wine and got to work on my plan.

  Unfortunately, most of it involved money. A lot of money.

  I allowed $6,000 for Nick, including the bribe for the NOPD cop. To accomplish my goal I would need fake IDs. I figured I'd need at least three. I had bought a fake ID in New York, so knew how much they cost. To be on the safe side, I wrote: Four fake IDs ($4,000). I couldn't take a gun on a plane. After I flew back to America I would have to buy a gun ($1,000) and a car, maybe two or three.

  Clearly I would need a lot more money than I had in my bank account. I didn't allow myself to get discouraged, but I didn't forget the gargoyles either. I put a Joan Jett CD in my walkman and sang along with it as I drank my wine.

  Soon I would have the name of a suspect. Soon it would be October 1999. Almost 11 years Mom had been waiting.

  I'm going to find the man that killed you, Mom. And make him wish he hadn't.

  _____

  Servicing clients almost got to be routine. Be who they want you to be. Smile and laugh at their jokes. Flatter them. A surprising number of them had no interest in sex. Most of them were older men. I think they were ashamed of their flabby bodies. But they liked being seen with a beautiful young woman, implying they were hot stuff in bed when they weren't. It was all for show, but what did I care? It made my job easier.

  Two weeks before Christmas Nick called. He said he needed an operation to fix a double hernia. He apologized and said he'd be back on his feet soon. "After Mardi Gras I'll go to New Orleans and get the file you want, Virginia."

  This was a huge disappointment. Another frustrating delay. Mom had been waiting for me to avenge her since October 1988, but now I was doing something about it. Nick was going to get me the names of the suspects and my bank account was getting fatter.

  I was looking forward to April 15, 2000, my twenty-second birthday.

  In February The Service called to say I had a new client. His country of origin was France, but he lived in New York. He was in Paris on business. This was the sort of information they always gave me about new clients.

  Then they told me his name. Thu Phan.

  When I heard this, I felt like a boxer had punched me in the stomach.

  Thu Phan. Born in France. A businessman from New York.

  Visiting Paris. Using an escort service.

  Thu Phan was my father. This I knew with absolute certainty.

  I couldn’t decide what to do.

  CHAPTER 16

  Sunday, 3 August

  Frank dragged himself out of bed at ten a.m. and took a shower. It didn't help much, didn't get rid of the dull ache in his temples that set his teeth on edge. Last night after work he was too wired to sleep so he zapped a frozen pizza and ate it while he watched a movie on TV. Slim pickings at that hour, but he stumbled upon an old Francois Truffaut film, Love on the Run. Good flick, but he dozed off, had woken at three a.m. and stumbled into bed.

  He shaved dark stubble off his face, put on his uniform and drank a double shot of espresso while he watched an update on Hurricane Gail on TV. The meteorologist predicted fierce wind and heavy rain; the Louisiana governor and the New Orleans mayor were pleading with residents to get out of town. Nothing about the Peterson case. Nothing about Tex Conroy.

  And no sketch of Natalie Brixton.

  He scooped his keys off the kitchen counter and left. On his way to the station he stopped at a convenience store to buy a Times-Picayune, had to wait in line behind people buying bottled water and whatever else remained on the shelves. He took the paper out to his squad car. Buried on Page 3 of the Metro section was the composite sketch of Natalie, the full-face version without sunglasses, and a brief article with a number to call if anyone had information.

  As if anyone would. People who had evacuated wouldn’t see it, and the ones who'd stayed were worried about the hurricane, praying their electricity wouldn't conk out and the wind wouldn't rip off their roof. He wheeled the squad out of the parking lot and headed for the station. Kelly was still working her midnight to noon shift, probably as irritated and burned out as he was.

  Maybe he'd call her later, catch her in the shower and ask her what she had on. Damn, he couldn't wait Hurricane Gail to blow through.

  Then he could spend some quality time with Kelly.

  And continue his hunt for Natalie.

  _____

  Nashua, NH

  She got up at noon, slipped on her blue silk bathrobe and wandered into the kitchen. She was still catching up on sleep after her date with Oliver on Friday. She brewed herself a
pot of green tea, enchanted with sense memories of his touch and how marvelous she felt after they made love.

  Exquisite memories. Except for his parting words.

  If you don't call me, I might have to track you down. But that was macho posturing. He was annoyed that she wouldn't give him her cell phone number. Besides, how could he track her down? He had no idea where she lived.

  She poured steamy green tea into a mug and took a sip. She couldn't allow Oliver to become a distraction. She had to focus on her mission. Hurricane Gail was approaching New Orleans. She set her mug of tea on the kitchen table beside her laptop and got on the Internet.

  Fantastic! The National Weather Service forecasters had narrowed the cone of possible land strikes. They now believed Hurricane Gail would make landfall as a Category-3 storm 300 miles east of New Orleans. It was unlikely the city would suffer any major damage. Once the residents returned, everything would return to normal.

  After all her worry and anxiety, her plan was falling into place.

  A shiver rippled through her.

  In two weeks she would be in New Orleans.

  She put a cinnamon-raisin bagel in the toaster and leaned against the counter. After her endless 20 year journey, she was about to avenge her mother’s murder. Then she could think about having a life. With Oliver James? A tantalizing thought. She sipped her tea, enjoying the light, fresh taste.

  Oliver was a world traveler and an art connoisseur. They could visit the art museums in Paris, dine at first-rate restaurants, drink fine wine and make mad passionate love afterwards. It had been three years since she done that with Willem. Three years of solitude.

  Like sneaky jackals, visions of her first true love had infiltrated her dreams last night, images that jolted her awake. Willem taking her on a boat trip down the Seine. Willem seated opposite her at a swanky restaurant, handsome and sexy in his Armani suit. Willem in a nightclub, making love to her with his eyes, a prelude to their lovemaking at home.

  Willem saying he loved her, but . . .

  The odor of something burning filled her nostrils. She whirled and pulled the smoldering bagel out of the toaster. She threw it in the garbage. Given her experience with Willem, she didn’t dare get too excited about Oliver. What did she know about him, really? Not much. After graduating from Harvard, he’d made a fortune in the stock market. Then he’d became a dealer of ancient art.

  Or so he said.

  But she had told him a pack of lies. What was to say he wasn’t lying too?

  She sat down at the table and set her chin on her palms. Why couldn’t life be simple? Hers had been a series of ordeals. Her mother’s murder. Eight nightmarish years with a toxic family in Texas.

  And then, the killings.

  Randy. Arnold Peterson and Tex Conroy.

  Was she a monster like Randy? Did a killer gene run in the Brixton family? Her mother had turned to prostitution to make money and so had she. And her father was no prize.

  Embracing her Vietnamese heritage had brought a sense of belonging and a certain amount of comfort. But ever since her mother's murder, the ancestor spirits had inflicted terrible trials upon her.

  Randy, killing her beloved Muffy. Even after she left Pecos, the trials continued. Dancing half-naked in New York for men who lusted after her body. Having sex with wealthy men in Paris who paid her to do their bidding in bed. If she didn’t punish Mom's killer, the angry ancestor spirits might inflict worse punishment.

  Already she had committed terrible crimes, deeds that would haunt her to her grave. But after she avenged Mom's murder, her life would improve. It had to, or there was no hope.

  Time to stop thinking about Oliver and focus on her goal. She’d been so relieved about Hurricane Gail she had forgotten to check NOLA.com. She got on her laptop and navigated to the website. Yesterday it had been full of evacuation procedures. Nothing about the Peterson murder or Tex Conroy.

  Today, the front page was still about Hurricane Gail, but an ominous headline under the Metro Section said: Police seek person of interest in Peterson murder.

  She clicked on the article and saw the sketch of a woman’s face.

  Her heart almost stopped. Natalie Brixton’s face. Impossible! She had hidden her face from the security camera in the hall outside Peterson’s room. She gritted her teeth and read the article.

  New Orleans police are seeking information about a person of interest in the murder of Arnold Peterson. If you recognize the woman in the sketch, call Homicide Detective Frank Renzi at the Eighth District station. Police describe her as a slender woman between the age of twenty-five and thirty. They also believe she has a tattoo on her ankle.

  The words grabbed her by the throat. A tattoo on her ankle.

  The tattoo was tiny. How could they have seen it on the security video? Her cherished tattoo, the one she'd treasured for so many years, the one she'd never been able to bring herself to have removed.

  Willem had one too, exactly like hers.

  “It will be our secret,” he’d said. “Ours alone, just you and me.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. Did Willem still have his raven tattoo, she wondered. Did he ever look at it and think of her?

  Thanks to her study of Vietnamese culture she had come to believe that birds would protect her. But Tex had recognized her because of her seabird pendant, her good luck charm. Now the New Orleans police were seeking a woman with a tattoo on her ankle, a woman who looked like Natalie Brixton.

  Detective Frank Renzi, the relentless hunter, was hot on her trail.

  A waterfall of icy fear chilled her to the bone. After all the disgusting things she’d done to earn enough money to avenge Mom, would Renzi thwart her?

  Steely resolve straightened her spine. No one was going to thwart her. She would execute her plan, avenge Mom's murder and disappear.

  But how did the police get her picture? Had Tex fingered her from the grave? What if Renzi went to Pecos and talked to Tex's mother?

  What if Mrs. Conroy told Renzi about Natalie Brixton? And Randy.

  A more ominous thought hit her. Oliver knew her as Robin Adair, but he had commented on her tattoo last Friday as they lay in bed.

  “What a delicate ornament for your beautiful ankle,” he’d said, smiling as he caressed her thigh.

  But why would Oliver read the Times-Picayune? He didn’t know Natalie Brixton from a hole-in-the-wall. She shut down the laptop.

  Nothing was going to prevent her from completing her mission.

  Nothing.

  The shrill sound of the telephone cut into her thoughts. Distracted, she answered without checking Caller-ID.

  “Hello Robin.” Oliver's deep distinctive voice. “I'm so happy to hear your voice.”

  She felt like she’d been hit by lightning, twice in one day.

  How did you get my number? she wanted to scream.

  She dug her fingernails into her palms.

  Stalling for time, she said, “Oliver?”

  “Yes. Am I interrupting something?”

  “No. I’m just surprised to hear from you. How did you get my number?”

  He chuckled. “There are ways to get a phone number if you want it badly enough.”

  Her neck prickled. Ways to get a number, if you had the wherewithal to do it, and obviously Oliver James did.

  “How’s work going?” he said. “You said you had a lot to do.”

  “It's going okay.” Well, some things were, but not out-of-the-blue phone calls like this.

  “I called to see if we could have dinner tonight. Since you live in Nashua, it shouldn’t take long to drive to Boston. Traffic won’t be bad on a Sunday.”

  Her stomach went into freefall, a sickening lurch that made her dizzy and nauseous. He knew her phone number, knew where she lived.

  What else did he know?

  She forced herself to smile. Be what they want you to be.

  “Hold on while I check. I have an appointment today."

  She stood by the counter with t
he phone clenched in her hand, her mind reeling. She took a deep breath and forced herself to focus.

  And everything became clear.

  Oliver was no longer a mere distraction.

  Oliver was a serious threat. Oliver knew too much.

  "I won't be free until seven, but I could meet you at nine for a drink.”

  “Excellent. Come up to my hotel room. I’ll chill a bottle of wine and we can chat for a while. I’ve got a couple of questions for you.”

  A couple of questions. She had no intention of answering any questions, from Oliver or anyone else.

  “Fine. See you then,” she said, and hung up. Oliver wanted her to come to his room for a drink. So they could chat.

  A disgusting echo of her father's words eight years ago.

  She ran to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.

  _____

  New Orleans 6:10 p.m.

  Stifling a yawn, Frank forced himself to concentrate as he patrolled the deserted streets near the Interstate entrance in eastern New Orleans. Low-hanging iron-gray clouds loomed in the sky and rain spattered the windshield. Six hours and he'd seen only four cars, last minute stragglers leaving town.

  Before he left the station, Vobitch had buttonholed him, furious at the TV stations for not running the Natalie sketch, only slightly mollified that it had made the newspaper. "Page three of the fucking Metro Section," Vobitch had said. "I'll stay in my office in case any tips come in, but the city's a ghost town. Only people gonna call are the nutcakes and weirdoes."

  He drove under the massive I-610 overpass and turned left. Gusty winds buffeted the cruiser and rain beat on the roof. A scruffy-looking man stood by the traffic light at the bottom of the I-610 off-ramp. Dressed in torn jeans, he held a cardboard sign asking for spare change. Never mind that no cars were coming, and no cars were going to be coming.

  The guy probably came here every day to beg for change, no matter what. Come hell or high water or Hurricane Gail.

  He pulled up beside the panhandler, a dark-skinned man of indeterminate age with a weather-beaten face and gray-speckled beard, could be anywhere from forty to sixty. He rolled down his window, saw fear blossom in the man's eyes. Fear of cops not hurricanes.