Natalie's Revenge

by Susan Fleet

  So why did she feel so empty inside?

  Realizing she had to get off at the next intersection, she pulled the electronic cord to signal the driver. She couldn't think about Chip now. She had to focus on ditching Mrs. Reilly and getting out of town. No easy task now that a mandatory evacuation was in effect.

  She checked her watch and gasped. 5:50. Ten minutes from now the clerk at the Dixie Motel would find Chip’s body. Slowed by her spike heels, she set out for Parades-A-Plenty. Sullen gray clouds filled the sky, rain spattered the sidewalk, and gusty wind blew hot humid air in her face.

  Two minutes later she pushed through the wrought-iron gate outside Parades-A-Plenty and went to the door. But when she tried to open it with her key, she couldn't. Panic hit her in waves. Had Mrs. Reilly locked up and left? Her diary was in her suitcase and her laptop was on the bed. She couldn’t leave without them.

  She peered through the window in the door. Banshee wasn’t behind the reception desk, but the door beside it was ajar. She rapped on the glass. No movement inside. She rapped again, harder this time. After a moment, Mrs. Reilly waddled into the foyer, saw her and frowned.

  Her galloping heart slowed, but she wasn’t home free yet. She had to go up to her room, grab her suitcase and laptop and leave New Orleans. Without Banshee. Judging by the woman's irate expression as she opened the door, that might be difficult.

  “Where have you been?" she shrieked. "You were gone all night!”

  “I’m sorry. I met some friends. Are you ready to go to Houston?” She pushed her way into the foyer and stopped near the reception desk.

  “I thought you had an interview.”

  “It was cancelled. I just need to grab my suitcase and we can go.”

  “I’m not going to Houston with you. I saw your picture on TV."

  Her breath caught in her throat and icy prickles danced down her spine. Were the police on their way?

  Panic-stricken, she said, “Mrs. Reilly, we made a deal. I’m driving you to Houston, like I promised.”

  Planting her hands on her ample hips, Mrs. Reilly glared at her. “No, you’re not. I called the police. They're looking for you.” Shifting her gaze, Banshee squawked, “Here they are now!”

  She whirled and her heart almost stopped. Frank Renzi was coming through the front gate. Mrs. Reilly regarded her with a triumphant smile.

  She wanted to kill the woman. It would be easy enough. The gun was in her tote. But she’d killed too many people already. She made a knuckle fist with two fingers and rammed it into the pressure point between her bottom lip and chin. Mrs. Reilly's mouth gaped open, her eyes rolled up and she collapsed on the floor with a heavy thud.

  Her mind was racing. What to do? Her laptop was in her room and so was her diary, locked inside her suitcase. But her room was on the third floor. She looked through the window in the front door. Renzi was almost to the stairs!

  She plunged through the door into Banshee’s kitchen, hyper alert, eyes darting everywhere. A TV set on the counter. A half-eaten piece of cake on the table. She ran down a hall past a bathroom and lunged into a bedroom. A bed with rumpled sheets. A maple bureau. Beside the bureau, a wooden door with a window in the top half opened onto a porch.

  She ripped off her spike heels, put them in her tote and flung open the door. Pushed through a screen door onto the porch and ran faster than she’d ever run in her life. Behind her, she heard the screen door slam shut.

  Damn! What if Renzi heard it?

  Thankful that she had planned an escape route, she slung her tote over her shoulder and loped through soggy grass to the wrought-iron fence. The rain-slicked metal was slippery, but she managed to haul herself over the top. She dropped to the grass on the other side and raced through the yard toward the street that paralleled St. Charles Avenue. Her car was in the next block.

  If she could get to it, she could escape.

  Provided Renzi didn’t catch her first.

  Her bare feet slammed the pavement, her mind whirling. Banshee had told Renzi where she was. He must have a police radio. For all she knew, dozens of cops might be swarming the neighborhood.

  Renzi could drive her into a dragnet and capture her.

  She reached in her tote and pulled out the .38 Special.

  CHAPTER 34

  Frank peered through the window in the Parades-A-Plenty door. On his way up the walk, he thought he’d seen someone inside, but no one was visible now. He took out his SIG and stepped inside.

  “Mrs. Reilly?”

  Somewhere in the house, he heard a door slam.

  “Mrs. Reilly! Frank Renzi, New Orleans Police. Where are you?”

  Then he saw the hand. It belonged to a hefty gray-haired woman sprawled on the floor behind the reception desk. Mrs. Reilly, he presumed. He pressed a finger to the crook of her jaw and felt a strong pulse. The woman had no obvious injuries, no gunshot wound, no sign of blood, no bruises. Was it a heart attack? A fainting spell?

  Or had Natalie come back and knocked Mrs. Reilly out?

  Recalling the slamming door, he burst through the door beside the desk into an empty kitchen. To his right was a hallway. With his SIG at the ready he advanced down the hall to a bathroom. One glance told him it was empty. He continued down the hall to a bedroom. Beside a tall chest of drawers, a wooden door stood open. His neck prickled.

  He pushed through the screen door onto a porch and saw a long-legged figure loping down the sidewalk beyond a wrought iron fence. Natalie! He made a quick decision. Mrs. Reilly needed medical attention, but he wasn't equipped to help her, and Miller would be here soon.

  He holstered the SIG, ran across the rain-soaked yard, climbed the fence and dropped to the other side. Driven by wind gusts, rain pelted his face. He took out the SIG and ran after Natalie. She didn’t have much of a head start.

  Goddamn it, this time he was going to catch her.

  He ran faster, his feet slamming the pavement. At the corner, he saw a flash of motion off to his right and ran that way. There she was, 30 yards away, beside the driver’s door of a metallic-brown Ford Focus.

  For an instant, she met his gaze, her eyes fearful. Then she whirled and ran.

  He ran after her, saw her duck left into an alley. But when he reached the alley, she had disappeared. He held his breath and listened.

  No feet pounding the pavement. No sign of Natalie. Gripping his SIG, he advanced down the alley to the side entrance of a Tex-Mex restaurant. The door was shut, the window boarded up with sheets of plywood. Same thing with the store on the other side of the alley.

  He dug out his cell, called Dispatch and told them to send an ambulance to Parades-A-Plenty to help an injured woman. He reeled off the address and said, "The woman that did it escaped, but she's on foot and I'm in pursuit. Get some squads over here to cordon off the area.”

  “Frank,” said the dispatcher, “be serious. Every squad I got is pulling traffic duty. We got gridlocked intersections all over town.”

  _____

  In a recessed doorway near the far end of the alley, she pressed her back against the door, hyper alert, gripping the .38 Special in her sweaty hands. She heard footsteps approach. Renzi. If he found her, she would have to shoot. Tears blurred her vision.

  She didn't want to shoot him. She had hurt too many people already. She held her breath, alert for any telltale sound.

  Mercifully, she heard nothing. Had Renzi given up?

  Then she heard soft footsteps. Of course. Renzi wouldn't quit. He was a hunter and she was his prey. Her throat thickened. How could this happen? She had completed her mission. Chip was dead. Why were the ancestor spirits putting more obstacles in her path?

  Resolve stiffened her backbone. She would not be captured, would not sit in some horrible jail cell and be put on trial for killing the man whose father had murdered her mother.

  Her hands tightened around the gun. More footsteps.

  She bit her lip to keep from screaming the words in her mind: Please don't come any closer. I
don't want to shoot you . . .

  "Natalie! Throw the gun on the ground and come out with your hands behind your head!"

  The air left her lungs in a whoosh. How did he know it was her?

  Her heart was a machine gun inside her chest, rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

  She sprang into the alley and saw him, 20 yards away, his hands clamped around a gun. His head jerked up when he saw her. She gritted her teeth, aimed for his legs and pulled the trigger, three quick shots.

  He clutched his leg and fell to the ground. His weapon skittered away. In the distance she heard car horns honking, but no sirens. Yet.

  She stared at Renzi. He wasn't moving, one arm flung out. A deep sadness welled up inside her. She choked off a sob, turned and ran.

  At the end of the alley she ripped off her auburn wig, dropped it in a dumpster and shoved the gun in her tote. She burst out of the alley and ran toward St. Charles Avenue. Her lungs burned, her legs felt like lead, and the soles of her feet hurt from pounding the gritty rain-slicked pavement.

  When she reached St. Charles, a westbound streetcar was coming down the tracks two blocks away. She ripped the hairpins from her French twist, let her long dark hair fall to her shoulders and jogged across the street to the neutral ground. Two lanes of cars on the westbound side inched forward, bumper-to-bumper. Dodging between them, she reached the opposite sidewalk, panting and out of breath. Only then did she dare turn and look.

  No sign of Renzi. Was he badly hurt? She had deliberately aimed for his legs. Not a kill shot. He'd dropped his gun, but he probably had a cell phone or a police radio. He might be calling for help right now.

  She took her shoes out of the tote, swiped the grit off her bare feet and shoved them into the shoes. Now the streetcar was only a half block away. She waved her arms, signaling the driver to stop.

  Packed with passengers, the streetcar didn’t slow down.

  Desperate, she stepped onto the tracks.

  A bell clanged a warning. Ding, ding, ding.

  She waved her arms and shouted, “Please, stop.”

  Through the open windows, she heard passengers chanting, “Let her on. Let her on.”

  The streetcar rumbled to a stop and the door opened. “The car’s full,” the driver said, scowling at her. “I can’t take no more passengers.”

  “Let-‘er-on, let-‘er on,” chanted the passengers.

  She sprang up the steps and fumbled for her change purse.

  “Forget the fare, lady. Get back of the white line so’s I can get moving.”

  She pushed into the car and squeezed between two older black women. As the streetcar lurched forward, one of them smiled at her.

  “You lucky, hon. That driver wasn’t gonna stop for you, no way no how, but we made him.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “You saved my life.” A true statement if ever there was one. If Renzi had called more cops to help look for her, they weren't likely to spot her in this crowded streetcar.

  “You look like you all tuckered out,” said the woman. “You headed out of town?”

  “Yes. I’m meeting my boyfriend so we can drive to Houston.”

  “That’s where I’m headed. Gonna take forever with this traffic.”

  She turned away to avoid further conversation. Her legs were shaking and the soles of her feet burned. But Renzi hadn't caught her. That was the important thing.

  Other than stopping for traffic lights along St. Charles, the streetcar made no more stops, trundling along beside two lanes of stalled cars headed west. By the time they rounded the curve at the end of St. Charles and continued up Carrolton Avenue, her heartbeat had almost returned to normal.

  But her mind was churning. Her original plan had been to escape New Orleans in the Ford Focus, but that was no longer an option. Not only that, Renzi knew she was here, had seen her flee Parades-A-Plenty. She checked her watch: 6:16. By now the clerk would have found Chip in Room 44, and she'd just shot an NOPD detective.

  She had to get out of town fast. She also had to ditch the gun.

  If they caught her with the gun, it was all over.

  _____

  Cursing the traffic jams that had delayed him, Clint Hammer pulled his rental car to the curb and checked his Movado Swiss chronograph: 6:43. Christ, it had taken him an hour to drive the three miles from his hotel to Parades-A-Plenty, honking his horn all the way. Was everyone in New Orleans an idiot? It sure as hell seemed like it, drivers grid locking every intersection. If he was running NOPD, he'd order every cop on the street to issue traffic citations to those fucking idiots.

  He squinted at the three-story Victorian. Was this Parades-A-Plenty? There was no sign, and the rain was so heavy he couldn't see the numbers. He got out of the car, and needles of wind-driven rain slashed his face. He approached the wrought-iron gate and stopped, unable to believe his eyes. What the fuck was this?

  Crime-scene tape was strung across the gate.

  Sheets of rain drenched him, soaking his business suit. He hadn't thought to bring his rain gear. He'd been too intent on catching the bitch that killed Oliver. The wind was blowing harder now, gusting enough to make the limbs on two huge live oak trees in the yard whip back and forth.

  The three-story Victorian was as dark as the leaden sky, not one light showing inside. It looked like the creepy Bates Motel in Psycho. He'd seen the movie with his wife years ago when it first came out. The shower scene had scared the bat piss out of his wife. He thought it was funny and laughed like hell.

  But this no laughing matter. According to Jason, the bitch that shot Oliver was staying here at Parades-A-Plenty. Hell, Jason had talked to the owner a few hours ago, and the woman had confirmed this.

  But now she was gone. Sonofabitch! He should have followed his instincts, should have grabbed her when Jason called. This was the mother of all fuckups. What the hell was the crime-scene tape for?

  NOPD crime-scene tape. A hot poker of rage stabbed his gut.

  Maybe that fucking NOPD detective found out April West was here and captured her. The thought made his blood boil.

  He wanted that gook-bitch all to himself.

  He’d better go see Vobitch and find out where she was.

  CHAPTER 35

  When the streetcar stopped at the end of the line, she was the first one off, relieved that no cops had stopped them. Without breaking stride, she zigzagged between two lanes of cars halted by a traffic light and stood on the neutral ground, eyeing the gas station on the corner across the street. A dozen people stood at the pumps, gassing up cars, mini-vans and SUVs, shielded from the rain by a bright orange canopy. Beyond the pumps was a large convenience store. An eighteen wheeler was parked alongside the building.

  Rain pelted her, soaking her to the skin, but that was the least of her worries. She had to leave town fast, and she had no car. The cops would be looking for her at the bus and train stations. She doubted any planes were flying out of the airport. The last flights had probably departed hours ago.

  The whoop of approaching sirens startled her. An NOPD squad car with flashing lights pulled into the gas station and slewed to a stop. Two officers in uniform got out. Tension invaded her gut. Were they looking for her?

  Maybe not. The intersection was gridlocked, drivers honking horns and screaming at other drivers. The cops positioned themselves on opposite corners of the intersection and began directing traffic. To avoid them, she walked 20 yards to her left and dodged between the traffic-snarled cars to cross the street. The best way to get out of town might be to hitch a ride.

  The eighteen wheeler was one possibility. The truck driver would probably be alone. And possibly lonely. If she played her cards right, maybe she could keep him company. But she had to do it fast. Any minute now those cops might get in the cruiser and hear an urgent bulletin about a woman wanted for shooting a cop.

  When Renzi chased her, she'd been wearing her auburn wig. Now long dark hair hung below her shoulders, but she was still wearing her clingy teal top, slim black skirt
and spike-heeled shoes. She took off the shoes and stuffed them in her tote. Skirting the bright orange canopy above the gas pumps, she hurried toward the convenience store.

  As she reached the door a clerk came out with a hand-lettered sign that said NO GAS and trotted to the cars in line for the gas pumps.

  Waving the sign, he yelled, “No more gas. The tanks are empty.”

  Several drivers yelled curses at him. One cop heard the commotion and looked over. She plunged into the store and saw several customers grabbing whatever was left on the nearly-bare shelves. She went to the cooler in back and took out the last cold drink: a container of raspberry-flavored ice tea. Not what she wanted, but she was dying of thirst, her mouth dry as cotton.

  She studied the other customers. Which one was driving the truck?

  Not the teenager in the Saints T-shirt. Not the two women. Not the tall man in the pressed chinos and spiffy brown loafers. That left the man with the reddish-brown ponytail and the beard, the one in faded blue jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt, holding a box of Ritz crackers. She watched him take the last liter of Coca-Cola off a shelf and meander toward the checkout counter.

  She followed, but as she got in line behind him, one of the NOPD cops entered the store and looked around as though he was hunting for someone. Her heart fluttered, beating her chest like the wings of a bald eagle in a trap.

  The .38 Special was still in her tote. If the cop questioned her and searched her tote, she was dead.

  She turned away to hide her face, pretended to look at the packages of chewing gum below the counter while the man in the Rolling Stones T-shirt paid for his purchases. As he turned to leave she contrived to bump into him and said, “Oops, sorry. Didn’t mean to slow you down.”

  He turned, stone-faced, then did a double take, eying her clingy teal blouse. “Nothin slows me down, sweetheart,” he said with a grin.