Corpse Whisperer Sworn

by H. R. Boldwood

  Ferris raised Mouton on his cell as we sprinted to the SUV. “Do not initiate contact, Mouton. Repeat. Do not initiate contact. Just keep him in your sights and guide me to you.”

  We piled in, and Ferris peeled out of the lot before Babs could get the back passenger door closed. She fell over sideways, grasping for her seatbelt, as Ferris whipped the car into a bat turn. Babs. Why was she even with us? She was as useful as an HOV dummy, but without the personality.

  We followed Mouton’s directions and hopped on I-10W. Ferris flipped on his siren and lightbar, hit the gas, and wove through the heavy traffic like a pro.

  “Be nice to know where we’re headed,” Rico mused.

  Ferris’s eyes never left the road. “My money’s on the Warehouse District.”

  Twenty minutes later, Ferris cut his lights and siren as he exited at Franklin Street and merged into traffic. We were getting close. For what it was worth, I figured his guess was spot on. The crumbling Warehouse District, that once contained industrial and storage facilities, had been renovated and renamed the Arts District decades earlier. But a few abandoned buildings still remained, anonymous, almost invisible, tucked away among the trendy restaurants and galleries. Whatever Lafitte was up to, one of those buildings would offer privacy, isolation, and fast, convenient shipping.

  The kind of place I’d pick.

  Ferris spotted Mouton’s government issued SUV not two blocks up. When Mouton pulled to the curb, Ferris parked a half-block behind him and called his cell. “You still got eyes on him?”

  Mouton hesitated. “That’s his Beemer five cars up. I lost him when he got out and took off on foot. I was trying to hang back, give him some space, and…”

  Ferris sighed and rubbed his face.

  I glanced out the window, noting a shit ton of high-end retail shops and cafes, then spotted a crumbled, abandoned-looking eyesore at the top of the block.

  “What do you think?” I asked, pointing to the derelict building.

  Rico scanned the names on the store fronts. “Why not? He sure isn’t getting his nails done. Let’s move.”

  We took our time climbing out of the Suburban, trying to act nonchalant. Ferris popped the trunk and grabbed flashlights out of the field box for each of us. We were meandering toward Mouton’s SUV when a single gunshot popped.

  While Ferris, Rico, and I dove for cover, Babs sank gracefully to the ground like a wounded swan, leaving her oversized egghead jutting out above the hood like a freaking bullseye. I yanked her to the concrete, then sat on her stomach, and told her to stay put. The last thing I wanted to worry about, while we breached that building, was her bony ass.

  Babs’ face blazed sixteen shades of pissed off. “Get your hands off me, you narcissistic, ill-mannered infant.”

  She bucked her hips beneath my ass, sending me sprawling over her head, and onto my back.

  She’d caught me off guard and laid me out flat—in front of Rico and Ferris. I’d never live that down. Note to self: Never, ever touch the psycho bitch again. And if her face ever turns that same patchy shade of magenta, run. Run fast, run hard.

  Another shot popped. People ran through the street, pushing and screaming. Ferris called it in, while Rico hustled pedestrians around the next corner, and out of the line of fire. The four of us hunkered down beside a Taurus, waiting for backup to arrive.

  Within three minutes, NOLA PD had swarmed the scene and formed a perimeter to keep the civilians at bay. Crap, I thought. Another dog and pony show. Just what we needed.

  Little Allie moaned. How long until Jade shows up?

  Boudreaux and his men arrived moments later and gave us the go-ahead to breach the warehouse. Babs stayed behind and filled him in, while Ferris, Rico and I zig-zagged our way toward the entrance. We cleared the corner of the building, then pressed alongside the exterior for cover. Ferris tried the knob on the ancient wooden door. It was locked. He counted down with his fingers: four, three, two, one, then kicked the door twice, driving it open.

  We rushed inside, slicing the pie, to clear the space. Ferris went straight, Rico went left, and I went right. Not a soul in sight. A line of Boudreaux’s agents rushed in behind us, to help clear the five-story structure.

  “We’ll take the first floor,” Ferris told the team leader. “You take two through five.”

  Clearing the floors wasn’t an easy chore. The building had no power, no lights, and in some places, gaping holes in its concrete flooring. Rusted rebar jutted willy-nilly out of the walls and floors, electrical wires, cable, and insulation drooped from the ceilings. Animal scat, trash and dirty needles lay scattered throughout, which made maneuvering downright dicey. Step in a trash covered hole and plummet to your death. Get stuck with a needle and wonder if the tweaker who dropped it was contagious. Somewhere, amid all that mess and danger, lurked a shooter.

  We swept the first floor from side to side and stumbled across a room filled with boxes of laboratory equipment. Now, I wouldn’t have known beaker tongs from a Bunsen burner, but somebody needed to check this crap out. The brain bitch screamed virus mutation and a chill slithered through me.

  What if she was right?

  Ferris’s radio squawked. “Agent Ferris, report to the second floor with your team.”

  By the time we made it up the stairwell, the mindless moan of rotters had reached my ears. We followed the noise down the hallway to a steel door that was surrounded by a gaggle of G-men. I shined my flashlight through the window in the door. Maybe a dozen meatbags milled and moaned, mingling like guests at some deadhead dinner party.

  I turned to find the G-men staring at me. “What are you looking at? You know the drill. Tap to the head; blow out the brain.”

  According to Boudreaux, New Orleans was the land of the undead. These guys should be used to this shit, right? Why were they hesitating? A soft cry for help echoed through a hole in the floor. I didn’t have time to hold their sensitive hands.

  “Deal with it,” I yelled, pointing to the meatbags.

  Ferris, Rico, and I sprinted back toward the steps. By the time we reached the stairwell, I heard the metallic screech of hinges, instantly followed by a volley of shots behind us. One roomful o’ rotters wasted. What else lay ahead?

  We’d bounded down to the first-floor landing when a second cry rang out. It came from deeper in the building, maybe thirty yards beyond where we’d found the laboratory equipment. We had to clear each room as we advanced, making it seem like an eternity before we burst through the right door. Some guy was tied to a crappy folding chair, a crumpled gag ejected onto his chest. Blood caked the side of his head; his left eye was swollen shut. Somebody’d done a number on him.

  I looked a little closer and my heart caught in my throat. It was Jade’s cameraman, Rip Sacca.

  Rico tore across the room and dropped to his knees beside the chair. Then he yanked the folding knife from the sheath on his belt and hacked at the ropes.

  “Where is she?” he barked.

  Rip closed his eyes and moaned.

  Rico slapped him and snapped, “Look at me, damn it! Where’s Jade?”

  19

  The Stuff of Nightmares

  Rico’s face glistened with sweat as he slashed through the last of the ropes. “Where’d he take her, Rip?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  “I…I didn’t see.”

  “Think, damn it!”

  “I lost track of them.” Rip rose to his feet and rubbed his wrists. “I was too busy getting the shit beat out of me.”

  Rico grabbed him and pinned him up against a support beam. “Listen, jackass. You were the last person to see her. You’re going to recount every second, every—”

  Ferris quickly flanked Rico. “Why don’t you let me have a crack at him?”

  Rico nudged him aside, but Ferris regrouped and stepped in front of Rico, blocking him. “You’re too close to this. Back off.”

  Boudreaux and Babs burst through
the door. They’d obviously zeroed in on our location from the radio chatter. Boudreaux hung back, eyeing Rico and Ferris, as if he sensed the tension between them.

  After an exchange of silent glances, Rico backed off and let Ferris step in.

  “From the beginning, Rip. And don’t leave anything out, no matter how insignificant you think it is.”

  Rip slumped back in the chair and paused, as if collecting his thoughts. Once he started talking, the missing pieces came together. “Jade was beating the bushes for leads this morning when she got this tip from some back-street hoodoo queen about a shop called The Dark Angel. The chick swears it’s the real deal, so we drop by, and Jade chats up the manager, some dude named Lafitte. Jade spots the ink on his bicep. She starts asking questions like: ‘Where’d you get that tatt? What does it mean?’ Then she goes all pit bull on him, asking, ‘Who’s manipulating the Z-virus?’ Lafitte freaks out and shuts down, telling her to take a hike.”

  Rip sighed and rolled his eyes. “You know Jade. She puffs up and starts spouting piss and vinegar, threatening to finger him in her ‘exposé’ if he doesn’t cooperate.”

  The air quotes Rip had slapped around exposé let me know that I wasn’t the only one who thought Jade had bitten off more than she could chew. It was getting hard to breathe, what with the ginormous I-told-you-so stuck in my throat.

  Rip fidgeted and rubbed his face with his hands. “So, after the guy gives us the boot, I’m putting my camera back in the SUV and Jade’s dictating her notes, and two sketchy-looking guys come creeping out the back door of The Dark Angel, hauling a big-ass wooden crate. They load it into the back of some beat-to-shit box truck and take off.”

  “Any idea what they were hauling?” Rico asked.

  “Do I have x-ray vision? No. Jade tells me to follow them, so I do. They end up here. They back the truck up to the loading dock, haul the crate inside, and then start to lower the roll door. Jade’s screaming at me to stop the damn door from closing, so I grab one of the steel-transport cases for our equipment, dive out of the SUV, and shove the case beneath the door as it’s coming down. Worked like a charm, too. Jade and me, we crawl inside and hide. This big guy walks in across the room, six-four, about two-hundred and thirty pounds. Shoulder-length black hair, thirty-something. Dude has to be the boss, the way these guys kowtow to him. And what they do next, after they open that crate—it’s the stuff of fucking nightmares.”

  Given that Rip had just described Toussaint, I had a pretty good idea about what Rip saw in those nightmares.

  “These guys open the crate and some Bob Marley-looking dude sprawls out across the floor. He’s still alive, but he’s moaning and twitchin’, and looking loopy, like he’s three sheets to the wind. They’re twenty yards away, give or take, so it’s kind of hard to hear, but big dude squats down in front of Bob Marley, and asks his goons how long ago he’d been injected. Somebody answered, ‘long enough.’ Big dude starts whaling on Marley and asking questions, most of which I can’t hear. The guy’s mumbling like a whackadoodle. Can’t make out a word of what he’s saying, so I grab my camera, and try to get some pics, ‘cause this soiree’s got Pulitzer written all over it, right? But I fumble the fucking lens cap. It rolls into the middle of the freakin’ floor, and next thing I know, I’m getting the shit beat out of me.”

  Rico shook Rip’s chair. “What about Jade?”

  “She begs them to stop beating on me. Then who walks in but that Lafitte guy from The Dark Angel. He gets all worked up, grabs Jade and drags her over to big dude, who he calls Toussaint. Tells Toussaint that Jade and me were in the shop, asking questions and threatening to expose his operation.”

  Rip started to hyperventilate, but he fought through it, raised his head and stared in Rico’s eyes. “Toussaint pulls a .45 from his belt, points it at Lafitte’s face and says, ‘You brought her to my doorstep, cameraman in tow. If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s carelessness.’ Then he pulls the trigger, putting one right between Lafitte’s eyes. Next thing I know, he blows the head off Bob Marley, and tells his goon squad to throw them both in the crate and dump it.”

  Rico grabbed Rip’s face and squeezed. “For the last time. What happened to Jade?”

  Rip winced and tried to pull away. “Toussaint slugged her in the jaw. She went down, he tied her up, and told his guys to carry her to his car. Then he gave me a message for Nighthawk.” Rips eyes darted to me. “If you want to see Jade alive again, meet him at Congo Square at midnight tonight. You and only you. If you don’t show, or if Toussaint gets even a whiff of cop, he’s going to inject Jade with the virus.”

  20

  Slam, Bam, and Wham

  “Son of a bitch.” Rico kicked Rip’s chair, nearly toppling him backward.

  A silent Ferris gazed at me, his eyes lingering uncomfortably long. He seemed to be trying to communicate, but whatever subliminal message he was sending was getting lost in transmission. Either that, or Little Allie’s shrieks of guilty, guilty had short-circuited my receptors.

  Ah, what the hell did she know anyway?

  Jade was the thorn of thorns. The albatross of albatrosses. Toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe. She was conniving, manipulative, and without question, a hoochy mama heifer. But she was also Rico’s girlfriend. My partner’s girlfriend, who had asked for my help with a dangerous exposé. And what had I done? Rather than protect her, I’d given her the middle finger salute and told her to piss up a rope. I might not have been able to read Ferris’s eyes, but the fact that Rico couldn’t bring himself to look at me made his feelings abundantly clear.

  Rico blamed me for Jade’s disappearance.

  It had been her decision to follow us out here uninvited, but if I had helped her when she’d asked me, months ago, maybe today she would be safe and sound at back at Channel 5, ripping me a new one, instead of missing and in harm’s way.

  What if she died? Sweet Jesus, what if she turned?

  Boudreaux’s voice called me back from circling the drain. “Let’s huddle up. The first thing we do is get a warrant out on Le Clerc for kidnapping and two counts of capital murder. Agent Ferris, why don’t you put in a call to Director Horton and ask him to send your bioterrorism guy out here to take a peek at the lab equipment we recovered. What’s his name?”

  “Eli Stanton, sir. I’m on it.”

  “Excellent. Now, let’s consider this proposed midnight meeting of Toussaint’s.”

  “Consider?” Rico glowered at Boudreaux. “Toussaint didn’t give us a suggestion, or even an invitation. He made a threat. Nighthawk has to go. If she doesn’t show, Jade’s as good as dead.”

  “Like hell,” Ferris growled. “You want to send Nighthawk in alone? It’s a set-up. We need to get the damned warrant and arrest his ass. Period. You don’t have any—”

  “Any what? Jurisdiction? This isn’t about jurisdiction—”

  “Enough.” Boudreaux stepped between Ferris and Rico. “Somebody want to tell me why you two got your tails up?”

  Ferris glared at Rico. “No reason.”

  “Simple misunderstanding,” Rico said. “That’s all.”

  Boudreaux eyeballed the three of us. “Don’t piss down my back and tell me it’s raining. Out with it.”

  Crickets chirped. Tumbleweeds drifted across the floor.

  Babs folded her arms across her chest and sighed. “In a nutshell, sir, Agent De Palma is dating Ms. Chen, and there appears to be some unresolved…entanglement…between the three of them.” She drew a triangle between Ferris, Rico and me with her finger, like we were blobs of listeria on a slide. “Speaking as a mental health professional, I suggest that for the time being, they try to step back and compartmentalize their feelings, in order to function properly within the team paradigm.”

  Freaking Babs. I wanted to snap her neck like a twig. Fuck feelings—and double fuck team paradigm.

  “Is that a fact?” Boudreaux asked, turning to me. “Ms. Nighthawk, you got any feelings you want to share with
the group?”

  “Oh, God no, sir.”

  “How ’bout you two?” Boudreaux side-eyed Rico and Ferris. “Any feelings you want to shout from the mountain tops? Now’s the time to let ’em rip, boys and girls. Otherwise, get your sensitive asses in check. You feel me?”

  Actually, I did feel him. With all that testosterone flying through the air, nobody had asked me what I thought about the meeting with Toussaint. Thankfully, Boudreaux recognized the oversight. “Ms. Nighthawk, since it’ll be your ass on the line tonight, maybe we should ask your thoughts on the action plan.”

  “You bet your ass I’m going to meet with Toussaint. The way I see it, we don’t have any choice.” I glanced at Ferris and instantly wished that I hadn’t. His eyes were intense and over-bright. Was it fear I saw? Rico let out a long, slow sigh of relief. At least one of us was happy I’d be meeting with Toussaint.

  Having settled on our course of action, Boudreaux sent us back to the hotel to get some rest. The night would be long, unless of course, I bit the dust, in which case, sleep would be totally irrelevant. We collected Vinny from the FBI office, and headed back to the hotel for a quick dinner before relaxing. I decided to bow out. I needed to keep it together, and being the ping-pong ball in a match between Rico and Ferris wouldn’t help.

  I entered my room with an abundance of caution, and after a thorough search, said a prayer of thanks. No more Voodoo dolls or fetishes. Kicking off my boots, I stretched out on my bed and closed my eyes. Visions of Nonnie and Leo, Rico and Ferris, and even my old partner, Harry, and the terrible twins danced through my head. If I’d been hoping for sleep, my brain wasn’t cooperating. I blocked out the visions, censored my thoughts, and found myself slipping down a long, dark corridor. There was peace in that darkness. And solitude. The only sound, the steady beat of my heart.

  A small figure hovered at the edge of the void. As the figure drew closer, my heart began to thrum. Screams and moans shattered the solitude. My eyes were closed, but I squeezed them tight, as if that could save me from the monster who had stalked my dreams for years.