Sleeping With the Crawfish

by D. J. Donaldson

  “What if we refuse?” Trip Guillory said.

  “He made reference to how interested a grand jury would be in our activities and how easily he could distance himself from us.”

  “I don’t believe he’s thought this over very carefully,” an unfamiliar voice said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s treating us as though we don’t have options.”

  “What options?” Trip Guillory asked.

  “Perhaps Tom could help us there.”

  “If you mean can I make this problem go away, it wouldn’t be the easiest job I ever had, but it’s possible.”

  “How?” Trip Guillory said. “He’s too well protected.”

  “Any man can be reached. Give me three days and we’ll be a smaller family.”

  “Damn it,” Trip Guillory said. “If there just wasn’t so much at stake.”

  “I sense we’ve reached a decision here,” Woodley said. “Is there any other discussion? No?”

  With a start, Kit realized the meeting was about to end Any second, they all might be heading for this room and the door she’d come through. She had to get out—now.

  She shot to her feet and stepped over the dog. Startled by her sudden movement, he shied against the screen, tipping it off its legs and sending it slamming to the floor. Frightened by the sound, the Westie did a wheelie on the bare floor, clattered across the fallen screen onto the Bessarabian Kilim carpet, and bolted from the room.

  Before anyone at the meeting could clear their chairs, Kit was past the porch and into the darkness.

  His automatic already in hand, Ward pushed Woodley out of the way and ran after her, trampling over the Chinese screen in his haste. He darted through the French doors and out onto the porch, where he stopped, gun raised to his ear to scan the grounds. Behind him, the others crowded through the doors.

  “Goddamn it,” the owner of the estate said. “I’ve got a fifty-thousand-dollar security system here. So where is it? There are infrared motion detectors in all the trees. The entire place should now be bright as day.”

  “Well, as you can see, it ain’t,” Ward said. “I got no idea where to look.”

  “Never mind. There’s a backup. But you’ve all got to get inside.”

  “What kind of backup?” Ward said.

  “One that can locate its target even in the dark. But it’ll find you, too, if you don’t get inside.”

  AS KIT RAN, SHE wondered if she’d hear the bullet fired before it hit her, or would the two happen so close together she’d have no warning? She was really burning up yardage now as she angled for the point where she thought she had come over the wall. But where was the glow of the church light? It should have been visible. She looked to her right. Not there, either.

  She strained to see into the darkness, trying to keep from colliding with a tree. Detecting a subtle form in the void, she veered right, skirting a tall yew hedge.

  IN A SMALL BUILDING behind the mansion, the security backup lay curled in sleep. But with the first sound of the metal door sliding open, he was up, ears erect, eyes bulging. Then he was free. A killing machine of bone and sinew, a minion from hell anointed by Lucifer, a creature born to his name, and he was called Death.

  He smelled the men who’d been on the porch and the gate guard who’d just been warned to stay in the guardhouse. Their odors were faint—prey that might already be out of reach. But there were two other smells, bright and strong. His choice was instinctive, made a thousand years before his ancestors knew the hand of man. Stringy saliva trailing from his muzzle, snot bubbling from his nose, he gave chase, following fear.

  Muscles rippling under his sleek coat, he consumed the distance to his prey in great powerful strides. At the yew hedge Kit had passed seconds earlier, he slowed to stalking speed.

  Fifteen yards away, Kit had just realized to her horror that a second hedge intersected the one on her left. With a sinking feeling, she ran along this new obstruction, searching for an opening. When she found a third hedge intersecting the second, fear made room for anger. How could she be so dumb?

  The hedges were what had blocked her view of the church light and were what had kept her from seeing the house when she’d first come over the wall.

  Jesus.

  The third hedge ran back toward the house. Unwilling to give ground in that direction, she tried to push her way through, but couldn’t penetrate the wall of thick branches. Aware of the time flying by, she moved along the hedge, praying for an opening. Her right knee banged against something. More by osmosis than sight, she determined that it was a sort of overgrown baby carriage with wheelbarrow handles.

  She couldn’t see him, but Death saw her. His ears flattened and his lips curled back in an ugly sneer. Slowly, he closed the distance between them.

  Kit moved out to go around the lawn cart and heard a throaty growl that could not have come from a little Westie. Fear clogging her own throat, she reached down and released the Ladysmith. She came up with it in her hand and assumed a textbook stance.

  Unable to pinpoint the source of the sound she’d heard, she swept the air in front of her, keeping the gun moving. Another malevolent rattle that quickly grew louder and more malignant came out of the darkness. Zeroing in on its apparent origin, she narrowed the focus of her attention.

  Death’s eyes were now bulging out so far, the whites were showing, ringing the black centers, giving them the look of taxidermist’s accessories. Still unable to see him, Kit continued her focused sweep.

  The tension was unbearable. If she moved, the animal would certainly attack and she’d be caught out of position, off balance. At least here, she was as prepared as she could be. But she needed to be gone. She couldn’t stay here, couldn’t allow herself to be held until the men inside came for her.

  Her finger tightened on the trigger. Empty the gun into the night and hope for the best—that could work. But it might not.

  Do something.

  Then Death took the decision from her. With a sound first heard before there was written history, he launched himself at her throat.

  As he came hurtling out of the darkness, she finally saw him against the sky. She swung the gun that way. But she was too slow. He hit her and she went over backward into the lawn cart without getting off a shot.

  When the world stopped spinning, she found the cart upside down on top of her, the rim of the bucket resting against the backs of her knees. She turned on her side, pulled her legs up to her stomach, and lay there inside the bucket, under a carpet of sour grass clippings, her heart threatening to explode, all too aware that she’d lost the gun.

  Death was in a crazed frenzy, circling the cart, trying to thrust his muzzle under it. Hearing him slobbering behind her, she rolled in the opposite direction as much as she could. A second later, the tip of his snout was practically in her face, so close, she could smell the mole he’d eaten that morning. She rolled away from him onto her back and felt a hard object beneath her. Confined to such a small space, her body heat and sweat had nowhere to go, so she felt as though she were being steamed alive.

  Death began to dig.

  Trouble . . . this was big trouble. The estate’s heavy turf would slow him briefly, but when he got through that, he would quickly open up a hole large enough to get his head through, and then he could either grab her or flip the cart over.

  With her left hand, she managed to get hold of the object punishing the small of her back. In the dark, it was impossible to see it, but she knew from its shape it was an aerosol can, or, more correctly, her possible salvation.

  But it was so lightweight. Could it have been tossed in with the grass clippings because it was empty?

  No. Let it not be empty.

  She shook it against her ear but could hear nothing. Her fingers found a dimple on one side of the nozzle and she turned the can, facing the dimple away from her.

  So many things to go haywire.

  If she guessed wrong about the direction of the n
ozzle, she’d spray herself. And she couldn’t afford to waste what little might be left on a test spray into her hand.

  Death had cleared away all the grass from his hole and the air behind him was filled with dirt as his front legs churned the ground. Soon the hole was big enough. He thrust his entire head under the cart, jaws snapping. In the dark, his hot saliva splattered onto Kit’s face.

  To protect her own eyes in case she had the nozzle pointed the wrong way, she shut them and depressed the button on top of the can. There was a hissing noise followed by a yowl of agony as the dog yanked his head out of the hole. Blinded and howling in pain from the wasp spray in his eyes, he began turning in circles, snapping at phantoms.

  Hearing his reaction, Kit kicked the cart off herself.

  How long would the spray keep him occupied?

  No way to know.

  Fighting the desire to get away, Kit swept the ground with her hand, looking for . . .

  There . . . the gun.

  Snatching it up, she ran for the open end of the hedges without looking back.

  25

  For the second time this month, she’d lost the combs that held her hair out of her face, but she was running so fast, the resulting wind kept it from her eyes. As she rounded the end of the hedge, she glanced toward the house, expecting to see a covey of flashlights bobbing toward her, but there was nothing there. Fearing that any moment the dog would recover, she sprinted hard for the church light, which appeared ahead as a welcoming beacon.

  She reached the volleyball net with a three-alarm blaze in her chest and a stabbing pain in her side. She’d heard no evidence the dog was close behind, but believed that meant nothing. Still, needing both hands to climb the net, she paused to holster the Ladysmith and secure it with the Velcro strap.

  Sweating like a stevedore, she grabbed hold of the net and started climbing. It wasn’t pretty and, with her wet hair now dangling in her face, it wasn’t easy, but she managed to get onto the wall, where, realizing what a great target she made, she jumped.

  The ground came up fast and she hit with a jolt. Her ankles hurt but held. Her car sat where she’d left it, apparently undisturbed. Afraid they might be waiting for her in the shadows, she reached for the Ladysmith.

  Warily, she moved toward the car, trying to see in all directions at once. There were a lot of crickets chirping. Would they be doing that if anyone was around? Dumb question . . . She was around.

  If it was a trap, when would they spring it? Probably when she was unlocking the car.

  Unlocking . . . The key . . .

  She switched the gun into her left hand and dug for the car key, tormented by visions of it lying back there with her combs, under the grass clippings. But by all that’s good and right in the world, it was in her pocket.

  She reached the car safely and put the key in the lock, craning her neck for any signs of an ambush. There was no place anyone could hide within thirty yards, so she’d clearly have time to get in and lock it before anyone could reach her.

  But what if this very second she was in the crosshairs of a rifle? She ducked and yanked the door open. Sweating and frightened and sorry she’d ever become involved in this, she threw herself inside and locked the door. Expecting at any moment to hear the sound of shattering glass as a bullet came out of the darkness, she tattooed the ignition switch with the key, her hand shaking so badly, she couldn’t hit the hole.

  Finally, she did. A touch of the starter filled her ears with the sweet sound of the engine. Once again, the closest volleyball support survived her departure. And she was soon on the road, every second that passed taking her farther out of harm’s way—if no one was following.

  She couldn’t shake that last thought, so every car approaching from behind on the way back to New Orleans fell under suspicion. Then they’d take a side road or pass her and she’d relax until another appeared. When she finally turned onto North Rampart, a tailing car she’d picked up three blocks earlier followed. From the lights behind it, she could see only one occupant.

  Normally, she would have turned down Toulouse, then taken Dauphine to Nolen’s garage. Tonight, on a stage-two alert, she kept going on Rampart for another nine blocks. The car behind did the same.

  Reaching Esplanade, she turned right. In the mirror, she saw the suspect car follow, sending her alert status to stage three.

  She passed Burgundy and turned onto Dauphine, keeping her eyes more on the rearview mirror than on the street ahead. The car that was giving her so much concern came, too. Skin prickling, all internal alarms flashing, she decided to look for a patrol car she could flag down. But then the suspect car turned onto Barracks and was gone.

  There was, however, another car behind him that didn’t turn. Considering there might be two cars following her, she turned right on Ursulines, so she was headed back toward Rampart. The second car continued on Dauphine. She wasn’t being tailed after all.

  The relief left her limp and exhausted and aware that her knee hurt. She touched it lightly and felt a tear in her slacks, probably done when she was floundering over that brick wall.

  She made a left on Rampart and began to compare what she’d accomplished this night to what it had cost her. She’d learned that Woodley and the two Guillorys were indeed partners in some clandestine enterprise. If the house where they’d met didn’t belong to any of them, the owner was probably the other guy, the one who’d had his back to her. In the latter case, his name could easily be determined. She had no idea how to get the identity of the remaining partner. But from the vote taken, he’d better watch his step. The thought of the vermin exterminating one another had a poetic ring to it.

  That talk about a side effect meant there was a drug of some kind at the heart of all this.

  Of course—that’s why Woodley needed a tech who knew chromatography. He was planning to digest the original molecule—whatever that was—enzymatically and purify the resulting fragments for testing. Had she not screwed up so badly tapping his phone, she’d have probably been the one to do that work. And she could have made off with enough of the sample so Tabor could have it analyzed.

  Could have—can’t put “could have” in the bank.

  Viewing it objectively, she hadn’t learned a helluva lot and had almost lost her life—for the third time. Enough—she’d had more than enough of this. She’d tell Tabor what she’d heard and keep her nose out of any more of it.

  She put her car away and walked home through streets choked with tourists clutching hurricane glasses from Pat O’Brien’s and plastic bags from one of the T-shirt and souvenir shops that occupy every other storefront on Bourbon Street. Turning to watch a guy wearing a giant fabric crawfish on his head, she noticed for the first time a pain in the back of her neck, her body finally admitting the toll placed on it. And there would probably be more countries to be heard from. She stepped into the street to avoid a crowd around three little kids tap-dancing on the sidewalk. The asylum is always open.

  As she returned to the sidewalk, a high-yellow black man with a face full of freckles and his hair in dreadlocks approached her with a tract in his hand. “Have you met Jesus, miss?”

  She waved him off. “I’m not really dressed for it.”

  What she wanted now was to lie in bed wrapped in Teddy’s arms and never get up. But he was far away. The next-best thing was hugging Lucky. She checked her watch: 9:20. He’d still be walking with Nolen and Mitzi. Nuts. A shower while she waited for him—that would be good.

  She passed the photo gallery and unlocked the gate to the courtyard, already feeling the hot water of that shower running over her and hoping she wouldn’t run into Eunice Dalehite. Her luck, which had waxed and waned all day, turned her way again, for Eunice’s apartment was dark. She unlocked her own front door, went inside, and flicked the light switch.

  No lights. Great. With this place, it was always something.

  She shut the door and made her way to a nearby lamp. Eager to get out of her damp, filthy clothe
s, she was already unbuttoning her blouse at the same time she switched the lamp on.

  “Now close the drapes,” a voice said from behind her.

  It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.

  “I said, close the drapes.”

  She turned and saw Tom Ward sitting against the wall in a wooden chair he’d pulled over from the counter serving the kitchenette. In his hand was an automatic with an extension on the barrel that she assumed was a silencer.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I’m not gonna tell you again about those drapes.”

  Head spinning, she turned back to the window and drew the drapes.

  “Now the other pair.”

  She did as he ordered, her thoughts now centering on the Ladysmith and how she might get at it.

  “Now come back and sit there.” With the gun, he motioned her to the armchair at his end of the room. “But straighten it up first.”

  She walked to the chair and turned it away from the TV. Ward got up and pulled his chair into the center of the room so they faced each other across eight feet of carpet.

  “I’d have thought a woman with your looks could do better’n this,” Ward said. “I particularly like that touch.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the brace behind him propped against the ceiling. “Real class. You could have parlayed that body of yours into practically anything you wanted. Instead, you had to go and get yourself killed.”

  Kit estimated it would take at least three seconds to get at the Ladysmith and fire off a round, which was about three seconds longer than it’d take Ward to fire. She told herself to stay calm, use her wits.

  “How’d you escape the freezer?” Ward asked.

  “So you did that.”

  “I never liked the idea from the start. But they wanted it to look like an accident. They’re big on that. I should have argued harder, but I’m just the hired help.”

  “You saw me go into Woodley’s office?”

  “I was catching up on some sleep in one of the darkened rooms off the main lab when you came waltzing in. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me leave.”