by Sharon Wray
Heyward’s laugh sounded menacing. “Why would a grown man want to be friends with a little girl?”
Alex’s fist slammed into Heyward’s jaw with the force of a rocket launcher. Heyward fell to his knees. The pain in Alex’s knuckles and arm made him blink a few times. Other than that and a few shakes of his hand, he was the pin-up boy for calm and collected.
“Alex!” Maddie took his wrist. “Why did you do that?”
“Because your ex is an ass.”
“That ass”—Maddie waved at Heyward on the ground—“is going to file for full custody.”
Heyward struggled to stand, with a red mark forming on his jaw. “I’m going to win, too.”
“What’s going on?” Detective Waring crossed the street and did the gaze-dance between Alex and Heyward.
Heyward pointed at Alex. “He hit me.”
The last time Alex had been ratted on had been in the prison yard, after a knife fight with a rapist. But because no one in prison liked tattletales, the ratter never made it back to his cell. Unfortunately, in the real world where everything was upside-down, tattlers were the good guys.
Detective Waring looked at Alex. “Did you assault Heyward?”
“No.” Alex rocked back on his heels. He didn’t need SAT words to redefine his actions. “I hit him.”
Waring looked at Heyward. “Do you want to press charges?”
“Hell yes.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Maddie said. “Heyward was hurting Susan and accused Alex of awful things.”
“I would never hurt my daughter,” Heyward said.
“I didn’t see what happened.” Waring took out his handcuffs, and Alex turned around. “But we can talk about it down at the station. Mr. Ashton, meet me there.”
Alex held his hands behind his back and winked at Susan.
Susan cried and looked up at her mother. “I don’t want Mr. Mitchell to go to jail.”
“It’ll be okay, Susan.” Maddie lifted her gaze and met his. “Do you need a lawyer, Mr. Mitchell?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”
Waring dragged Alex to the patrol car. Once they drove away, he noticed two things. On the right side of the road, near the iron gate that led to Pirates Courtyard, he saw Horatio hit his chest with his fist and bow his head.
High praise from a Fianna warrior? Perfect.
On Alex’s left, he noticed Isabel holding up her phone. She was filming him and had probably recorded his fight with Heyward. As they drove by, she dropped the phone into her purse. He didn’t need to ask what she’d done. He knew. She’d sent his defense of Susan and Maddie to Remiel.
Now Remiel would know Alex was interested.
Chapter 33
Zack stared out the window of the tiny private airport hangar on John’s Island, listened to the hailstorm wreaking havoc around them, and knew they were screwed.
“I just spoke with the pilot.” Allison handed him a vending machine coffee, black with no sugar. “It’ll be hours before we take off. Since this storm is affecting the entire southern U.S., we may not arrive until tomorrow.”
Fuck. He fisted his free hand and watched the hail hammer the tarmac.
What were they supposed to do now?
Allison took his wrist and led him to a hard plastic seat against the wall, not far from Vivienne’s private plane. Along the way, he tossed his bitter coffee into the trash. “I can’t just wait here. I can’t just do nothing.”
Once they sat, she asked, “Do you have any friends in New Orleans that can help us out? Maybe visit this restaurant for us?”
He shook his head. “I’m not very good with keeping in touch with people. It’s not easy being gone all the time. And I suck at social media.”
She kissed the back of his hand. “Luckily, the pilot said we can wait—and sleep—on the plane. I’m not sure how, maybe with a generator, but the plane has enough power on the ground to run the AC until we take off.”
With no other choice, he nodded and let Allison lead the way to the plane.
* * *
A few hours later, Allison left Zack in the bed in the back of the most luxurious airplane she’d ever seen and took a bottle of water out of the small refrigerator next to a leather couch.
She’d slept a bit, but Zack’s restlessness kept waking her up. She understood his frustration and his worry, but she was antsy from something else.
She found her tote bag, sat on the couch, and covered her lap with a soft blanket. Since she’d gone to Fenwick Hall, she felt like she’d missed something. The twitchy feeling in her mind had nothing to do with what’d happened at the service. It had everything to do with those apotropaic marks they’d been collecting throughout the city.
She took out all the rubbings: the combined daisy wheel from the Pink House and planner that Alex had retraced this morning, the daisy wheel from the Fenwick Hall barn, and the one Alex had rubbed at the church.
She stared at the three complete daisy wheels. She even turned them upside down.
What am I missing?
She ran a finger over the church rubbing. Alex’s heavy hand with the charcoal pencil had also picked up a broken daisy and random markings around the perimeter of the wheel. They were similar to the markings around the other two apotropaic marks.
Starting from scratch, she took three pieces of fresh tracing paper and sat at the desk. One by one, she retraced the rubbings—everything except for the daisy wheels. There was a surprising amount of engraved graffiti around the perimeters of apotropaic marks but it wasn’t until she laid the three pages of new tracings on the table that she realized what those random markings were: rectangles.
Still not sure what it all meant, she found a pair of scissors in a desk and cut out the shapes. When she was done, she laid out the three pages on the table. She had three pages of rectangular cutout windows and two swirly calligraphy lines.
Then she remembered the seventeenth-century calligraphy lines that’d divided the Pirate’s Grille into three parts.
It didn’t take long to trim the three pages and tape them together. She just wasn’t sure they were in the right order.
“What are you doing?” Zack appeared next to her in his gym shorts and nothing else. Despite the plane having some power, it was still hotter than she knew he preferred.
“I think I figured out the mystery of the apotropaic marks.” She pointed to the pages she’d taped together. “When Mercy Chastain carved these daisy wheels in prison, she added these rectangles. I know it’s been a few days since I’ve seen it, but I’m sure these cutouts form the Pirate’s Grille. I think she embedded the Cardan grille into the apotropaic marks.”
He held up the taped page with the cutout windows. “That means—”
“If we can find the witch’s examination’s appendix in New Orleans, we can find the treasure.”
* * *
On Saturday morning, when the storm finally stopped and their plane finally landed, a car had been waiting for them courtesy of Vivienne. Zack had parked in a garage near the river, not far from the French Quarter. Unfortunately, since the restaurant didn’t open until six p.m., they’d had hours to play tourist.
Normally, Zack wouldn’t have minded spending the day in the city he adored with the woman he loved. They’d even done touristy things like eat beignets at Café du Monde and tour the cathedral, just to kill time.
But that was the problem. Time was dying.
While he was grateful for the full night’s sleep, Allison’s brilliance at figuring out the mystery of the apotropaic marks/Pirate’s Grille, and the luxury of the plane, the clock had been ticking away.
Now that it was almost six p.m., they had sixteen hours left. Marcellus had said the Prince wanted the treasure by Sunday morning. As far as Zack was concerned that meant ten a.m., not six a.m.
The other nagging problem? He’d not been able to get in touch with Alex.
Maybe Alex had returned to Savannah to appease both Nate and Kells and keep them off Zack’s ass. Throughout the day, Zack had thought about calling Nate but decided not to. Zack simply didn’t have the headspace for more stress. He just hoped Alex had dealt with the Nate/Kells/Savannah situation.
Zack stopped at the corner of Saint Ann Street and Bourbon Street in the French Quarter. He took Allison’s tote bag with their research and held her hand.
Zack maneuvered them across a street packed with drunk revelers. She usually wore dresses or skirts, but today she had on jeans and a white blouse, her hair in a ponytail. If it was at all possible, she looked even sexier.
They’d not only been able to sleep on the plane. They’d also showered and changed clothes. When they’d landed, he’d driven to Emilie’s apartment, found her hidden key, and searched her house. Her place was tiny and neat. And they’d found nothing that would tie her to Remiel, the Fianna, or anything else from Zack’s life as a soldier.
Now they passed colorful restaurants and noisy clubs with outdoor music before turning down a dark alley that smelled like awful things he didn’t want to name.
“Where are we?” she asked. “The address Vivienne gave us is on the other side of the quarter.”
He paused behind a dumpster and pulled his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans. “You grew up in this city too.”
“No.” She crossed her arms as if she were cold despite the summer humidity that blanketed the city. “I moved to the Irish Channel when I was fourteen. Then I went to an all-girls Catholic High School until going to Tulane where, as a scholarship student, I stayed in most nights. Unless I was with you.”
He smiled to put her at ease and dialed his phone. When he’d met her in college he’d been surprised—no, shocked—that they’d grown up in the same city. Whereas she’d been sheltered by her grandmother, Vivienne had allowed him to run wild. He’d explored every nook of this city and knew which crannies to stay away from.
She wrinkled her nose, probably against the overwhelming stench of urine and vomit. “Who are you calling?”
“Rafe.”
Rafe picked up on the first ring. “What’s wrong?”
It was sad that whenever he and his buddies called each other, that was the first question they asked. “We’re being followed.”
“We are?” Allison spun around until Zack drew her in close.
“You sure?” Rafe asked.
“I know when I’m being tailed, brother.” Zack had been in enough hot zones around the world as both the tail-er and the tail-ee. “About half an hour ago, we picked up a black van.”
“Where is it now?”
“We lost the van once we entered the pedestrian area of Bourbon Street. I don’t know what he—or they—look like, so I’m not sure where they went.”
“Fuck.”
“Agreed.” Zack watched the street they’d come off of. Two men paused at the alley’s entrance, then moved on. At the other end of the alley, he heard a homeless man singing in French. “Any chance we’re being followed by the Fianna?”
“I don’t think so.” Rafe paused for a long moment. “Alex mentioned this man you’re searching for—”
“Mack McIntyre.”
“He worked for Remiel. I asked a few questions but haven’t learned anything. But Detective Garza checked his sources. Mack lived in Terrebonne Parish with his grandmother until joining the Marines. Years ago he returned to New Orleans and ran an illegal fight club until he couldn’t pay his prizefighters. Someone bailed him out, and Mack had to start working for the guy. My guess is that guy was Remiel.”
“Thanks, Rafe. I appreciate it.”
“No problem.” Rafe paused. “Zack, when a Fianna warrior is assigned to a city, he spends months learning every in and out before starting a mission. You’re ahead of the game there. You know that city better than most. Use that knowledge. And remember, always listen for the birds.”
Meaning get to know the native sounds around you because when things changed, the sounds were often the first sign. “Hey. What’s that noise where you are?”
“I’m in the Charleston police station with Pete and Detective Garza. We’re meeting with Detective Waring.”
Zack’s heart began a loud thud-thud-thud. “Why?” Please don’t let it be about Alex.
“We have another problem. And, no, I haven’t told Kells. I don’t think his temper could handle it right now. He’s so pissed you haven’t returned to Savannah I think he may actually start bleeding from his eyeballs.”
Fuck. Zack closed his eyes and rested his chin on Allison’s head. How he wished he were home in her bedroom, making love to her in front of the fireplace. “What problem?”
Allison shifted in his arms. “There’s a problem?”
“Last night”—Rafe sighed—“Alex was arrested.”
* * *
Allison held Zack’s hand outside the address Vivienne had given them. It’d taken them longer than expected to work their way through the quarter without being followed. On the corner of Cabildo Alley and Pirate Alley, near the back of the Saint Louis Cathedral, they stared at a closed-up shop on the corner. All the doors and windows were shuttered. The sun hadn’t set yet, but had lowered in the sky.
“Where is this place?” she asked.
“Vivienne said it’s on the second floor of this address, but I don’t see a way to get up there.”
A couple appeared from a door on their right, ten yards down the alley. Zack held Allison close and used his body to press hers against the brick wall. “Play along.”
His lips found hers and he began a slow, tender kiss that gave and took. They were hidden in the shadows, just another couple finding happiness in the city known for debauchery.
“The food was amazing,” the female half of the couple said as she came closer. “How can I thank you?”
“We could go back to my place for a nightcap,” the male said.
The female giggled, and they turned the corner and disappeared.
“Now what?” Allison whispered.
He kissed her forehead, her nose, and one final peck on her lips. “Follow me.”
They entered the alley and stopped in front of the green shuttered door the couple had emerged from. No doorbell, no doorknob, no way to enter without—
Allison stepped up and knocked. “Play along.”
The shuttered doors opened out, and they had to back up. A tall black man in a dark suit stood in the entrance. “May I help you?”
Allison smiled. “Please tell Mack McIntyre that Allison Pinckney would like to speak to him.”
“He won’t—”
“He will if you tell him I’m Stuart Pinckney’s wife.” Allison handed him Stuart’s planner that she’d taken out of her tote bag. “Show him this. Please.”
The man took the planner and said, “Wait here,” and shut the door.
“I hope this works,” Zack said.
“Me too.”
They waited ten minutes before the door opened again. The man said, “Follow me.”
Allison went first, with Zack’s hand on her lower back, down a narrow hallway. At the end, they climbed two flights of stairs before going through another door and passing another guard in a black suit. Compared to the dark hallway, the restaurant with its low lights and candles seemed bright.
Small tables were staggered throughout the room, allowing each table an optimal view of the only wall with windows, built high into the brick wall, that looked out on the cathedral’s bell tower. Light jazz music came from a trio in a corner, near the bar. All the tables were filled, and the smell of Cajun spices and warm cornbread made her stomach growl despite the fact that they’d been eating all day.
Luckily Zack had gotten
over his aversion to having her pay for everything, since he’d left Charleston with nothing but a few singles in his pocket.
“This place is amazing,” Allison said to their guide.
“The building has been redesigned with brick walls, high windows, and skylights, so from the street you’d never know the restaurant was here.”
Suddenly, the bell tower’s lights turned on and filtered in through the glass skylights. The hazy colors of sunset and the bell tower’s light amplified the restaurant’s intimate, private vibe. She figured the restaurant had to have one of the best views in the city and—from the tantalizing scents—it had fabulous food as well.
How she wished they’d been there for a date instead of a mission. They’d eat, dance, and go back to some beautiful room where they could be alone again.
Their guide nodded toward the bar. “Wait there.”
Allison sat on a leather stool and Zack ordered them both club sodas with lime.
“Why was Alex arrested?” It was the first chance she’d had to ask.
“Not sure. Rafe, Pete, and Detective Garza—buddies of mine—are in Charleston dealing with the situation before my boss, Kells, finds out.”
“Will Kells be mad?”
“Oh yeah.”
They drank their club sodas and she was grateful for it. Her throat felt dry and she wasn’t sure what else to say. They were running out of time and ideas and hope.
The bartender placed two bowls of stew in front of them, along with spoons and napkins. “The owner says he’ll see you in a few minutes. In the meantime, he sent bowls of the house’s famous gumbo, gratis.”
“Thank you,” she said, trying not to drool. She was going to have to try not to eat like a barbarian. She never ate like this, but somehow this city brought out her appetite.
Zack said his thanks and dug in.
At first bite, she closed her eyes—sausage, chicken, and shrimp in a tomato-based gravy. It was heaven.
“This,” Zack said with his mouth full, “is better than Bayou Saint George’s gumbo.”
She opened her eyes just as the bartender dropped off a basket of cornbread muffins and pats of butter. She wanted to cry. They didn’t speak as they ate, but she studied Zack as he watched the room. He was one of the tallest men, and with his tattoos and long hair, he stood out. She even noticed other women sending him sideways smiles. One slid onto a nearby barstool, so her skirt rose up, exposing her thighs.