The Caesar Clue (The Micah Dunn Mysteries)

by Malcolm Shuman

“Just a few hours, till I can work something out. They won’t take up much room. Your icebox is almost empty.”

  “And it’ll stay that way.”

  “Micah …” He gave me his hurt look and gathered his paper bag. I noticed he was having trouble not making a face at the smell.

  “No,” I said, guiding him toward the door.

  “I’ll give you a potion, guaranteed to keep it up for two days straight, even with the Pet of the Year …”

  “Good-bye, David.”

  He huffed indignantly down the stairs and I shut the door. I found a can of air spray and used most of it on the place where the bag had been sitting.

  Even so, the room still smelled uncomfortably like the morgue.

  18

  The call came at seven-thirty while I was sitting on the porch watching the last light play tricks with the spray from the patio fountain. I was thinking about Katherine, envying her the visit to the swamp, where the only dangers were elemental ones, like gators and snakes. But the news about the storm bothered me. I wanted her out of there, because Barataria was no place to be if a hurricane sent tides of ten feet crashing against the coast, and even New Orleans might not be safe. When the phone rang I thought it would be her voice telling me she was back.

  I was wrong. It was Sandy.

  “Micah-man, listen up: Be at the place at midnight. Can’t talk more.”

  “I’ll be there,” I promised and heard the line go dead.

  She’d obviously been calling from one of the administrative offices, which meant she’d sneaked away from where she was supposed to be. I tried to recall if there had been any anxiety in her voice, but she had seemed in control.

  But if she was asking for my help it meant she planned to get out on her own. Which meant she needed surprise.

  Either they were onto her and she couldn’t alert them by having her make-believe parents come to the rescue or she planned something really spectacular.

  All of which was why I was waiting across the street at a quarter to twelve. I’d notified Vic Mancuso and he’d agreed to stand by his phone. Officially, of course, he could do nothing. It was out of his jurisdiction, and something he couldn’t afford to involve himself in. But I told him if he didn’t hear from me by two to call out the National Guard.

  I’d agonized waiting for her call and now I’d gotten it, so why didn’t I feel reassured? Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Katherine hadn’t called, either. The authorities were recommending a general evacuation of the coastal areas, remembering Audrey, in fifty-seven, which had killed four hundred in Cameron parish, and Camille, a few years later, which had devastated the Gulf Coast.

  One thing at a time, though, I told myself. That’s what they’d drummed into us in Nam. Put away the problems at home and the Dear John letters and think only about the mission, or there won’t be any going home at all.

  A single thought kept circling through my mind like a hawk after prey: She must have found Jenny.

  It was five after twelve when an ambulance coasted up to the guard post and was waved through. I reached under the seat and placed my revolver on the seat beside me. I didn’t know what to expect, but I wanted to be ready. I watched the vehicle go to the side entrance, where I glimpsed figures unloading someone from the back.

  Another poor soul, I thought. More figures moved in the distant lights and a driver went around to the cab and a door slammed.

  Something was wrong.

  Even as I tried to comprehend what was out of place, a bell started ringing inside the compound. The guard came out of the shack and looked back at the clinic building. The ambulance started to move and at the same time the guard began to pull forward the chain-link gate, closing the entrance.

  And suddenly I realized what it was I had seen: It was Sandy driving the ambulance and the bells were signaling an escape.

  The ambulance was going faster now, but the drive wasn’t long enough for it to get up much speed. Instinctively, I knew what I had to do.

  I leapt from my car and, gun in hand, ran across the street toward the guard post. The ambulance was almost there now, but its momentum would never carry it through the gate. There were voices all over the compound and floodlights springing on from the perimeters and from recessed places in the lawn.

  The gate was closed and the ambulance was slowing.…

  I reached the sidewalk, bulled into the gate and started to shove it back. I had it halfway across the drive before the guard turned.

  “What the hell?”

  He saw the gun and froze. I got the gate back all the way and stood aside as the ambulance peeled rubber. The guard glowered at me, but made no attempt to approach. There were white bodies charging toward us now, outlined in the powerful lamps.

  I wheeled quickly and ran back to my car. I heard other motors starting and jumped into my own vehicle, savagely twisting the ignition key. The engine roared into life and I nudged my way out into the street as the first car reached the gate. I cut in front of him, glad now for the special knob on the wheel that allowed me to steer like a man with two good hands. I shot in front of the pursuit car and heard his horn blast angrily.

  The ambulance was two blocks away now, headed for Jefferson Highway, which led back to New Orleans, and I took the center of the street, preventing the car behind me from passing.

  The horn became a furious staccato and I’d only gone a block when I felt a tap on the bumper. My own car jumped ahead and I swore under my breath. I jammed the accelerator and opened out the distance between us. The ambulance had its lights and siren on now, and a three block lead.

  The pursuer tapped my bumper again and I slued into an S, barely missing the cars parked on either side.

  They had a hand-held spotlight now, and they were hitting my mirror. The beam arrowed down, blinding me and I wrenched my mirror downward.

  My car jumped forward again as they slammed me with special violence. Once more I jammed the gas, leaving them a few yards behind.

  The ambulance had turned onto Jefferson now, headed east.

  “All I had to do was hold my own and they would lose.

  It was something they must have realized because even as I came to the intersection with the highway I saw another car speeding east toward me, a small red flasher on the dash.

  I shot through the stop sign and cut it off, dimly aware of a squeal of brakes behind me.

  If they were real police I was in a hell of a lot of trouble. If they weren’t, I’d have to settle for the present trouble.

  The ambulance was a blinking light in the distance, and most motorists would probably assume it was headed for Oschner Clinic. It was a good start, but I had two fast cars behind me now, one in each lane, and there was only one way to stop them.

  I started to slue snakewise across both lanes. A few cars were still out and I looked for a situation that would give me some freedom. I found it in a lumbering Galaxie, sputtering along in a cloud of fumes in the right lane. Just ahead of it, in the left, was a milk truck. If I could slide between them, I might just cut off my pursuers. Not much of a choice, but it was the best I had.

  Unfortunately, I never got a chance to maneuver. A popping sounded behind me and all at once my car was sluing again, except that I wasn’t pulling the wheel. Instead, I was trying to hold it steady, but the tire had blown and it was all I could do to keep control.

  Maybe a man with two hands could have held it. But the wheel whipped out of my grip and I felt the car spinning clockwise. The world turned and somewhere a silly voice was chiding me for not having fastened my safety belt. The steering wheel slammed my chest and my breath flew out. I dimly heard doors slamming and fumbled for the gun on the seat. It wasn’t there.

  I was alive, but just barely, the way I felt. There were faces outside the window, grim-faced men with guns. My hand touched something cold on the floorboards just as my door jerked open. I came up with the gun in my hand and jabbed it in the face of the man closest.


  We stared each other in the face and my blood went cold.

  It was Solly.

  His gun was inches from my chest, his finger on the trigger. He wasn’t looking at my gun, though; he was looking at me.

  Voices and shouts came from behind him and now somebody was yanking at my other door, but it was locked.

  Solly’s gun moved up slowly to train on my head and my finger tightened on the trigger of my own weapon.

  Then, slowly, his gun lowered and he backed away.

  “Let him go,” he said, still staring at me.

  I heard an oath, and a startled protest. Solly wheeled like a savage dog.

  “I said let him go, fucker, or I’ll blow your brains all over the pavement.”

  I pulled my door slowly shut, aware that my motor was still running. I was sideways across both lanes and traffic had backed up behind us. I jabbed the gas and the car lumbered forward, the blown tire flapping along underneath.

  A block later I took a right-hand turn, off the highway, into concealing darkness, painfully aware that if they changed their minds I’d be easy to pick up. I was on the rim now and the noise could probably be heard for two blocks in either direction. I made a few more turns and ended up on River Road.

  It wasn’t the best part of town to be in with a disabled car on a Saturday night.

  The rim wasn’t going to hold up forever. I left River Road for a sidestreet that looked dark, passed a few houses, then stopped in front of one. I got out and opened the trunk. Pulling with all my strength, I heaved out the spare and dropped it in the street. My chest was hurting anew from the crash and I sagged against the car for a moment. Then I found the jack, got it out, and managed to wedge it under the bumper. I got the jack handle and started to work on the lug nuts, but it was slow going in the dark. Worse, I needed a hand to hold the tire tool onto the nut as I levered the nut loose. I swore as the tool fell into the street and heard a chuckle behind me.

  “Work a lot better in the light man,” said a voice. “And with both hands.”

  I stood up slowly, my hand in my shirt pocket, where the gun now rested.

  “I’ll get by,” I said.

  “Yo’ choice,” the voice said. I could just make him out now, a black man a head taller than myself, standing in the middle of the street with a beer can in his hand. There were other forms behind him.

  I picked up the tire tool and started again and heard a grunt of surprise behind me.

  “Dude ain’t got but one hand,” another voice said.

  “I’ll be damned,” said the first one and stepped forward where I could see him better. “Better gimmie that tire tool ’fore you kill yourself,” he commanded.

  Wary, I took a step backward.

  “You wanna be here all night?” he asked.

  “Not especially.” I handed him the tool. He squatted and in a blur of motion had the nuts loose.

  “What happened to this tire?” he asked, running his hand over it.

  “Somebody shot it,” I said.

  He nodded as if it made perfect sense. “I dig.” He got up and went to the jack, his friends forming a circle behind us.

  “You lucky,” he said, muscles bulging as he pumped the jack handle. “I seen people killed with blowouts.” He chuckled. “I seen ’em killed without ’em.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “Look, I’d like to pay you.”

  “Sho’. Tell you what, you do this for me sometime I’m stranded in honkey town.”

  There was a ripple of laughter behind him.

  “You got it,” I said. “But it may take twice as long.”

  This time the laughter was raucous.

  “I hear that!” my helper declared good-naturedly. He pulled the ruined tire off, threw it into the trunk, and fitted the spare on. Then he put on the nuts and started to lower the jack.

  “Two minutes,” he declared, “you be on yo’ way.” He tightened the lug nuts, then, satisfied, dismantled the jack, put it into the trunk, and closed the trunk lid.

  “I reckon that’ll do it.”

  “I’d still like to pay you,” I said, reaching for my wallet.

  “Man drive a car like this, go around getting hisself shot at, ain’t in no position to pay nobody.”

  I held out my hand and he shook it.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  And meant it.

  Half an hour later I stopped at a K&B on Carrollton and used the outside pay phone. I tried my office—no message on my machine—so next I tried Sandy’s number, but there was no message for me on her recorder, either.

  Cox didn’t have that many people, I told myself. She’d had a clear shot. Knowing Sandy, she’d have abandoned the ambulance as soon as possible and called somebody to pick her up. Maybe she was still waiting.

  There was nothing I could do until she called. I used my last quarter to call Katherine. To my relief, she answered on the second ring.

  “Hello?” Her voice was alert, even expectant, as if she hadn’t been awakened from sleep.

  “Thank God, you’re okay,” I said. “Look, I need to lay over.”

  “Where are you?” she demanded. “We’ve been worried to death?”

  “We?”

  “Can you come here? I’ll explain.”

  Five minutes later I parked on Pitt, the next street up from her house, and walked the rest of the way. Maybe Cox and his people knew about Katherine, but I’d seen enough to convince me they were far from infallible. No need to leave a flag, like my car, in front of her place.

  I knocked once when the door opened and Katherine pulled me inside.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, and then I saw Sandy on her couch.

  “We were sure they were drawing straws to see who got the ears and who got the tail,” Sandy said, getting up, a glass in her hand. I recognized a sweatsuit of Katherine’s.

  “They almost succeeded,” I said, watching Katherine pour from a decanter. She handed me a glass and I took a swallow, grateful for the slow burn as the whiskey made its way down into my belly. “Where’s the ambulance?”

  “Over on Sycamore,” Sandy answered. “I called Katherine from a pay phone and she met me there, took us back here for safekeeping.”

  I turned to Katherine. “And where were you?” I asked. “I was worried when I couldn’t get you.”

  “Scott’s boat trailer,” she said with a wry face. “Burned up a bearing on the way back. All I needed for the end of a lovely outing.” She lifted her pant leg to show a welter of ugly red insect bites. “Give me a call from Sandy any day.”

  “Micah,” Sandy drawled, looping an arm around Katherine’s waist, “I never realized before how lucky you were. This is some lady you got.”

  “More like some pair of ladies I’ve got,” I said, sitting down.

  “What’s wrong?” Katherine demanded as I winced.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Just a bruised sternum.” I described my escape, then turned to my assistant. “Now tell me about the clinic and why it was so important to get out when you did.”

  “Well,” she began, but a movement behind her caught our attention.

  I turned to see Julia Morvant standing halfway down the stairs.

  19

  After the initial shock wore off I could see, of course, that it wasn’t Julia. This woman was younger, her face thinner, but there was still a remarkable resemblance.

  “Jenny,” Sandy cried, turning toward the girl on the stairs. “You should go back to bed.”

  I couldn’t tell if she’d heard, because she didn’t move. She was still clad in the shapeless white gown of the clinic and her hair was mussed. But instead of a wild look in her eyes all I saw was blankness.

  “I’ll take you back to your bed,” Sandy said and took Jenny’s hand. “That’s a good girl.”

  I watched Jenny follow her back up. Katherine shook her head.

  “Poor child.”

  Now I understood better about the precise timing of the escape. Sandy had plan
ned to take Jenny with her from the first.

  “Has she said anything at all?” I asked.

  Katherine shook her head sadly. “Not since I picked them up. She was in the back of the ambulance. I didn’t know what Sandy was up to”—she chuckled—“until she explained.”

  “I’m sorry to drag you into this,” I apologized.

  “Who else was there to drag?” she asked wryly.

  Sandy came back down the stairs.

  “I think she’ll be quiet for a while. At least, I hope.”

  “Want to tell me what happened?” I asked.

  The black girl smiled demurely. “Just a con-cat-e-nation of circumstances.” She picked up her drink and swirled the liquor around. “As soon as they put me in, they fed me some pills, which I, of course, managed to spit out.”

  “Of course,” I agreed.

  “But I played groggy all the first day and kept my eyes and ears open.” She kicked off her shoe and drew her leg up beneath her on the sofa. “It’s not a very big place, you know. Just twenty or thirty victims. Er, I mean, patients. Mainly attendants and nurses. The hit squad, the patients call them. And then there’s this Dr. Laurent who comes once a day to check.”

  “Dear old Dr. Laurent,” I said.

  “Right. The rooms are semiprivate, no ward like in Cuckoo’s Nest. This is a high-class dungeon. The torturers all wear white.”

  “You found Jenny,” I said.

  “The very first day. She was two rooms down, across from me. I managed to sit next to her in the dayroom. I found out from the other patients they’d had her on drugs. It’s amazing how much you can find out from so-called crazy people. Some of ‘em are saner than the folks that run this city. But nobody pays any attention to them because they’re supposed to be nuts. Anyway, the girl Jenny had been there just over a month. Sometimes she was hyper, and when that happened they shot her full of something to quiet her down. They seemed to be specially careful about her, watching her a lot, which is no wonder, because the others were telling me she managed to escape just a few weeks ago.”

  “What?” Katherine and I reacted together.

  “That’s right. Snuck out one night. They said the hit squad about went crazy, Laurent came down looking all red in the face, they thought he was going to have heart failure. Everybody got locked up for a few hours and then, just before sunrise, they brought her back. They took her right to the shock room and after that they gave her some injections to make her a zombie. After that, they weren’t so uptight about her, but the head nurse always checked personally to make sure she’d gotten her downers every morning and night.”