In the Dark

by Judith Arnold

  “It’s been tampered with,” Eddie told him. “I’m guessing someone added something to the fuel tank.”

  “Added something? Like what?”

  “Sugar, maybe,” Eddie guessed. “No way this baby’s gonna work till we get the fuel tank emptied and cleaned out.”

  Mac closed his eyes and erupted in a veritable tide of curses. Eddie had to get the generator started. The safety of the hotel’s guests depended on it.

  Who the hell would have sabotaged the generator? And why?

  “How long will it take you to fix it?” Mac asked, trying to keep his tone free of exasperation. None of this was Eddie’s fault.

  “I don’t know. Could take awhile. We’ve got to drain the tank, clean it out, clean the fuel lines…” While Eddie dipped a metal stick into the tank, pulled it out and stared at the glistening fluid coating it, the other man turned on a battery-powered lantern. The lantern’s fluorescent bulbs flickered on and cast a bluish glow.

  “Son of a bitch,” Mac muttered. “Did you see anyone down here? Any of the guests? Anyone who might have poured sugar into the tank?”

  Eddie shook his head. “Nah. Nobody.”

  “’Cept the concierge,” the fellow holding the lantern said.

  “Right, him. What’s his name, Luc? He was heading up the hall as we were coming down. Said he was collecting flashlights.”

  “He was carrying ’bout a half dozen,” the other maintenance man added helpfully.

  Luc Carter, Mac thought, his brain whirling. Why was it that the golden-boy concierge always happened to be leaving the scene right before some mess was discovered? Broken glass imbedded in towels, a ruined generator… Something was definitely up with him.

  Or else he was just doing his job, collecting flashlights. And the incident with the glass splinters in the towels—it was always possible he’d been fooling around with a chambermaid and his presence near the supply room that night had been pure coincidence.

  Mac didn’t believe in pure coincidence.

  “This is gonna take awhile,” Eddie repeated as his colleague lugged over a red gasoline jug and a funnel. “No need for you to stick around, Mac. Go tell Miss Charlotte she’s gonna have to make those candles last.”

  “Thanks,” Mac said, filtering the rage out of his voice. He was furious, but not at Eddie. He gave the burly guy a slap on the back, then stormed down the hall, ignoring the fact that he couldn’t see where he was going. He knew where he was going. As a security consultant, he’d often worked in dark spaces. He didn’t even have to count steps to know when he was approaching the security office. He was used to relying on all his senses, not just his sight.

  Tyrell won points for remembering to lock the security office when he’d left to check the gallery. Mac had no difficulty unlocking the door by feel. Inside, the monitor was dead, no projections flashing on it from the idle cameras, no hum of electricity, only a faint whiff of coffee lingering in the air. Mac squinted at the desk until he discerned where Tyrell had left his cup. Mac didn’t want to knock it over accidentally.

  He yanked his walkie-talkie from his belt and summoned Tyrell. “There’s a problem with the generator,” he said.

  Through the crackling static, he heard Tyrell’s response—a clear reference to body waste. “What kind of problem?”

  “The kind of problem that means we’re going to be without emergency backup for a while. Where are you?”

  “Can’t see three inches in front of me. I could be anywhere and not know it.” Tyrell laughed. “I’m on the second floor, checking the offices. Stu and Chris are upstairs, making the rounds of the rooms, knocking on doors to see if anyone needs help. We’ve already checked the elevators. They’re all unoccupied.”

  “We caught a break there,” Mac said, relieved that no one would have to be shimmying up and down the elevator shafts, performing rescues. “Listen, Tyrell, if you see Luc Carter, I need to talk to him.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Mac turned off his radio and hooked it back onto his belt. He left the security office and headed for the lobby. Flickering golden candlelight beckoned. The spacious hotel entry was occupied by a few people, some ensconced on the plush sofas and sipping wine, one couple sitting on the stairs and discreetly pawing each other—they were just silhouettes to Mac, but it sure looked as if the man’s hand was sandwiched between the woman’s knees—and a clerk posted behind the check-in desk, a cold beer by his elbow. As soon as he saw Mac, he reached for the beer, as if to hide it.

  “Don’t bother,” Mac said. “I don’t think you’re going to be working the computers tonight. May as well enjoy yourself.”

  The clerk gave him a sheepish smile. “Thanks.”

  “But sip it slowly, buddy. One’s your limit tonight. We need you clearheaded.”

  “Right.” The clerk nodded earnestly.

  Mac peered through one of the French doors into the courtyard, where the party seemed to be in full swing. “I take it nobody’s fallen into the cake yet?”

  “If they have, word hasn’t reached me,” the clerk told him.

  “And the pool’s locked up, so no one’s fallen into that.” Mac nodded and crossed that worry off his list. “Have you seen Luc Carter?”

  “He was here a few minutes ago,” the clerk said. “He gave me this.” The clerk held up a flashlight. “I’m keeping it off to save the battery.”

  “Smart. Where did Luc go after he was here?”

  The clerk shrugged. “He could be anywhere. You might just trip over him if you don’t watch your step.”

  Mac reflexively glanced down. He didn’t see anyone lying on the floor, but if someone was, he’d be easy to miss. “I’ll watch my step,” he promised. “You watch the steps of everyone in the lobby. If everything stays as calm here as it is now, we should survive this mess in good shape.” With a smile, he ventured into the courtyard.

  Julie should have been easy enough to spot. In those sexy shoes, she towered over most of the guests, and there was enough moonlight for Mac to get a pretty good look at the crowd. She definitely wasn’t in the courtyard.

  He shrugged off his disappointment. She was undoubtedly as busy as he was, making sure the guests were safe and enjoying themselves. And really, he shouldn’t be thinking about her at all, except as a fellow Hotel Marchand employee with a truckload of responsibility tonight.

  Still, blackout notwithstanding, Mac would sure like to take her out onto the dance floor again. For those few precious minutes when he’d had her in his arms, he’d forgotten who he was, what he was supposed to be doing and who was paying him to do it. She’d just been a woman and he’d been a man, wanting her.

  He eased his way through the crowd, no longer looking for her because he knew he wouldn’t find her there. Instead he searched for Luc Carter. No luck spotting him, either.

  At the opposite end of the courtyard he reentered the building and made his way to the event rooms. The one where the band had been set up was nearly empty, but people managed to circulate in the other room, where the floating candles offered modest illumination and a feast of food remained on the buffet tables. Mac noticed Charlotte surveying one of the tables with a tiny penlight. He wandered over.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  She spun around too quickly, obviously strung tight. Seeing Mac, she seemed to unwind slightly. “I’m checking to make sure the food isn’t spoiling. People aren’t eating much—I guess because they can’t see where the food is.” She laughed faintly.

  “We ought to get the waiters to refill their trays and take the food out to the courtyard,” Mac suggested, then frowned as he recognized the penlight in her hand. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Julie gave it to me. Why? Do you need a light? Nadine got some battery-powered lanterns, and Luc was passing flashlights around. I’m afraid to have any more candles burning.”

  “The candles in the water are safe,” Mac assured her. “And I’m okay, lightwise. You hang on to that.” H
e folded her fingers around the penlight, then asked, “Do you know where Julie is?”

  “She’s out in the courtyard. Having fun, I suspect. That seems to be the place to be. Why don’t you go join her?”

  Mac refrained from telling Charlotte that Julie wasn’t in the courtyard having fun. An undefined worry gnawed at him, but he saw no reason to infect Charlotte with his own concerns. “I’m sure I’ll find her,” he said, plucking a fat strawberry from one of the platters and popping it into his mouth before he abandoned Charlotte.

  The strawberry was sweet and juicy, but it lodged in his throat. Where was Julie?

  He returned to the courtyard and scanned the crowd, hoping to spot Creighton. As Julie’s friend, he might have an idea of where she’d gone. But before he could find her flamboyant neighbor, someone collided with him. He turned and found himself face-to-face with a slightly paunchy man whose sparse hair was pulled into a pretentious ponytail.

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” the man fumed, even though he’d been the one to bump into Mac.

  Mac realized who he was: Alvin Grote, the whiner from 307. “Hey, buddy, we’re all having a little trouble seeing,” he said in a placating tone. Keeping tempers from flaring was vitally important. “Anything I can help you with?”

  “No, damn it,” Grote retorted.

  “There’s plenty of food inside,” Mac told him. “And the bartender’s doing his best, if you want a drink.”

  “I don’t want a drink. I already have a drink. Two drinks,” Grote said, lifting his hands. He was holding a martini in each one. “What the hell am I supposed to do with two drinks?”

  “I can think of a few options,” Mac said, trying to tease a smile out of the guy, who seemed close to snapping. “You could drink one and then, when you were done with that, you could drink the other.”

  “One of them is for my date,” Grote informed him coldly. “But she’s disappeared. I don’t know where she’s gone. This hotel—how could it have lost power? Do you know how much I’m spending to stay here? And they don’t even have a generator for emergencies like this? I’m tempted to file a report with the Better Business Bureau. Or the tourist board. Or someone. The governor’s office, maybe.”

  “You do that,” Mac told him, his mind racing. Hadn’t his date been the woman Julie had recognized from New York City?

  Oh, Jesus. Without a parting word, without a care about whether Alvin Grote went ballistic, Mac hurried through the crowd, past the dancers and back into the lobby.

  Where was Julie? Where was that woman from New York? Damn!

  “Are you looking for someone?” the clerk called from his station.

  “Yeah.” Mac sprinted over, sure-footed despite the darkness. “Julie Sullivan. Have you seen her?”

  “She was in here a few minutes ago.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “No, she was with another woman. I could hardly see. I didn’t recognize her as a guest here, but—”

  “Where did they go?” Mac demanded.

  “Um…” The clerk thought for a few seconds—long enough for Mac to want grab his shoulders and shake an answer out of him. “They talked for a couple of minutes and then they left.”

  “Left the lobby?”

  “Left the building.”

  Mac swore, then shoved away from the desk and sprinted toward the front door. The world beyond that door was as dark as the world on this side of it. He shouldn’t have been able to see anything—especially on the ground. But as he shoved open the door, it created a breeze which kicked up a feather that had been caught on the threshold.

  Not just a feather. Mac bent over and snatched the feather up. In the light of the moon filtering through a drifting gray cloud, he was able to see that the feather was pink.

  IT TOOK FIVE MINUTES to drive half a block.

  All Julie could think about was getting out of the damn car. As long as she was in it, she was an easy target for Andrea’s horrid little pistol. But if she could get out of the car, she might escape within the crowds of people packing the streets and sidewalks. Surely Andrea wouldn’t fire her gun with so many innocent bystanders around, would she?

  Who the hell knew? The woman was clearly deranged. She’d decided that Julie was somehow at fault for ending her modeling career—such as it was—and ruining what she’d perceived to be a great love affair with Glenn Perry, a bastard who’d bedded any sweet young thing foolish enough to believe his crap.

  Because Julie had spoken the truth about the guy ten years ago, Andrea wanted to kill her. The irony burned inside her. She’d been concerned that Glenn himself would want revenge. But Glenn wasn’t in New Orleans right now, pointing a gun at her.

  The car rolled forward another few inches in the grid-locked traffic, and Julie braked. The resulting squeal sounded like a startled pig.

  “What was that?” Andrea asked, glancing toward the dashboard.

  Julie glanced toward the dashboard as well. Her brakes had been squeaking for months…but Andrea didn’t know that. “There’s something wrong with the car,” she said. “I think it’s dying.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not,” Julie swore. She hit the gas and brake pedals at the same time. Her car lurched, and the brakes issued another plaintive noise. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”

  “What the hell is going on? This town has no electricity, your car is dying—does anything in this whole effin’ city work?”

  I hope your gun doesn’t work, Julie thought, trying to swallow her nausea. But she said nothing, just jammed her feet on both pedals again, causing the car to jerk and squeak. “This car is going nowhere,” she said. Please, she prayed fervently, believe me, Andrea. Please believe me.

  “Well, what are you going to do? You can’t just leave the car in the middle of the road.”

  She believed. Julie suppressed a grateful sigh. “Let me try to roll it to the curb.” She played her feet on both pedals with the finesse of a street-corner tap dancer. With a chorus of squeaks and stutters, the car rolled to the side of the street. Julie twisted the key to turn the engine off.

  Andrea’s wrist was surprisingly steady as she held the gun on Julie. With her free hand, she reached behind her and opened her door. “Get out of the car,” she said, “and don’t do anything funny.”

  Julie couldn’t think of a single funny thing to do under the circumstances. She shoved open her door, swung her legs out and searched the crowd for any gaps she could slip into. She didn’t consider fleeing for her life funny, but Andrea might.

  She opened her mouth to shout for help, but before she could utter a word, a crowd of inebriated young men swaggered past her, singing “Roxanne” loudly and poorly. She tried to cry out for help, but tension sealed her throat, and when she reached to grab the arm of one of them, he swung right past her, jostling her against the car. By the time she regained her balance on her teetering heels, Andrea was beside her, the pistol’s barrel jabbing her side.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  Julie blinked away the tears that blurred her vision and took a step in the direction of the hotel. Andrea yanked her back. “Where’s the water? There’s a river here somewhere, right? Let’s go to the river.”

  Great. She was going to shoot Julie and dump her body into the Mississippi. “The river is this way,” she lied, heading toward Jackson Square.

  Fortunately, Andrea didn’t know New Orleans well enough to realize that Julie was leading her in the wrong direction. Unfortunately, the mobs filling the streets didn’t allow Julie a chance to escape. Instead, all the happy, tipsy humanity sharing the sidewalk with Andrea and her forced them together. No one noticed how close Andrea was standing to Julie—or the gun she was poking into Julie’s ribs.

  Julie plucked a few more feathers from her boa and released them. As if Mac would ever find them. As if the fluffy feathers would even reach the sidewalk. As if detouring to Jackson Square was going to buy her enough time to
get away from this maniac who believed Julie had destroyed her life by testifying against a drug-dealing, cradle-robbing scumbag like Glenn Perry.

  She stumbled over a curb, nearly spraining her ankle. Her knees were trembling too much; she couldn’t handle three-inch heels right now. She wiggled one foot and then the other out of her sexy sandals.

  A fresh burst of tears quivered on her eyelashes, and she blinked hard. She couldn’t afford the energy it would take to cry, or the self-pity, and she sure as hell couldn’t wait for Mac to rescue her. She broke off another large feather, sent it adrift and let a surge of people carry her across the street. She didn’t lose Andrea in that intersection. Maybe the next one. Or once they reached the park… Sooner or later, an opportunity to break free would arise and Julie would grab it. Without the sandals, she’d be able to run faster.

  The pavement chilled her soles through the thin nylon. No matter; the stockings would be torn to shreds by the time she reached the park. Someone stepped on her toe and she winced but trudged onward, searching the crowds for an opening, a friendly face, a police officer.

  Where were all the cops, anyway?

  Block after block lacked power, yet the people swarming around her had enough energy to light up the entire city, if only their high spirits could be transformed into electricity. People were carousing as if it were Mardi Gras, not Twelfth Night. Someone somewhere was playing a saxophone. Even a power outage could be turned into a party in New Orleans.

  But Julie was in no mood to party. Could she duck down that alley? No—Andrea would follow her and shoot her dead. Alleys were not a good option.

  She saw the park up ahead. A little more open space, at least, some dead winter grass to cushion her feet and moonlight to light her surroundings…and maybe, please God, an opportunity to escape that she wasn’t finding on the street.

  She was taller than Andrea. She’d been stronger than her ten years ago in New York City; she was probably still stronger today. If the crowds in the park were a little less dense, she might have enough room to turn on Andrea, knock her down, get the gun away…