by C. L. Bevill
* * *
Jane slunk into a tavern on Bourbon Street. She found a stool upon which to perch at the end of the massive mahogany bar. The place wasn’t quite full, but people intermingled happily and a jazzy blues band sang about “When my bed get empty make me feel awful mean and blue.” She knew she’d heard the song before somewhere sometime but couldn’t recall the details no matter how she concentrated.
Concentrating gave her more of a headache than she already had.
A roving bartender cast her an inquiring look. She knew the unspoken question.
“Beer,” she said. “Whatever’s on tap.”
“Great,” he said. “We’ve got Bud, Foster’s, and Bayou Teche.”
“Bayou Teche,” she said. “Local brewery, right?”
“Yessirindeedy,” he said cheerfully. He swiftly retrieved a large mug and put himself to work at the tap. Jane didn’t look away because she didn’t think she could manage to stay on the stool. Suddenly she was tired beyond belief, and her limbs felt like warmed-over rubber again. The adrenalin crash came hot and heavy. Alcohol wasn’t going to help, but she needed a moment to think in a crowded place.
The bartender put the mug in front of her, and she put a ten on the bar. She’d pulled it from the envelope in her pocket as soon as she sat on the stool. He waggled his eyebrows at her, and she said what he expected to hear, “Keep the change.”
“My heroine!” he said, twisting away to tend another customer three people down from her. Jane took a sip of the beer and grimaced.
I don’t like beer. Not just this beer. Any beer. Well, that’s a waste of the money the people at the hospital gave me.
Jane glanced over her shoulder at the people in the tavern. Everyone was laughing, talking, or listening to the music. The lead singer sang, “My springs are getting rusty, sleeping single like I do.”
There wasn’t a lurking creature in the dark corners of the pub. No oddly colored eyes glared at her from the gloominess, waiting for her to make the wrong move. People walked briskly outside of the wide open doors of the place on their way to someplace else. Everyone had a purpose. Fun in the Quarter. Let’s drink and be merry.
Laissez les bons temps rouler. Jane had heard that before, too. Let the good times roll. It was the unofficial expression of Louisiana.
“You look familiar,” the bartender said. He’d returned to his post and examined her in a frank manner. Jane looked back at him. He was in his thirties and interested in a for-curiosity’s-sake kind of way. His brown eyes continued to study her. “I can’t place it,” he went on. “I know you from somewhere.”
It wasn’t a pick-up line. The wedding ring on the bartender’s left hand was obvious as he wiped off the bar with one hand. He was merely satisfying a sense of inquisitiveness.
Jane knew she’d been in the French Quarter before. She could feel it in her bones. Too bad she didn’t know anything else about it. “I don’t remember you,” she said honestly.
“Well, I am a staid type of fellow,” the bartender said, “but my wife loves me, so I’m happy.”
Jane smiled. That was nice. Here was a man who also loved his wife. It shone from his eyes. It was normal. It wasn’t some bald man chasing her or a thing sniffing at her fingers. It wasn’t an eerie medallion stuck in the front pocket of her jeans, next to an envelope of money given by people who pitied her. “I’m sure she’s very lucky,” she said politely.
The bartender stared at her face. It made her uncomfortable and she looked away.
“I guess not,” he said. “I think I’d remember those eyes. Man, what a color. I guess it’s the light in here.”
Jane shrugged awkwardly.
“It’s on the tip of my tongue,” he said before another customer called for some drink Jane had never heard of before. “Excuse me,” he added and spun away.
“Yeah, I get that feeling a lot,” she muttered.
The man on her left said, “You don’t like your beer?”
Jane looked at him. He was college aged with so many sets of beads around his neck he would have sunk in the Mississippi if he’d gone swimming. Blonde hair reflected the blue and green lights of the bar, making him seem unworldly. His eyes were brilliant blue, and he winked at her lasciviously.
“Not really,” she admitted.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll tell you my name. I’ll buy you something else to drink and then I get the beer, and you’ll tell me your name. That’s a good deal. No strings attached.”
Jane glanced at the mirror behind the bar. Do I look like something someone would hit on?
The hair was dark and short. It curled around her face and appeared like something deliberately mussed. Her eyes reflected a little of the same blue and green lights in the tavern. Her cheeks were still chiseled. The lips glistened with the moisture from the beer. She was thin and tall, but she couldn’t see that in the mirror. Absently, she fingered the marks on the back of her neck as she thought about the subject. Am I attractive? Am I young enough to suit this boy sitting next to me? That feels weird.
“You can have the beer,” she said, pushing it over to the young man.
“My name is Haley, like the comet, except not,” he said, offering a hand. Jane looked at it and finally shook it. The young man let it go and shifted his head forward in a questioning way, “And you’re supposed to tell me your name now, and tell me what you’d rather drink.”
Jane smiled. The boy tried too hard, but then he shouldn’t have to work hard with his cute little blue eyes and pretty face. “Jane,” she said. “Like Jane Doe, except not.”
Haley laughed.
“So what’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?” Jane said. It was easy to pretend. She had nothing to lose. Flirting seemed obligatory in a place like this, especially when the lead singer of the band was singing in the sultriest fashion. The words drifted all around them, “Oh, he knows how to thrill me, he thrills me night and day.”
“I don’t look nice, do I?” Haley asked. His face was mock offended. “That would be awful.”
“I can sense the badness just beneath the surface,” Jane said.
“That’s better.” Haley grinned at her and asked, “Now what was it that you’d like to drink? A Hurricane? No, a Cajun Martini? It’s got a jalapeno in it.” He looked closely at her. “No not that. I’ve got it. Definitely a Hand Grenade. It’s got grain alcohol in it, rum, gin, vodka, and let me think, ah, melon liquor. It will mess you up bad.”
“And you can have your wicked way with me?” Jane asked. She would have batted her eyelashes, but she couldn’t bring herself to be so stupidly obvious.
“Of course,” Haley said. “Garçon! A Hand Grenade for the lady.”
The bartender returned with an indulgent smile on his genial face. He’d seen this act a thousand times. Probably in the same night. “You want a drink from this fella, lady?”
“One. He’s drinking my beer.”
“Well, it’s your funeral,” the bartender laughed.
I sure hope not, she thought.
The bartender got to work, and Haley said, “I know a party over in a house on Dauphine Street. It’s mostly frats and sisters from Tulane, but they’ve got all kinds of people wandering through. You want to go check it out?”
“Big old house?” Jane asked.
“Yeah. Tommy said it was built in 1876. The first one burned down, I think. Tommy’s great-great-great something rebuilt it and there the family has resided ever since. Except when they’re in Italy or Great Britain or Connecticut. Somewhere. I can’t remember exactly. What I’m saying is they made the grievous mistake of absconding while their only beloved son is in the final quarter of his senior year at Tulane, so he’s having a pre-graduation party. Yes, it’s mega old. So old it’s got a carriage house to one side.” Haley sipped the Bayou Teche beer. “You like all these old houses?” A hopeful leer twisted his face, and he added, “And maybe raucous parties?”
Not really, but a place lik
e that with all the partiers in it probably has some place in it that I can crash. A little room with a lock on the door or a doorknob I can prop a chair under. And no one will notice little ol’ me there. Tonight, and tomorrow will be a bright new day.
Chapter 7
Fright is worse than a blow. – Moroccan proverb
Jane awakened to the sound of voices speaking. They weren’t speaking about her, so she wasn’t particularly concerned. Specifically, her name wasn’t being mentioned. Moreover, the voices came from a short distance away, and she groggily realized there was a closed door between her and the voices. She looked around. Canned and dried foods sat neatly on shelves all around her. Bigger items such as Cheez-It Crackers in the super-sized box were on the bottom shelves. Little cans such as Armour’s Vienna Sausages were organized on the top shelves.
She observed that someone had a particular affinity for Chef Boyardee’s Beefaroni and Campbell’s SpaghettiO’s with Meatballs. There was an entire shelf dedicated to the pasta and tomato sauce grouping.
Duh. It’s a walk-in pantry. She lay on the floor with a blanket and a pillow. One foot was propped on a twelve pack of Starbucks Frappuccinos. A chair was propped against the knob of the narrow door, preventing it from opening to the inside.
The boy named Haley, like the comet, except not, had brought her to a party at an old house on Dauphine Street. The house was as he’d said, really old. It was also oversized and filled to capacity with all kinds of people. It might have started off with frat and sorority members, but when Jane and Haley had arrived, it had bikers, tourists, goths, and one memorable individual dressed as Gumby. Gumby liked Jell-O shooters with vodka, preferably made with lime Jell-O. He also told very amusing jokes about pirates.
Haley had halfheartedly attempted to entice Jane to go upstairs with him. He was equally happy to participate in a drinking game involving quarters and belly buttons on a nubile young woman that was not Jane.
Jane had wandered into the kitchen and made herself a sandwich. The as-yet-not-introduced Tommy and his family favored sliced Virginia ham and a variety of exotic cheeses. They also had freshly baked potato bread. It was the best sandwich she could remember eating, which really wasn’t saying anything.
Then she’d discovered the pantry. Since Tommy and his family had provided a counter full of finger foods, chips, and dips galore, she didn’t think anyone was going to want canned goods. She’d swiped a blanket and a pillow from an upstairs linen closet. The music had been loud when she’d nodded off, but it was comforting in a strange way. It was much better than listening to the growls of an unidentifiable creature about to strip her flesh from her bones. She’d fallen asleep while Linkin Park was singing an apropos “What I’ve Done.”
Jane blinked and yawned. Her head hurt a little. The stitches on top had a habit of pulling when she moved just about any of her facial features. The various and sundry bruises didn’t feel so oppressive, but sleeping on a hardwood floor hadn’t helped them either.
The escape from Raoul and the thing in the stairwell seemed like a distant dream. Jane stuck a hand in her pocket and touched the little golden medallion. Not a dream.
The other immediately dropped into her head with a hoarse demand that would have rocked her on her heels, had she been standing up. Still alive? it said. Urgent feelings cascaded in behind the words. Relief, insistence, confusion, and anger all intermingled in an unruly cocktail of mandate.
Still alive, Jane thought, answering the question in an involuntary fashion. She thought the response before she could think about whether she should.
Other words caught her attention, and the voice in her head went silent.
“…big ass dog in the quarter,” a girl said outside the pantry door.
“Jace said it might be a cougar,” a man said. Doubt soured his words.
“What, did it wander in from the bayous?”
“They’ve got cougars in Louisiana,” the man protested. “Who knows what it was looking for? Probably heard about the parties in the Quarter.”
“Probably a dog,” the girl insisted.
Jane wiped her eyes as if that would clear her head. Roux-Ga-Roux. That looked kind of like a “big ass dog” or a “cougar.”
“But it’s all on this side of the Quarter,” the man said. “Isn’t safe to go outside and take a walk.”
“It’s broad daylight,” the girl said. “There are twenty thousand people on this street alone. Do you really think it was going to jump me and take my donuts?”
“You could have woken me up, and I would have gone with you to get them,” the man insisted.
“Next time there’s some funky thing roaming around the Quarter and making people nervous, I’ll wake you up to go get donuts with me.” The girl giggled.
“Everyone’s going to be so fucking hungover that no one’s going to eat them anyway,” the man said plaintively.
Jane clambered to her feet. She had to make a decision and get going. She had $190 or so left in her pocket. She had an odd gold pendant with an engraving of an even odder creature on it. Raoul, last name unknown, was going to be looking for her, if he wasn’t already. He had a medical doctor on his side who said she had another name that didn’t feel like hers and a diagnosis that she didn’t think was accurate. She had stitches on her head and bruises over every other inch of her body. She had…
One hand extracted the business card the orderly had given her. It was a dirty yellowed card with the edges all rough as if it had been inside someone’s wallet for a long time. Perdue Cleaning was what it said. Underneath was the name “Titus Perdue” and an address. There was also a phone number and an email address.
I need a place to stay. I need some money for food and necessities. This man hires people without proper paperwork.
Jane chewed on her lower lip. Her tongue found the spot she’d bitten the evening before. Would the orderly mention he’d let me go? Would he tell the police that he’d given me this man’s card? She calculated the odds. Probably not. The young man wouldn’t want to admit he’d done something illegal or helped someone else do something illegal.
Still, it would be better to leave New Orleans.
Yes, leave. Safer for you, came that insistent voice.
There was something deep inside Jane that told her something else. This deep-inside voice was hers alone. Its message was unmistakable and resolute. This is where you belong. This is where your mystery lies. If you leave New Orleans, you’ll never know who you are, you’ll never know what happened to you. Every waking moment for the rest of your life, you’ll be a woman who doesn’t have a past, except for the one you’ve made for yourself. You might be safe, but you won’t be whole. You’ll be broken.
Can I live with that? Jane asked herself. Do I want to live with that?
The growl that reverberated through her mind was the other one. Suddenly, she liked the way of thinking of it like that. It wasn’t inside-her-head voice. It wasn’t hers. It was the other one. It felt like a man who was strong and resilient. He wanted her to be safe but at the same time he was angry with her. When the anger came it was hard to “hear” him.
Not angry with you, the other one thought. Angry with what’s been done to you, to us.
What’s been done to me, to us?
Jane touched the side of her face. Yes, she’d been kidnapped by the bald man, and she had vague memories of his abuse of her. But the other one’s voice had a certain note in it, as if there was much more than that.
Isn’t that enough? the other growled internally.
I can’t remember anything, she thought.
You must, the other one insisted. You must find a way to remember. I thought if you were safe, far from here, then your mind might begin to recall what it needs to, but I don’t know if that’s true anymore.
Jane’s stomach rumbled, and she shut her eyes. Go away, she told the other one. Go away, and leave me alone for now.
With a jarring blink of emptiness, he was gone. Fo
r the first time, Jane knew that the other one was just as much a person as she was. It wasn’t some fluke of nature or psychological disease tearing her brains to shreds. It was something above normal.
Someone else was speaking to her, inside her, within her head. Jane wasn’t crazy and something very unique was happening. Telepathy was the word for it. There’s more to it than that.
More importantly, the other one was a man. He was someone who knew her and was desperate that she save herself.
At any expense. His thought shot into her brain like a powerfully launched spear and then he was gone again.
Opening her eyes again, she unblocked the narrow door and went into the oversized kitchen. A few people were perched on stools at the kitchen’s marble counters. Another few were making coffee and mixing some more alcoholic drinks. She could see other people sleeping on the floor of the room beyond using each other as pillows.
A girl offered Jane a ruby-colored concoction in a glass stein. “Hair of the dog that bit you?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” Jane said.
Another girl passed Jane a cup of coffee. She took it and drank gratefully. She made a mental note. I like coffee. Maybe coffee likes me, too.
“Damn,” the girl with the alcohol said, looking Jane over. “You look like someone beat you all the way to town and back.”
“There’s donuts,” the same girl said, eying Jane’s wrists with avid curiosity. The girl’s hair was a combination of brown, black and white streaks over a burgundy base. Interestingly enough, she had a Vera Wang blue sheath that effectively contrasted her hair coloring. “I didn’t have any problems getting the really good ones because no one was at Andre’s. I mean, it was totally empty. The news about that thing wandering the Quarter emptied it out.”
“A big ass dog?” Jane repeated obediently.
“Something like that.”
“I thought you said there were twenty thousand people on the street,” a young man said exasperatedly to the girl. She shrugged.