Hellbound

by Chester Campbell

  The sky was gray with elastic clouds stretching over the city as Chick steered his bus into the morning traffic. As they approached Jackson Square, Yvonne Deschamps gave a brief history of the cathedral. She said the current building, the third constructed on the site, dated from 1794 and was the oldest active cathedral and one of the most photographed churches in America.

  When they entered the statuesque basilica with its three tall spires pointing heavenward, Bryce was tempted out of a long ingrained habit to give the sign of the cross before venturing into the sanctuary. But he restrained himself and followed the others in, exhibiting the typical look of a tourist, wide-eyed and filled with wonder.

  After listening to a brief history of St. Louis Cathedral given by a white-haired nun, they strolled past the front pews and the ornate altar.

  “Isn’t this something?” Betty Lou's voice was hushed. “All those beautiful paintings on the walls, and high up there on the ceiling.”

  Fred grinned. “It’s certainly bigger and fancier than Lovely Lane. I’ll have to give ’em that.”

  “True,” Bryce agreed. “But it isn’t the trappings that make a church a shrine. It’s the people who inhabit it.”

  Marge looked at him thoughtfully. “Was your wife active in the church?”

  He remembered how a despondent Ellen had become reclusive after the explosion at their home. She became a chain smoker until the cancer struck. “After our sons were killed in an accident, she devoted most of her time to church work,” Bryce said, not mentioning it had been with nuns, where she had become virtually cloistered.

  “Were they your only children?” Fred asked.

  Bryce nodded. “Ellen never really recovered from it.” He had not spoken her name in years, and truthfully he had not intended to do so now. But what difference did it make any longer? He was becoming more convinced that the Mafia squad already knew, or certainly would soon, that he was really Pat Pagano.

  “Something like that can really try your faith,” Troy said. “I keep wondering why Virginia? Why did Parkinson’s have to pick her?”

  Bryce gave a slight shake of his head. “I know the feeling, but I blame what happened to the boys and to Ellen on my own shortcomings.” His crisis had involved faith in himself. “I'm afraid I haven’t been in a place like this in quite awhile.” He glanced across at the altar.

  “Whenever you feel like affiliating with another church, we’d sure love to have you at Lovely Lane,” Fred said.

  Bryce’s face brightened. “Frankly, I can’t think of any place that would be more appealing.”

  Looking around at Fred and Betty Lou, at Marge, Sarah Anne, and Troy, he felt these people deserved some sort of commendation. They had accepted him, a virtual stranger, taken him into their circle without question, made him feel as welcome as a lifelong friend. He wished there were some way he could repay their kindness. But as his gaze turned toward the rear of the sanctuary, he suddenly realized why the time was getting a bit late for such considerations. Standing just inside the far aisle was a familiar figure, a solidly built man in a blue suit. One of Locasio’s henchmen.

  Chick had parked the red-and-white bus on Decatur Street in front of Jackson Square. When Tillie walked up at 10:30, he greeted her with a long face that immediately put her on guard. This was anything but typical of the normally upbeat driver.

  “Miz Ellis, I got bad news,” he said.

  “Has the bus developed another problem?”

  “No, ma’am. I’ve been listening to the radio. They say the hurricane took a right turn before it reached Texas. Now it’s headed this way.”

  She flipped her glasses up and jammed them into her hair. “Toward New Orleans?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s supposed to get here sometime tonight. They’re expecting rain and high winds this afternoon.”

  “Oh, God,” she said.

  Her first reaction was one of disappointment, of regret at the prospect of having to tell everyone the trip was being cut short. But it appeared the impetuous Nora left her no choice. Her own latent fear of the monstrous tropical storms made her realize that many of her charges were likely to be terribly frightened at the prospect of a deadly hurricane bearing down on them. That seemed to be almost a self-fulfilling prophecy. Those within earshot began to relay something of what they had heard to their neighbors farther back. Tillie decided she had better get everyone aboard before someone touched off a full-fledged panic.

  “Find your seats, people,” she said. She tugged at arms and sleeves to hurry them along. “I’ll make an announcement regarding the weather as soon as we’re all here.”

  She turned to Chick. “Can you find a newscast and rig that radio up to play it over the loudspeakers?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Give me a couple of minutes after we get inside.”

  As the group began to climb the steps, a few attempted to question Tillie about what was going on. One was a wide-eyed Polly. “I heard the hurricane’s already hit just west of here,” she said, fear in her voice. “Is that right?”

  Tillie pushed against her backside. “Get in your seat, Polly. Don’t believe everything you hear. I’ll tell you in a few minutes.”

  Others climbed aboard with drawn faces, clearly alarmed at the uncertain outlook.

  Bryce was near the back of the group waiting to board. “I was thinking the other night that I’d never had a chance to meet a hurricane up close,” he said to Troy. “I wonder if this just might be my time.”

  Then Sarah Anne passed the word back that Nora was headed their way. “I vote we run for the hills,” she said, only half-joking.

  “I’m with you,” Troy said. “I was in a tornado once and that was bad enough. These babies not only pack deadly winds, they can hang around and beat up on you for hours.”

  Horace and Clara were last in line. Hustling up the steps as nervous as a cat at a wheelchair derby, tugging at her husband to hurry aboard, Clara glanced over at Tillie, who stood beside the driver.

  “Is that storm really about to hit us, Tillie?” Her voice shook with genuine fear.

  “Don’t worry, Clara. Just take your seat. I’ll explain everything.”

  As soon as Horace had reached the top step, Chick closed the door and began working with the audio controls. Tillie took the microphone.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard all kinds of rumors about the storm, but, basically, this is the story. It has turned to the east and is headed this way. Chick is looking for a radio newscast that we can put on the speaker system so you can learn firsthand what the situation is.”

  The driver turned to her. “I’ve got it.”

  The announcer’s voice flowed urgently out of the speakers. “The latest word from the National Hurricane Center in Miami places Nora approximately one hundred and twenty-five miles south of Lake Charles, just over two hundred miles southwest of New Orleans. She is in the process of turning eastward. It will be awhile before it’s clear whether she’s headed straight for New Orleans or will veer to the south of us. But one thing is certain. She’s in a lot bigger hurry than before. The hurricane trackers report Nora has nearly doubled her forward speed from a couple of days ago, reaching almost twenty miles per hour. At that rate, the major brunt of the storm should arrive in our area around nine p.m. Wind gusts of fifty to sixty miles per hour could hit New Orleans by mid-afternoon, accompanied by heavy rainfall. Police report coastal areas have been ordered to evacuate and an exodus of tourists has begun. Traffic is already heavy on highways leading out of the city. It could be worse than last year when 1998's Hurricane Georges missed us but created massive traffic jams.”

  Chick had the bus moving by the time Tillie signaled him to switch off the radio. Facing emergencies on a tour was nothing new for her, but she had never encountered one quite like this. She worried that some of her “little old ladies” might go bonkers. She picked up the mike and spoke in what she hoped was a reassuring tone.

  “We’ll go back to the hotel, get our bags an
d check out as quickly as possible. Yvonne says she’ll see if the restaurant can fix us some sandwiches and things to eat along the way. Don’t worry about anything. We’re in good shape. We should be able to get moving within an hour. I don’t think Chick will have any trouble outrunning a twenty-mile-an-hour storm. You saw how fast he can make this old bus move coming down from Natchez. Just relax till we get back to the hotel, then pack up as quickly as you can and get back on the bus.”

  She hardly felt as confident as she sounded, but she hoped and prayed they could get on the road by noon, before the highways became totally clogged. Just the traffic itself would be bad enough. The high wind and rain on the way could make for a real white-knuckle ride. She wondered how competent Chick would be at driving under such adverse conditions.

  Everyone on the bus recalled the devastation of Hurricane Andrew a few years back, and though they might have been a bit shady on the details, most remembered reading about Betsy and Camille. MacArthur was the only one who had actually experienced a hurricane. He captured the attention of everyone in the middle of the bus with his tale of riding out a storm at a “hurricane party.”

  “We were in a friend’s apartment. When the lights went out, we listened to music from a battery-operated tape player and played cards using kerosene lanterns. The wind howled and the rain poured and the surf crashed with a roar along the waterfront. But we just laughed and joked.

  “That was in my younger days,” he said. “I’ve got more sense now. We were lucky that it wasn’t a terribly large hurricane and did not have much of a storm surge. That’s what usually kills people. In a big storm, the surge can hurl a huge mass of water over a beachfront, like a tidal wave twenty or thirty feet high. Totally destroys everything in its path.”

  “Could something like that hit our bus?” asked a fearful Polly.

  MacArthur gave her a tolerant smile. “We should be far from here by the time Nora arrives. But even if we were still around, I hardly think we would be driving anywhere near the waterfront. I should imagine the main problems around New Orleans would be from flooding.”

  Locasio had just hung up from talking to Marco in Nashville when the call came from Ziggy on the cell phone.

  “It looks like the bus is headed back to the hotel,” said Ziggy. “We didn’t get close enough to know what was going on, but the old lady in charge looked pretty damned excited.”

  “They must have heard the news,” Locasio said.

  “What news?”

  “The damned hurricane is on the way to New Orleans. They probably plan to leave town as soon as they can get checked out of the hotel.”

  “What are we gonna do?” Ziggy asked.

  Locasio’s voice was grim. “What Boots would have wanted us to do. I just got word from Marco. Boots is dead.”

  There was a painful pause, then a muttered, “Damn.”

  “You guys get back here as fast as you can,” said Locasio. “I’ve already talked to The Barber. He’ll be here in about half an hour. We just move up the time schedule a bit. Actually, the weather should make things easier, give us a good opportunity to carry out the plan. Is Joe ready?”

  He could hear voices murmuring in the background. Then Ziggy said, “Joe says he’ll get it done as fast as he can.”

  31

  The hotel lobby was a bedlam, people scurrying in every direction, hauling out baggage, crowding the front desk to settle their bills, getting change for the vending machines down the hallway. Just as the locals were rapidly cleaning out grocery shelves around town, the tourists would soon deplete the hotel’s snack food supply.

  Bryce had his bag ready moments after arriving at the room, then turned his attention to the TV. Regular programming had been suspended for continuous updates on Hurricane Nora, along with instructions from emergency preparedness officials. So far the storm was continuing to swirl directly toward New Orleans, the radar display showing pale fringes lashing out like wispy white tentacles groping for a hold on the Mississippi Delta.

  “Wallace Bradley is in a mobile unit somewhere on I-10,” said the rumpled news anchor. He had pulled off his jacket and sat before a pile of news clips and announcements of closings and warnings. “What can you tell us, Wally?”

  “It’s one big mess out here,” said the harried newsman. A still photo of him filled the screen. “All of the lanes are full and we’re moving like in a funeral procession. I’m almost to the Highway 90 exit. I’ll get off there and see how things are going on Chef Menteur Highway.”

  “Thanks, Wally,” the anchor said. The picture switched back to the studio. “We’ll come back to you for another update shortly.”

  Troy finished with his bag and frowned at Bryce. “That doesn’t sound too good for getting out of town, does it?”

  “I’ll wager the secondary roads are just as bad as the interstates,” Bryce said with a shrug. To him the storm appeared more of a nuisance than a worry.

  Troy grabbed his bag and headed for the door. “Not much we can do about it but get in amongst ’em. You ready?”

  Bryce switched off the TV and followed him out. “Let’s check the ladies. See if they need any help.”

  He knocked next door and Sarah Anne appeared in the doorway. Anxiety showed in her face. “Did you see the TV?”

  “Looks like it’ll be slow going,” Bryce said.

  “What if the hurricane should catch up with us?”

  “Then we’ll have a nice tail wind. That should speed things up.”

  She shook her head. “You men. It’s a macho thing, isn’t it? You’re supposed to act like nothing bothers you.”

  If she only knew, Bryce thought. But as far as the hurricane was concerned, she was right. Nora didn’t worry him. If anything, the lady might make his trail more difficult for his pursuers to follow. Chick’s bus was a sizable target, but unless the blue Cadillac kept in close proximity, the big vehicle could get comfortably lost in the mass of traffic and the poor visibility that should be accompanying the storm. Although the full force of the hurricane was still several hours away, he knew they could easily get hit with heavy rain and stiff winds within the next hour or two. There was also a junction to contend with. Just to the northeast of New Orleans, Chick would have the option of continuing on I-10 east toward Biloxi or taking I-59 north to Hattiesburg. Unless Locasio’s people remained in sight of the bus, they would have a fifty percent chance of making the wrong choice.

  “For the moment, let’s just worry about getting all our stuff on that bus,” Marge said. She pushed her bag out into the hallway.

  They carried their luggage across to the elevator, then stood and waited. Although there was only one floor above them, the lone elevator was already packed with passengers and baggage when the door opened on four. Bryce promptly pressed the “up” button to snare it on the return trip. They climbed aboard and continued on to the fifth floor.

  Seeing the crowd of people who attempted to squeeze inside when the door opened at the top floor, Troy slapped Bryce on the shoulder. “Helps to have a smart man around to look after us.”

  They finally reached the lobby and toted their bags out to the waiting bus. Tillie was already fussing about, counting noses and herding people aboard. She snagged Bryce and Troy as they shoved their suitcases into the baggage compartment.

  “Would you fellas mind helping carry out the lunch boxes?” A look of concern shadowed her pale cheeks.

  They walked back to the restaurant, where they found stacks of boxes packed into tall white plastic garbage bags. With a load in each hand, they made their way back to the bus and handed them inside to Fred, who had been pressed into service to parcel them out two to a seat.

  With the delay caused by the elevator congestion, plus the fact that several of the Silver Shadows moved at a speed somewhat akin to that of the sun’s shadow, Tillie did not get her wish to be on the road by noon. The dashboard clock showed closer to 12:30 when Chick finally closed the door and put the bus in gear. Fortunately, th
e wind was still reasonably gentle and there was as yet no sign of rain.

  “I told you not to worry,” Tillie said into the microphone. “We’re running a little late, but the weather is still not bad at all. The big problem we face is a glut of traffic on the highway. I’d advise you to just sit back and relax, enjoy your lunch. If you haven’t looked, your box contains a sandwich, chips, cookies, and a piece of fruit. We’ll pass around the soft drinks as soon as we get on the interstate.”

  That also took longer than expected. Cars and trucks were bumper-to-bumper on the entrance ramp all the way back to the street.

  Bryce had taken the window seat on the back row. Finding the overhead rack already stuffed, he shoved his carryon under the seat in front of him. Then he turned his attention to the window, making a careful search in every direction for a blue Cadillac. He continued to twist his head back and forth as Chick nosed the big bus onto the entrance ramp, but there was no sign of Locasio’s car.

  He finally leaned back and forced his muscles to relax. Maybe they had been caught off guard and failed to see the bus leave, he speculated. The thought was a heady one, but he didn’t waste much time on it. He would keep looking.

  Troy opened his box lunch and dug out the sandwich. He turned to Bryce. “You gonna eat now, or wait till we get a little father along?”

  Bryce set the box in his lap. “I’m not too hungry, but I might as well get it out of the way. Looks like it may be a good while before we get much farther along.”

  In the right-hand front seat, Tillie leaned forward and surveyed the glut of cars and trucks and buses that stretched out along the highway like links in a chain. A chain that reached as far as the eye could see. The rippling mass moved at glacial speed. Each time Chick managed to nudge the bus forward, he quickly crept up on the van in front and was forced to slow down, almost coming to a stop. After a stretch of time that resembled a film running in slow motion, the bus would pick up speed, then the whole process repeated itself.