“Here. This scarf’s for you.” She lifted her hand. In it was the bundle of stuff she’d been knitting ever since they’d departed Austin. “The lighter blue matches your eyes. Yarn’s a wool blend. It’ll keep your neck warm. Go on.” She shook her hand that held the scarf. “Wear it. It’s chilly out there.”
For the first time in days, Pic felt his mood lighten as he took the soft scarf and wrapped it around his neck. “Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiled at him as she nodded. “Looks good. You’re a handsome boy. You take care of yourself, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As the bus tires thumped along the interstate off-ramp, a fresh bout of coughing built in his chest. Working hard to suppress it, he wondered for the umpteenth time what the hell was wrong with him. The meds he’d gotten in Austin a couple of weeks ago, from a clinic known to ask minimal questions, hadn’t done anything to take the edge off the feel-like-shitness that now greeted his every day.
Maybe Andi will know what to do.
He’d be careful not to seem too sick in front of her, because Andi would use his illness to press the point of him moving into her guest house. He couldn’t do that. Not now, not ever. She didn’t know his reasons for running. She’d never know. No one would. Keeping the truth to himself was the only way he could guarantee that he wouldn’t be sent back to Mapleton, West Virginia and Chief of Police Clarence Walker.
Pic shook off the feeling of comfort and safety that sitting on the bus had provided. He’d used up a good chunk of his cash for the eighty-five dollar fare from Austin to New Orleans, but it had been worth it. Living on the streets was one thing, but hitchhiking was another matter entirely, bringing a set of risks he didn’t feel like encountering. Especially when he wasn’t fit to fight and able to protect himself physically.
He lost the battle for cough suppression as the doors opened and a burst of moist air blew into the climate-controlled bus. He’d felt sick, off and on, since New Year’s Eve. He could handle the constant feeling of having a cold, but this was different than any cold he’d ever had before. His head heavy and full of snot. His voice was raspy with a nasal tone. He hadn’t been able to sound good while he sang for the last three weeks. Without singing, the money he made from playing the guitar was down to just a few dollars a day. He had enough cash to get by for a few more days, but he liked to have extra. Just in case he had to go a few days without making any at all.
After grabbing his guitar from baggage claim, Pic slung his backpack on one shoulder, the guitar case on the other, and started walking along Loyola Avenue. The place he planned to sleep was about an hour’s walk away, if he hustled. He took his brass knuckles out of his pocket and slid them onto the fingers of his left hand. Slipping his fingers into his right front pocket, he made sure his knife was in position. He was ready if trouble came his way.
He walked through the business district, using Loyola, then South Rampart Street. He kept going, crossing Esplanade, then into the narrower, quieter streets of the Marigny neighborhood. He paused on the sidewalk of a street that led to the river to adjust his things.
A black van slowed but continued, without stopping. A red Mercedes went by, close behind it. It stopped in the middle of the street. The blond driver lowered her window. After hiccupping, and turning down the radio, she asked, “Hey, can you tell me how I get back to Esplanade? These twisty one-way streets always screw me up.”
Sure it isn’t alcohol that’s fucking with your sense of direction?
“Go left at the next corner, then go a few blocks up. The busier street’s St. Claude. Take a left. Next big street will be Esplanade.”
She lifted her hand, waved, and hiccupped again. “Toodles.”
With her brake lights rounding the corner, the street became quiet again. Some houses looked occupied, some abandoned. Cars were parked along both sides of the narrow, tree-lined street.
With his guitar case readjusted, backpack straps tightened, he continued. He was almost at the levee, near the old abandoned warehouse where he’d sometimes slept before heading to Austin.
Only eight more blocks. Then I can stretch out, rest, maybe even sleep, and hope like hell I wake up feeling a ton better.
When he passed under the few and far between streetlights, he saw tiny droplets of water swirling, making a fine mist of tiny white dots on the sleeves of his black leather jacket.
The first and only warning of impending doom was footsteps. Soft footfalls, but fast. Heavy. Close.
Too close.
Turning, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife. Pressing the smooth button with his thumb to release the blade, he dropped into a fighter stance. He shrugged his shoulders in a practiced move that let gravity take the backpack and guitar from his shoulders.
Everything he owned fell to the ground with a sickening thud. He debated whether to run or stand and fight the two thugs, who were dressed in head to toe black. Ski masks covered their faces. They were almost on him, but still ten paces away and taking their goddamn, sweet ass time as they approached.
One laughed. “Well, pretty boy guitar player’s a fighter. Nice knuckles.”
Leave his shit and run? No. Fuckitall.
Arms up as a shield, careful to keep the blade visible so maybe they’d reconsider, Pic softened his knees so that he was in a slight crouch in the center of the sidewalk, ready to jump, assessing which one posed the most immediate threat.
“You’re messing with the wrong guy,” Pic said, using his street-wise, ‘don’t fuck with me’ tone.
“Nope. You’re just what we’re looking for.” The answer came in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. “Your kind fetches big bucks.”
I should’ve run.
Thug One, closest to him, had something shiny in his left hand. Pic lunged forward as the man broke his leisurely pace and came at him in a run. Pic kicked at the man’s extended arm.
The thing that had been in Thug One’s hand—whatever the hell it was—flew into the air. Thug One dove for it. “Fuck!”
Thug Two lunged forward, his right hand outstretched. Something black was in his hand.
Holy shit. A stun gun? These assholes mean business.
Energized by a fresh burst of adrenaline, Pic leapt to the side, then squared himself in a new, ready-to-fight position. He landed a full-force, brass-knuckled punch on Thug Two’s lip, and ground the knuckles down the guy’s jawline, while narrowly avoiding a jolt from the stun gun. He wasn’t totally in the clear, though, because Thug Two’s left hand connected with Pic’s eye, and his beefy right shoulder connected with Pic’s gut. Pic lost his balance and flew forward a few steps.
“GoddamnsonofaBITCH!” Thug Two said, more than an arm’s length away. His hand was on the jaw where Pic’s knuckles had made impact. Bright red blood covered his lip. He spat blood in Pic’s direction as he readied himself for another attack. “Your hours on this goddamn earth are numbered, asshole. Starting right this…” He spat more gunk out of his mouth. “Second. You smart enough to figure that out?”
“Take my shit.” Pic’s heart pounded as he regained his balance. “There’s three hundred dollars in my backpack. Guitar’s worth two thousand.”
Thug Two laughed. “We don’t want your shit, dumb fuck.”
Thug One was on his knees, reaching under a parked car. His hand was in the gutter, looking for what Pic had kicked out of his hand. “Got it.”
Something in Thug One’s hand captured streetlight as he got to his feet. “Let’s finish this.”
Whatever it was in the man’s hand, it was too small to be a gun. Black. White. Narrow. A blade? Pic couldn’t tell. As Thug Two made another lunge in Pic’s direction, and Thug One came closer, Pic jumped to the side, his hip knocking into a car parked at the curb.
The jarring thud set off the car alarm. The thugs froze, giving Pic a split second to see what Thug One was holding.
A syringe!?
The car al
arm kept going. The thugs glanced at one another, as though silently debating whether to stay, or go. Pic was so ready for them to advance on him, that it took him a second to realize their indecision was giving him an opportunity to get away.
Holy Fuck! Go!
Chapter Eleven
Gabe
Sunday, February 14, 12:17 a.m.
A loud, piercing scream slammed into the security room with the force of a rogue wave, electrifying the air. The echoing shrillness sliced through Gabe. Pulse ratcheting, he jerked upright in his chair. The fearful pitch was unlike anything he’d ever heard, and he’d heard plenty horrific sounds in his tenure as a Black Raven agent. The stark terror chilled him to the marrow.
“Holy shit.” Move your ass. Now. As Gabe stood, a quick glance at the cameras and digital read out on the security system confirmed that the perimeter hadn’t been breached.
Stevens, with curly brown hair, brown eyes, and a steady look in his eyes, shifted, his chair squeaking under his weight. He glanced at Gabe with tension underlying his businesslike, ‘everything’s normal’ expression. “Unnerving, right? Night terrors, Sir.”
Gabe’s mind shifted to agent protocol for handling the client in this situation, which she’d dictated. Yet it was hard to focus. Even though he’d read the reports, and thought he was prepared, he was still shocked by the reality.
“Happens most nights I’ve been on the job,” Stevens said. “Last night included.”
Gabe knew the facts and frequency, but the details in the file didn’t convey enough. “File reports said loud. I had no idea.”
Some high-risk personal security jobs required an agent to be stationed at the door of whichever room the client was located. This job wasn’t high risk and, when the client was home, threat factors were low.
He’d completed his most recent perimeter check at eleven forty-two; his last visual check of the client had been at eleven twenty-five. He’d knocked on the partially open studio door before opening it. Paintbrush in hand, standing at an easel, she’d acknowledged his presence with a slight nod.
Confident the house, and his charge, were secure, Gabe’s attention had been alternating between the surveillance monitors and his iPad when the first scream started. He’d been reading about en plein air painting when her screams startled him out of the world of techniques for painting outdoors and into the world of how the hell do I deal with this situation.
The contract stated, ‘ascertain client is not in jeopardy through an in-person visual observation, then resume normal sentry position.’ In her contract, she acknowledged that Black Raven wasn’t liable for damage she did to herself when the night terrors occurred. Gabe knew how the agents who had preceded him had interpreted the contact—check on her as unobtrusively as possible, ascertain she wasn’t in jeopardy from an external threat, and then leave her alone.
As the scream pulsed, ebbing and building to a new crescendo, he said, “I’ll go up, then do perimeter.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.” Relief flooded Stevens’ voice. Stevens had been scheduled to do the next perimeter check, with the visual on Andi.
The night terrors were one reason the agents hated this job, and Gabe now understood why. The job they did required steadfast confidence in their ability to conquer all forms of evil. But this was evil that couldn’t be fought.
As he ran up the first flight of stairs, another scream pierced the otherwise tomblike silence of the house. He took the landing in three steps. Her bedroom door was closed, but not locked. Bedside lamps—on. Bedroom—empty. Bed linens—untouched. Sitting room—empty.
He took the stairs, three at a time. The door to her studio was partially ajar, as he’d left it. Opening it and charging through, ignoring her knock-before-entering rule, he stopped in mid-stride. She sat on the couch. Her small, delicate hands were balled into tight fists on either side of her knees. She was screaming as though the gates of hell had opened and the devil and his best friends had their fire-hot hands on her.
Her face was flushed red, her eyes were unfocused but open and darting, and she was trembling, as though she was freezing. She wore a tight black tank top. Long black leggings. One blanket had fallen to the floor. Another had slipped mostly off her lap. A couple of lamps, close to the couch, were on, but the overhead bright lights and artist’s lamps were off. She had a pillow next to her on the couch.
She’d settled in for a snooze, for God’s sake, and this is the hell that came her way.
He wished she’d snap out of it and rip him a new one for barging into her studio without knocking, but the unfocused look in her eyes, coupled with the high octane intensity of her fresh scream, told him that wasn’t about to happen.
Gabe had done research. People with night terrors could appear awake, like Andi did now. She lifted her head, and seemed to focus her attention on the skylight overhead. For the stark fear in her voice, Gabe glanced up, cringing. He half expected to see something horrific attached to the skylight, but knew he’d only see exactly what he saw—the pure inky darkness of the night sky.
He dropped to his knees in front of her. With her mind’s eye focused on a distant horror that only she could see, she gave no indication that she sensed his presence.
“Andi?”
His mic remained open to Stevens. In a lull in her screams, Stevens said, “Sir, we’re not supposed to wake her. Waking people from night terrors can result in scaring them even more. Wouldn’t be a good thing.” The lull in her screams was over as a new scream climbed to a crescendo. “Besides, her client contract—”
“Speak up, Stevens.” Gabe’s mic system was sensitive enough to pick up a whisper, but with Andi screaming, he had to talk louder to be heard. “Hard to hear with her screaming.”
“Yes, sir. Contract says we get a visual, then leave her alone. You’ve gotten a visual, now you’re to leave. As per the client’s orders.”
Gabe was well aware of the terms of the contract and the scope of his job. He also knew that waking people from night terrors was nearly impossible and, if accomplished, could very well make things worse. Her horrific screams, though, had amped up his natural instinct to fix all of God’s broken creatures.
He’d been the kid who brought stray animals home, fed orphaned kittens with bottles, and cooked for his older brother and his mom so they’d have something to eat after work. He’d also been the kid who made sure he befriended everyone in the class, even those who were typically left out. As an adult, he’d carried on the habits he’d formed as a child. Doing nothing in the face of such suffering went against every fiber in his being.
Hell. Hell. Hell. How the HELL can I comfort her?
The depth of her fear, when she wasn’t consciously being the tough woman he’d been with throughout the day, made him realize that every kindness he’d ever bestowed on anyone, every broken-winged bird he’d ever fixed, was merely training that would come in handy for now.
Identify the source of the suffering. Then fix it.
But the source of her suffering was a memory and the perpetrator of that memory was undeniably dead. Which was a good thing, because right now Gabe would kill Victor Morrissey with his bare hands if given the opportunity.
Gabe sat on the floor in front of her. “Stevens. File indicates episodes last anywhere from ten to twenty-five minutes. What’s been the average that you’ve observed?”
“I’d say fifteen to twenty-five. Last night, twenty-three. Started at eleven thirty-one. She was on the couch in her studio. I checked on her. By eleven fifty-five last night, it was over. When I went up there at one a.m., she was on her feet, painting. Focused. If she noticed I was at the door, she ignored me. Typical.”
Stevens’s tone was detached. Almost clinical. Most agents stayed in cool professional mode when working, but it wasn’t in Gabe’s nature to be detached. He typically became friends with his clients, as long as they were likable. His list of good friends was long and they were scattered around the globe, because no one he met f
or any length of time stayed a stranger for long. They either became friends, or, like NOPD Officers Thompson and Spagnoli, they weren’t worth knowing.
Gabe’s track record indicated that his personal, friendly style worked. Clients usually requested him by name after one job with him. School was still out on whether his style was going to work here, but he’d made inroads that afternoon and evening.
Not that anything she’d said suggested it to be true. He just got a sense that something had shifted in the course of the day. Her tone had become less clipped. Her eyes more pensive than irritated. Her glances just a tad more…trusting.
Now, eyes on her, listening to the abject horror in her voice, he understood the depth of her fears in a way that reading the file, or spending the day with her, hadn’t revealed.
He was inexplicably at a loss as to what to do to make things better, and being at a loss was foreign to him.
As a fresh scream flowed, then ebbed, he drew a deep breath, before gently covering her fisted hands with his own. His hands barely hovered over hers, but he was surprised when she turned hers in the cup of his so their hands were touching, palm to palm. A fresh scream tore through her, and she gripped him. Her fingernails dug into his palms as she held onto him, her body trembling with the scream.
“That’s it, Andi,” he murmured. “Hold on to me.”
With a jolt, he realized he’d been thinking of her as Andi for the better part of the day. Not the client. Not Ms. Hutchenson. And saying her first name came naturally. “You’re safe. Understand?”
She relaxed for a second. Her fingertips flexed against his. She wasn’t quite gripping his hands. It was only a touch. A feel. Not much, but he took it as a sign that she knew he—or someone—was there. Someone who wanted to help her, not hurt her. That this woman who so hated casual touches when awake would accept one now, when her subconscious fears had taken over, told him that he was doing the right thing.
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