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A few days later, at night, a courier rang the buzzer downstairs. I practically ran down the stairs to sign for what he had. I was so excited I almost kissed him on the mouth.
“I saw that you were up,” he said, pointing to the dormers on the third floor of the Spinster Hotel. He was young, maybe twenty-five, with the kind of body only the most aggressive of bike couriers can achieve in a city this flat. But
he was so damn cute that inviting him up crossed my mind.
“Thank you,” I said, snatching the envelope from his sinewy hands. The wind whipped my hair around my face and sent my robe flapping up my legs.
“Oh, there’s this too,” he said, handing me a cushioned envelope the size of a small pillow. “Storm’s coming. Dress appropriately,” he added, taking one bold look at my legs and spinning away with a wave.
I took the stairs in twos, ripping open the card as I ran. It said: Step Five, Fearlessness, which sent a little chill down my spine. The card also said a limo was fetching me first thing in the morning, and that “appropriate attire is included.”
As the wind rattled my windows that evening, I felt grateful that Scott and I had arrived a year after Hurricane Katrina and her sisters, Wilma and Rita, ravaged the city. Except for Isaac and a couple of other tropical storms that bent the trees and shattered some glass, there hadn’t been a huge disaster on the scale of those hurricanes since, something this Michigan girl was grateful for. I was prepared for wet weather, but not the dangerous kind that sometimes happened down here.
I sliced open the pillowed envelope and spilled its contents on my bed. An outfit for tomorrow had been selected for me: a pair of tight white capris, a pale blue silken tunic cut low, a white scarf, black Jackie O–style glasses, and heeled espadrilles, all of which of course fit beautifully.
The next morning, I kept the limo waiting as I tried knotting the scarf different ways around my neck, eventually settling on wearing it as a kerchief. A glance in the mirror and I had to admit I looked a bit aristocratic. Even Dixie, who stretched out at my feet, seemed to give her approval. But I’ll never forget the look on Anna’s face, a Bayou woman born and bred, as I plucked a collapsible black umbrella from the stand in the foyer.
“If it storms, you’d be better off using an umbrella that comes on a fancy drink,” she huffed.
I wondered if I should say something to her, make up a rich boyfriend, just to stop the curiosity about the limo from brewing into something bigger and less benign. Not today, I decided. No time.
“ ’Morning, Cassie,” said the driver, holding open the door.
“Good morning,” I said, trying not to sound too accustomed to being picked up by a long black limousine in the middle of Marigny.
“You won’t be needing that where I’m taking you,” he said, nodding towards my little umbrella. “We’re leaving this gray weather behind.”
How exciting, I thought. The traffic was sparse that morning, and if there was any, it seemed to be heading away from the lake we were driving towards. Near Pontchartrain Beach we kept right and drove past South Shore Harbor, hugging the violent shore, which, from time to time, I could make out between construction gaps on the dam. The water was choppy and angry, even though not a drop of rain had fallen. At Paris Road, the driver stayed left, moving along the bumpy gravel road and keeping the lagoon on our right. Five minutes later, we made another right down yet another gravel road. I clutched the leather seat, fear creeping up on me. We came to a clearing in the brush, where the propeller of a dark-blue helicopter was making slow, ominous circles before speeding up.
“Um. Is that a helicopter?” A stupid question, the better one being: Do you expect me to go up in that thing? But the second question was lodged in my throat.
“You’re going on a very special trip.”
Am I? He clearly didn’t know me very well. The idea of my getting into a helicopter was ludicrous, no matter what promises lay beyond the ride. The limo came to a full stop twenty feet from the helipad. This was not good at all. The driver stepped out and opened my door. I sat frozen in my seat, the word no emanating from every pore of my body.
“Cassie, there is nothing to be afraid of,” the driver yelled over the loud wind and the even louder propeller. “Please follow that young man! He will take very good care of you! I promise!”
It was then that I noticed the pilot, who was holding his cap and running towards the limo. As he got closer, he combed back his sun-bleached blond hair with his fingers and placed the cap on his head, giving me the impression he rarely wore it otherwise. He saluted me in a sweetly awkward way.
“Cassie, I’m Captain Archer. I’m meant take you to your destination. Please come with me!” He must have seen me hesitate. “It’s going to be fine.”
What choice did I have? I suppose a few, including one to remain welded to the seat and demand that the driver take me home. Instead I launched myself out of the limo before my brain could convince me to do otherwise. Captain Archer clasped my wrist with a big tanned hand and we made a run for it, ducking under the speedy propeller.
In the helicopter, that same hand reached across my lap, brushing my thighs while he secured me in the back seat. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, I kept telling myself over and over again. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I felt the lash of stray hairs on my cheek and was grateful for my kerchief. As he carefully placed large headphones over my ears, I could smell mint gum on his breath. Then he looked at me with eyes that were deep gray and intense.
“Can you hear me?” he asked, his voice now buzzing directly in my ears through his microphone. Was that an Australian accent?
I nodded.
“I’ve got you, Cassie, don’t worry. You’re safe. Relax and enjoy the ride.”
I did find it a little unnerving that S.E.C.R.E.T. participants all seemed to know my name. This is my life, I thought kind of headily. A limo picks me up. No big thing. Makes its way to a waiting helicopter. Whatever. And an impossibly handsome pilot whisks me away to parts unknown.
We lifted off and once we were above the ominous dark clouds, the day looked completely different, like one in a tropical paradise. Captain Archer caught me staring down at the clouds as we left the bad weather below us and angled towards the sunrise.
“That’s a big storm brewing. But where we’re going it won’t touch us.”
“Where are we going?”
