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CHAPTER 1
October 2015
New Orleans, Louisiana
Faster!
I run, moving quickly.
Through the sheeting rain.
Crossing city streets.
Hidden by the shadows of the night.
Faster!
My heart’s pounding, blood pumping through my veins as I splash through puddles and blink against the slashing rain.
I smell the earthy, ever-present odor of the Mississippi River.
Familiar and dank.
With my poncho flapping, my boots slapping through puddles, I run along the alleys and streets of the French Quarter.
Faster!
Streetlights are glowing, their illumination fuzzy in the rainfall, soft light reflecting off the hoods of a few scattered cars parked near Jackson Square, rainwater gurgling in the gutters, washing onto the street, and pooling in the potholes.
This city is, and always has been, my home.
And I loved it.
Until I didn’t.
Because ofher.
My stomach clenches at the thought of what I’ve gone through, what I’ve had to endure. But now, after all this time, it’s about to be over.
Faster!
With St. Louis Cathedral as my beacon, down the nearly deserted streets I fly. The cathedral rises high into the night, whitewashed walls bathed in light, its three familiar spires knifing upward to the dark, roiling heavens. From habit, I cross myself as I hazard a glance to the highest spire with its cross aloft, but all the while, I keep moving, the wrought iron pickets of the fence surrounding Jackson Square in my peripheral vision.
On the far side of the cathedral, I slip into narrow Pirate’s Alley where a few lights in the windows of the shops are glowing, but the street itself is deserted, all pedestrians indoors, waiting out the storm.
It’s fine, I tell myself. No, no, it’s good, because in spite of the inclement weather, she will be coming.
I know her routine by heart. And I’ve double-checked to make certain that tonight she didn’t vary from it, that her car is parked where it normally is three nights a week, so, tonight is the night. With the rain concealing so much, a wet shroud, I’ll have more time and less chance of being observed, or worse yet, interrupted.
My heart is pounding, my chest tight in anticipation as I reach the end of the alley, near the Place de Henriette Delille. Here I wait, crouching low, catching my breath near the park. Swiping drops of rain from my forehead, I squint and stare across Royal Street, usually so busy with pedestrians, but tonight, thankfully, only spotted with a few brave souls dashing through the storm, all seeming too intent to get out of the downpour to notice me or even glance in my direction. It’s too wet for most, a deluge, the wind-blown rain sheeting in the vaporous glow of the streetlamps, the pavement shimmering eerily, the night thick.
I check my watch, making certain I’m on time while water runs down my poncho to stream onto the cobblestones. My ski mask is tight over my nose and chin, but my hood is cinched tight around my face and no one should notice in the rain, though shaded glasses during the night might be considered odd. But this is New Orleans. Nothing here is really out of the ordinary. Anything goes.
Again I make the sign of the cross and let out my breath to count my slowing heartbeats.
And beneath my poncho, my right hand finds the hilt of my hunting knife, a sharp weapon with a thin blade that could whisk off the hide of an alligator and easily slice through muscle and sinew.
I’ve waited for this night for so damned long.
