The house was small; he was efficient. Within two hours, he had covered it, and the book wasn't there unless she had gotten real clever and hidden it under the house or, somehow, in the ceiling. He found the trap door into the attic area and peered around, but everything was dark and dusty, and it was more than a hundred degrees up there. Nor was he inclined to crawl around under the house; that wasn't a good hiding place, because it was so dank. The moisture ruined everything. He was certain the book wasn't on the premises, but Hayes's orders had been to burn the place if he didn't find the book. He shrugged. Orders were orders, and Hayes was a careful man. Carl set about following those orders.
In his opinion, the best way to burn down a house was a grease fire in the kitchen; there weren't any accelerants to raise suspicion, and it always looked like an accident. Fires started in kitchens all the time. He whistled softly as he set to work. Bless her, Miss Karen had fried up some bacon that morning and left the pan of grease sitting out to cool. Using a towel, he turned on the gas burner and set the pan on top of it, then arranged the towel so that it was close enough to catch fire when the grease blazed up. He made a silent bet with himself, then opened the cabinet door closest to the stove. Yep, that was where she kept the cooking oil, in both bottles and spray cans, right where they were closest to the heat and were most likely to catch fire. She couldn't have made it any easier for him if she had tried. Professional that he was, he didn't leave without knowing he had done his job. While he waited for the grease to flame up, he took a battery out of the smoke detector and reversed it, then put the detector back in place. He hated listening to that damn shrill noise.
Smoke was filling up the kitchen pretty good now. He opened all the doors in the house so the fire could get good air flow and spread more quickly. He didn't enjoy burning the house; he even regretted upsetting the pretty little blonde. It would hurt her to lose all her pictures and things. But a job was a job, and this wasn't personal.
Crouching on the floor to stay out of the deadly smoke, he waited until the pan on the stove flamed with a sudden whoosh . The towel caught fire immediately, and tongues of flame leaped up the cabinet. Carl quickly left the house then and took his usual precautions returning to the car. He glanced back occasionally and at last was rewarded by the gust of black smoke that meant either the roof or a wall had been breached by the flames. It was tempting to drive by the house to make certain it was engulfed, but that was a bad idea, and he knew it. Never go back. As old as the house was, and the way he had opened up all the rooms, the fire would spread too quickly for anything to be saved. He checked his watch when he heard the first siren in the distance: ten minutes. Too long. Houses burned much faster than people realized; they thought they would have several minutes in which to rescue their treasured possessions. Wrong. By the time most fires were noticed, the people inside had about thirty seconds in which to get out. The only way he had been able to remain as long as he had was because he had been aware of the fire from the beginning, he had stayed low, and he had been near the door. By the time the fire department actually got to the house, every room would be involved. They would concentrate on keeping the flames from catching the trees on fire and spreading to the other houses.
He gave a mental shrug as he drove away. He had both failed and succeeded. He didn't have the book, but if it had been anywhere in that house, it was now totally destroyed. He had carried out Hayes's instructions, though they seemed excessive to him. He'd tell Hayes he didn't think the book was there, and what Hayes did then was his own business. Carl had done his job. The dented, rusted pickup rolled to a stop at the end of the narrow dirt road, and two lanky teenage boys bailed out. The dead end widened into a large open area, the left side of which was a rocky pit. Two rough-hewn sawhorses were positioned in front of the pit, a plank placed across them. On the plank sat an assortment of tin cans, and the ground beyond was littered with more. From the gun rack behind the seat, the two boys took a pair of .22 rifles. "Man, Shavon was all over Justin last night," one said, shaking his sandy head. "She was so shit-faced I bet she ain't woke up yet."
"And if she has, I bet she wishes she hadn't," the other boy replied, and they both laughed as they expertly slotted .22 longs into their rifles. "Does her daddy know she drinks?"
"I don't see how he can help it, considering she goes home from her dates drunk all the time." Disapproval colored the boy's voice. "I ain't got nothing against drinking, but Shavon stays drunk as much as she does sober. She's gonna wreck that car of hers one day and kill somebody, and then there's gonna be trouble."
"Her daddy's just as bad. I guess she comes by it honest." The two positioned themselves, their sneakers toeing a shallow rut in the dusty red ground that revealed how often they indulged in tin can plinking. They began firing methodically, and one by one the tin cans went spinning. When all of the cans were down, the two trudged to the sawhorses and began resetting the cans for another round. As they walked back, the sunlight glared on something shiny just beyond the clearing, making one boy squint his eyes. "Damn, that's bright! There's something behind that big bush."
"Looks like a car," the other replied, craning his neck. He was the taller of the two. "Let's go see."
"Reckon somebody's back there making out?"
"If there is, bet his pecker lost its starch when we started shooting." They snickered at the idea. A quick look darted between them, and the taller boy held a finger to his lips. They tiptoed toward the bush, barely containing their snorts of laughter at the thought of catching some of their friends doing something they shouldn't be doing. Or maybe it was some of their friends' parents , which would be even better. The two boys moved with the silence of longtime hunters. When they got closer to the huge bush, they could make out the roof outline of a car, and the tall boy made a motion with his hand indicating they should slip around to the rear. They did, and when the rear of the car came into view, they stared in disappointment at the Louisiana plates. Even more disappointing, no one was visible in the car.
"Shit, all this sneaking for nothing."
"Shh! Maybe they're layin' down in the seat."
"No way." The boy straightened. "Look, the windows are rolled up. Ain't nobody making out in a car in this heat with the windows up."
"Maybe the car's stolen, and somebody stashed it out here." They looked around, strong young hands tightening on their rifles. Making no effort at stealth now, they walked up to the car. It was a white Pontiac four-door, coated with a layer of red dust. The tall boy leaned down and peered in the driver's-side window, then jerked back so violently he stumbled and almost fell. "Shit! There's a dead man in there!"
Karen felt the heat as soon as she stepped from the jet into the extended accordion of the jetway. The air was heavy with humidity, and sweat popped out on her forehead as she lugged her carry-on bag up the slight slope. She had dressed in a short-sleeved summer suit that felt too cool while she was on the plane, but now she was sweltering. Her legs were baking inside her panty hose, and sweat trickled down her back.
Detective Chastain had been right about the airlines; she had made one call, spoken to a sympathetic, calmly efficient reservations agent, and found herself scurrying in order to get packed and to the airport in time to catch the flight. She hadn't had time to eat before getting on the plane, and her stomach had clenched in revolt at the thought of eating the turkey sandwich served during the flight. She disliked turkey anyway; there was no way she could eat it with her stomach tied in knots and her head throbbing with tension.
The headache was still with her. It throbbed in time with every step she took as she followed the signs to the baggage claim area. She had never felt the way she felt now, not even when her mother died. Her grief then had been sharp, overwhelming. She didn't know what she felt now. If it was grief, then it was a different variety. She felt numbed, distant, oddly fragile, as if she had crystallized inside and the least bump would shatter her.
The weight of the bag pulled at her arm, making her shoulder ache. The air felt clammy even inside the terminal, as if the humidity seeped through the walls. She realized she hadn't called ahead to reserve a room. She stood in front of the baggage carousel, watching it whirl around with everyone's bags except hers, and wondered if she had the energy to move from the spot.
Finally, the conveyor spit out her bag. Keeping a tight grip on her carry-on, she leaned over to grab the other bag as it trundled past. A portly, balding man standing beside her said, "I'll get it for you," and deftly swung the bag off the belt.
"Thank you," Karen said, her heartfelt gratitude evident in her voice as he set the bag at her feet.
"My pleasure, Ma'am." Nodding his head, he turned back to watch for his own bags. She tried to remember the last time a stranger had been so courteous, but nothing came to mind. The small act of kindness almost broke through the numbness that encased her. Her taxi driver was a lean young black man wearing dreadlocks and an infectious smile. "Where you goin' this fine day?" he asked in a musical voice as he got behind the wheel after stowing her bags in the trunk.
Fine day? Ninety-eight degrees with a matching percentage of humidity was a fine day? Still, the sky was bright blue, unclouded, and even over the reek of exhaust in this island of concrete, she could catch the scent of vegetation, fresh and sweet.
"I don't have a room yet," she explained. "I need to go to the Eighth District police department on Royal Street."
"You don't wanna be carryin' your bags around in no police station," he said, shaking his head. "There's a bunch of hotels on Canal, just a few blocks from where you want to go. Why not check into one first, then walk on down to Royal? Or I can take you to a hotel right in the Quarter, but it might be hard to get a room there if you don't have a reservation."
"I don't," she said. Maybe all taxi drivers gave advice to weary travelers; she didn't know, not having traveled much. But he was right; she didn't want to lug her bags around.
"The bigger hotels, like the Sheraton or the Marriott, are more likely to have vacancies, but they're gonna be more expensive."
Karen was so exhausted that she cared more about convenience than cost. "The Marriott," she said. She could afford a few nights in a good hotel.
"That's just two blocks from Royal. When you come out of the hotel, turn right. When you get to Royal, turn right again. The police department's a few blocks down, you can't miss it. Big yellowish place with white columns and all the patrol cars parked out by the fence. It's in all the TV shows about New Orleans, looks like one of them old Southern mansions. I reckon cops still work there, since the cars are still there."
She leaned back and closed her eyes, letting the flow of words wash over her. If she could make it through the next few hours, she would go to bed early and get a good night's sleep, and tomorrow she would feel normal again instead of so unnervingly fragile. She didn't like the feeling. She was a healthy, energetic, calm, and competent young woman, known on the surgical floor for her level head. She was not an emotional basket case.
Within the hour, she was installed in a room with a huge king-size bed and a view of the Mississippi River and the French Quarter, which to her disappointment looked ramshackle, at least from the vantage point of fifteen floors up. She didn't take the time to unpack but did splash cold water on her face and brush her hair. It must be fatigue making her so pale, she thought, staring at her reflection over the sink. Her dark brown eyes looked black in comparison with the pallor of her cheeks. The taxi driver's directions made it sound easy enough to get to the police station, no more than five or six blocks, too short a distance to bother with another taxi. The walk would help clear her head. She almost changed her mind about walking when she stepped out into the heat. The afternoon sun burned her skin, and the thick air was difficult to breathe. She would have taken a taxi after all if the sidewalks hadn't been buzzing with people who didn't seem to notice the heat. Usually, heat didn't bother her this much, either, and the nineties weren't uncommon in Ohio during late summer. Her stomach roiled, and she fought back a rise of nausea. Maybe she was coming down with something, she thought. That would explain how awful she felt.
But even with all her present stress, practically from the very moment she turned right off Canal onto Royal Street, she felt the charm for which the French Quarter was famous. The streets were narrow, and Royal was clogged with cars parked on both sides. The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, the buildings old and, for the most part, dilapidated. But the doors were painted with bright, festive colors, flowers bloomed in boxes, ferns and palms turned second-and third-story balconies into gardens. Intricate wrought-iron railings and gates drew the eye, and alleys were lined with lush vegetation, hinting at the gardens beyond. She caught a variety of accents and languages as she passed other people. If the circumstances had been different, she would have loved to go into some of the exotic-looking shops. But today she didn't have the energy to do more than place one foot in front of the other and hope the police station wasn't much farther down the street.
Even on the shady side of the street, the sidewalks held the day's heat, and it was burning through the soles of her shoes.
Finally, she saw several police cars parked in front of a stately mansion; when she got close enough, she saw the sign on one of the white columns: "New Orleans Police 8th District." The building was a creamy shade that was too golden to be salmon and too pinkish to be tan. Black wrought-iron fencing surrounded the building and its immaculate landscaping. A genteel garden party wouldn't have looked out of place there.
Karen went inside the open gates and up a couple of wide, shallow steps. A massive door opened into an enormous room with blue walls and a ceiling that looked at least fifty feet high. Globed lighting fixtures, pamphlets for tourist attractions, and the general air of a museum made her wonder if she was in the right place after all.
A female police officer was sitting behind a raised desk. She seemed to be the only other person there. Karen looked up at her. "Does a Detective Chastain work here?"
"Yes, Ma'am, he does. I'll call and see if he's in. What's your name?"
"Karen Whitlaw."
The officer spoke quietly into the phone, then said to Karen, "He's in, and he said to come to his office." She pointed in the appropriate direction and recited instructions. "Take a right, and it's the third door on the left."
Ceiling fans whirled overhead as Karen followed directions; the stirring air raised chills on her arms after the furnace of the streets. She had never been in a police department before. She expected something approaching mayhem; what she found was ringing phones, people sprawled in chairs, clouds of cigarette smoke, and the odor of strong coffee. It could have been any busy, disorganized office, except for the fact that most of the people there were armed.
