The Chef

by James Patterson

  Never a cop around when you need one, I murmur.

  I keep on trotting, the MP5 bouncing around on my shoulder, and I try my phone again. From the Contacts list I dial the emergency inter-agency hotline Special Agent Morgan gave out at the security briefing. I hold the phone to my ear and listen.

  The line beeps. Once. Twice.

  A recorded announcement tells me that my call cannot be completed at this time.

  No shit, I think.

  I hang up and try again. Then again. Again.

  On the fourth try, the call goes through. The hotline starts to ring.

  I brake to a halt.

  Success!

  And ring. And ring.

  I count ten rings and still no answer. No voicemail, either. Nothing.

  I curse Morgan’s name and incompetence and stuff my phone back into my pocket.

  Now what?

  I think back to the briefing Morgan gave us. To all the security measures he said the feds were putting in place. The aerial drones. The nuclear particle detectors. The infrared cameras monitored by a dedicated team of specialists.

  Cameras.

  I look up and down the sidewalk for something that—in this part of town—shouldn’t be hard to find: a folding chalkboard sign sitting in front of a restaurant or bar.

  I spot one. A few doors away. Outside a quaint French Quarter watering hole called Dupré’s, advertising their three-for-one Mardi Gras drink specials all week long.

  I rush over. Hurriedly wipe the board clean with my sleeve. I don’t have any chalk—so a stray white pebble off the sidewalk will have to do.

  In big capital letters, I scratch out:

  AGENT MORGAN!!!

  USE RED-GREEN LENSED EYEGLASSES

  TO I.D. HIDDEN SHOOTERS!!!

  Then I look up, searching the awnings, rafters, and lampposts for one of those just-installed special cameras. Bourbon and Conti is an important intersection. There has to be one somewhere!

  Over there. On the underside of a second-story terrace. A small, sleek, black lens with a wireless antenna, bolted to the building with new, shiny silver screws.

  I pick up the chalkboard sign and rush over. I hold it up, wave it around, pointing and gesturing like a meth addict needing a fix. I feel a little crazy, but that’s the point. There probably aren’t a lot of other folks dancing a jig in the middle of a terrorist attack. If the FBI really has a team of agents watching these cameras, they should notice me straight away.

  I just hope they take me seriously. Read my message. Take it seriously. Then pass it along to the folks in charge.

  After thirty seconds or so, I start to hear more gunfire nearby. So I drop the sign, take cover, pull out my cell again, and dial Cunningham to try to warn him and the NOPD about the sunglasses and secret shooters, too.

  Damnit! The call won’t go through. I try twice more. Still no luck.

  Then, my phone starts ringing. Weirdly, I’m getting an incoming call.

  A local 504 area code, but I don’t recognize the number.

  Maybe it’s the FBI. Maybe an analyst saw my sign. Maybe it worked!

  Breathlessly, I answer.

  A man’s voice, cool as ice, says: “Hello, Detective. It’s Billy. You rang?”

  Chapter 84

  THE SOUND of that monster’s voice snatches my breath away.

  I’m on the line with the mastermind of the deadliest terror attack in New Orleans history, which is still raging all around me.

  But does he know I know that?

  He has to. Why else would he be calling? Just to toy with me?

  “Hey, Billy,” I answer, as calmly as I can. “Where are you? Somewhere safe, I hope. I’m sure you’ve seen the news. The French Quarter is an absolute—”

  He snickers.

  “That was some pretty convincing acting,” he says, voice calm and steady. “Really. Of course I’ve seen the news. I’ve also seen things…live.”

  That last word nearly causes me to jump. I glance around with sudden paranoia. Does he have cameras of his own installed in the French Quarter? Is he watching me right now?

  “And I have to say, I’m impressed with you, Caleb,” he says. “You came awfully close to figuring it all out. To stopping me. You didn’t, as you can see. But you did screw up a lot of my plans for today.”

  Furious, I grip the phone tighter and say, “Really? That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. Let’s get together and you can tell me personally how I screwed up your plans, and I’ll screw my Smith & Wesson into your worthless mouth and pull the goddamn trigger!”

  He laughs. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll meet, but not right now. You screwed up some of my plans, but not all of them. We’ve just begun. Honest.”

  “What else is going on? Billy, come on, tell me!”

  Another laugh. “And spoil my fun? Really?”

  Jesus Christ.

  “Why?” I shout. “Why would you do this? Why in God’s name would you bomb, ram, shoot up your hometown?”

  And like the sociopath he is—carefully hidden over the years—he’s got his sermon all ready.

  “Because I love my hometown, Caleb,” he says, voice strong and determined. “For years I’ve been watching this city slip lower and lower. Its culture and character worn away by outsiders. The fabric of its society ripped apart. Someone had to stand up, unite us all, and fight back!”

  “By killing innocent people?”

  “No, by purging our city of the outsiders who come in here and suck away what’s right and noble of New Orleans,” he says. “C’mon, Caleb, as a cop, you’ve seen what the outsiders have done to our city. They take away our food, our culture, our music, and what do we get in return? Dirty money…and when the time comes when we need real help, like Katrina, we’re treated like an old hooker who’s overstayed her welcome.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m just a cop, not a shrink. But somehow, I’ve got to stop him…or at least delay him. My heart is thudding so hard that it nearly hurts my chest, and I realize that right now, in these very seconds, I have the possibility of stopping any more carnage, to halt whatever it is that Billy is planning to do next.

  I take a breath. Swallow my anger, my pride, my cop mind.

  “Billy…you know, I’ve never thought of it that way. I hate to admit it, but…please, tell me more. Tell me what else is coming.”

  Another laugh. “A few seconds ago you were promising to blow my head off. And now you want me to believe you’re a convert? Not bad, but Caleb, please, don’t insult my intelligence.”

  “Billy…”

  After a pause, he asks, “Just before I go, consider this, you greasy spoon line cook. Have you ever lost something dear to you, Caleb? A job, maybe? A business? What about…a person? Maybe two?”

  My mouth turns dry as sandpaper. My pulse soars.

  Did this son of a bitch just threaten Marlene and Vanessa?

  “Billy, what the hell did you just say to me?” I shout back. “Are you still there?”

  Another laugh.

  “The sky’s the limit, Caleb,” he says. “Remember that.”

  Then he hangs up.

  Chapter 85

  MY FEET jackhammer the pavement.

  My arms pump like pistons.

  My throat and lungs are blazing.

  The MP5 threatens to shatter my shoulder from all the bouncing around.

  The distance from here to where Killer Chef is parked is only about a third of a mile.

  But right now, it feels like light-years.

  I tried phoning Marlene and Vanessa multiple times as soon as Billy hung up on me. No luck. The calls never went through.

  I tried texting them. Warning them. Imploring them to find shelter and stay safe, wherever they were. But the messages never went through.

  I have no idea where they are.

  Or…God, if they’re even still alive.

  And Billy could very well be bluffing. Trying to distract me, throw me off his trail.

 
But I’ve seen what he’s capable of. If he really does have something planned against the two most important people in my life, I need to protect them.

  I can’t take any chances.

  I have to find them. Save them.

  And the food truck is the best place to start looking.

  I still have so many damn questions. What are Billy’s true motives? What’s his end game? Why does he carry so much vitriol, so much pain?

  Most of all, what other horrors does he still have tucked up his sleeve?

  But that can wait.

  Sprinting through the deserted streets of the French Quarter, all I can think about are the two I hold dearest.

  But I see and hear some encouraging signs, like the first green colors of spring.

  More helicopters overhead.

  National Guard Humvees roaring by.

  State police and NOPD cruisers screaming in the distance as well.

  And I’m hearing the flat, sharp crack! of rifle fire in the distance, from what seems to be upper stories.

  Not the rapid fire from automatic machine guns, but the carefully aimed and discharged .308 bolt-action rifle rounds, the ones used by SWAT team snipers.

  Meaning my message did get through, and the good guys—now able to identify the bad guys—are taking them out, one by one, even with their body armor.

  Finally, I round the corner onto Bienville Street.

  I see Killer Chef parked just up the block, right where I left it.

  I start shouting, “Vanessa? Marlene? I’m back! You guys all right?”

  No response.

  I race up to the truck—and see it’s boarded up tight.

  The service windows are shut, the metal security grating closed and latched. I can hear the generator running, so they’re either hiding inside…or left in a hurry.

  I bang on the truck’s side—hard—as the sound of nearby sirens gets louder.

  “Marlene?” I yell. “Vanessa?”

  Still no reply.

  With a Black Hawk helicopter hovering overhead, I go around to the back.

  The truck’s rear doors are shut and locked, too. And of course I left my keys inside when I left.

  All I can do is pound on the doors. Frantically. Desperately. Feverishly.

  “Vanessa, Marlene, open up! It’s Caleb! Please!”

  After a few more painful, futile seconds of this, I frantically look around. I had the crazy thought of shooting off the lock, but that only works in Hollywood. Chances are, it wouldn’t work, or the ricochet could wound or kill me.

  There.

  Part of a shattered metal police barricade. I wrestle off a length of pipe-shaped metal, about two feet long, and go back to the rear of the truck.

  I start hammering the handle.

  Again and again. With all my focus and might.

  It takes a solid ninety seconds, but at last the handle snaps.

  I pry it off and push open the doors.

  “Vanessa, Marlene, are you—”

  A gunshot rocks the inside of the truck.

  Buckshot sails over my head, missing me by mere inches.

  I yell and duck back, and then I look in, past the gray cloud of gun smoke.

  They are together on the floor at the far side of the truck. Marlene is wielding a shotgun—one I recognize, one she long ago insisted we hide behind the freezer, “just in case.” I told her it was a stupid and dangerous idea. I forbid keeping any weapons inside our truck. Thank God she didn’t listen to me.

  “You scared the living shit out of us, Caleb!” she calls out. “Damnit, are you okay?”

  I slowly step up and in, looking at the damage the shot caused.

  “Marlene, really, I know you’ve threatened to kill me before but…”

  Her expression darkens and I add, “Honest, I’m okay. But didn’t you hear me yelling and banging on the door?”

  They get up off the floor, and Marlene makes a point of shoving the shotgun away and says, “We heard something out there, but we thought it was some crazy man.”

  Vanessa smiles. “Guess we were pretty close, right?”

  I burst out laughing. They join in. Uncontrollably.

  Our laughter turns to tears of relief and joy as I go over to these two extraordinary women. I embrace them both, pulling them in and squeezing them tight.

  We exchange no words. Just deep, heaving breaths. Overwhelmed with relief.

  We’re all together. Alive.

  Chapter 86

  THE SUNSET that evening is heartbreakingly beautiful, even though we only see it through a crack in our windows. The sky is on fire with a deep, luscious crimson.

  A fitting end to the day.

  The bloodiest one in New Orleans history since the War of 1812, although I feel it could have been much, much worse.

  Vanessa, Marlene, and I stay inside our truck, even though there’s still the strong odor of burnt gunpowder from the shotgun blast that nearly took off my head. Sirens are still sounding nearby and Black Hawk helicopters are roaring overhead, and I desperately work my phone to sound the alarm about Billy, placing call after call to Cunningham and the FBI’s hotline.

  None of them ever go through. I managed to leave three messages on Cunningham’s voicemail, but he never calls back.

  Eventually Vanessa says, “Hey, looks like the cavalry has arrived, Caleb.”

  I peer out through a crack between our windows and feel much better. Two National Guard Humvees towing trailers have pulled up, and armed troops are tumbling out, going to the trailers, pulling out wood and metal barricades.

  Vanessa says, “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s time to get out of here,” I say, “but we’ve got to be careful…those guys are probably nervous as hell.”

  I leave the HK MP5 behind and stick my pistol in my rear waistband of my jeans. I open the door and yell out, “Hey, National Guard, coming out! We’re coming out!”

  The three of us slowly step out of the truck, hands up, and a sergeant and trooper come over and say, “No civilians allowed here, sorry. Get moving…the city’s under martial law and the French Quarter is being evacuated of all civvies.”

  Marlene is somber and quiet, definitely not her usual self. “How…how bad is it?”

  “Shit, ma’am,” the trooper says, an African-American private who looks angry and determined. “Dunno about that, but at least the shooting’s died down. Look, you gotta get walking.”

  Vanessa says, “Can we drive our truck?”

  The sergeant—an older Hispanic woman—says, “I’ll be, the famous ‘Killer Chef’…no can do, sorry. No civilian traffic allowed.”

  I say, “Sergeant, I’m former NOPD. I’ve got vital information about the attack…can I borrow your radio equipment?”

  The private laughs. “Yeah, if any of it was working. Seems like we got the wrong frequency crystals for our radio gear. Your government at work.”

  The three of us walk gingerly along the nearly deserted streets, passing through two checkpoints manned by the state police—luckily, we weren’t searched, because I would have had a hard time explaining my hidden pistol—and we get to my home in Tremé. At this point, it’s as safe a place to be as anywhere else.

  In other words, not that safe at all.

  The streets are alive with moving traffic, none of it civilian. Fire trucks and EMS ambulances. Cruisers and unmarked vehicles. Additional National Guard Humvees and trucks. There’s a haze of smoke and a feeling of fear as the three of us keep up a steady pace.

  I’ve lived in New Orleans my whole life. I’ve lived through riots. Through Hurricane Katrina.

  I’ve never seen anything like this.

  And if Billy was telling the truth, there’s more to come.

  As calm as it now looks, that thought nearly freezes me with fear.

  “You brought your keys, right?” Vanessa asks as we finally shuffle up the path to my town house. “Or are you going to have to bash this doorknob off, too?”
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br />   She smiles and touches my shoulder. It’s the tiniest gesture, but it means the world, after the day we’ve all had.

  “If y’all are going to be this lovey-dovey,” Marlene says, “I’m gonna sleep in the hammock in the backyard. I’ve been through enough hell today.”

  After I get the door open we head straight for the living room and all collapse on the sofa.

  “Should we put on the news?” Vanessa asks, arching her back in exhaustion. “See what they’re saying?”

  Marlene springs to her feet. But she strides over to my bar cart, not the TV.

  “I’ve got a more important question,” she says. “What’s everybody drinking?”

  As she fixes us some well-deserved old-fashioneds using my finest bottle of twenty-year Lagavulin Scotch, I flip on the television.

  Coverage of the attack is on every channel. Reporters describing the action, dramatically waving their arms, pointing to crumpled floats and tractors behind police barricades. Blurry phone footage showing the screaming crowds, and one showing somebody in a harlequin costume, calmly walking along, shooting, until he in turn falls back when shot. Various witnesses—tourists, cops, residents—saying what they saw, with tears in their eyes and shaking voices. Talking heads drawing comparisons to the Boston Marathon bombing, the Las Vegas shooting, September 11th.

  I can’t stomach this. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  “Anyone care if I turn this shit off?” I ask.

  I reach for the remote without waiting for an answer—just as my phone rings.

  I check the screen. It’s another 504 number I don’t recognize.

  Holy shit. Is it Billy again?

  I answer nervously—then exhale.

  “Rooney, it’s Cunningham,” comes his tired voice. “Where are you? You okay?”

  “Hey, Chief. I’m hanging in there. I just got home. Did you get my—”

  “That’s why I’m calling,” he says. “How soon can you get to Pontchartrain Park? I’m with Morgan and his team of all-star rejects. We want you down here. Now.”

  “It might take some time, with all the roadblocks,” I say.