And I see someone has already beaten me to it.
The gates are slowly swaying back and forth, and there is twisted metal and a broken lock mechanism, and I go through as well, the gates scraping at the side of the car as I burst through into the private yards.
The mansion is to the left, the nearest large barn is to the right, and parked up ahead is—
A silver Audi!
Just like the one I saw going into the junkyard that night, when I was following poor Ibrahim Farzat.
Billy Needham.
Has to be.
I slow down and pull in next to the Audi, step out, overdressed for this fine morning, but I don’t care. My 9mm Smith & Wesson M&P is in my hand, with four spare magazines in my jacket pocket.
I look around as I go up to the front porch.
The place is empty.
No horses practicing out in the fields, no stable hands or other workers moving around on the grounds.
The stillness and emptiness of the place makes my scalp tingle.
I go up to the front door, and it’s open.
I peer in.
A luxurious sitting room beyond the small foyer. Antique furniture, heavy wooden tables, crystal chandelier, Oriental carpets, and leather-bound books snugly placed into bookshelves.
I step in.
A figure is sitting on the couch.
I take a breath.
It’s Emily, dressed in heavy riding boots with silver spurs, tan riding jodhpurs, and a fine white blouse with lace around the neck and sleeves.
“Ms. Beaudette?”
I step closer.
Her head is tilted back, and I see the black scorch mark of a bullet wound in the middle of her forehead, just above her wide-open, stunned eyes.
Chapter 95
I TAKE another step closer when a quiet voice behind me says, “Hell of a sight, eh?”
I whirl and bring up my pistol and Billy Needham casually makes an appearance, like he was coming in from the other side of the house, hoping to see a table set before him with his breakfast. He doesn’t even spare a glance at me, my pistol, or his dead sister as he walks past, carrying a small leather case and some folded maps and charts in his hands. He goes by me and sits at the table, spreads out the papers, and glances at them. He has on heavy khaki slacks, a blue button-down shirt, and a leather jacket. Aviator-style sunglasses dangle from a cord around his neck.
I step right up to him, pointing my pistol.
“Billy…”
He looks up. “What? ‘Freeze’? ‘Don’t move’? ‘You’re under arrest’?” He grins. “Oh, yeah. Not a cop anymore, are you? And not much of a chef, either. Go away, Caleb, I’ve got work to do.”
“You…your sister…”
He looks over to Emily. “Ah, poor dear. Among the mongrels, idiots, and thieves that make up the Needham clan, she, at least, treated me well. Listened to me. Gently argued with me. And protected me, even when you were up here, sniffing around. It only went sideways when she threatened to call you with the truth. Good Lord, Rooney, why the hell couldn’t you leave everything alone?”
I’m inches away from placing the muzzle of my pistol against his temple. “Because I won’t let you go on! I won’t let you kill thousands of innocents! You and your—”
Billy is as calm as the sociopath he is as he looks at the maps and charts and says, “Oh, blah blah blah. Who mourns for the dead of Berlin? Eh? Tens of thousands of innocents killed when Berlin fell to the Russians, and now, Berlin is a clean, free, and safe city. Those innocents had to die for the greater good. And when I’m done, New Orleans will go back to its roots, back to the real community, without the tacky tourists, the developers, the ones who steal our culture, our—”
I jam the gun in his chest and say, “Billy, get your hands up, and stand up. Now!”
He raises his head, gives me a look like he’s finally realizing I’m standing there aiming a pistol at him, and softly says, “Oh, Rooney, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
His hand goes back into the small leather bag and before I can even react, he pulls out a revolver and shoots me square in the chest.
Chapter 96
MY CHEST feels like an elephant has stood on it with all four legs, like some deranged circus act, and I flicker my eyes open.
Oh shit, does it hurt.
I’m flat on the finely carpeted floor of Emily’s sitting room, trying to take a breath, failing.
Distantly I hear Billy rustling some papers and muttering to himself, and then footsteps and the slam of the door closing behind him.
I close my eyes. So tempting just to keep my eyes closed, let the inviting darkness come forth and take me away, and let somebody else take care of things.
The police tried to screw me, the FBI wouldn’t listen to me…so to hell with them all.
And then it comes to me, saves me right there.
Vanessa.
She and Marlene…they’re at the Fair Grounds.
Right now.
With tens of thousands of others.
I grind out the words, “Man up, Rooney. Get moving.”
I push myself up from the floor, breathing hard, flopping back against the same couch where Emily’s body is resting.
I paw at my jacket and shirt, tear it open, revealing—
The Kevlar vest I’m wearing. Good enough for the terrorists, good enough for me.
I rub at the deep dimple where the round hit me—probably a .357 Magnum round—and there’s broken bones, bruises, and maybe even a shattered sternum under there.
I breathe in, nearly faint from the pain. I still have the fractured rib from when Ty Grant attacked me, which isn’t helping anything.
God!
I’m on my feet.
I glance down.
There.
I pick up my pistol, nearly passing out again.
I stumble toward the door, like one of the many drunks I’ve seen in my life, traipsing through the happy streets of New Orleans.
Outside.
The Audi is gone.
My Impala is there.
I go down the steps, nearly falling. Step closer to my car.
I hear the slight sound of an engine, look way off to the distance where two other low stables squat, and see the tiny shape of the Audi come to a halt.
There.
I go to my car.
Breathe in.
Reach in my pocket for the keys.
No keys.
Other pocket.
Still no keys.
Damnit!
What now?
The other stable is close.
I blink my eyes.
Now it seems far, far away.
I stagger toward it, forcing my legs, easing my breathing so the sharp knife points digging into my lungs ease off, and when I get into the wide barn, with the smell and sounds of the horses, I feel slightly better.
Just a bit.
Some horses poke their heads out of their stables, looking at me with equine curiosity, and I know in the movies and the TV shows, this is where the hero would gallantly leap on one of the handsome steeds and trot to the rescue.
Not this hero.
Three ATVs are parked against the wall, and overhead, on a pegboard, keys dangle free.
In less than a minute, I’m on a black, mud-splattered ATV, racing out to the pastures, hoping that I’m not too late. There were dozens of employees last time I was here, but today the place is empty—did Emily give everyone the day off to go to the memorial service?
Out on the wide pastures, I spot the two flagpoles I had seen on my first visit here, but they’re no longer empty.
They now have bright-orange windsocks flapping from them, letting pilots see the wind direction.
The slight bumps and ruts spear pain into my chest, again and again.
I grit my teeth, and then scream in pain, over and over.
Up ahead, doors begin sliding open at the two low buildings.
Airplanes appear, engines roaring with
devilish power, propellers spinning, and one, two, three, and then four emerge.
Two from each building.
Oh, God, I’m going to fail again.
Chapter 97
THE FOUR single-engine aircraft—Cessna 172s, it looks like—line up one behind another, like some horrible parade, ready to rain down death and destruction once they get airborne.
Each is carrying two metal cylinders—one under each wing—and I’m sure the cockpit and storage area in each plane is packed with explosives, shrapnel, and who knows what kind of chemical weaponry…God, almost everything and anything to tear through the crowds and kill and maim as many as possible.
Words from Cunningham come back to me:
“…the thing is, terrorist bastards are always one step ahead, weaponizing stuff that’s usually innocuous.”
Like private aircraft.
Single-engine Cessnas or Piper Cubs.
Who would ever think?
Would ever consider?
Ever plan?
Billy Needham, that’s who.
I speed along, parallel to the four aircraft, and a hint of hope appears. They’re moving slowly, moving into position, and I’m managing to maintain pace near them.
Up ahead I see the grass is a different color, almost…rectangular in shape, and that’s where they’re headed. That’s the homemade airstrip. That’s what they’re going to use, and in my mind’s eye, it all comes together, one Cessna after another taking off, flying low to avoid detection, heading for the Fair Grounds, each aircraft coming in north, south, east, and west, and—
Dropping into the open, screaming, running crowds.
Sharp metal wings cutting in.
Spinning propellers turning the Fair Grounds into a charnel house.
Explosions ripping through the once-happy and joyous place.
Shrapnel scything through, cutting down the crowds, dismembering, slicing, disemboweling, and then, blasts of flame and smoke…
With the pain, I almost feel like vomiting with certainty of what’s going to happen next.
I feel a difference in the ground, and now I’m on the airfield, and I speed away, going away from the aircraft.
A gamble.
Oh man, a gamble, but that’s what my life and New Orleans is based on.
Gambling that a city can live and grow among the swamps and mangroves, and that the people from all different stations and walks of life can grow and thrive and love there.
Vanessa, I think.
Vanessa.
Finally breaking away from her abusive husband, finding a new life, a new love, finding happiness after such a long time…
And to die within the next few minutes?
No!
I spin the ATV around, facing the aircraft.
One following another following the other…
The lead aircraft increases its speed.
Starts coming in my direction.
I crank the throttle wide, speeding down the grassy strip.
Aiming right at the propeller.
Going faster.
We’re coming at each other.
The propeller a blur. The Cessna bouncing along on its three tires.
Bouncing.
Starting to gain altitude.
Starting to fly off.
With its three accomplices lining up right behind it.
I lean down, hoping with head and torso flat against the ATV that I can reduce the wind drag, gain just a bit more speed, that’s all I need, just a bit more speed.…
I leap off, crying out as I hit the ground, and I force myself to look at what happens next, like a movie slowing down, frame-by-frame, and—
The ATV roars ahead, going straight to the spinning propeller, and it—
—misses.
Slides under the wing without striking a damn thing, and—
“No!” I scream, and the ATV, with no driver and buffeted by the propeller wash, flips over, again and again, smashing into the elevators on the tail of the airplane.
The lead Cessna makes a sharp, digging turn, the propeller striking the grass and pasture, and it tilts and—
The second Cessna crashes into the first.
The third makes a sudden swerve but it doesn’t move in time, and collides with the second aircraft.
The fourth tries to avoid the pileup, the tangle of wings, tires, fuselage, and breaking propellers before it, and it starts to fly up and over the tangled mess, when a roaring, blasting, fiery explosion blows it to pieces.
Chapter 98
I WAIT a couple of minutes before I get up, and then I limp and stumble my way to the burning and scattered piles of wrecked aircraft. As I get closer, the stench of petroleum assaults me, and I know I guessed right: each aircraft was carrying chemicals—something to burn the already bleeding and shattered survivors of the Fair Grounds.
Then I spot the shrapnel, the screws, bolts, and nails, scattered all over the runway, ready to—
Ready to—
I stop, lean over, and vomit, again and again…like a rookie cop, looking at his first dead body.
Then I get up, start walking again, wanting to see a dead Billy, and his dead comrades. I can see Billy going through with this, his deranged thoughts and fantasies, but whom did he convince to join him? Who would these men have been? And more importantly…do they have allies out there, waiting for—God forbid it—a third attack?
I get to the crumpled cabin of one of the Cessnas, and lean down, peering through the shattered windshield, at the crumpled seat and broken instrument panel, and—
There’s nobody there.
Nobody!
There are controls there, and a laptop computer, and a broken system of cables and pulleys, and it comes to me.
This wasn’t a suicide mission.
This was an out-and-out kill mission, using these Cessnas as huge, weapons-filled drones.
No wonder one of the hangars had a large radio antenna behind it.
That’s how they were controlled.
Angus, back when I had interrogated him at the bridge.
And they even got these smarty scientist types, smarter than you, cop, you can be sure.
This wasn’t a suicide mission, then.
Meaning…
I whip around, look to the two open hangars, and there—
Is the Audi, speeding away.
Escaping.
Billy getting away with it.
I could yell, scream, shout, but I instantly react with my cop instincts.
I throw myself to the petroleum-stained grass, pull out my pistol, start shooting.
Not like the movies or TV, with rapid-fire shots.
The odds are against me.
I force myself to relax, to focus, and most of all, to aim.
I fire one shot.
Another.
Another.
With each second the Audi is getting farther away from me, closer and closer to final escape, and I can’t let that happen.
It’s all up to me.
Another shot.
Another.
I lead the Audi, like a duck hunter aiming ahead of his prey, and I keep on shooting, not aiming for the tires, or the gas tank, but for the windows.
I mean to kill the son of a bitch.
I shoot again.
Then…
The Audi slows down.
Sways back and forth, back and forth.
Slows some more.
I get up, shaking, legs quivering, my hammered chest feeling like the bones there are about to impale my heart and cause me to bleed out near the burning wreckage, and I don’t care.
I’m beyond caring.
I start my long walk to the still Audi.
Once again, a gamble has paid off for my beloved Big Easy, its people, and most of all, my Vanessa.
Vanessa.
It feels like half the morning has passed before I get to the car. The engine is still running but the windshield and side windows are pockmarked with bu
llet holes.
I tug the driver’s door open and Billy slides out.
It looks like one of my rounds got him in the shoulder.
There’s lots of blood on him, and the seat.
He tumbles to the ground.
His eyes open.
He’s still alive.
I kneel next to him.
He’s talking to me, cursing me, promising vengeance, a violent death.
I shove the end of my pistol into his mouth.
His eyes widen; he tries to scream with the cold metal in his mouth.
I lean over so he can hear me.
“Remember the other day when I said I’d screw my pistol into your worthless mouth and pull the trigger?”
I push it in farther. “It was you who sent people to attack Marlene! To trash my truck!”
His eyes are wide and he’s trying to talk, but I don’t take the gun out. I don’t care what he has to say. “It was you who sent those Nazis after Vanessa! Why? To get to me? Are you the one who told Lucas Dodd about me and Vanessa, too?”
He’s coughing and gagging, trying to explain himself, but there’s nothing he can say. And I can tell from his desperate expression that all my accusations are true. “Sixty-five thousand people! You were going to murder sixty-five thousand people!”
His good arm lifts up, tries to push me away, but he can’t do it. He’s too feeble and I’m too determined.
“Sixty-five thousand! And those innocent people—innocent children!—killed in the parade! You animal!”
Then I pull the pistol free.
He coughs, chokes.
The end of the muzzle is wet with his bloody spit.
“Go to hell, Billy,” I say. “But it won’t be today…because each bullet in my pistol is worth about fifty cents, much more than you’ll ever be.”
Then I sit back and wait.
Chapter 99
“GIMME FIVE scoops, three quacks, six waddles, two meows, and nine shakes!”
I’m hunched over the flaming-hot stove, soaked head to toe in sweat.
I’m scarfing an endless stream of jalapeños, so many that I’m getting heartburn.
Or maybe it’s my healing sternum and three ribs, still aching after the Kevlar vest stopped the round from Billy Needham’s .357 Magnum.
I’m scooping grits, charring sausages, toasting baguettes, searing duck breasts, sautéing shrimp, blackening catfish, and deep-frying dough strips like a maniac, working furiously to fill the orders my ex-wife is barking at me.
The Chef Page 28
