Ill Will

by J. M. Redmann

  When the words ran out, the physical spoke for us. First with passion and intensity, then more slowly, romance overtaking raw need, creating more memories to add to the pile of good ones. Someday time would run out, our passion seemed to say, but until it was gone, this touching was vital, essential as breathing.

  But the night was now a memory and the coffee was brewed and Cordelia was coming out of the shower.

  I quickly washed off while she dressed and drank her coffee—the caffeine would be quite necessary today.

  When I emerged from the shower, she said, “Some weekend we should do this again, so we don’t need to rush to work like this.”

  “That would be nice,” I agreed as I quickly dressed and took a final sip of coffee.

  Then we grabbed our duffels and headed for the door. I just barely remembered to snatch the plastic bags from the closet and bring them with me.

  Perhaps I should have just left them, I thought as we headed down the hall. Reginald Banks was gone; they were useless talismans of his passing.

  I retrieved the car while Cordelia finished checking out.

  “I can just drive you to work,” I told her as we got in.

  “Then how do I get home?”

  “I’ll come pick you up.”

  “I’m okay,” she replied to my unspoken implication. “Be there when—and if—I really need you. But right now I can drive myself to work. Then I’ll run Uptown to the grocery store after and come home.”

  “Okay, but why don’t you come home and we can both go to the store up on Carrollton?”

  “Why? Don’t trust that I’ll remember to get lemons?”

  “How easily you see through me.” But she agreed to meet me and we’d go together.

  The morning traffic was less insane than the evening, at least in the French Quarter. The drunks were either still sleeping it off or nursing hangovers.

  I drove back to our place. Cordelia got out of my car to get into hers. I waited until she was in, her doors locked and on her way. I followed her briefly until Rampart, where she headed uptown and I turned downtown.

  She’s okay, I told myself, glancing at her receding car in my rearview mirror. If Dudley is after anyone, it’s me, not her. And for the other, she’s a doctor, always worrying about getting enough fruits and vegetables in her diet and making sure she exercises regularly. I’m the one who goes out for lunch and gets the burger and fries. She gets a salad. People like that don’t get cancer in their forties.

  It was time to concentrate on idiots driving in the drizzle. A big-ass truck was driving like rain-slicked roads would have no effect whatsoever on his brakes. Either he didn’t see the Mini Cooper in front of him, or else he liked to play chicken on his way to work. He managed to stop with about two inches between his bumper and a red, albeit small, car.

  I stayed safely behind, turning down a side street to get to my office. As is typical in New Orleans, it wasn’t raining two blocks away, and in another two blocks the sun came out.

  Nothing had happened for two days, so I was starting to assume that nothing would happen. The sight of the massive man standing right in front of my door was unnerving. How could he be here now? He seemed to be messing with the lock.

  It was earlier than I usually got here. Dropping off Cordelia in time for her to make doctor’s hours had altered my morning schedule.

  Just as I was reaching for my cell phone to call Joanne, he saw me.

  Thank the fates for a meth-addled brain. He stared just long enough for me to hit the accelerator and peel out down the sleepy block.

  I’ll bet the gunshot woke everyone up. It certainly got my adrenaline going. After the shock at his plans going awry once again, Dudley Dude did what he did best—violence. Have gun, will shoot.

  The Bywater, where my office is located, is an older neighborhood, well on its transition from working class to artist trendy. The houses are mostly shotguns, close to each other and the street. It’s residential; if people work here, it’s at the local coffee shop or restaurant, maybe some of the businesses on St. Claude.

  So not the kind of place to engage in a gun battle and car chase.

  Like I was now.

  Dudley had only remained in his surprised stupor for a bare second. That had given me just enough time to stomp on the gas and roar past him. He had his gun out firing as I screeched around the corner. The blocks here were short. I started to turn another corner, but saw a big yellow school bus a few blocks farther down.

  Must avoid school zones, I told myself, jerking my car back to straight.

  But my altruism gave Dudley enough time to get in his big truck (of course, it would be a big black truck) and sight my car still heading away from him.

  In my rearview mirror, I saw him stick his hand out, holding something that looked like a gun.

  I was a good two blocks away from him, moving at an insane speed, and he was shooting left-handed, so somebody else’s car now had a bullet hole.

  That was his advantage. I could have sped around the school bus so it was between us, but I wasn’t willing to put other people at risk if I could avoid it. Dudley, even without drugs, probably didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything. Throw a little meth into the mix and he didn’t give a damn and didn’t think he could get hurt.

  I took a hard right. Maybe if I wasn’t in his sight line, he wouldn’t shoot. It would be luck if he actually hit me—Dudley didn’t seem like the type to spend much time at the firing range—but stray bullets flying around could easily hurt someone else.

  I sped left around another corner, trying to zig and zag away from Dudley. That was challenging enough. Add to that trying to open and dial—yeah, speed-dial, but even that wasn’t easy—my cell phone.

  I got it open, looked down for half a split second, and almost ran over a dog.

  Okay, driving and driving only from now on. I’d have to pin my hopes that someone somewhere would notice that a big black truck was speeding through the neighborhood and firing guns. Or maybe that was too common an occurrence for anyone to even pay attention to.

  For my safety I should head into the more traveled parts, go uptown. But there would be more people there and more chance Dudley’s stray bullets or reckless driving would injure someone.

  My other choice was to drive to St. Claude and cross the Industrial Canal into the Lower Ninth Ward. It had been inundated during Katrina, one of the most destroyed neighborhoods in New Orleans. People were poor there, often uninsured. Even now there was block after block of overgrown lots, staircases to nowhere peering out of the weeds, the only mark that this had once been an inhabited area.

  Fewer people meant less of them to be hurt.

  Of course, it also made it less likely that anyone would be around to dial 911 for me. Hell, cell service might not have been restored down there yet.

  I deliberately didn’t turn at the next block, heading straight for St. Claude Ave. It was the main artery through the area and a straight shot over the Canal. The bridge was an old one, originally for both car and rail, but the tracks had been long gone, with the lanes dividing inner and outer.

  The tricky part would be getting onto St. Claude. No, the tricky part was everything—staying far enough away from Dudley so he couldn’t shoot me, driving through these narrow streets at speeds they were never intended for, avoiding dogs, children or any other living thing, and somehow attracting enough attention soon enough that someone with bigger guns and faster cars could end this. Turning onto St. Claude without causing a wreck was just a subsection of the above.

  People were going to work, but would be going uptown, not downtown. At least it was a right turn; I wouldn’t have to scream across two lanes and a median. Oh, the fates were kind to me today.

  Dudley was again in my rearview mirror and the idiot was again trying to take potshots at me. There were a couple of pedestrians in the next block. I laid on my horn. I’m not sure if its blare or the sound of a gun was the cause of their hightailing it ove
r a fence, but at least they had some protection. And perhaps even now were dialing those magic numbers, 911.

  I blew though an intersection, horn still blasting, trying to warn any oncoming cars. A truck was there. He let me through, then foolishly decided it was his turn, crossed, fishtailing to get out of the way of Dudley’s speeding vehicle. The virtues of looking both ways.

  St. Claude was next. I slowed minimally. If I got in a car wreck, Dudley would have an easy shot. But he was closing the gap and my choice was between risking a wreck or being shot. Nothing like having options.

  Again blaring the horn as I hit the intersection, my car squealed into a right turn. I was lucky; traffic going this way was light and the closest car was a good half block away.

  There is a stoplight at the last street before the bridge. Car chases in the movies are fun, in real life not so much, more like traumatic—at each turn I risked wrecking, hurting someone, and/or being caught by someone wanting to kill me.

  Dudley was gaining on me. He seemed to think his truck was big enough to plow through any crash and he wasn’t worried about stray dogs or school children. He careered around the turn barely half a block behind me, causing the oncoming car to brake sharply and veer left to avoid him.

  He stuck his hand out and took another shot. I heard something skim across my roof.

  I wondered if my insurance would cover this.

  On this straightaway, he was gaining quickly on me.

  I have a sensible car, a little Mazda, peppy enough but not designed to be a king of the road. Dudley’s truck, on the other hand, was clearly a powerful puppy, meant for macho posturing and passing the peons.

  The light was green.

  Dudley stuck his hand out for another shot.

  I veered into the left lane.

  Another wild shot.

  He was still gaining. He jerked into the left lane behind me, closing the distance. I could hear the roar of his engine.

  I was rethinking my decision to head to the Lower Ninth Ward. Once there it would be impossible to shake him. He had speed and power over me. A more maneuverable car was my only advantage. Maybe I could let him get closer and do a quick turn at one of the side streets and he would overshoot. That might not slow him down much, and he still had a gun and there were still too many people around.

  But whatever I did had to be mere seconds away. The bridge was a scant two blocks farther, and if I went over it, then I was committed.

  Then I had an idea. A desperate, last-chance idea.

  He was no more than twenty feet behind me.

  I steered to the left, going into the left hand turn lane at the road immediately before the bridge.

  Just as he started to follow me, I jerked back, veering all the way into the right lane.

  And then at the last of the last seconds, went even farther right into a little side street that ran parallel with the bridge. It dead-ended at the bank of the Industrial Canal.

  His heavy truck couldn’t correct in time. He tried to follow me, but the momentum of the truck was too fast and he couldn’t get over far enough. Then he desperately wrenched the steering wheel as he tried to avoid crashing directly into the guardrail. He managed to avoid a head-on collision, instead sideswiping it, the impact so hard I thought the truck would roll over the rail and crash onto the pavement below.

  Metal screamed, a sickening screech that went on and on.

  My little side street was empty, a cul-de-sac of a few houses before the canal. I braked as rapidly as I safely could.

  I could no longer see much of the upper roadway. The embankment hid most of the street.

  Just because he crashed didn’t mean he was dead, or even really hurt. That big truck could protect him. I couldn’t depend on him being too stupid to wear his seat belt.

  I quickly started my car again, backing up a little to make a right turn onto a side street that would take me away from St. Claude and the wreck. I wasn’t leaving, but getting out of shooting range. I did another turn, now out of sight of anyone on St. Claude, then pulled to the side of the road and found my cell phone.

  By now 911 had to have been called. There were too many cars and people around to witness Dudley’s spectacular crash.

  I dialed Joanne, using her personal number so I wouldn’t have to wait for her to be found at her office.

  “What?” she answered. Caller ID, she knew it was me.

  “Dudley reappeared. We just did a car chase through the Bywater that ended with him running into the guardrail on the St. Claude bridge.”

  “What?” she repeated, in a very different tone.

  I slowed down and repeated the story, filling in the details.

  “Was anyone hurt?” she asked when I finished.

  “Not that I know of. He was firing wild. But I can’t be sure. All I saw was some car damage.”

  I gave her my route, all the streets I’d taken so that someone could retrace them and make sure no one was injured.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Finally, the important stuff.

  “Shaken. I might have to remove a brown stain from my car seat. But okay. A bullet zinged across my car roof. That’s it.”

  “Stay on the line,” she told me. “I need to warn the responders that he’s armed and dangerous.”

  Then her voice became distant, indistinct. I couldn’t make out the words. But I wasn’t even trying, I was shaking so hard.

  I didn’t even want to count the number of ways I could have been killed in the last… I looked at my watch. Less than forty-five minutes ago I had dropped off Cordelia at our house. The whole chase had taken ten, at most fifteen minutes. The ways I could have been killed in the last ten minutes. That I was safe and whole, maybe a minor scrape on my car, seemed an unlikely miracle.

  I took a deep breath, then another one, reassured by the sound of air coming in and out of my lungs.

  Alive. Still alive.

  A tinny voice was calling my name.

  Joanne had come back on the phone. I put it back to my ear.

  “Micky? Micky?” she called.

  “Here. Sorry, just trying to…” Remind myself that I was alive.

  “Where are you?”

  “Uh…I’m not sure. One of those little streets that run into the canal.”

  “I’ve got a map.” Using her map we located me on North Rampart Street between Kentucky and Poland. Whoever named these streets either had a shaky grasp of geography or a strong sense of irony.

  Joanne stayed on the phone with me until the patrol car arrived.

  I’m not sure what I said to her and I’m not sure I want to know. Now I had time to think of how close I’d come to being killed. I even discreetly checked the seat for a brown spot.

  When the cops arrived they took pictures of my car, especially the bullet scrape on the roof. I agreed to a breath test. I didn’t think I could be much more stone-cold sober than I was at the moment.

  Then they took me to the police station. They didn’t even ask if I wanted to drive. One of them took the keys out of my still-shaking hand and the other led me to the patrol car. I most assuredly did not want to be behind the wheel of a car for at least a year.

  At the police station I again repeated my story, which was backed up by my earlier complaint about Dudley. Then I wrote out and signed a statement. Finally enough time passed, enough people questioned me, and my hands stopping shaking enough that I was able to go.

  Joanne caught up with me just as I was leaving.

  “Lunch?” she said, her question not really a question.

  “Food? My stomach might still be in my throat.” But I followed her.

  We went—in her car—to a decent pizza place that wasn’t too far away. Cheese and dough is comfort food.

  Once we were seated and had ordered, she said, “Dudley got banged up pretty badly. No, I don’t expect you to waste any tears over him. He was stupid and dangerous and at least, so far as we know, he hurt himself more than anyone e
lse. Good news for the responders, he was out by the time they got there, so they weren’t at risk.”

  “Any chance to question him?”

  “No, last I heard he was in surgery and he’s not likely to be in any condition to talk for a day or two—should he be that lucky. Everything on your end checks out. There was a gun in his truck, spent cartridges. Guess he thought he’d be able to clean up later.”

  “I’m not sure he was thinking. I doubt he expected to see me that early, and when he did he went into both fight and flight. If he’d been thinking clearly he would be in Houston by now.”

  “Do you suspect it was Prejean?”

  “Flip a coin. Was he doing it for his ego or for Prejean? When I talked to him—”

  “You talked to him?” Joanne cut in.

  While I didn’t want her to know I’d run off half-cocked, she needed to know everything—even if it made me look stupid. I told her about my encounter with Prejean. She was kind enough not to create for me another body orifice. “I know, but in a way I was trying to reason with him. His case is closed; what’s done can’t be undone. If he leaves me alone, I leave him alone. Maybe a bit of a hothead, but he’s not really a fighter. At least that was my feeling about him.”

  “Oddly, mine, too. Money fraud is one thing—and bad enough, but once you cross over into violence, the cops pay a lot more attention. I’d think just from a business perspective, the last thing he’d want was more cops visiting him.”

  “So Dudley didn’t like being kicked in the balls by a girl and he decided to freelance?”

  Our food arrived. I suddenly realized I was ravenous. The fear and adrenaline of the chase had probably burned off more calories than a heavy aerobic class. Or maybe my taste buds were just so happy that they were still around to taste.