Severed

by Corey Brown

  “Briggs?” Suzanne says. “Detective Briggs? David, what are you talking about? What’s going on?”

  David swings his legs over the edge of the bed, his head bobbing slightly as he tries to orient himself. “We have to get out of here.”

  “Do you know Detective Briggs?” Suzanne says.

  “Suzanne, we have to go, right now.”

  Somewhere just below the surface, Cody hears a sound. Unconsciously, he resolves the sound to a voice, the voice to a single word: No.

  The man shrugs, frowns and says, “Am I David Carlson? Kind of, yes and no, but for you it doesn’t really matter. I’m only here to make it interesting. You know, to fuck with you. Satan knows how long it’s taken to get this far. A lot of planning, even more waiting, some routine killing. Damn, I hate waiting, really dull, you know? And now I just want things to move along. So how about it? Ready for your jail break?”

  “I told you,” Cody says. “I’m staying.”

  With indifference, the man adjusts his shirtsleeves, looks at Cody, then shakes his head and says, “You really don’t get it.”

  Sitting on the edge of his bed, David rubs his toe against the green and white checkerboard floor tile. It is cold, he is cold, the whole damned room is cold. David hesitates, swinging his feet back and forth then he plants them flat on the tile and stands.

  “What are you doing?” Suzanne says. “David, stop, lay down.”

  “I need clothes.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “We have to go,” David says, turning his face in the direction of Suzanne’s voice. “We can’t stay here.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, not until you’re well.”

  Still not sure of Suzanne’s location, David stretches out an arm, palm up, and waggles his fingers. “Come here,” he says.

  Suzanne takes a step, halts, stares. A choking sound rises in her throat as she takes in the sight. Before her eyes, fresh, new skin is growing over the last few patches of exposed muscle and David is whole again. Except for his missing eyes, her brother is completely healed.

  “Good Lord, David…”

  “Yes, I know, I’m me again.” David shrugs one shoulder. “Well, almost.”

  Suzanne feels her body go stiff then the room turns wispy, fuzzy. In contrast to the gray haze forming in her brain, Suzanne detects something through the fog clouding her eyesight, something that makes sense. It is motion. The clear edge of motion cuts into her mind. The floor is moving closer.

  Even without the benefit of sight, David knows Suzanne is fainting. In his mind David can see her falling as obviously as if he has eyes. She is toppling sideways, to his right. David hooks his arms around her, taking Suzanne’s full weight just as her legs give out.

  Then Suzanne feels something soft and cold pressed against her cheek. She becomes aware that she is lying down. Pulling the damp washcloth from her face, Suzanne sits up and looks around. The room is empty.

  “David?” Suzanne says.

  The bathroom door opens.

  “Yeah, right here,” David says, stepping out, fumbling with the ties of a white hospital gown. “You all right?”

  “Uh-huh. What happened?”

  “You fainted.”

  “I did?” Suzanne says, a confused expression on her face. “How did I get on the bed?”

  “I put you there.”

  “You did? How could…how did you know I was blacking out?”

  David looks thoughtful, he shakes his head. “I could see you in my head, I could tell you were going to faint. Look, we have to get out of here.”

  Bewildered, Suzanne climbs off the bed. “That’s freaky. Can you see me now? In your mind, I mean.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” There is an edge to David’s voice. “We have to hide.”

  “Hide? Why?” Suzanne uses her thumb to tuck a flap of blouse back into her waistband. Then she picks up on David’s tone, looks around the room and says, “Where should we go?”

  “I have no idea, Suzanne, but we have to go and I need clothes. Can you see if the gift shop is still open?”

  Twenty-five minutes later David and Suzanne are in a Liberty Bell taxicab heading downtown. The dark glasses would keep anyone from noticing his missing eyes. Not much for attire, the gift shop had little to offer; a navy blue sweatshirt with the Saint Charles Hospital logo across the chest and matching navy sweat pants. David didn’t care, he felt better being clothed and on the move.

  “Where to?” The cab driver had said.

  “Downtown,” Suzanne had replied.

  Now, as the taxi approached Canal Street, the driver glances in the rearview. Suzanne catches the look, knows what it means, what he is asking. She looks at David.

  “Canal?” David says.

  Suzanne stared at him. “Yes, how did----?”

  “Don’t ask, you don’t want to know.”

  “Where should we go?” Suzanne says.

  “Saint Louis Cathedral.”

  Suzanne makes a face. “Why there?”

  “It---- he will come for me. I’m beginning to think a holy place is the only safe place.”

  She makes another face, this time a discontented look. “So, now you believe in God?” She says. “Now you need Him?” She catches herself, takes David’s hand and says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I don’t know why I said it. I’m sorry, David.”

  “I don’t know what I believe,” David says. “So much has happened, maybe I believe. I don’t know.”

  “Where are we going?” The cab driver says.

  Suzanne looks at David. He feels her gaze and tips his head forward, draws his fingertips down the bridge of his nose.

  “Saint Louis Cathedral,” David says. “Bring us in on Chartres Street, by Pat O’Brien’s.”

  “That’s a pain in the ass,” the driver says, turning right on Canal Street. “How about I drop you on Decatur Street? You can cut across Jackson square.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” David retorts. “Take us to Chartres.”

  “Okay, fine. Don’t get nasty about it.”

  Suzanne brushes a wisp of hair from her forehead. “Why Saint Louis?” She says. “Why not Mom and Dad’s church, why not Coliseum Place Baptist?”

  “I don’t know,” David shakes his head. “The Cathedral is bigger, more popular. Maybe it will be safer.”

  “Well, big or popular doesn’t mean more sanctified or hallowed. God doesn’t care about things like that.”

  “Okay, so God doesn’t care about that stuff,” David says. “What’s wrong with Saint Louis? Isn’t it holy enough?”

  “No,” Suzanne says, with a sigh. “It’s not that. There’s nothing wrong with Saint Louis, I guess. It just seems so commercial. They have a gift shop for goodness sakes.”

  “It’s also a historical landmark.”

  “I know, I know,” Suzanne says. “Forget what I said, my head is spinning, my whole world has been turned upside down.” She shrugs. “Maybe I just need something familiar, someplace I trust.”

  David wraps his arm around Suzanne, pulling her close. She lays her head on his shoulder.

  “I know exactly how you feel, little sister.” David says.

  “I suppose you do.”

  «»

  Cody had found himself standing on the corner of Claiborne and Alvar, in front of District Five Police Headquarters. Unable to overcome the man’s strength, the ‘lawyer’ had literally dragged Cody out by the shirt collar, marching him out of the cellblock, past the duty cop, four street uniforms and one detective. No one seemed to care, none of them spoke up or even made eye contact. It was as if the two of them were invisible.

  Out on the street, the man had grinned and said, “See you later.” Then he turned away taking exactly three steps before disappearing.

  It was another number branded in Cody’s mind: three. There had been three bloody footsteps in the hospital emergency room leading to nowhere, disappearing. And this guy had taken
three steps, just three and not one more, before he had vanished. Was he the one from the hospital? Why three?

  Why all the numbers, for that matter? First, seven cops surrounded both him and Derek and Russell Laroche, now three footsteps. Then another number, the first one to stick in Cody’s mind, came into his thoughts: three-sixteen. The Bible verse John three-sixteen, ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son…’

  Two cruisers brake hard, lights on, they squeak to a stop in front of the District Five substation. Three cops get out, but two of them step back and watch as the third cop pulls the rear passenger door open. Inside, a big, flat-nosed man tries to sit up straight, but with his hands manacled behind his back, it is almost impossible. The suspect clears his throat and spits out a wad of phlegm. Pissed, the policemen jump back, swearing. Then all three cops hustle the suspect out of the cruiser and up the steps.

  During this burst of activity, Cody stays put, watching, wondering who the suspect is. The number three or Bible verses no longer the vanguard of his thoughts, he considers his next move, he thinks about how fast the arresting officers had hauled that suspect inside. Cody wonders what accusations the man is facing. He looks at the ground, frowns, wonders why he is standing there. The evening heat is thick and a single bead of sweat trickles down his temple.

  Then Cody’s mind snaps to attention and he realizes that standing in front of a police station right after a jailbreak is probably not a good idea. He turns and heads down Claiborne toward downtown. Walking fast Cody keeps an eye out for cops and taxicabs. Hailing the first taxi he sees, Cody climbs in and tells the cabbie to haul ass back to the hospital. With any luck, he will be able to pick up his car, and head toward Krotz Springs before Slater starts looking for him again.

  Now on Canal Street, waiting to make a right onto Saint Charles Avenue, Cody watches a black and white Liberty Bell cab ease to the corner. The vehicle is preparing to turn south onto Canal. He squints, the uneven lights of downtown making it hard to see through the windshield. The passenger seated in the Liberty Bell cab looks familiar. Cody blinks. It is Suzanne Carlson. Her cab makes the right turn and now Cody can see two figures, Suzanne and someone else with a bandage around their head. Cody has no doubt it is David Carlson.

  Cody’s cab inches forward then, after a pickup truck speeds past, turns west onto Saint Charles.

  “Wait.” Cody says. “Stop here.”

  The driver pulls to the curb, says, “Two seventy-five.”

  Three singles flutter into the front seat.

  “Oh, right,” the driver says. “Thanks, man, nice tip.”

  But Cody is already out of the cab, running down Canal Street.

  At the median, the Liberty Bell cab with Suzanne and David Carlson turns left at Chartres Street but has to stop for northbound Canal Street traffic. Cody slips in between cars, cutting across Canal to the median then over to the south side of Chartres. He keeps going, dodging cars, cutting across the very same northbound Canal Street traffic that has Suzanne and David stopped. Cody knows they will continue into the French Quarter and wants to cover as much distance as he can. Chartres is not as slow as Bourbon Street but isn’t a thoroughfare, either. With a little luck and a bit of a head start, Cody will be able to keep pace with them.

  Looking over his shoulder, Cody sees their taxi approaching. He pulls back, tries to catch his breath, turns to face a shop window. A moment later they cross Iberville and are part way to Bienville Avenue. Cody starts to jog after them. He knows the next few intersections will be tricky. The Eighth District police substation is only one block north, on Royal. There will more cops here than further up the street and being an escaped prisoner redefines the idea of caution.

  Brake lights flash as the Liberty Bell cab crosses Bienville. They are more than two blocks ahead, Cody is losing them. Sweating, breathing hard, Cody slows his pace. He is out of steam. A few more strides and Cody is walking, huffing for air. By now, the taxi is out of sight, gone.

  “Are you all right, Sir?”

  Too tired to be startled, Cody turns, looks. The voice belongs to a doorman for the W French Quarter Hotel.

  “Pardon me?” Cody, says, panting. He stops, bends forward, placing a hand on each knee

  “You, well, you seem to be having a hard time breathing. Are you all right? Do you need assistance?”

  Cody shakes his head and says, “No, I’m fine,” his breath coming more easily.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” Cody straightens then points up the street. “Some friends of mine…” He sucks in some air. “They pulled a joke, got into the cab without me. I was trying to keep up. Real funny, huh?”

  “Shall I call another one for you?” The doorman offers.

  Cody stares at him blankly.

  “Another cab,” the doorman says. “Would you like me to call a cab for you?”

  Cody thinks for a moment then shakes his head, knowing it won’t make any difference. But then changes his mind and says. “Yeah, would you? I need to get to the Saint Charles Hospital.”

  The doorman eyes him. “But I thought you said----”

  “That’s where we are going,” Cody says. “To visit a friend.”

  Movement draws Cody’s attention and he glances sideways as a patrol car passes by. Trying not to be obvious, Cody faces the doorman more squarely, tips his head back and looks up at the large, red W that protrudes from the hotel’s façade.

  “I remember when this used to be the Hotel de la Poste,” Cody says. “When did it become the W French Quarter Hotel?”

  The doorman steals a look at the sign. “A few years ago.” He smiles. “I’ll get your cab.”

  The squad car turns left on Bienville Avenue, disappears from sight.

  “You know, forget the cab.” Cody starts toward Saint Louis Cathedral. “I’m going to get a drink,” he says. “I’ll catch up with my idiot friends later. Thanks.”

  Blocked at the corner of Saint Peter Street, Chartres Street is open to pedestrian traffic only as it passes in front of Saint Louis Cathedral. The Liberty Bell cab driver turns onto Saint Peter and pulls to the curb.

  “Five-fifty,” the driver says, looking back at Suzanne and David.

  David turns his face toward Jackson Square. The park is busy in spite of the heat. Exactly how, David does not know, but he can see the tourists, the horse-drawn carriages, the street hustlers. He can see them walking, waiting, looking for their next victim. The sight is oddly distinct, like a pulsing digital image in his mind.

  Suzanne rummages through her purse, finds a ten-dollar bill and says, “Here, keep it.” She exits street side and rounds the cab, opening the door for David.

  Taking him by the arm, Suzanne guides David past the Cabildo, its beautiful stone archways dark and forbidding. David marvels at his blindness, he cannot take one step without someone leading him, but at the same time he can see everything. Like Suzanne, he sees the three hundred year-old home of the Illustrious Cabildo, the Spanish city council of 1799, he sees the street performer packing in for the night, the couple arguing over on Saint Ann Street.

  What is even more interesting is how this new way of seeing goes beyond sight. All of his senses are operating at a higher, very intense level. He smells the Beignets frying over at the Cafe Du Monde and hears the crowd around the corner at Pat O’Brien’s---- even tastes the Hurricanes being served. But most acutely, David feels the heat. Not the warmth of the day, not the humid, hot weather. This is a singular wall of heat that comes from behind, flashes across his back, prickling the back of his neck.

  David had felt a hint of it just as they left the hospital then more intensely once they were riding into the French Quarter. This sensation of heat is growing not because the air temperature is increasing but because it is drawing closer, chasing him.

  Beyond the Cabildo is the Saint Louis Cathedral. They stop at the steps, Suzanne stares up at the massive eighteenth century building. Footlights bathe the ol
d church, making it glow orange-white, beckoning both visitor and parishioner. But the three steeples escape illumination and they stab at the night sky like a giant pitchfork.

  Still holding his arm, Suzanne leads David to the enormous wooden front doors. Suzanne looks at the glass case that holds the mass posting.

  “Services ended two hours ago,” Suzanne says, “I doubt we’ll get in.” Suzanne pulls on one door then another. Neither opens. “They’re locked, now what?”

  David takes a tentative step forward then another, both arms stretched out in front, groping for the door. Suzanne’s first instinct is to guide him, but something makes her hold back.

  Fingers extended, exploring, David finds the door, then the handle. He lets his hand glide over the solid metal, braces himself then tugs at the door. It swings open, the hinges creaking slightly.

  “What did you do?” Suzanne says. “It was locked, David. Really, I tried it.”

  David pulls the door open completely and holds out his arm for Suzanne. “I believe you,” he says. “In fact, I knew it would be locked. For you.”

  Suzanne pauses, frowning, tempted to ask what he means, then she takes David’s arm, says nothing.

  Entering the nave, they both stop. Suzanne looks at the copper font of holy water, wonders if they should bless themselves.

  “We don’t need to do that,” David says.

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “No, but you considered it.”

  “I’m not sure I like this new insight you’ve acquired.”

  Suzanne glances around. “I had forgotten how beautiful it is in here,” she whispers. “All the frescos, and look at the ceiling.”

  High walls decorated with several large paintings, the curved ceiling of the enormous sanctuary rises far above them. At one end of the sanctuary, huge pipes of an organ crouch inside an arched recess. Every sound echoes off stone and plaster.