by Jana DeLeon
Sabine sniffed again. “Me, too.”
“So…I wanted to let you know that I saw a doctor in New Orleans this morning to do the tests. Wheeler called in a favor, so it’s all sorta anonymous…you know, given my situation. The doctor will send Wheeler the results and he will contact you. If that’s all right, that is.”
Sabine smiled. “That’s fine, Hank.”
Hank rose from his chair. “Then I guess I best be clearing out of here before anyone sees me.”
Sabine rose and followed him to the shop entrance. Hank opened the door just a crack, but before he could slip through, Sabine grabbed his arm. “Thank you, Hank.”
Hank stared at her for a moment, then leaned over to kiss her forehead. “You’re going to be fine, cousin. I can feel it.” He smiled and slipped out the door and into the night.
“Thirty damn years,” Helena’s voice boomed, and Sabine spun around. “Thirty years for him to grow a conscience, and technically, I’m not even around to see it.”
Sabine sighed. “Where are you, Helena?”
“At the counter.”
Sabine saw her stapler hovering a foot above the counter. Great. “Exactly how much did you hear?”
“Well, since I saw Hank sneaking into your shop and followed him in, everything. Nice pistol, by the way.”
Sabine groaned and leaned against the shop wall. “I could have shot him, Helena! Why didn’t you yell or something?”
“If you’d have gotten to the actual shooting part, I would have said something. Maybe. Probably.”
“He’s your son, Helena, and he did take a bullet that wasn’t intended for him. Can’t you cut him a little slack?”
“I’m not ready to move on yet. Seem to be having that problem everywhere.” Helena began to laugh.
“If you’re done enjoying the show, I’m going back to bed.”
“So,” Helena said, “I guess now I know why you dragged me to New Orleans and had that nutbag draw your parents. You’re looking for a match, right?”
Damn it. The very conversation she’d been hoping to avoid. Sabine sighed. “Yes.”
“Well, why the hell didn’t you say so? I’m sure I can help.”
Sabine rubbed her temples with her fingers, trying to stop the rush of blood into her head. “That’s sorta what I was afraid of.”
Chapter Four
Beau slammed the journal shut and tossed it onto the floor with the rest of the pile. Nothing. Eight hours of reading his own scribbles and he wasn’t any closer to identifying the man in the drawing now than he had been when he started. At this point, he’d welcome a spiritual intervention. Hell, right now it might be the only way to locate the man.
Her father was the key to it all, Beau was certain. There was little information on Sabine’s mother. It seemed she’d never held a job and didn’t drive, but her name was accurate and he’d traced her back to high school photos. No secrets there. Mom was who she said she was, and Sabine’s aunt had been correct in thinking the Sabine’s mother was the last of her family line.
But her father had no past to speak of except a license that wasn’t even a year old. Skinny amount of data for an American, even for that day and age. After hours of searching boxes full of handwritten payroll records, Beau had tracked him to a warehouse job on the docks in New Orleans and had located the ancient building in a seedy part of downtown that used to house the apartments where her parents had lived. It had been condemned for years, so there was no information to be gained on that avenue.
The social security number he’d used for the application hadn’t matched the name on the license. In fact, the number belonged to a man who had died some ten years before Sabine’s father took that job. Beau had already figured the name on the license wasn’t the man’s birth name, but he had yet to discover why it had been changed. If he could discover anything at all. Even more interesting was the fact that no one had put out a missing person’s report for a man of his description at the time.
True, the father could have been from another state. Communication between police departments wasn’t anything like it was today, but still, surely someone knew that this man, his wife, and his infant child were in New Orleans and set off alarms. But according to Sabine’s research, no one had. Not in Louisiana anyway.
Beau rose from the couch, walked into the kitchen, and pulled a beer from the refrigerator. It was two a.m. and long past reasonable drinking time for most people, but then the great thing about being self-employed and independently wealthy was that you didn’t have to live like most people. Beau was a night owl, pure and simple. Even during his time at the FBI, he’d always requested and always received night surveillance on takedowns. Ten years and not even once had someone tried to slide into the vampire role with him.
And then the thought of vampires led him right back to Sabine LeVeche and her strange way of living. What exactly caused a seemingly normal woman to launch off into believing in tarot cards and ghosts and rubbing rocks together for luck? Beau understood the overwhelming desire to know where you came from, understood it personally, but talking to dead people was one avenue he’d never even thought for one second to explore. He walked back into the living room.
What was Sabine doing right now, he wondered? Was she eating catfish and throwing back beers? Was she sitting in her apartment pouring over the limited information she had on her parents for the millionth time? He shook his head. More likely she was sleeping. Which sent him off on a whole other line of thought.
The mental picture of Sabine lying on a giant canopy bed draped in white gauze flashed across his mind. Her tanned body in crisp clarity against the bright white background, a giant ruby in the center of a silver headband the only vivid color in the image. The headband was also the only clothing she was wearing. Well, except for all those dangly bracelets like she’d had on at the café.
He shook his head and grabbed the television remote, frustrated he’d allowed his imagination to run away with him. Undressing a client was a line Beau had never crossed, not even in his fantasies. Then a horrible thought crossed his mind. If there was any truth at all to this psychic mumbo jumbo, could Sabine see his thoughts if they were about her? Shit.
He flipped channels, looking for something worth watching. This was the huge downside of being a night owl—there was rarely anything good on TV. He was just about to give it up as a loss and log on to the internet when a History Channel special on war criminals caught his eye. The commentator narrated the background of the people pictured in the photos on screen, going into great detail about their many crimes against the American people. He started to feel a tickle at the back of his neck.
He stood stock still in the middle of the living room, staring at the television, but the picture was no longer clear. The photos on the screen began to blend together in a kaleidoscopic blur. The commentator’s words ran together into a single noise. And then, in a flash, it hit him…exactly where he’d seen the man in the photo.
In the FBI’s most wanted files for war criminals.
He dropped onto the couch and took a huge gulp of his entire beer. Jesus, his memory was a pain in the ass; sometimes it was on, sometimes off. But when it was on, it was usually a hundred percent. He’d known when he took this job that it was probably going to end badly. Innocent people normally didn’t make themselves disappear. But the guilty made a career of it. Granted, there was no way the man in the drawing could be the criminal he remembered. The age was all wrong. But he would bet anything they were blood relatives. He set his beer on the coffee table, the desire for it completely gone.
He glanced at his watch. One other person would still be up about now. Someone who had access to the FBI database and probably wouldn’t mind giving him a little help on this. He reached for his cell phone and pressed in a number.
“Turner,” the man answered on the first ring.
“Hey, it’s Villeneuve.”
“Villeneuve! How the hell are you?”
“Doi
ng good, man. How ’bout yourself?”
“Can’t complain, and wouldn’t waste the time on it if I could.”
Beau laughed. “I hear ya.”
“So what the hell are you calling me in the middle of the night for? I know it’s not to discuss football, politics, or religion.”
“I wish. This case I’m on just took a turn that makes politics and religion look like better options for discussion.”
Turner whistled. “Doesn’t sound like much fun. What can I help with?”
“I need access to some files…FBI files. Nothing that will raise any eyebrows. All old shit—back during Vietnam.”
“Sounds okay to me, man. Hey, if you’re coming now, do you think you could pick me up a burger and another six pack?”
“I think I could manage.” He closed his phone, grabbed his keys and the case folder, and headed out of his apartment. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe my memory is totally off and the guy in the drawing has nothing to do with a wanted criminal from a long since dead war.
Then the vivid recall of the young man in uniform flashed across his mind, imprinted there as if he’d seen it just seconds ago. Everything in perfect clarity, right down to the three freckles on the bridge of his nose.
That perfectly matched the three he’d seen on Sabine.
Sabine clenched the steering wheel of her car, well aware that it was far too early in the day to be up and moving, much less driving around downtown New Orleans with Helena Henry.
“By the hotdog stand is good,” Helena said, directing Sabine to a corner about a block away.
For the life of her, Sabine couldn’t figure out exactly what Helena wanted to do here. “What are you up to, Helena? You wake me up first thing this morning, even though you know I didn’t get hardly any sleep last night. Then you insist I drive you to New Orleans—”
“First thing! Are you kidding me? It was eight o’clock already.”
“I have a head injury, and I’m not a morning person. Besides, I was busy almost having to shoot intruders last night, remember?”
“No shit. Well, while you were busy playing Cops and getting your beauty rest, I was formulating a plan of action.”
Sabine groaned and pulled up to the curb. “Why does that worry me so much?”
“Jesus, for such an artsy-fartsy liberal sort, you’re just as uptight as Maryse. I’d think a so-called psychic would have a broader mind.”
“Well, it might help if I knew what I was supposed to be broadening my mind to.”
“You’ll see. Just circle the block. If I’m not here when you come back, circle again.”
Sabine stared at the empty but very vocal passenger seat. “And how the heck am I supposed to know if you’re here?”
Helena laughed. “Oh, you’ll know. But just in case I need to give you some getaway instructions, you might want to roll your windows down. Okay, I’m outta here.”
There wasn’t so much as a stir of the air as Helena left the car, but a minute later, a floating hotdog that appeared to be eating itself gave her away. Dead people could eat? Good God. Sabine pulled on her sunglasses and slid down in her seat. What the hell was she thinking? Hooking up with Helena? Letting Helena help? Helena’s brand of help had almost gotten Maryse killed.
You’re desperate.
Sabine pulled away from the corner and hoped that whatever Helena had gotten her into wasn’t illegal. But she didn’t hold out a whole lot of hope. Helena had never believed the “rules” applied to her when she was alive. Death had given her an entirely new avenue on life…one that could get her living, breathing accomplices in a whole boatload of trouble.
Sabine circled the block and approached the hotdog stand again, keeping an eye out for any stray floating hotdogs. Nothing. She pressed the gas and circled once more, hoping no one had noticed her circling and called the police. She was almost to the end of the block when she saw a group of policemen rush out of a building a block away. “Police Substation,” the sign on the building read. Great. Just what she needed was the police only a block away with Helena breaking God knows how many laws just down the street.
They could start with stealing hotdogs.
She stopped at the corner and watched as the cops came to a halt in the middle of the street, looking both directions, confused expressions on their faces. A bad feeling washed over Sabine. Something wasn’t right. What in the world were they all doing standing in the street? What were they looking for?
A horn sounded behind her and she jumped. She lifted one hand to wave at the angry motorist and started to make the turn, and that’s when she saw the hotdog stand hurtling down the sidewalk toward her car. Which might not have been so odd in itself, but the fact that there was minimal slope to the road and no wind at all made the situation far from normal. Not to mention the small matter of the cart owner running ten yards behind and yelling at the top of his lungs.
The horn behind her sounded again and Sabine panicked, torn between pulling over for the other motorist to pass and hauling ass back to Mudbug as fast as her old Sentra would manage. Abandoning the last semblance of common sense, she jerked the wheel to the right and stopped the car at the curb, waving as the honking motorist drove around her and gave her the finger.
“Prepare to haul ass!” Helena’s voice sounded above the fray.
Sabine whirled around in her seat just as the hotdog stand launched off the sidewalk behind her and landed in the street, sending hotdogs flying in all directions. The police had locked in on the commotion and were running toward the stand, closing in on her parking space by the second. To heck with this. Sabine put the car in gear, but before she could stomp on the gas, a mailbag flew through the open passenger’s side window and landed on the floorboard.
“What the hell are you waiting for?” Helena yelled, her voice booming right next to Sabine.
Sabine floored the car and squealed away from the curb. She glanced in her rearview mirror just in time to see the cops chasing the hotdog stand onto the other side of the street. Barely slowing, she rounded the corner and accelerated onto the highway from the service road. She’d driven at least a mile down the road before she took a breath and looked over at the passenger seat.
A hotdog hovered just inches from her face. “Want one?” Helena asked.
Sabine pushed the hotdog away. “No, I don’t want one. What the hell is the matter with you? You stole something from that police station, didn’t you? All those cops were looking for you…but I don’t understand why or how.”
A chunk of the hotdog disappeared and Helena said, “Me eifer.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. Jesus, I would think someone of your upbringing would have some manners.”
“What’s the point? No one to see them but you and Maryse.”
Sabine lowered her window a bit, grabbed the remainder of the hotdog and tossed it out onto the highway.
“Hey! What did you do that for?” Helena yelled.
“Two can play at the no manners game. And why in the world are you eating? You’re—”
“Don’t say it. I know I’m dead. I’m eating for the normal reason—I’m hungry.”
“How can you be hungry?” Sabine shook her head. “Never mind. I don’t even want to know. You’ve completely negated an entire lifetime of studying ghosts. Cone bras, eating hotdogs. It’s simply too weird for me to process.”
“If it’s too weird for you, then I must be the anomaly of ghosts. Not for nothing, Sabine, but you’re not exactly running with the normal crowd.”
Sabine sighed, not even wanting to think about the irony of that statement at this very moment. “Start answering questions, Helena. Why were all those cops trying to find you and what’s in that bag?”
“Just a police file that I thought might come in handy.”
“You stole a file from that police station? Oh God. No wonder they were looking for you.”
“I know. I guess maybe that barcode strip thingie set off the alarm.”
&n
bsp; “Are you crazy?” Sabine asked. “No. Never mind. You don’t need to answer that.”
“I don’t know why you’re getting all huffy. This would have been a lot harder before when I couldn’t touch things. Remember, Maryse had to break into the hospital for those medical records herself.”
Sabine rubbed her forehead with one hand, not even wanting to recall Maryse’s foray into breaking and entering into the hospital’s medical records room. It was one of those things Sabine still couldn’t quite believe her straitlaced scientist friend had gotten roped into. Until now. She stared at the highway, a flashback of the runaway hotdog cart still vivid in her mind. At the moment, Maryse’s actions didn’t seem near as strange since Sabine was currently making a getaway with stolen police records and pilfered hotdogs.
Sabine stared at the bag once more but couldn’t hold the question in any longer. “What file did you steal, Helena?”
The bag on the floor rustled a bit and a manila folder appeared to float out of it. The file spun in midair so that Sabine could see the typed words on the side. She took one look at the lettering and groaned. “You stole the police file from my parents’ wreck? What were you thinking? As soon as they figure out what file is missing, they’re coming straight to my door.”
Helena laughed. The mailbag flipped upside down, dumping a stack of manila folders and two more hotdogs onto the floorboard. “They’d have to figure out exactly which one I was after first.”
Chapter Five
Sabine gave Maryse a smile as she slid into the booth across from Sabine at Carolyn’s Catfish Kitchen. “You’re late…but why is that not a surprise?”
“Hey,” Maryse protested. “You’re the one that’s always late, not me.”
“Not since you’ve got a hunky DEA agent in your bed. You’ve ceased to be the morning person you used to be and it’s almost noon. In fact, you’re not much of a night person anymore either.”
A light blush crept over Maryse’s face. “Luc’s next assignment is going to take him out of town, probably for a month or better. I’m making sure he doesn’t forget what he’s got waiting back home.”
