Royal Street

by Suzanne Johnson

  “Why aren’t you riding a broom?” he muttered to himself as he crossed St. Charles into the flood zone and began winding his way through side streets, dodging swaying power lines and weaving through haphazard piles of debris.

  He turned onto a street that hadn’t been cleared very well and stopped the car. A boxy white washing machine rested in the middle of the pavement, surrounded by limbs and leaves. We stared at it in silence a few seconds before Alex backed up and headed down another street.

  “Turn right up here and the next left, and it’ll take you all the way to Lakeview.” It finally occurred to me that he was lost, and God forbid a man should ask for directions.

  He grunted and turned right. “I knew that.”

  Heh. I shook my head and looked out the window, staring at the ruins. My hometown, my own wasteland of stony rubbish and broken images. I needed someone to share my horror with, to lie and tell me it would be okay. I needed Gerry.

  I thought the devastation in Mid-City had given me a good idea of what to expect from Lakeview, but I was wrong.

  Alex’s FBI badge eased us through two checkpoints, and as we got closer to the 17th Street Canal, the mud on the road began to thicken. So much for the spotless car.

  Still cursing under his breath, he pulled to the roadside on Canal Boulevard and stopped. We sat a moment and looked at the sea of brown and gray that coated everything in front of us—mud. Wet mud, dried mud. Mud on trees, on cars, on houses. Mud on top of mud.

  Alex sighed and reached into the backseat, handing me an oversize tan plastic bag with a blue Dillard’s logo on the side.

  “Aw, a present, and my birthday’s not until February.”

  He almost smiled. “Well, I saw these and thought you’d look hot.”

  I either had to joke or cry, and Alex’s strained expression told me he felt the same way.

  I opened the top of the bag and peered inside, pulling out a pair of clear rubber galoshes, the kind little kids used to wear over their shoes on rainy days. Except these would come up to my knees. Great. Clear rubber go-go boots.

  “I’m touched, but you shouldn’t have.” I looked at them again. “Really.”

  “Put them on. We’re going to have to walk a few blocks. I’m not going to risk getting my car stuck in this.” He retrieved a pair of more dignified shrimp boots for himself and opened his car door, sliding them on before hitting the ground. “And don’t get mud in my car.”

  Sure, no problem. Grimacing, I slipped the boots over my Nikes before getting out. Good thing. When I stood up, my feet sank about an inch into what I could only hope was mud. It smelled like a lot of other, less savory ingredients had been mixed in. I coughed, sneezed, and trudged my way after Alex, struggling to pull my feet far enough out of the muck to move them.

  A weathered black and silver Dodge pickup towing a small motorboat pulled up behind us, and Alex circled back to greet the driver. I couldn’t see who sat behind the crusted and dirty windshield, but Alex stood at the driver’s window and pointed down the block where the boulevard disappeared into floodwater.

  The truck pulled ahead, maneuvered a deft U-turn, and backed toward the water. Alex motioned for me to follow. By the time I lurched my way to the truck, he and the pickup driver were sliding the boat down the trailer ramp.

  Sweat trickled down my neck, and if I hadn’t been afraid of being poisoned by toxic sludge, I’d have made like a pig and wallowed in the mud to cool off. I kicked at a fire hydrant, trying to jolt some of the heaviest sludge off my boots, and heard a soft laugh behind me. With a final kick that sent a spray of brown gunk flying, I turned to see what was so funny. I needed a laugh.

  A man leaned against the side of the pickup with his arms crossed. He was a few inches shorter than Alex, maybe just shy of six feet, with sun-streaked blond hair that reached his collar and a sleeveless blue T-shirt and khaki shorts. His tanned legs between the bottom of the shorts and the top of sturdy black shrimp boots were scored with scars, bad ones, as if whatever made them meant to do serious damage.

  He’d been grinning when I turned around, flashing a heart-stopping set of dimples, but when he saw my eyes linger on his legs, the grin eased into something more wary.

  I smiled and squished over to introduce myself. “I’m DJ Jaco. Thanks for letting us use your boat.”

  The dimples returned as he took my hand in a firm grip. “Jake Warin. Actually, it’s my dad’s boat. I was running rescues after the storm, but there’s nobody left to rescue now.” He had the same Mississippi drawl as Alex, only softer around the edges. New Orleanians sounded more like New Yorkers than Southerners.

  Nobody left to rescue. I looked over my shoulder at the corpse of Lakeview. Not a tree or a blade of grass was alive here.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry.” Jake ran a hand through his hair. “Alex told me your uncle was missing. I’m sure he got a ride out and is waiting for the mayor to tell folks they can come home.”

  I turned back to look at him and managed a smile. “I hope so.”

  Alex splashed up to join us. “You met?”

  “We did,” Jake said. His gaze trailed to my feet and his smile grew wider. “Nice boots.”

  “Thanks. It’s a fashion statement.”

  Alex shook his head and sloshed back toward the boat, sending waves to the top of my fashion statement. “Time to go. Meet us back here at five thirty.”

  Jake did a pretty good Alex impression at his cousin’s retreating back. “Guess that’s my cue to leave. Alex said you didn’t need any help.” He looked back at me with eyes the color of amber. “I hope you find your uncle.”

  I nodded and turned to follow Alex. I hoped so too.

  Walking in the floodwater was easier than the mud, and it had washed most of the gunk off my boots by the time I half-fell into the boat. Alex started the motor and steered us toward Bellaire Drive, which ran alongside the breached canal all the way to the lake.

  “So, what’s Jake’s story?” I had to talk loud to be heard over the chugging of the motor.

  Alex gave me an inscrutable look. “Why?”

  “Just curious. I noticed the scars.”

  “Ex-Marine. Got hurt in Afghanistan. Don’t let the laid-back, country-boy act fool you. He’s one tough SOB.”

  Whatever that meant. We rode a couple of blocks farther before the engine started bellowing like a tortured animal and died, leaving us surrounded by an ocean of gentle sounds. The chop of a helicopter in the distance. Water lapping at the side of the boat. Alex trying to restart the motor. Our own breathing.

  Empty houses rose around us like a surreal architectural city of the dead—except for a healthy-looking rat swimming past. I flinched and wrapped my arms around my middle.

  It took a few tries, but Alex got the motor started again. It didn’t sound happy as it gamely churned through the murk. Only ten or so blocks to go. There were no water rings on the houses now, at least not on the one-story places. The water had been over the eaves, and I tried to imagine it two weeks ago, escaping from home on a boat like this one, floating so high, knowing your whole life lay immersed beneath you.

  I squinched my eyes halfway shut to block out the images, but I couldn’t shut out the chalky smell. It permeated everything.

  “Where’s the house?” Alex asked.

  “Another block, on the left. Two stories—balcony off the top floor.” I mentally ran through the list of neighbors as we motored down the block. Grumpy Dr. Michealson, house totaled, hot tub in palm tree. Old Mrs. Finney, first floor flooded, hole in roof. The Zellners next door, nothing left to save.

  And Gerry’s house. My home until a few years ago. A big chunk of the brick veneer on the south wall had been sheared off and Gerry’s old BMW remained upended. Otherwise, everything looked intact. No holes in the roof. Gerry wouldn’t have needed an ax; he could have blasted his way out.

  The double driveway in front wasn’t visible under the black water, but Alex steered the boat slowly toward the house until
we scraped concrete. The motor belched one final protest and died again.

  He got out to secure the boat, but I couldn’t stop looking at the house. I was seven years old again, sitting in the backseat of my grandfather’s car, having just seen the expanse of Lake Pontchartrain as we crossed into the city, so wide I thought it must be the ocean. I’d been spellbound by the exotic landscape, the tall buildings, the size of the place, all the cars and people and sounds and smells.

  I wanted to look at it, and then go home. I didn’t want to live here with a stranger. I didn’t understand why my grandparents didn’t want me. But the man, Gerry, had stood in the door, smiling and telling me he was glad to meet me. He was the first person I’d met in my seven years whose emotions didn’t bombard me, and being with him was peaceful.

  “You okay?” Alex’s voice brought me back to the still water and the empty houses.

  “Fine.” I took a deep breath, which made me cough again, then climbed out and headed for the front door.

  “Wait.” Alex opened a duffel bag in the front of the boat. “Jake brought this stuff. We need to use it.” He pulled out big yellow rubber gloves, white strap-on face masks to cover our mouth and nose, and goggles.

  “That’s overkill.” I shook my head and turned back toward the house.

  He grabbed my arm. “You’re the one who wanted to do this today, so at least do it right. There’s no medical care here, and God knows what’s in this water.” His mouth twitched. “Although if you get sick I can do good sponge baths.”

  “I have two words for you: sexual harassment.” I snapped the white mask on as I headed for the door.

  When I reached it, I stopped, my breath caught in my throat. The symbol Alex had copied from the crime scenes, the one he’d seen on his jog this morning, shone faintly in red from beneath the shallow water covering Gerry’s top doorstep. I shivered despite the heat.

  Alex swore when he saw it, then splashed to the houses on either side of Gerry’s and studied their entrances. “Nothing on those,” he said, pulling the tracker off his belt and turning it on. “It’s reading faint magical energy here—had to be recent because it usually dissipates quickly.”

  “Did you adjust it so it wasn’t reading me?”

  “Yeah, this is someone else—or something else.” He frowned and walked back to the door. “It’s definitely stronger at the house. Do you have a key?”

  I gave him a withering look and pushed the front door open. “None of the locks held.” I’d noticed open doors on most of the houses along the way. There was little left in Lakeview to steal, and no one to steal it.

  I stepped inside, sliding and skating on the mud-covered tile of the foyer.

  “The signal’s a little stronger in here.” Alex walked past me into the short hallway leading to Gerry’s living room.

  I stopped and took a cautious breath. I smelled mud, drywall, mold—the source of the chalky odor. I hadn’t let myself think it, but deep inside, part of me had been afraid we’d walk in and find the stench of death. The house smelled awful, but no one had died here.

  My shoulders sagged in relief. He couldn’t be in the house, injured, or the Elders would have detected his energy field. So we were looking not for a body, but for clues.

  I held out my hands, palms up, and closed my eyes, feeling the air with my senses. Gerry’s wards were gone, as mine had been, but there was a tingling trace of energy similar to what I’d felt in my own house when Lafitte was upstairs. No way that infernal pirate had come back from the Beyond so quickly.

  Coughing, I went down the short hallway into the living room, where Alex already walked carefully, holding the tracker. The tan carpet had turned black and squished inky slush with every step. Sometime during the flooding, Gerry’s refrigerator had floated into the living room and had come to rest on its back, thankfully still closed, and the water-swollen mantle hung at an odd angle over the fireplace. But the mold was worst, a forest of it growing up the walls in a purple, black, and green visual cacophony Jackson Pollock would envy.

  I’d tried to mentally prepare for this visit, hoping to keep tears and hysteria at bay. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d just feel numb. Maybe a person’s brain could only take in so many horrific images before it gave up and filed everything away to process later. I’d have a lot to process later.

  I veered off the living room and climbed the stairs to the second floor. At the landing halfway up, before the steps took a ninety-degree turn to the right, I stopped short again. “Alex, come here.” My voice sounded calm; inside, I was screeching.

  Our symbol again, this time painted in red on the wall along the landing. If I’d had any doubt before, I didn’t now. This was no gang tag.

  Moving silently, Alex edged around me and reached up to touch it, flecking off a piece of red and sniffing it. “Looks more like blood than paint. Not necessarily human, though.”

  I stared at it a moment, then led him up the stairs, barely daring to breathe. We stopped at the top and listened. I could see the slow, red pulse on the tracker as Alex held it in front of him.

  He cut left toward the bedrooms and I walked straight, stopping at the open door of Gerry’s study. I caught a quick movement from the far corner and felt a cold energy. Pinpricks of fear ran up my arms.

  From the rear wall, a pair of smoky gray eyes stared back at me for an instant, then disappeared.

  CHAPTER 13

  I remained stuck in place for a few seconds before self-doubt started churning. Had I imagined the eyes, the movement? I walked around the room, looking at the spot from different angles. Maybe it had been some trick of light, a play of afternoon shadows.

  “I haven’t seen any sign of Gerry, and there’s no evidence of a struggle up here.” Alex came in from the hallway minus his boots and mask. “I took a sample of the blood to have it analyzed. Could be animal.”

  I shushed him. “Try your tracker in here. I thought I saw something.”

  He circled the room, holding the device in front of him, and finally stopped in the corner where I’d seen the eyes. “I don’t know. Might be a little stronger here but if there was something, it’s gone now. What did you think it was?”

  I pulled off my own mask and eased my feet from the boots, although we’d already left black footprints everywhere. “Just a flash of movement, and eyes watching me from the wall by the bookcase. And I felt a different kind of energy when I first walked in.”

  “Energy like it was Gerry? Or like something else?”

  “Don’t know. I can tell it’s there but not what it’s from.”

  Alex touched the back wall, running his hands along the bookshelves, then checked the tracker again. “The signal’s not stronger here than anywhere else in the house. You sure it was eyes? We know something was here earlier, but the movement could have been a rat.”

  I put both hands against the wall, feeling for the light prickle of magic. Alex was right; it was almost gone. But it hadn’t faded completely, and rats didn’t have a magical punch. Maybe some of my books on voodoo would help us identify what the drawings meant. Homework by candlelight.

  On the left wall of the study hung a flat screen about three feet across and two feet high. I walked over to look at it, wondering if I could get it to work.

  “What is that?” Alex asked.

  “Gerry’s tracker—sort of the industrial-strength version of the one you have. If something gets summoned from the Beyond, a map pops up on the screen with the location. I thought maybe it could show when something had been here.”

  He studied it, feeling around the edges. “How do you turn it on?”

  “I’m not sure. I always thought the Elders powered it from their end.” I placed my hand on the screen and willed a jolt of energy into it. It lit and buzzed briefly, then went black again.

  “We should take it with us.” He tried to pull the screen from the wall, and swore as it shattered and turned into a pile of crumbled glass.

  “Nice,” I said
. “What a muscle monster.”

  “I didn’t pull on it that hard.” The enforcer actually blushed.

  “It was probably warded to keep anyone from taking it.” I headed back to the desk. “It doesn’t matter. I doubt it would work for anyone but Gerry and my physical magic isn’t strong enough to power it.”

  I pulled open the top drawer of Gerry’s desk, glancing at the back wall to make sure no more stray eyeballs showed up. Alex began pulling books from the shelves.

  “Don’t worry about the books yet,” I said. “See if there’s anything in the attic we need to take out today. Sensitive material, anything overtly about magic or having to do with the Elders or Red Congress business. If you aren’t sure what something is, it’s probably better not to touch it. Let me come and look first.” I wasn’t sure it was wise to let Alex loose in Gerry’s stuff before I had a chance to dig through it, but at least the attic was unlikely to have anything recent.

  Plus, I wanted the study to myself. If we were going to find clues about what happened to Gerry, they would be here. Every time I’d scried him after the storm, he’d been in this room and usually at this desk.

  I had one other thing to look at first, though. As soon as Alex dropped the attic ladder in the hallway and climbed out of sight, I walked to the far corner of the room and pulled up a small area rug. The transport we’d set up between here and Gran’s house was still there, but an edge of the circle had been smudged out. The break was too clean to be accidental, so I added it to my list of mysteries.

  I knelt beside the transport and put my hand on the chalk line, but that’s all it was now—just a drawing. I’d have to do some research and find a way to tell if the transport had been used. Obviously, Gerry hadn’t rerouted it to go somewhere else because it had been broken from this end. I replaced the rug, careful not to disturb it.

  I returned to Gerry’s desk and began sorting through papers, occasionally checking the back wall for activity. Each drawer had been stuffed with documents, and I marveled at the sheer chaos of it. This was an awfully messy desk for a person I’d always considered a bit of a fussbudget. Gerry collected antiques, considered himself an aficionado of fine wines, and alphabetized his books by author. His desk drawers looked like they’d been organized by a squirrel.