Carnival
Page 24
I’m going to black out, she realized. Any minute now I’m going to lose consciousness and—
Someone was tugging at her chest. The familiar ripping sound of Velcro crackled in her ear. She reached out to stop the rough hands from finishing their work.
“I have to take them. I’m sorry. You can’t go to the hospital with these on. And you’re going to the hospital, you hear me?”
The vest fell away and suddenly her chest expanded, finally able to pull in a full breath. It wasn’t smooth, and she didn’t like that whistle-wet sound in her ears. But without the vest and shoulder holster, she did find it easier to breathe.
Still, exhaustion pressed against her brain. The warmth promised sleep. A blessed, relaxing release if only she—
Someone shook her until her eyes opened. “Lou, listen to me! The police are here. You have to go. New Orleans General Hospital, do you hear me? New Orleans General! Go! Now!”
Red and blue lights danced across his face. The strange strobing effect intensified her dizziness and the dreamlike quality that had been pulled over the world.
“New Orleans General. Now!”
Come on, she told herself. Come on. Who is in control here?
Drawing deep on her reserves, she reached out for the darkness around her. Come on, she begged. I can do this.
She coughed to clear her throat and instantly regretted it. The pain spiked in a way that made her scream again—and now she was sure it was her screaming. Such a strange sound. Had she ever screamed like this before?
Before she could answer her own curiosity, she was falling, falling through the black.
* * *
King stared at the blood on the paving stones where Lou had been just a moment before. His heart was racing. The blood was on his sleeves, on his hands. He wondered if it was maybe on his face as well.
It’s too much, he thought. Oh god, it’s too much blood.
Had the bullet cut her carotid? He couldn’t be sure. It’d been hard to see the wound clearly in the dark. The hole, before he’d covered it with his hands, had looked a little low for that. Maybe it had only torn through the shoulder. But he could be wrong. God help him, he could be wrong.
Please let it be the shoulder and not the neck, he begged. He wasn’t sure if he was praying to a god—any god—or Lucy herself.
Not the neck. Not the neck. Let it be the shoulder. Not the neck, not the—
Because if it was her carotid, she was dead.
Mel was crying softly beside him. On her hands and knees, she rocked back and forth beside the duffle bag.
“Check him and make sure he’s alive,” King said, pointing at the unconscious husband.
After the gun had gone off, and the husband had been distracted by Lou’s sudden materialization from nowhere, King had taken the opportunity to throw a right hook across the man’s jaw, dropping him before he got the bright idea to run for it.
He’d hit the ground like a sack of bricks.
But King had had no chance to evaluate his handiwork because Lou had collapsed, making a strange noise he’d never heard before. Like an animal dying, like an animal dying…
Then he’d seen the blood. So much blood.
“Mel,” King said. He squeezed the woman’s knee hard enough to bruise. “See if he’s still alive. Before the police get down here.”
King heard car doors shut and the low pounding of police boots crossing the station. He stood and grabbed the duffle bag without fanfare. He bent and picked up the gun without pausing his stride. At the edge of the pavilion, he threw the bag over the rail. It splashed, sinking into the black water below. Next King emptied the bullets from Mel’s revolver and tossed them into the canal, followed by the revolver itself. Then his own burner phone, because why not take care of all of it at once?
He ran over to the restaurant. The cat, thinking he was back for another go at his tail, hissed and scuttled farther into the dark.
“Sorry,” he muttered, already imagining what Lou must think of having her weapons thrown away. He shoved her gun and vest into the trash bin. “You can look for them later.”
If she lives.
She’s going to live.
On the left side of the restaurant was a fountain that sprayed water into the sky.
He plunged his hands into the icy water. He rubbed them vigorously, trying to wash Lou’s blood from his skin and sleeves.
King could do nothing about the pool of blood left on the pavilion. Hopefully, they would not ask.
That was here when I arrived, King practiced in his mind. Who knows what this asshole did before we showed up…Maybe he hurt someone. He looks like a dangerous guy.
When King returned to Mel she was still on her knees, crying.
Please let Lou make it to the hospital, King begged as the flashlights swept the pavilion, fixing on the three of them at long last. He waved to get the officers’ attention. “We’re over here!”
“I killed her. Oh my god, I killed her,” Mel wailed at his feet, her face still buried in her hands. King reached down and pulled her to standing.
“Lord in heaven, I—”
“Shut up,” he said. “Let me do the talking.”
36
Lou fell against the brick wall, coughing. Blood sputtered down her chin. It was a disgusting feeling, but it was hard to care much about it in the face of the unbearable pain shooting through her bones. Every time the weight in her head shifted forward or back, a new explosion of pain ricocheted through her, threatening to knock her unconscious with its ferocity.
Why am I at the grocery store? She’d been aiming for New Orleans General Hospital like King had instructed. But here she was, sliding slowly down the brick wall. Her leather jacket scraped along the face, no doubt scuffing the black hide.
Who gives a fuck? Who gives a fuck about your stupid jacket? her mind asked. You’re dying.
And she was. She could feel it. She was too cold. Way too cold for even a February night. Her teeth chattered and her face felt frozen.
Then the wall ended and she fell forward, suddenly unable to support her weight.
On her knees, she looked around. Anybody, she thought. I’ll take anybody.
Only it wasn’t the parking lot of the Ohio grocery store. She was looking into the back of an ambulance. Its doors were open with a pristine white bed waiting inside. It was lit with the bright fluorescents overhead as if showcased for her.
Come on in, it said. Come on in and lie down.
She wanted to. Her body felt so weak and exhausted. Her heart raced in her chest, in her head. She just wanted to lie down. And here was a bed.
She tried to stand, but before she even got a knee out from under her, hands grabbed her shoulders.
“I’m sorry, miss, but you can’t be back here,” someone said.
She screamed as the hand brushed her wound. Mel’s soaked headscarf fell from her throat to the pavement beneath her. Blood sprang forth, the stream renewed.
“Whoa, fuck. Bernie! Bernie! Get your ass out here!”
Those relentless hands moved her and she screamed again.
“I’m sorry,” the voice said. “I’m so sorry, but I have to touch you.”
Just let me lie down, she begged as the white bed swam in and out of her vision. Just let me lie down.
And that was the last thing she remembered.
* * *
For a long time there was only darkness. Cold, indifferent darkness. That was okay. Because for Lou, in a way, the darkness was as familiar as a childhood bedroom.
She walked around in it, feeling as one always does when they return home after a long time away. There was something here, waiting for her. It had been waiting patiently for a long time. But it would have to be patient for a little while longer. For now, she needed to rest.
While she slept, she dreamed.
She dreamed of La Loon.
She stood on the banks of Blood Lake, listening to the water gently lapping at the shore.
It didn’t matter that Lou had seen many of these men devoured or torn apart by the creature that ruled this world. They were whole now.
None of this had to make sense, she understood. This was metaphorical. She was trying to understand the message. That was all.
So she counted the bodies. She noted how they lay, sprawled face down in the water.
She thought, It’s because the lake is hungry too. It consumes what it can from our world because it is so hungry. It’s hungry like me. It’s hungry like everyone.
And like everyone, it has to eat.
She watched the bodies float until a slow, gentle breathing filled her ears. She reached out and placed a hand on the beast’s reptilian head.
It was Jabbers. Her scaled skull felt cool under Lou’s fingers. She traced the familiar ridges with her fingers. She cooed under her hand.
She dragged her steaming white tongue up Lou’s arm. It smelled the blood dried to her shoulder and neck.
“You can eat me,” Lou said to the beast. “I think I’m dead now too.”
* * *
Konstantine woke to his phone ringing.
On the third ring he realized it wasn’t his business phone. It was his private line.
He threw back the covers and grabbed the phone.
“Hello?” he said in English, knowing of only a few who might call this number.
“Hey. It’s Robert King.” It was the New Orleans detective. “I’m at New Orleans General Hospital, and after this I need to get back to the police station, so I’ve got to make this quick.”
King spoke rapidly, relaying what needed to be done.
“The Julia Street station plaza. Yes,” Konstantine confirmed. “Yes, I’ll take care of it.”
“There’s more,” King said. “It’s Lou.”
Konstantine listened, doing his best to understand the detective carefully despite the thunderous pounding of his heart.
When King was finished, Konstantine took a slow, deep breath. “I’ll come right away.”
37
Mel shifted in the plastic chair, trying to ease the cramp in her lower back. These chairs were a special kind of torture. Mel was certain they were manufactured in a factory specifically for interrogation rooms like this one.
“Just a while longer now,” Mr. Rushdie said beside her. He’d been feeding her this platitude since eight that morning, when they’d first arrived to give their statements. That was over six hours ago.
“Is that right?” she asked without expecting an answer.
The man rubbed his humped back and sighed. “You’ll be back in your own bed before the night is through. I promise. Can I get you anything to drink?”
Mel shook her head. She didn’t believe they’d let her leave so easily. Terry would have no choice but to rat her out. The photographs might be long gone, but the fact was, she wanted to confess. She wanted this to be over. It wasn’t living, what she’d been doing all these years. It couldn’t go on like this.
If they gave her the chance to confess, she would. It was all she wanted to do.
It was the only thing that was left to do, really. She couldn’t mention shooting Lou without exposing her identity, but she could confess to the hit and run.
And she was going to do it—she really was. If someone would just come back into the room and take her damn statement.
Then I can die with a clear conscience.
She rubbed her face one more time, groaning into her palms.
“Just a while longer,” Mr. Rushdie said placidly beside her. “Just a while now.”
That’s how these interrogation rooms work. They leave you in here so long you go crazy. You’ll confess to anything just to get out of here.
“Now when they come back,” Mr. Rushdie said for the fourteenth time, “you gonna let me do the talking, all right? We’re gonna—”
The door opened and a large black man in a buttoned-up white shirt stepped into the room. His hair was cropped close to his head. In his arm was a stack of folders. His sleeves were rolled up past the elbows, and his holsters could’ve been mistaken for suspenders at a glance.
King came in behind him, pushing a small television on top of a metal cart. Below it was the oldest VHS she’d ever seen.
King looked worse for wear. It wasn’t only the dark, puffy circles under his eyes or the new gray growth that had sprouted on his jaw overnight. It was also his stride. He hadn’t seen his bed yet, and it showed.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Durand. It took us longer to find a TV cart than we anticipated. And nineteen people were injured in a shootout in the Quarter, so everyone has been running around like headless chickens.” The officer went to the other side of the table. He extended his hand. “I’m Dick White. Robbie here has told me only good things about you—”
“Sir, let me stop you there.” Mel held up her hands. She couldn’t bear compliments in the face of the confession she was about to make. “I need to get some things off my chest. I—”
A hand clamped down on her shoulder. The fingers dug into the flesh of her collarbone with such sudden ferocity that she almost cried out. The words dried up in her mouth.
“Dick’s been working real hard on this, Mel. We had to go back forty years for these tapes,” King said, bending his face down to look into Mel’s eyes. “I think you should listen to what he has to say before interrupting him.”
“No need to rough her up,” Dick said with an uneasy laugh. “We aren’t going to play good cop/bad cop here.”
Forty years? Did that mean Dick already knew about the hit and run? Did they already have evidence of her crime?
Mel searched King’s wide eyes and took the hint. “You go first.”
“You’ll get to say your piece,” Detective White promised, settling into the plastic chair opposite her. To King he said, “Plug that in over here. There’s the socket.”
King pulled the cart over into the corner and wedged the plug into the wall. He angled the TV so that Mel and her attorney had a clear view.
“Good,” Detective White said, rubbing his nose. “I hardly know where to begin! We’ve got so much to cover. You’ve had an exciting night, Ms. Durand. We’re glad you’re all right.”
Mel followed King’s suspicious movements with her eyes. She knew something was going on here, but she hadn’t gotten a handle on it yet.
“Where’s Terrence now?” Mel asked, thinking this was the safest entry point into the conversation.
“He’s over in county, in a holding cell.” White turned to King. “You want to give her the rundown, or shall I?”
“After you,” King said, with a smile that could almost be taken for joviality. To Mel, King arched his eyebrows. It seemed to her that this meant, Keep your mouth shut and listen. It’ll be better for both of us.
Detective White shuffled his folders until he fixed on one from the middle of the pile. He opened it, reviewing the top page.
“We’ve got your statement from last night—” he began.
“And it’s absolutely clear that Mr. Lamott is guilty of extortion,” Mr. Rushdie inserted.
“Yes, it is,” the officer agreed.
“But that doesn’t excuse my behavior,” Mel said.
Mr. Rushdie moved to drown out her words with his own. “Melandra, I would advise you not to—”
“Listen to your lawyer,” King interjected with a pointed look, seemingly unaware that he himself was interrupting the man.
Detective White looked from Mel to King to the lawyer. He arched a brow. “Should I continue or do y’all need to talk about something?”
“Please, continue,” Mel said, doing her best to gather her reserve.
>
“Terrence Lamott has been charged with extortion as well as intimidation, harassment, and theft of property. This violates his parole, of course. We also have Robbie’s testimony and Piper’s, and also Donny’s—who you approached in the street one night, if you recall. We also have some footage from the convenience store across the street that shows him shoving you against the wall outside your shop.”
King’s jaw flexed.
“When we got the warrant to search his apartment we found your cards, which we believe he was holding ransom in exchange for money in addition to the violence he was inflicting on you.”
“Are they okay? My cards?” Mel asked, sitting up in her seat. Its unbearable stiffness was temporarily forgotten.
King pulled a black bundle from his coat pocket and pressed it into her hands. “Piper says they’re all there except The Devil.”
She began to cry. Someone rubbed her shoulders.
“Is it irreplaceable?” King asked.
Mel lifted her face. “No. I can replace it.”
It was about time for her to add her own card to the deck anyway. Every woman over the generations had had to do the same. It felt right that The Devil should be hers.
“Extortion carries a twenty-year sentence, even without the parole violation and the extra charges laid against him,” King said. “You’ll never see him again.”
“Assuming you will testify,” Detective White said.
“Of course I’ll testify,” Mel said. That was the least she could do. Hell, she was ready to testify against herself.
“Now, don’t make any promises yet,” Mr. Rushdie said. “My client—”
“I’ll testify,” Mel said. “Can I testify even if I’m in jail?”
Detective White laughed. “Why would you be in jail?”
Mel was certain that even if she’d somehow passed a statute of limitations for the hit and run, even if no one had ever come forward for it or made the crime known, and therefore she could receive no punishment—at the very least she would get attempted murder. She’d put bricks and rope into a duffle bag, for Christ’s sake. She’d taken them down to a river with a gun.