Wolf Howling
Page 14
Excuse Me Lady was followed by a short man who carried a number of shopping bags with him from their day’s adventures. She made a huffing noise after brushing Billy’s shirt and asked her companion with the bags for the Purell. He juggled the bags and reached into his pocket to produce a small bottle of hand sanitizer. She gave Billy and his friend a dirty look, spread the clear goo on her hands, and wiped them vigorously together. As they dried she reached into her windbreaker jacket pocket and took out a small lotion that she rubbed angrily on her hands before returning it to its home in her pocket. She mumbled something Ella couldn’t quite hear to the man holding the bags about the city’s humidity.
Ella was trying to keep the tour group moving. The friend was doing his best to hold Billy up, but he was fighting a losing battle. Billy focused on his feet, somewhat amazed they would hold him up.
“I just need a smoke,” Billy said.
“I know, but when you ask like that you sound like a crazy homeless person wandering in the Quarter,” the friend replied and dragged him forward so they didn’t lose the tour group.
As luck would have it, the pair caught the attention of a tall, lanky man wearing ill-fitting sweatpants and a Pelican’s t-shirt. The man looked at the pair and said, “What the actual fuck did you say?!?”
Billy’s friend went into overdrive. “Oh no, man. I wasn’t talking to you.” Billy looked around confused, the nuances of the miscommunication clearly lost on him.
“I’m not homeless,” Sweatpants said, raising his voice. “I have a home right over there at Covenant House.”
“Come on group, keep up,” Ella said and pulled her mob through the streets of the city.
A brunette with curly, dark hair, a blue shirt, and a short, pink-flower skirt touched Ella on her shoulder. She was accompanied by a tall man with a full, thick beard, a pastel colored striped tank top, and hat with white lettering that read “Pelican Cove.” A large pelican seemed to be holding a hurricane drink. The tall man had a Peg-Leg Pete’s go-cup in his hand.
He said to Ella, “We heard there was a slave house around here that was on the TV show with the witches? American Horror?” And before she could answer, the woman said, “Oh yes! And I have to say I just love your outfit. This tour is amazing. I love Anne Rice. Didn’t she live somewhere here in the quarter?”
“Yeah, we heard that too, but then she or Nicolas Cage sold their…”
Ella stopped listening and watched the woman. She thought she was the kind of woman who could have been quite beautiful if you looked at her in just the right way. She brought out a ChapStick from a small pocket on her skirt and coated her lips. She brought the bottom lip over the top and then the top over the bottom. And then the ChapStick disappeared. This left Ella with a kind of in-between feeling of vague sexuality and meticulous action that never quite came together. More sirens in the distance now, both uptown toward Bourbon and toward the river. Never a dull moment in this city.
The group followed her and she pointed out interesting facts about the Quarter and the fire of 1788. She brought them to the fence and said, “These are offerings people leave for Madeline and her dearest, Mr. Locke. You may return to pay your respects, if you wish. It’s always best to keep the ghosts happy in our city.”
She saw Dave’s group up ahead and looked at her watch, a little after 10. She was running late. They took up most of the street corner by Dauphine. Back to the Marigny for her second tale of the night. She greeted Dave with a warm hug as the groups came together.
A group of three people stood leaning against the wall as Ella and Dave caught up with each other. There was an athletic black man in a form-fitting t-shirt and silver chain with a cross around his neck. He had his arm around a fit blonde who had short-cropped hair. She had a contagious, happy smile. Next to them stood a younger woman with dark hair tied into pigtails.
Ella asked Dave about the thuds in the distance and the sirens. He had heard them as well but didn’t have any ideas what they could be. They shrugged it off and Dave gave her an encouraging “Go get ‘em!” Ella stood under the flickering gas lamp to tell her tale.
“You see, Captain Malick was not quite a pirate, there was no Jolly Roger on his ship’s mast. But he was a thief, nonetheless, and he would take from those he came across. Most thought the true valuables were in the cargo hold, or in the Captain’s stateroom, but Malick had his eye on something else.”
The group had merged, a crowd of close to sixty people with little ghost fans and many with drinks in their hands. There were fewer children on the late tour, though there were a few hanging onto the day as they watched Ella pace back and forth in front of them, her pale skin shining in the light of the gas lamp.
A nervous mother fretted over her four-year-old. He was too old for his stroller and a bit too young to be hearing the story of Captain Malick cannibalizing his victims. Her husband was arguing with their teenage daughter, who was texting on her phone instead of listening to the story. Ella wanted to point out that the arguing was more disruptive than the texting, but she let it go.
“You see, Malick didn’t just want grain and blankets and fine furs and rifles; which might be what you would think he would want, if you were on a merchant ship being boarded. But not Malick. He wanted something from each ship he stopped. Something more…”
Ella paused to say, “more personal.” That was the next line in the story. But then a red dot appeared on Billy’s white shirt, about a foot from the mustard stain at the bottom. It was small at first and then spread like a starfish unfurling when returned to the ocean. Billy looked down in drunken amazement.
She saw a bright light in the darkness behind the tour group. And then more, coming in short bursts.
FLASH FLASH FLASH
POP POP POP
FLASH FLASH FLASH
POP POP POP
There was a slight delay between the flash and the gunshot. Ella remembered something about this in Mrs. Humphrey’s 9th grade science class. Light and sound traveled at different velocities. The Dobber effect? Was that it?
She saw the young blonde woman with the Jansport backpack. Her sweater was stained with blood and the left side of her face was missing. Ella was frozen. More gunshots echoed in the night.
POP POP POP
POP POP POP
POP POP POP
One of the Sesame Street Martian women, Yep-Yep, screamed and pulled her friend to the ground. There was a growing red stain near the upper part of the dress. Nope-Nope tried to get up and was hit by gunfire and fell back to the ground.
POP POP POP
POP POP POP
POP POP POP
Ella clamped her hands over her ears and thought, that wasn’t it. That was the house elf in Harry Potter. Dobby. It was the Doppler Effect. Dave grabbed her by the arm and tried to pull her down to the street. Zazu exploded in a puff of stuffing. The next round took Dave between the eyes. He slouched forward and lost Ella’s arm, an expression of surprise on his face.
The mother screamed as bullets tore through the crowd, hitting the stroller, her toddler, her teenage daughter, and husband. Her daughter’s iPhone fell to the ground near Ella and she was surprised that the glass didn’t shatter. The mother didn’t seem to be hit, but screamed and looked around with wild, animal eyes.
POP POP POP
POP POP POP
POP POP POP
Parts of the group tried to run away down the street. Chips of brick and dust flew off the walls. The athletic black man shoved the blonde to the ground and ran for the nearest parked car across the street. Others started to break away from the group and run.
POP POP POP
POP POP POP
POP POP POP
POP POP POP
The man running towards the nearest car spun when the bullets ripped into him. He fell lifeless to the street. The young woman with the pigtails and beads ran out after him and was gunned down just as quickly.
Then it was quiet. Ella could feel her heart bea
ting in her chest. She thought about the knife on her thigh but couldn’t make her hands move. She had this insane thought about bringing a knife to a gunfight. Her mind was struggling to keep up.
Then there was some yelling. Ella saw a dark figure down the street. It was the person who was doing this. He wore a long black cloak and a wolf mask. His hands reached for something under his cloak and he dropped a thin, foot-long rectangular box to the ground. He was the big, bad wolf.
“He’s reloading. We can stop him!” This came from Git-R-Done Hat. His wife was breathing quick and shallow and bleeding from dark wounds on her leg and arm. He tossed off his hat and ran at the cloaked figure. Most of the group stayed frozen against the wall or on the ground. The curly-haired woman in the short pink-flower skirt stood shaking on the sidewalk crying hysterically and pointing at the blood-covered tank top of her boyfriend. His Peg-Leg Pete’s cup lay on its side, the remainder of the hurricane drink slowly mixing with the blood on the sidewalk.
The wolf let the large object in his hands fall when he saw Git-R-Done running at him looking to relive his football glory days and make one last tackle for his hometown sweetheart. The rifle caught on the tactical strap and hung to the left under the cloak. The wolf drew the Glock and took a moment to aim. Then he fired three shots in rapid succession. The first missed the charging man, but hit the fretting mother and wife screaming wildly in the dark as she went down.
The next bullet hit Git-R-Done in the chest. He stopped running and looked surprised. The next found a home in his chest across the printed slur. He went down for good.
The wolf holstered the Glock and took another rectangular box from inside the cape. The rifle was in his hands again and the plastic clip was slapped into place as he drew back the bolt. There were maybe a half dozen people left, mostly huddled against the wall in front of Ella. He fired into this group as he walked forward.
FLASH FLASH FLASH
POP POP POP
FLASH FLASH FLASH
POP POP POP
FLASH FLASH FLASH
POP POP POP
It was hard for Ella to take her eyes away from the muzzle. The flashes and rifle bursts melted into one. The glass surrounding the torch shattered and the flame went out. The huddled group stopped moving. In the distance, she could see one or two people running down the street, likely out of range of the gunman. It was dark and the lights from down Dauphine cast a halo around the wolf as he approached. His shadow was long in front of him and it reached for her like a gnarled hand.
Ella heard harsh coughing from behind her as the wolf fired three more shots. She turned to see the woman in the red sweater and black pants fall dead in the street.
The wolf let the rifle hang at his side. She heard in the distance the faint sounds of sirens and hope.
It was quiet again. The gunman took out the pistol and walked through what remained of the crowd. He took aim the heads of anyone who moved or whimpered. Then he shot them still. Each time the gun fired, Ella shuddered and sank lower, until she was laying on the street in the fetal position.
“Well, well.” The voice came from above her. “It looks like it’s just you and me left.” She heard the spent clip falling to the ground and the new clip being smacked into place. The gunman pulled back the action of the pistol and chambered a bullet.
“You know,” the wolf said, impossibly close to her, “I don’t think little girls should go walking in these spooky old woods alone.”
Ella thought of the “Li’l Red Riding Hood” song by Sam the Sham & The Pharaohs.
Officer Chris Thompson from the NOPD came around the corner quickly; gun drawn. He was a three-year vet on the force and was short, compact, and ready for the fight. He saw the cloaked figure with the gun standing above the woman. Before pulling the trigger, he saw the piles of bodies in the street. It looked like a war zone. There were so many bodies.
The wolf didn’t hear Thompson come around the corner. The mask, while excellent for intimidating defenseless mobs of people in the middle of listening to a ghost story, had really shit peripheral vision. Thompson unloaded the first three shots low and to the right, chipping up bits of the street.
He over-compensated as the wolf turned toward him and raised the gun. Thompson’s next three shots hit to the left on the brick wall. He steadied his aim and two shots hit solid in the gunman’s chest. The wolf stumbled back and the officer fired two more. One clipped the wolf in the shoulder and the other went high again into the wall. The gunman’s pistol fell to the ground.
Thompson quickly reloaded his service weapon and looked around to see if his backup had arrived. Not yet. He had called it in and ran to where the shots were coming from. Active shooter protocol and all, he played it by the book. But the book didn’t have anything in it about a goddamn wolf who killed dozens of people. And the book didn’t account for the fact that most of the force was already out responding to the explosions on Canal and the riverfront. And then the device found at the St. Louis Cathedral steps. There weren’t a lot of free NOPD officers around.
The wolf stood straight with the rifle in his hands. He took aim as the officer fumbled with the clip of his gun. A single shot caught Thompson in the chest. He went down hard and his gun spun off into the darkness.
Both wore tactical vests. But only one of them had used armor piercing rounds in their weapon. This why the wolf picked up his pistol from the street and why Thompson lay on the ground bleeding out.
The wolf turned to Ella. He hummed to himself, “What full lips you have. They’re sure to lure someone bad….”
Ella said one word. “Wait.”
The wolf pulled the trigger and ended her life.
“Aaah-oooooooooh!” he howled and walked off into the night.
The Witching Hour
Chapter 17
New Orleans, Spring, Wednesday,
Midnight
“Welcome, sir!” Wagner was greeted by a well dressed maître d’ with an abundance of positive energy and excitement. Wagner felt, well…he thought for a moment; he supposed he felt expected.
“Umm, hello,” Wagner replied cautiously. “We have been saving a place for you. Please, come this way,” the maître d’ intoned happily.
He wore a classic-cut tuxedo and was older than Wagner, perhaps in his early sixties. His hair was grey and cut short and professional. He was not a handsome man, but he certainly looked distinguished and took pride in his work. There was a small white folded handkerchief in his lapel pocket. He regarded Wagner with curious and energetic eyes.
The door opened into a dimly lit vestibule lined with Victorian-style chaise lounges and a wide, ornate dark mahogany cabinet along the far wall. A thin wooden podium stood with a ledger on it with a list of names written in blue ink. The maître d’ walked Wagner to the book and picked up a silver and black pen. Wagner recognized the starburst white of the Monte Blanc company. “Mr. Sinclair, I assume?”
“Yes,” Wagner said. “Have we met? I don’t think I know you.”
The maître d’ smiled a practiced smile, wide and without any guile or pretense. “We have not had the pleasure yet, sir. But I must admit, I am a fan of your writing. I recognize you from the back cover of your book. I am a great admirer.” Wagner offered a polite, “Thank you. It’s always a pleasure to meet someone who enjoyed my work.” The maître d’ uncapped the fountain pen and made a check mark next to the name Wagner Sinclair written halfway down the page. There were a dozen or so names on the page, about half had check marks next to them.
“Right this way, sir.”
“May, I ask you something…I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.” Wagner caught the eye of the maître d’.
“Landen, sir. And yes, it would be my pleasure to assist you,” the maître d’ replied.
“Landen. Yes. Have you by any chance seen a girl come through? Not, you know, a little girl, but a woman. Around 19 or 20? Blonde hair with some dreadlocks? Earth-tone clothes? She had a brown dog with her. Kind
of a cute mutt?”
“Yes, of course. She was here just a moment ago.” Landen gestured behind him to the twin staircases that opened on either side of the far wall of the vestibule.
Between the twin staircases circling to the room below, there was a framed oil painting on the wall that drew Wagner’s eye. It was the beaches on the shores of Africa. There were tall, thin trees building to forests to the edge of the beach. The sands were white and inviting. Immediately off center to the right of the beach were three lions, laying on the sand.
The most startling part of the picture was how the artist captured the blue-green ocean as the dusk fell over the trees and beach. It was as if they had perfectly captured the concept of dusk, just at that very moment of transition from late afternoon to evening.
“Where do the staircases go?” Wagner asked, following Landen.
“Why…” Landen paused and smiled, “They go down, sir.” Landen chuckled to himself. It was a good-natured laugh, and Wagner could tell this was an old and practiced joke that amused the maître d’ greatly.
“Forgive me,” Landen continued, still regaining his composure. “My poor attempt at humor. The steps lead to the antechamber below. You are expected. Just watch your footing here. The path is not as well-lit as it should be.”
Wagner followed Landen down the stairs and realized this whole thing didn’t make any sense.
“Tell me, Landen. These steps. This antechamber. I thought New Orleans was too wet and swampy to allow for cellars or basement rooms.”
“Things here, sir, are” Landen paused for effect, “different, of course.” The steps were carpeted marble, with gold colored rods holding the carpet in place.
“Different? I don’t understand.”
“You are expected, sir. There is nothing to be concerned about,” Landen said and reached a wooden door with an antique brass handle. The maître d’ opened the door and waited for Wagner to step through.
“Is there anything else you require, sir?” Landen held the door open and waited for Wagner.