liked Collin's sense of humor and his skill with a gun, but he'd grown weary of the man's constant comparisons of how much better life in Chicago was than in New Orleans. He exaggerated his idyllic Back-of-the-Yards community and home and how wonderful everything in Chicago had been, from the food to his beloved Blackhawks, Bears, and the White Sox ad nauseam. Still, they managed to get along, and even visited the firing range together, where they competed with each shot.
As they barreled toward the scene of the incident, siren and lights roaring, Tony complained, “The city ought not to have moved Precinct Ten out of the French Quarter. We needed that presence there at all times, not just in peak seasons.”
“ You'll get no argument here,” agreed Doyle. “Can't figure NOPD sometimes. Not like you can the Chicago police force. Even if you dislike a decision, you still understand it there, even if it is crooked politics behind it.” As Labruto approached the intersection where he intended to turn, a large van came around a corner. Taking it wide, the man's headlights and grill came face-to-face with the squad car, heading straight for them.
“ Son of a bitch!” shouted Doyle.
Labruto held his breath and stirred. The weaving, shambling van, dark green in color, its headlights waving like two madmen with flashlights, almost rammed them. But at the last minute, it pulled right to Tony's pulling left. The two vehicles missed each other by inches, and Labruto joked, “Did you feel that, partner? Missed by an eye lash!”
“ That was a green van, Tony!”
“ Did you hear the metal constrict on my side? I didn't miss that guy, our unit dodged that last hair all on its own.”
“ No, Tony, that wasn't the car metal constricting to avoid a hit. The noise you heard was my stomach dodging the rest of my organs to jump out my goddamn mouth. Nothing supernatural about it.”
“ Same unit that saved my life three years ago, in that shootout at Nelson's Boat works.”
“ Have it your way, but right now, tell me just what the hell was that flying by us?”
Dispatch came back on, calling out, “Ten-10 now a possible kidnapping. Perpetrator is on the move, heading east on Grandview, away from the Quarter in a van, no plate ID.”
“ Kidnapping?” asked Doyle, now on the radio. “Dispatch, this is 112. Does the kidnapping involve a green van?”
“ Man on the line says yes. The vehicle is a Chrysler, dark green, possibly a '96 or '97 model.” The dispatch officer added, “Be advised 112. The perp has a hostage and is considered to be violent, possibly armed.”
Doyle reminded Labruto, “Remember the alert put out on the Skull-digger being in a dark green van?”
“ Course I do. You think it could be the guy the FBI's after?”
“ It’d make us heroes. Turn this can around.”
Labruto called in their location and added, “We've made visual with the van. We're in pursuit. Request backup.” He added for Doyle, “We'll just see what this car can do.”
Labruto violently twisted the wheel, turning the squad car completely around, sending up a scream of burning rubber to give chase, but as they sped up, they could see nothing. The pachyderm of a van had disappeared.
They peered down side streets as they slowed, searching for anything that resembled their prey, but it was gone. They cruised slowly for several more blocks. “How can he just disappear like that?” asked Doyle, a growing frustration coming over him.
They continued on in silence until Labruto asked, “What the fuck?”
Labruto finally said, “He's got to be heading for a safe location.”
“ No cheap hotels around here except for the Plaza.”
“ If he is the Digger, he's going to kill her in the van. Isn't that the word on the guy? How he operates?”
“ That's right.”
“ Then he'll be looking for a remote location to dump the body.”
“ Old Harbor walkway, along the Miss. That's the closest deserted rat hole I can think of.”
Turning off the siren and the overhead lights, Labruto eased the car around and headed back toward the river and where they had lost the van down any number of small streets and alleyways. New Orleans was dotted with small arteries, most one-way. The guy in the van could have turned down any one of them, but aside from a few vacant lots and construction sites, the broken-down Old Harbor walkway was a good guess.
They drove through the once-thriving business area, now a den of ghost saloons for long-gone and long-dead bikers. Isolated like an island amid the city palaces and pinnacles around it, the old place bordered an access street to the interstate. If the van had slipped onto the interstate, there would be no catching him without the help of the highway patrol, but they had no license plate number.
“ Can't believe we lost the fucker,” said Labruto.
“ The interstate would be the smartest move for the guy,” replied Doyle, pointing to a sign that led to the exchange.
“ Who said the creep was smart?”
“ If it's this brain whack-job, then he's evaded officials in what, six states already?”
Scanning ahead as they neared the interstate, they saw no one on-ramping in the grim area.
“ Take the ramp! Take the ramp!” shouted Doyle.
Labruto instead pulled beneath the interstate, winding through a bevy of pylons with bridge overpasses high above, following the ancient, cracked blacktop to its end, and onto a pitted, weedy path toward the river and the old warehouse district and the wharves. Doyle, realizing that Labruto was familiar with the area, lightly joked, “So, this is where you take your dates?”
“ Area's too creepy now, but yeah, in the old days.”
A light silver drizzle dappled the windshield. Lights off, the cruiser rolled almost silently toward its destination, both men squinting in the darkness for their prey.
Selese Montoya felt cold and clammy, her skin bristling, and she could not think straight. She felt helplessly tossed about like an object inside a bottle, but she felt no pain, only a dull ache against her left wrist. She felt disoriented, confused. What is it? she wondered. Something to do with her head, she imagined. Yes, her head, which felt like a spongy dull pumpkin. And while, from time to time, she felt a cold, weighted piece of steel against her left wrist and she heard the sound of a chain rattling, she did not connect it to the tug on her left wrist. Instead, she tried to think clearly about who she was and where she was and what had happened to her.
Her eyes-as if independent of her will-blinked, opening and closing on images passing the windshield. Images that went from dark to light, reflecting signs, telephone poles, bridges, buildings and an array of wide, staring windows.
“ I wanna go home.” She moaned, unsure if her words had traveled any distance beyond her tongue. In fact, the words seemed imprisoned in her head.
She only recalled having said good night to her employer at Farley's Whiskey Hole and walking out of the bar where she kept the records. She didn't serve or hustle drinks, not even from behind the bar; she didn't sell anything. She didn't sing in the band, and she didn't do floor shows. She maintained her own hours, working when she wanted on Farley's books, and she pet the cat from time to time.
She had plans to save enough money to move to California, tired of New Orleans and its tourists-crowded streets. In California, she meant to find a quiet place to live, far from any crowds.
She was alone and glad of it. Carl had proven a great disappointment in the end, and she hadn't any desire to get involved with another man, so she had kept herself immune to any overtures men made toward her. Ironically, since she had sworn off the opposite sex, they turned up everywhere. Farley had waved good night to her from the bar, and a few of the regular stiffs shouted her name as she left. She had a small dog at home to see to. Maybe she'd pick up a treat for him on the way, along with her much-needed cigarettes and gum. That's right. I was on my way home when something happened.
As she'd walked the familiar streets of the French Quarter, going toward the quieter apartment area to the north, she ran through her mind for anything else she might need at the little corner store near her house. She also thought about her sister in Texas who should be having that baby soon, her third. Selese wondered if she would ever have kids. She wanted to, but not now. Not the way things were.
Her mind had wandered. She needed to concentrate on the grocery store. Something had happened at the grocery store. But she didn't know what had happened. Her senses were not communicating with her. A broom
