flashed back and forth in her mind's unfocused eye. Something to do with a fight, and she had been in the midst of it. How unlikely. It had to be the rantings of her dream state.
Then she saw the broom flash across her mind's eye again, but it faded with every thought, as she settled into a blank, featureless sleep of nots: not hearing the siren behind them anymore, not feeling any tug on her wrist anymore and not feeling the pounding of the van as it yo-yoed into narrow spaces. Not caring who sat alongside her, not understanding the depth of her own terror as the death van bumped and maneuvered over potholes.
Grant still had the young woman secured in the back of the van where he had parked it behind and between dilapidated old buildings along a weed-infested backwater section of the Mississippi in the center of New Orleans. A large, verdant levy loomed over the van like a giant, sleeping dragon. He could hear boat whistles blaring in the near distance.
It had been a close encounter with authorities, too close. He thought them still in hot pursuit when he approached the interstate ramp. He had two ways to go, the interstate or the old wharf area. If they'd picked up the plate on his van, he could be spotted by other radio cars. If he drove into the backstreet area along the wharf, he would be dead-ended. It was a gamble either way. He stared ahead at the interstate ramp, but instead of taking it, he tore into the remote area that he had planned to use all along.
Things had become quiet after that. The siren that had been chasing him was silent now. He felt relatively safe that he had outfoxed his pursuers. Still, he sat for some time, listening to his drugged victim's heavy breathing, and staring out his rearview. Deciding that no one was following, he felt reasonably safe to continue with his work.
When he had first arrived in New Orleans, he had hoped to meet with a woman named Franklin, one of the contacts he'd made on the Internet, but Saundra Franklin, aka Sweet-touch had moved out, according to the landlord. Frustrated, Grant had begun cruising the old lamp-lit, famous French Quarter for a victim. When he saw the young woman who stepped from a Bourbon Street bar alone, he pulled into a side-street parking space and made his way on foot beneath the city lights to a corner store she had stepped into. Inside, he arranged to inch up to her side, and he whispered in her ear, “Hello there. My name's Phillip. I'm a professional photographer.”
“ Is that supposed to interest me?”
“ She's perfect,” Phillip said deep within Grant. “We must have her.” I take shots for a new magazine called Slinky.” He sported an expensive camera about his neck, a ruse he'd successfully used before. He handed her a card specifically created for such occasions.
“ Slinky? Never heard of it, but the name sounds appropriate for you. What is it? Another Viagra-endorsed male hormone magazine? Is that supposed to interest me?”
“ When I see a beautiful woman”-he tipped his Nikon at her-”naturally I think she must know the best local hot spots. That's what I'd like to photograph, the best local hot spots-and you, of course.”
“ I'm not interested, and I'm not that beautiful.”
“ Oh, but you are beautiful.”
“ You men. Do you really think lying is a turn on?”
“ Look, I'd pay you well.”
“ I have a job.”
“ Working for minimum wage?”
“ That's none of your business.”
“ Look, I'm new in the city and-”
“ Do you ever need a new line.”
“- and I don't know where to begin to find someone to show me around, to party, you know? I can see you know your way around.” He dared not tell her he'd been watching her since she stepped out of the bar on Bourbon Street.
“ I am not that someone,” she firmly told him.
“ Of course, as I said, I can pay you well.”
She hesitated a moment. “So you said, but I am not interested.” She was interested, if the pay helped her get out of New Orleans, but she didn't want him to think her over-eager.
“ When I say party, I mean with some good stuff, sweetheart.”
“ Oh? Really?” She showed a moment's interest, purchased her things, conversed with the grocer who had been staring at the two of them, listening to their talk.
Grant followed her out the door and onto the street, where she finally acquiesced. “I might like to make a purchase from you, but that is all.”
“ A purchase, sure…”
“ And that is all. We exchange goods, and you say goodbye.”
“ Of course, I could arrange that. But not here on the street. You'll have to come with me to my van.”
She followed him to the side street, far from Bourbon Street where all the pedestrian traffic herded together like cattle. At the van, she insisted, “I will not get inside this thing with you. I don't know you.”
“ Then just climb into the passenger seat. You can leave the door ajar.”
“ Not the seat, not getting in. No way am I going into your van.”
He argued, “I'm not conducting illegal business on the street, my dear, now come along.”
“ I am not, I repeat, going anywhere with you.”
From her dress and manner, he imagined she lived nearby, that she was a native to the city.
“ Your place then? How far is it?”
She had second thoughts. He was too pushy for her liking. “Just give me two packets of your best weed.”
“ Not out in the open like this.”
They continued to argue, and as it heated up, the grocer came out and, with a broom in hand, began to shoo him away as if he were a fly. Frustrated at the man's interference and the woman's determination, Phillip caused Grant to lash out and grab the broom, and he and the grocer began a tug of war for it. The broom flashed wildly before Selese's eyes. A handful of onlookers from windows overhead and a few children straddling bikes on the street looked on from a safe distance, some laughing when the broom slipped from the grocer's hand and hit the woman in the temple, causing her to shout, “You stupid bastard!”
Grant heedlessly grabbed her and forced her into the van at that point, handcuffing her to the seat. Her cries for help were cut off when he slammed the door shut. As he did so, the grocer tried to stop him, but Grant knocked him down, and the older man's head slammed into a metal pipe railing. More laughter erupted from the boys on the bikes.
That's when Grant heard sirens. Some meddling person had called the police. He quickly leapt into the van and tore away from the place, knowing it was time to change his license plate for the one he had stolen in a hotel lot in North Carolina.
He looked out his windshield to see a police car ap-proaching, lights and siren going. His immediate thought was to race by it, but Phillip said, “Calm down, pull over like a good citizen.” Just as the thought came to mind, however, the woman reached over and bit him in the neck, tearing wildly with her teeth, causing him to weave and almost hit the patrol car. He elbowed her in the gut, knocking the wind out of her, and she doubled over while he regained control of the van, missing the squad car by mere inches.
Now he found himself in a police chase. “Fucking stupid, Phillip!” he shouted. “Look what you've got us into now!”
Rounding a corner, he instantly wheeled the van into a dark little alleyway where he pulled in behind a large trash container. He next heard the approaching siren, and then saw the single set of flashing lights as the New Orleans police car raced by, missing him. She yelled out, but he covered her mouth and with his free hand, he stabbed her with the syringe and put her under with the Demoral.
He again cursed. “Phillip, you son of a bitch, look what you've gotten us into!” He tried to breathe but found his air coming up short. He knew he could not remain there, that he had to find a safer place, the place along the levy that he'd scouted out earlier. He looked at the features of the woman as she began to doze off. Taking her purse from her, he found her ID.
“ Well, Selese, that's a pretty name, Miss Montoya.”
He recalled how absolutely disinterested in him she had been, and he knew early on that he should have
