Saint Louis, Missouri
CHAPTER 34:
Felicity had been in much better spirits when I had visited her earlier in the day. Apparently, a good nights sleep and some time chatting with Helen had done wonders. I didn’t want to second-guess someone with a laundry list of credentials that I, myself, didn’t possess, but I was betting my wife had far more resilience than she’d been credited.
Helen had objected to me coming to the hospital at first, feeling that my presence might upset some of the balance they had reached. For once, I actually agreed on that point and would have bowed to her wishes had it not been for the fact that I needed to seek my wife’s permission. Not exactly like a child seeking endorsement from a parent, but I needed to make a trip to New Orleans. There was no way around it. Unfortunately, I was having trouble making myself leave Saint Louis with Felicity locked away in the psychiatric ward of a hospital, even if she was under Helen’s watchful eye.
I knew I had no choice, and so did they. In fact, the prospect that I had most likely found the Lwa served to brighten my wife’s mood even more, turning her underlying sense of despair into a newfound hope. But, in the end it still took both of them better than an hour to convince me that it was okay for me to leave and that she would be all right.
I looked at my watch and shifted in my seat. The entire row of chairs was interconnected, and they rocked slightly as I moved, shifting back and coming to a rest with a mildly jarring clunk. The lady sitting two seats to the left of me instantly shot me a hard glance. Her face was creased with a thin frown as she made a show of tugging at her yarn and settling back in to crochet whatever oddly shaped project she was attempting.
“Sorry,” I mumbled then tried to sit still. The seat wasn’t exactly comfortable, so I couldn’t say how long that was going to last.
My trip through the TSA security checkpoint had been much quicker than I expected, so I had ended up sitting here way too long. It was one of the things I hated most about air travel, especially since 9-11. It had become a terminal case of hurry up and wait. Of course, I had hurried, and now I was waiting. I’d been planted in this spot long enough now that my buttocks were going to sleep, and I still had a plane ride ahead of me.
According to the time on my watch, I had a good twenty to thirty minutes before they would even begin boarding. In fact, the plane hadn’t even arrived yet, and in my experience if they said they were going to board at 7:45 that really meant 8:05. I knew I was going to be miserable if I didn’t at least get up and move around a bit.
I turned my head slightly to the side and watched the woman with the crochet hook stabbing away as she poked it through one loop, hooked a strand, pulled, then repeated, twisting and fiddling as she went. Eventually, she stopped and gazed intently at a folded magazine in her lap. I assumed it was a pattern of sorts.
Either way, pattern or not, I took the opportunity to get up from my seat and heft my carry-on from the floor next to me. The row of joined chairs rocked and thumped once again, and even though she wasn’t actually working on the project at the moment, the lady shot me another disgusted glare.
This time I didn’t bother to apologize. I simply shrugged and walked away.
Hooking the strap of my backpack over my shoulder, I started across the concourse, dodging travelers as they endeavored to run over one another with their wheeled luggage in tow. After running the gauntlet, I ducked into the coffee shop that sat diagonally across from my gate. I ordered a large coffee with a double shot of espresso and then, after glancing at the refrigerated case, had them add a cheese Danish onto the tab. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t even given thought to eating before I rushed to the airport. There’d been too much to do with getting the last minute plane ticket, arranging for our friend RJ to watch the animals, canceling a meeting with a client, and trying to pack for the quick trip.
The shop was bustling, just as it was any other time I’d had occasion to fly, so it took a few minutes for my drink to get done. I simply stood away from the crush of people, holding my pastry-filled and logo-adorned bag in one hand, with the thumb of my other hooked through the shoulder strap of my backpack. Eventually, my name was called, and after an aborted attempt or two at reaching the counter, I managed to get my hands on my coffee.
I had kept an eye on my gate and thus far saw no one exiting the jetway, so I figured there was plenty of time before I would be called to board. I exited the shop and found that one of the small cafe tables in front of it was free, so I parked myself there, dropping my carryon to the floor and sitting back. The chair wasn’t any more comfortable than the one I had been sitting in before, but at least it wasn’t connected to anything else, so the only person I could disturb was myself.
I was just pulling the Danish out of the bag when my cell phone started to warble. I dropped the pastry onto a handful of napkins then pulled the device out of my pocket and answered it.
“Rowan Gant.”
“Where the fuck are you?” Ben’s voice hit my ear.
“Actually, I’m at the airport.”
“Why in hell are ya’ at the friggin’ airport?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Well where ya’ goin’?”
“Like I said, you don’t want to know.”
“Dammit, Row, is this somethin’ ta’ do with that Voodoo stuff? Are you doin’ somethin’ stupid like I told ya’ not to?”
“Do I need to say it a third time, Ben?”
“Fuck me.”
“I’d rather not. So, did you just call me to brush up on your suspect interviewing skills, or was there some greater reason?”
He adopted a snide tone. “I dunno, are you sure you wanna know?”
“Hey, you called me.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“So?”
“So I got a piece’a news for ya’. Are ya’ sittin’ down?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Good, ‘cause guess what? We found your goddamned sister-in…half sister-in…aww, hell, whatever-the- fuck-she-is-in-law.”
I instantly sat up straighter in the chair. “You found her? Where?”
“Well, not ‘zactly found. But, we know who she is.”
“Who?”
“Her name’s Annalise Devereaux,” he replied. “I’m lookin’ at ‘er driver’s license photo right this minute. And, Row, you ain’t gonna believe this. She’s the fuckin’ spittin’ image of Firehair.”
“Where is she, Ben?” I pressed.
“Right now, we don’t know, ‘cause of Katrina.”
“What do you mean?”
“The address on ‘er license is in a section of New Orleans that got totally flooded out, so there’s no way to know where she is at the moment. But, obviously we know she survived.”
I sat there staring into space for a moment, feeling my headache creep up another notch.
“Row…” Ben’s voice flooded into my ear. “Hey, Row, you still there?”
“Yeah,” I finally said. “So, Ben, you wanted to know where I’m going?”
“Yeah, I do, but I seem ta’ recall you decided ta’ be an asshole about tellin’ me when I asked.”
“Well, it’s my turn to tell you something you won’t believe. I’ll give you three guesses where I’m going, and the first two don’t count.”
Friday, December 2
3:11 P.M.
