I waited to fold the cell phone in half until I heard the click at her end. I hated to end the call just as much as she, but I really did need to figure out where I was going, and get there.
It took a moment for me to realize I was still staring in the direction of room 7 as the maid and a man who could have been a maintenance worker went in and out the door at random intervals. I absently wondered how soon they might have the room ready for rental and even considered going over to the office to ask. Of course, the lady behind the desk probably wouldn’t be particularly interested in renting it to me after what had happened a few hours ago.
Besides, I also remembered what Detective Fairbanks had said. While I’m sure he was well aware I had no intention of leaving New Orleans just yet, I suspected another run-in with the local constabulary wouldn’t go nearly as well as the first. I knew I was going to need to fly beneath their radar for the rest of my visit. Occupying a room at a motel run by the person who had turned me in didn’t strike me as falling into that category.
But, even if that hadn’t been the case, staying here would probably be a very bad idea. Even though my current digs were far less than desirable, I had to take another important point into consideration. They could replace everything in that room except the ghosts. They were there to stay, and I wasn’t all that keen on spending any more time with them than I already had.
I shook my head and started to get into the car. As I slid into the seat and closed the door, I noticed a figure standing in the doorway of the office. It was the owner, sans housecoat this time, although I’m betting she was probably still well armed. She stood sipping from a cup and watching me through the window with a determined stare.
I decided to check my map when I was a little farther down the road.
CHAPTER 9:
It had been heavily overcast when the police turned me out, but any precipitation was sporadic. Now, however, it was falling steadily. Not pounding, by any means, just a steady rain. At least it waited until I was indoors.
I had just finished yet another perusal of the microfilm drawers in the archives division of the New Orleans Public Library. Now, I found myself gazing out the window at the small third floor courtyard, watching the water spatter against the windows. Even up here, the sharp smells of mold and mildewed carpet were prominent as they jetted out through the ventilation system.
The condition of the library itself was enough to make a person heartsick. The flood that had come in the wake of Katrina had inflicted more than its share of damage on the building and its contents. The signs were everywhere, including the water level marks on the walls.
But, it wasn’t merely the physical toll that evoked painful emotions. This repository of the written word was now only a part-time library. The rest of the time, it was a temporary federal office housing the FEMA response teams.
Armed officers waited at the entrance, bringing you in single file through metal detectors as if you were entering an airport concourse. The main floor now housed very few books. Instead, harried people with government ID’s occupied the better part of it, each of them systematically interviewing survivors of the disaster, cataloging their losses and shuffling paperwork-but providing little or no relief. The overwhelming sense of despair I could feel from the people I had seen waiting, government forms clutched in their hands, was almost more than I could bear at the moment. Had I not been focused on my own task, I firmly believe I would have sat down in the middle of the floor and wept for them.
Even with an entire floor of the building between them and me, I could still feel it.
I shook off the anxiety then gathered my steno pad and two square boxes containing rolls of microfilm from the top of the metal cabinets. Making my way around the end of the stacks, I headed back toward the center of the dogleg in the L-shaped room. Earlier it had been almost dead up here, but now there was plenty of quiet activity. I wandered up the rows of microfilm readers, checking all the way to the back of the farthest stand, but found them all occupied. Letting out a sigh, I trudged over to a table and pulled out a chair. I hoped my wait wouldn’t be overly long.
“Excuse me…Sir?” a young woman’s voice broke through the calm room. She wasn’t being loud by any means, but given the relative quiet, her words were hard to miss.
I looked in the direction of the voice and saw a very young-looking blonde motioning to me with one hand as she used her other to rewind a roll of film.
“Yeah?” I grunted.
“I’m done here if you need the machine,” she offered.
As I had noticed with Detective Fairbanks, her voice held none of the clipped affectations I had become used to hearing since I had arrived in the city. It made her seem almost as out of place as I felt. But, given the fact that she was young, as well as casually dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, I figured she was probably a college student from out of state.
“Yeah, thanks,” I said in a tired drone, giving her a shallow nod.
I pushed the unused chair back beneath the table then walked over and stood next to the reader and waited patiently. The young woman removed the spool of film then tucked it back into a box. Gathering up her notebook, she hefted her backpack from the floor and slipped it over one shoulder before stepping aside and giving me a smile.
“You kind of have to coax it a bit sometimes,” she told me. “It sticks every now and then.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I had to use this one earlier. Thanks.”
“Soooo…Genealogy?” she asked.
“Huh?” My question came out more as a grunt than a word.
I wasn’t really paying attention. I already had my own spool of aging film in my hand and was pushing it onto the feed spindle when she made her query. Truth is, my mind was wandering, and it had settled on the fact that I hadn’t done research by microfilm since I was in college myself, which was longer ago than I really wanted to think about.
“I was just wondering if you were maybe doing genealogical research,” she pressed on, apparently unfazed by my woolgathering expression. “You know, investigating your roots. That sort of thing.”
“Yeah,” I said, glancing back and giving her a tired nod. “Yeah, I guess you could say it’s something like that.”
I turned back to the task at hand and pressed the plastic spool inward until I felt it snap. Then I tugged on the free end of the film and started to thread it beneath the glass.
I couldn’t help but feel the girl was still standing behind me. I wondered for a moment if I should reach back and check on my wallet. But, malicious energy wasn’t what seemed to be coming from her. Actually, it felt more like a bizarre mix of curiosity and arousal. Of course, with everything that was bombarding me, I didn’t even want to hazard a guess as to whether or not those feelings were coming from her or somewhere across the room. Instead I just tried to ignore her and hoped that she would go away.
“Yeah, I figured as much,” she finally said. “I’ve been watching you.”
Obviously, ignoring her wasn’t going to work. I glanced back over my shoulder again. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Well, I mean…” She paused for a moment then shrugged. “You look kinda old to be a student.”
“Thanks,” I replied, my voice flat.
Turning back to the machine, I fished the loop of brittle film through the guide plate and hooked it onto the take-up reel.
“Oh, that wasn’t meant as an insult,” she said, backpedaling.
I replied without turning this time. “No big deal. I wasn’t offended. I realize I’m old as compared to you. That part of my brain still works.”
I felt something touch me, and I looked down to see that she had leaned in close, actually bringing her ample chest against my arm. I had the distinct impression the physical contact wasn’t an accident. She proved that out by dropping her voice even lower and infusing it with a sultry sweetness.
