* * *
Nikki watched from the bedroom window. The sedan turned on its headlights and pulled away. The cops sat in their squad car for a minute before they too drove away. Nikki nodded, satisfied. She?d check again in an hour, and if the sedan returned, she?d take more direct action.
She left the window, curled up on the bed. She felt suddenly so very tired. She lived in a big house she couldn?t enjoy, had money she didn?t spend. Her mother lived in a fantasy world in which her dead father would come walking through the front door any moment. And her sisters. Where were they? How had this become her life?
Outside, rain pelted the roof, and thunder shook the world. She curled into a small ball in the middle of the huge bed, and slipped into an uneasy sleep.
37
The Cadillac zigzagged through the Garden District, Mike hunched over the steering wheel, squinting at street signs and house numbers through the downpour.
He drove the streets in a wet, resigned funk. He no longer burned with hate. Even conjuring the image of Keone?s dead body failed to fuel his revenge. Yes, the hate was still there, but it was cold, without passion. A contract he?d signed with fate, a job to be done. Blood must answer for blood. It was all Mike knew. He would do this job, then rest, sleep and sleep and forget.
But no rest yet. Now there was work, and pain in his back, and the leaden feeling in his gut he used to get right before he and Dan went into a gunfight. And he was wet. He wanted only a few cold beers and a hot shower when this was all over.
Mike passed a cop car going in the opposite direction, and half a block later saw the mansion. The number on the gate was right. This was the place. He parked on the street and checked his weapons. The pump shotgun was fully loaded with buckshot. Six rounds in the .38 revolver.
He climbed out of the Caddy and winced. The rain stung cold and hard, flew at him almost sideways. The bandage under the eye patch was soaked. Mike approached the gate, shotgun under the Saints poncho. A lock on the gate. He gave it a weak kick, and pain lanced up his back and neck.
The pain was so bad he had to stop, lean against the gate.
?Goddammit.?
He stepped back, lifted the shotgun, and blasted the lock. If somebody heard, then screw it. He wanted this over. He was going to go in and get this done. He pumped another shell into the chamber and pushed the gate open. He took the short walkway to the front door, shotgun leading the way.
Mike tried the knob, locked. He aimed the shotgun at the door lock, hesitated. Of course there would be an alarm. At this point, he wasn?t concerned about alerting the people inside, but if the alarm were wired to the local precinct, that could end the party real quick.
He hid the shotgun back under his poncho and knocked. He would make something up, say his car had a flat and he needed the phone.
In three seconds, the door swung open. Mike wasn?t surprised to see the grim black woman in a maid?s uniform. It was Mike?s understanding from TV and movies that women like her were standard issue in these old Southern mansions.
But the silver revolver in her hand did surprise him a little. He thought about swinging the shotgun around fast and making a play for her, but he?d have to twist at the waist and fire from the hip, and if his back seized up, he?d be a sitting duck.
Hell.
She motioned him inside with the pistol. ?Get in.?
He went in, hands tight on the shotgun in case he saw an opening.
She shut the door, kept her eyes and the pistol on him the whole time. ?I heard the shot and saw you through the peephole, mister. Now set that shotgun aside nice and slow.?
?What shotgun??
?I can see the butt sticking out the back of the poncho,? she said. ?Don?t make me ask again or I?ll shoot that other eye out.?
He held the shotgun in one hand, held the other hand up so she could see it. He sidestepped toward the wall slowly, leaned the shotgun up against the doorframe.
