Tiffany called. The plane had backed away from the gate, things were fine and she would text from home.
Disjointed thoughts entered his mind. He couldn’t decipher the mystery. Each day brought more questions with no answers. Being the paranormal expert, he should know what to do, but this enigma escaped him. How did Tiffany fit in? And Jack? What were the secrets in the building?
Although he enjoyed the solitude of Patrick’s, Landry became more depressed by the minute. Hungry now, he wanted to be around people. Dodging puddles, he darted across the street to Desire. The well-lit restaurant was just the opposite of where he’d been. Less solitude and gloom, more customers and action. A big plus would be if his friend Miss Kitty was behind the bar tonight. He stepped inside, left his umbrella at the front door, and looked across the room. A friendly smile and a beckoning wave perked him up at once. He sat at the bar and ordered a double vodka and a fried shrimp basket. Kitty had tended bar at Desire for years, and he always enjoyed seeing her. The normally raucous restaurant was quiet tonight, and that meant fewer interruptions for drink orders and more time to chat.
They discussed what brought him out on a stormy night, what he was working on these days, and how things were going for her. Kitty never pried into his affairs, or second-guessed his thoughts, or psychoanalyzed the conversation. A genuine person with a listening ear and a big heart, Kitty was just what he needed.
He left with a plan. Stymied in the past, he turned to a man whose life work was the paranormal. He wouldn’t bother Henri Duchamp on a Sunday night, but he would call first thing tomorrow.
Landry intended to walk the eight blocks home, but hard rain still pelted the streets. More than a little unsteady on his feet, he hailed a cab instead. Thirty minutes later he fell into bed, intoxicated and exhausted.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
He tossed and turned. Alcohol doesn't allow peaceful slumber; it only makes things worse. Three hours after getting in bed, he plodded into the bathroom, took two ibuprofen and tried again to rest. It didn't work.
He lay awake wondering why Tiffany didn’t leave a message like she promised, worrying about Jack Blair, and mulling over what to say to his friend Henri in the morning. At some point he slept, but it seemed like no time before his cell phone buzzed. A call at four thirty in the morning was never good. The number seemed familiar, but after his night, he wasn’t sure.
"Hello?" he mumbled.
No response.
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
A frantic whisper. "Landry! Landry, please help me!"
"Who is this?"
A whimper. "It's Tiffany. I need help!"
Fully alert now, he asked her what was wrong.
"I...something is, but I‘m not sure what. I was on a bus and now I'm sitting in a diner. You can help me. Please tell me you will."
"You left New Orleans last night. Did you make it to Los Angeles?"
"Yes."
"Did you go to your house?"
"I don't remember. I can't remember leaving the plane or anything else until about fifteen minutes ago. I woke up sitting here in a booth. The waitress said I got off a bus."
"Where are you?"
He heard her ask someone, where am I? "Blythe. Blythe, California. I'm at a Red Robin on I-10."
He wondered for a moment why, but then he realized Interstate 10 ran across the southern USA straight to New Orleans. She got off the plane, went straight to the bus station, and began working her way back to the building on Toulouse.
"Why are you in Blythe?"
She had found a slip of paper in her pocket. "I bought a ticket from LA to Blythe. Why did I do that? Oh yeah, it's coming back to me. My, uh...my card only had enough limit to get me this far. I was going to...I don't know. What's happening to me?" He could sense the frustration and fear as she struggled to make sense of it.
"Do you think you were coming back to New Orleans?"
She cried, "I guess so. Please help me. I don't have anybody else and at least you understand. I think I'm going crazy. I'll lose my job and my sanity if I don't get this figured out. What's wrong with me?"
As bizarre as the situation was, he assured her she wasn't crazy. The paranormal world — another dimension in another place — was as real to Landry as the world he lived in, and he explained to Tiffany that things beyond her control were happening to her. He promised to help and told her to stay there until morning. He would contact her then.
He asked to speak to someone working at the diner, and a man — the owner who had just arrived for the morning shift — answered. Landry explained that Tiffany was disoriented and confused, and he was going to help her. The man said there was a motel next door to the restaurant, and Landry offered to read off his credit card information in hopes the restaurant owner could get her a room. At first the man refused to get involved, but when he heard Landry's name, his attitude changed completely.
"Mr. Drake, my name's Peterson. Charlie Peterson. The wife and I love your specials. Is this woman involved in something supernatural? I'll do anything I can to help you and the lady. I'm just real happy to be talking to a celebrity like yourself!"
Landry said he didn’t understand what happened, but she needed help. The man agreed to charge Landry's card two hundred dollars. That would pay for breakfast at the Red Robin, a
