But last night the siren called again, enticing him, swirling dry, warm thoughts through his mind on a nasty, rainy night like this one. That time the building played a video in his head to show him what lay behind that gate. A comfortable night’s sleep was as simple as crossing the street, going through the gate and walking down a long dark hallway flanked by rooms.
One of those rooms is yours, Jack. Come on over and choose where you’ll sleep.
That time he obeyed, and he sensed something wrong from the moment he stepped inside and closed the creaky gate behind him. The old building truly was dry and lots warmer than sleeping in a box. Everything was dark and quiet — there was no one else inside but him. Once he took a few steps down the darkened corridor and into a courtyard, he understood why.
He felt creepy in this place. Something sent chills down his spine like a sense of impending danger mixed with a dark foreboding. Something evil hid inside these walls.
He saw almost nothing in the gloom, but Jack wasn’t afraid of the dark. He had spent so many nights sleeping in doorways that he considered the night his friend. When the sun rose, people judged and mocked, belittling those whose plights they didn’t understand, throwing quarters into an outstretched hand when their own pockets bulged with hundred-dollar bills. Only the night brought peace, an alcohol-fueled release from worry and pain, and hope for a night’s sleep without a nudge from a police officer telling him to move on. Or a building calling, beckoning, welcoming him.
He crept down the hallway, peering into the rooms along the corridor and seeing broken furniture, trash and boxes. A tenant had abandoned the place after Katrina, someone told him. How long ago was that? Fifteen years? He couldn’t remember.
As the sense of dread subsided and Jack thought about picking a room, his heart began beating wildly. There it was again — a sense of malevolence and hostility. It wasn’t the rooms themselves, but what lay within them.
Something grasped his hands — not an actual thing, perhaps just a thought in his head — and guided him toward the courtyard. He wanted to resist — to run away — but his feet carried him out into the rain to a narrow wrought-iron stairway that ran up along a side wall.
Walk up the stairs, Jack.
No! Don’t go up there!
Yes, Jack. Don’t be afraid.
No! Don’t do it!
Part of his mind struggled to pull him away, to take him back down the hallway, back to the reality of the street, but instead he climbed. In a moment he stood on an iron balcony above the courtyard, next to a frightened servant girl. A set of double doors behind her opened into darkness.
Through his alcohol-induced fog, he saw her shrink back in fear. Something enormous — something huge and black, filled with horror and venom — was in the darkness. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there. He felt its presence, its inherent evil, and as the black shape swept onto the balcony and threatened to engulf him, he shut his eyes and braced himself.
Jack felt a sharp pain in his side, then another.
Laughter. Voices. Someone saying, “Hey, mister, whatcha doin’ sleeping in that box?”
He shook his head for a moment, groggily adjusting from the dream to the reality of some drunk kids kicking and taunting him. He grasped the long kitchen knife he kept by his side and crawled out of the box.
One of the sneering kids called him a bum, but when he brandished the knife, they backed off and ran down toward Decatur. They always did; drunk kids were brave until it looked like they might get hurt.
He crawled into the box, shook raindrops off the tarp, and climbed into his sleeping bag.
It was a dream — a nightmare beyond imagination. The courtyard, the balcony, the hauntingly beautiful girl and the — the horrifying black thing — it was just a dream.
As he struggled to settle his brain, he knew better. Everything had been so real, so terrifying and personal. It wasn’t a dream. He knew he played a part in the horrors over there, and that scared the living hell out of him.
CHAPTER THREE
Landry Drake tracked Cate Adams’s inbound plane as he waited in the terminal. The flight from Houston’s Hobby Airport took less than an hour, and he couldn’t count the times he’d stood here waiting for Cate to arrive. He was always excited, filled with the anticipation that came with seeing her smile, spending a few days with her, and being together again as a couple. His travel schedule made it harder these days, but they both worked to carve out time for each other.
He loved the Dixieland music that resounded through the cavernous hallway. It seemed fitting, since the airport bore the name of Louis Armstrong, the brilliant jazz musician and New Orleans native. With Mardi Gras just ten days away, the combo entertained arriving passengers with lively renditions of “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In” and “Dixie.”
Several people in the terminal came over and asked for an autograph, and at first Landry complied with a smile. It came with the territory and it had been gratifying at the beginning. Now one or two requests were okay, but when people lined up, it bothered him. He moved against a wall where he was less visible.
Their weekend together would be different this time. Usually they eschewed things the tourists did, and they avoided groups of people who might recognize him and monopolize what little time they had. This would be a change for them. Tonight the first of the Mardi Gras parades
