Cate was his anchor — the person who kept him on target when he veered into dangerous places. Because she was always the voice of reason, he told Jack to keep this to himself. No mentioning it to Cate or Tiffany. If things worked out, there would be time to tell them. No need for anybody to rain on anyone else’s parade just yet.
He would have preferred keeping Cate’s father in the dark too, but he needed Doc to get the hypnotist back to New Orleans. He had to confide in him and hope he’d agree to keep it from Cate for the moment.
Doc was excited to get back on the project and ready to help. He said he’d contact his friend and line up several dates. Landry would ask Ted to cover Dr. Little’s expenses again, and he would figure out how to hold the session where it should be — in the courtyard on Toulouse Street.
He called Godchaux and Hart and made an appointment to see the building’s trustee.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jack whistled as he walked through the Quarter on his way home. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like whistling, but he knew deep inside that today marked a turning point in his heretofore miserable life. On the night Landry Drake came to Toulouse Street, Jack had been living in a box, begging for money to buy booze and past the point of hoping things might improve.
He couldn’t fathom why Landry believed in him, but now Jack had a place to live, food in his belly, and purpose in his life, and as of today he had something he’d long since given up on — an actual job.
Except for the occasional meal with Landry, Jack had been living on Whoppers and Lucky Dogs for days, but tonight called for a celebration. His mouth salivated as he stood in line with a dozen others outside Acme Oyster House. The table he got was so close to the next that he could have eaten off his neighbor’s plate. After a two-year hiatus from reality, he gave the menu a brief glance. He already knew what he wanted for dinner, and he was almost giddy with anticipation.
The waiter asked if he’d like a beer.
Would I like a beer? Damn right, more than anything. A po’boy and a beer. Nothing better. Oh, and one of those oyster shooters too. Raw oyster and vodka in a little glass. I’d like one of those as a starter. Hell, bring me two.
“No, thanks. A cup of seafood gumbo, an oyster po’boy and a Dr Pepper, please.”
Jack savored each tasty morsel, drawing glances from other diners as he murmured, “Oh, man,” after every bite. Stuffed and contented, he walked out. His motel was to the right, but he took a left instead, and after four blocks he came to a bright storefront. The door chime dinged as he walked in and took a chair.
Although no one acknowledged his presence, everything here was familiar. The leader read from the Big Book and then opened the floor for a discussion about resentments. The anonymity of AA was a blessing. Other than the obligatory “My name is Jack and I’m an alcoholic,” you could remain silent, taking just what you needed. Tonight, that’s what Jack did. He listened, he thanked God for new friends and a second chance, and he left for the motel an hour later.
The French Quarter streets were getting crowded. As Jack passed one open bar door after another, he heard the laughs and shouts of carefree people. He savored the smell — the all-too-familiar scent of stale beer and cigarettes — and he felt something stir in his gut. Something feral, way down inside, arising from deep-seated instincts and desires, rose to the surface in a tidal wave.
Come on in. You belong here, and you can’t resist it. There’s no use fighting, because you can’t win. You don’t even want to win. You want to be where you belong. Come. Come to me.
As the feeling overwhelmed him, he pushed back hard. He couldn’t do this to himself, to Landry and to the others who cared. He ran down one block after another, racing to get away from the temptation, and stopped to catch his breath.
Seeing where he was, he realized his mind had tricked him. The temptation wasn’t about a friendly bar or a satisfying drink. The place he couldn’t resist coming to — the place he belonged — was here. He opened the lockbox, stepped through the gate and walked down the corridor. With each step, he left Jack Blair further behind. By the time he reached the courtyard, he was someone else.
He stopped at the fountain and turned. A girl watched him from the balcony. He had known she would be there, and he knew she was in terrible danger.
A voice came through the open bedroom doors behind the girl. “You eavesdropped on me! After all these years, I learned the truth at last. You saw them die, didn’t you, Caprice? Tell me!”
I have to help her!
He rushed up the stairway as Prosperine LaPiere stepped onto the balcony. His mind swirled. He knew this scene well. He had dreamed about a dark thing filled with horror and venom. The embodiment of evil. That woman.
My wife.
She grabbed the girl by the arms and gave her a violent shake.
“Tell me, you little sneak! What did you see?”
“Leave her be, Prosperine. You’ve done enough.” Jack heard the words come from his lips, but they were lines from a production. He was here, but he was an actor playing a role.
The woman sneered, “Leave her be? You’re dead, dear husband. You can’t help her. You can’t even help yourself, because your body lies with your whore down
