I said nothing. I didn’t think Lindsey deserved the accident, but that was a road she had to walk.

Finally, she turned back to me, and continued, “The first time Cordelia came and visited me, I thought she was just being polite. A lot of people made quick, little runs by my room, then disappeared. But she came back. One night, when I was in pain and the on-call doctor was one who preferred me screaming to risking addiction to a narcotic, she stayed with me. Just holding my hand, until she finally convinced the doctor to increase my dosage.

“And once, when I felt sorry for myself and demanded of her, ‘Don’t you think I deserve this?’ she answered, ‘No, you’ve done nothing that deserves this.’ I will always carry guilt for my part in the accident, but Cordelia’s simple statement took me away from what I couldn’t change, and into the future.

“Cordelia was the one who took me home from the hospital, and, when I balked at physical therapy, she pushed me. I couldn’t walk. I refused to even try. One night, I sat in my wheelchair and moaned and wailed in my despair. Cordelia listened for a while, then she told me I was too much of a coward to try to walk.

“First, I was shocked that she would dare say that to me, then I was furious. I decided I would prove to her I couldn’t walk. I heaved myself out of the wheelchair and stumbled no more than an inch or two before I fell. Cordelia caught me and said, ‘See, it’s a start.’ She came almost every day. At times, she wold infuriate me, telling me I was weak and couldn’t do it when I would complain. I’d get angry again and I’d walk. It took weeks, but I could finally walk across the room. Then she opened a door and backed into my bedroom to make me go even further.

“Finally, she had to back up until she was beside my bed. When I made it to her, I pushed her back across my bed and fell on top of her. She started to protest, but I took her face in my hands and said, ‘No. I love you.’ We made love. It was terrifying and it was wildly passionate. I didn’t know what my body would do, if it would work. Cordelia was the only person I could possibly trust on that journey. When it was still there, when I knew I could give and receive pleasure, it was as if some dam had burst, some torrent of physical need.

“I kept her in bed for hours, we made love over and over again. I left bruises on her thighs and arms. She stayed the night, even though she had to get up early the next morning”

I felt a surge of jealousy. I knew I wasn’t Cordelia’s first lover, but that wasn’t the same thing as hearing Lindsey describe this.

“After that night,” Lindsey said, “I wanted to have everything I could have. To accept no limits except for the utterly implacable ones. I learned to drive again. Cordelia helped me. I knew I was safe with her, that she would get me home. But often, she would come through the door and we would make love, sometimes there on the floor.

“Finally, I was strong enough to finish my residency. That’s when things began to change. Cordelia and I were still at the same hospital. Perhaps no one would have fired us on the spot, but it was clear, at that time, in that place, that being queer wasn’t good for your career.

“We pretended to be just friends. We didn’t ask to change our schedules to be together. She ate lunch with her friends and I with mine. Since people assumed we were heterosexual, we heard the comments. Cordelia was warned, ‘The nurses are all dykes on the fifth floor. Don’t go into a room with any of them if the patient’s comatose.’ The horrible jokes about AIDS were starting. We couldn’t live together. Having the same address would be a dead giveaway. For two women.

“Cordelia and I hid that we were lovers. Little daily lies, a denial that permeated everything we did. A nice romantic dinner in some cozy restaurant? What if someone saw us? Grocery shopping? Do you know how intimate two women pushing one grocery cart is? If her car was in the shop, she couldn’t take mine. What if someone saw Cordelia James driving Lindsey McNeil’s car? Almost every day, in some way we had to deny we loved each other.

“And, bit by bit, Lindsey, the golden girl, came back, tarnished, with a limp. But I was co-writing papers, giving presentations, and people were paying attention to me.

“I was coming to the point where I had to make a career choice. New Orleans is not known for its psychiatric training. My ex-boyfriend’s guilt pulled a few strings. I was offered a coveted position in New York. Cordelia didn’t ask me to say no; she knew how much I wanted it.” Lindsey was silent for a moment.

“So you moved to New York?” I prompted.

“Yes, I moved to New York. I was terribly busy, terribly lonely, and I missed Cordelia terribly. One night the loneliness got to me. I went out for a drink with coworkers. One of the men made it clear he was interested in me. After a few drinks, I figured one little roll in the hay wasn’t going to hurt.

“Of course, Cordelia called and he picked up the phone.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in monogamy.”

“I don’t. But I had promised Cordelia not to sleep around on her. I cared enough to want to keep that promise. We talked. I wanted us to work out. She tried to find a residency in New York, but the only offer she got was a year away and she’d virtually have to start over again.

“I think if we’d gotten just the modicum of support that even the most wildly inappropriate straight couple gets, we might still be together. Love can have such odd requirements,” Lindsey mused.

She continued, “I got an offer to go to Europe. But it would have meant leaving six months after Cordelia moved to New York. We let it go. She stayed in New Orleans and I accepted Europe.

“One day she wrote, ‘Lindsey, I’m tired of being a shadow in your life. We’ve only seen each other a few weeks out of the last two years. I don’t know who you are anymore. Let’s not hold on to the past when there’s no future in it.’ After that she stopped writing me, I stopped writing her. I became involved with a French doctor, a woman. We had a grand, passionate affair that ended only when I returned to the States some two years later.

“On some days I think I owe Cordelia my life. It took me almost a year after I got back to America to find the courage to look her up.”

“Do you think you might ever get back together again?”

“No, we’ve changed. I knew Cordelia as a scared young resident, now she’s the director of her own clinic. We weren’t there for each other as we changed and grew, we lost that connection, being part of the dailiness of each other’s lives. Sometimes the only thing you can do is let the past go.” Finally Lindsey was silent.

“I don’t think I’d like you as a rival.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I meant it as one. Thank you for telling me this.”

“You’re welcome. Besides, it gave me a chance to give you my version before Cordelia can tell it her way. I must have had terribly pious Catholics somewhere in my background, I find I rather enjoy confessing my sins.”

“I was raised as a Catholic. I hate confessing my sins.”

“Probably because you and the Church don’t agree on what sinning is. To love another person, to hold them, and touch them, is not a sin.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Now I must confess one more. Desire. I still want you. I don’t think that’s appropriate under the circumstances, but that doesn’t change it. So please get out of my car, before I do something inappropriate.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I said. I started to get out.

“Damn, I was hoping you’d say what the hell and stay around.”

“It’s the time and the place. Sex…isn’t free and easy for me right now.”

“I know. You have the right to say no. Don’t ever let anyone take that away from you. I hope we can be friends.”

“There are always possibilities.” I leaned over and hugged her. I didn’t trust myself to kiss her—that might keep me in the car. “Thanks for the offer, Lindsey. It does feel nice to be wanted.”

“Take care, Micky. I mean that.”

“I know.” I gently shut the door of her car, then got into my car. I glanced at her one last time as she drove away.

Chapter 32

The phone woke me up. “Hello,” I mumbled, sleep slurring my voice. I glanced at my clock—it was just after six a.m.

“Is this Michele Knight?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Who is this?”

“Is this Michele Knight?” she repeated.

“Yeah, this is Micky,” I responded. “Who is this?”

“Camille, the hurricane, you remember?” Her voice had an edge in it. Sounds of traffic were in the background.

“Of course I remember. What’s happened?”

“Betsy’s gone. She’s not at the house, not where she hangs. I thought maybe Heart of Desire, though I warned her to stay away this weekend. I drove by, the place is locked up, barricaded, the police have been there. I can’t find her.”

“Could she have gone away? Out of town?”

“Not without calling me. She knows I would worry. Harm has come to her.” Camille made it a statement.

“Do you think it’s because she saw the children?”

“Yes. There could be other reasons. But I think that’s it.”

“What can I do?”

“Women who sell their sex die easily, our lives are low cost. A short paragraph in the paper for another woman gone. Don’t let her disappear into silence.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Make sure the police don’t forget about her. Perhaps they cannot find justice for her, but I want them to look.”

“No, I can’t promise justice, but I won’t let the police put her on a dusty shelf and forget her.”

“That’s all I ask,” she said softly. “Your sources, have they told you of the raid?”

“No, not yet,” I admitted.

“Word on the street says it was three a.m. That Zeke was in his office with a new girl at his knees when they found him. They say he wasn’t even given time to find his pants, that he was booked in his dirty underwear.”

“Justice of a sort, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I think. A little justice may be all we ever get.”

“Where can I reach you?”

“You can’t. I think it best that I move quickly. I probably will go some place else soon. But I’ll call you to find out about Betsy.”

“Do you have her real name? Address? It’ll help if I can give that to the cops.”

“Lia Gautier. She is exactly five-three, weighs—weighed one hundred and four pounds. She had a butterfly tattoo on her left inner thigh.” There was just the slightest tear as her voice slipped into past tense. She gave me Betsy’s address and then Betsy’s mother’s address. “I will call you someday.” Camille hung up.

I slowly replaced the receiver. Camille was probably right. Betsy had seen the children. Even someone like Zeke had to know what kind of jail that would get him. It all made a sickening sort of sense. Men who would abuse children for money, would murder a prostitute to protect that money.

I was jolted by Camille’s phone call. I couldn’t go back to sleep.

I went to my case notes, jotting down this latest information. I reread them, searching for a pattern. But the only image I saw was of a snake shedding its once useful skin, now to be sloughed off and left behind. A prostitute killed, Zeke and his henchmen in jail, silenced by the damning evidence against them. Soon it would be Joey’s turn, and then mine. The vise was tightening.

All I could do was wait for Joey to call. The hours stretched into oceans of tension. I was tired, but I didn’t dare take a nap. I doubted that I could sleep anyway.

Finally, around five o’clock in the afternoon, the phone rang.

“Yes?” I grabbed it on the first ring.

“Hey, Mick.” It was Joey. He seemed easy and confident. “So what’s up?”

“The usual boring shit. What’s going on?”

“Old Zeke got caught with his pants down. For real,” Joey snickered.

I pretended I hadn’t heard that from Camille and let Joey tell me about Zeke’s arrest. I let him gloat for a bit before asking, “So what’s going on with us? What happened to the trip you mentioned?”

“It’s all set. Don’t pack, don’t act like you’re goin’ anywhere. We’ll get stuff on the way, if we need.”

“Come on, Joey, what kind of trip is this? Car, plane, bus? A little info among partners.”

“A boat trip. A scenic cruise. It’s a specialty version of the love boat. I’m in charge of it. You get to help me.”

“Where is this boat? Where’s it start?”

“I’ll take you there, don’t worry.”

“Are there going to be kids on this boat?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“That’s what we’re charging the money for,” was Joey’s cavalier answer.

“Where do these kids come from?” Neutral slipped away.

“Hey, don’t get sentimental on me. Parents throw away kids every day. At least we feed ’em well.”

“And if we get caught?”

“Who’s going to catch us? The perverts who diddle little girls? No one’ll believe the kids. Besides, this is the money. You take the risk, you make the bucks.”

“What do we do at the end of the cruise? Throw the kids overboard? Do we make the final leg a snuff cruise? Pay extra and you can kill the kid you molest?”

“Since when did you get a conscience? Did you think they were using midgets for those pictures we’ve been peddling? You’re in kinda deep to be backing out now.”

Just a little longer, Micky, I told myself. Keep playing the game a little longer. Don’t make Joey suspect you. “Sorry,” I said, glad I was on the telephone. Joey couldn’t see how tightly held my fists were. “I guess I’m a little nervous. These seem like awfully high stakes. But I guess that’s how we get rich, right?”

“You got it.”

“Is Francois still giving the orders?”

“That wimp? He never gave an order in his life. If he wants to shit he has to ask what color brown it should be. He was a middleman, he just passed things on. I’m tired of dealing with flunkies, so now I get the deal from the top dog himself.”

“Who is?”

“I’m leaving in just a minute to meet him. I’ll get the final stuff from him.”

“You don’t know who he is?” I persisted.

“Half an hour, the guy in the blue T-shirt. That’s all I know. Then you and I are gonna meet. How about seven?”

“All right. Where?”

“The Heart of Desire. For old times’ sake.”

“They just raided it.”

“I know. No one’ll be there. And no one will expect anyone to be there. I gotta get going. I’ll see you there, okay?”

“Yeah. See you there.” He hung up.

I decided it was time to start carrying my gun. I threw a few things that I might find useful, like a flashlight, batteries, a lighter, and some tampons, into my knapsack.

I needed to call O’Connor. But even a pay phone seemed too risky—I didn’t want anyone watching me. I got in the rented car and headed over to the gay and lesbian bookstore on Frenchmen. Its doors and windows were plastered with enough posters that nobody could see in. John was behind the counter. He said okay when I asked to use the phone, and just shrugged when I asked if he would stand at the door and keep watch while I made my call. A perfect gentleman, he even went outside the door, shutting it behind him.

I gave O’Connor a quick rundown of what Joey had told me. It was Saturday evening and this store wouldn’t stay empty for too long. “Can you follow me?” I asked.

“In your green car? Sure, any rookie can handle it.”

“I’m not in my car,” I snapped. Tension and the press of time stretched my anger to a thin line. “It’s rented, a navy Ford Taurus. Shit, I don’t know the license number.”

“What if we pick you up at Desire when you meet Joey?”

“Yeah, whatever. Keep in mind I might leave with him. He drives a black Porsche, vanity plate. Eat or be eaten. That’s what it spells out.”

“Okay. We’ll keep you followed.”

“One more thing.” I heard John, outside talking to some potential customers. “Lia Gautier. She was a prostitute who saw some kids at the Heart of Desire. She’s disappeared.” I gave O’Connor the information Camille had passed on to me.

The customers came in the store. “I’ve got to go,” I told O’Connor. “Don’t lose me.” I hung up, then thanked John on my way out.

“I hope you solve it,” he called after me.

I glanced at my watch. It was a little past six. I wanted to make sure O’Connor had as much time as possible to set up the tail. I told myself that I wouldn’t head for the meeting until a quarter to seven. That should give them time to get in place.

I walked down Frenchmen to Decatur, and from there cut over to the French Market. I tried to act like a tourist and browse, but I couldn’t pay attention to anything I tried to look at. Finally, at twenty to seven, I gave up and strode back the car.

I tried to drive slowly, but my impatience made it hard. I wondered about the kids, were they already there? Was it only girls? So far, I’d only seen pictures of girls. Was Cissy one of them? No, she wasn’t a throw-away child. Barbara would protect her. As she had protected her against me. Cissy probably wasn’t even involved in this. Most likely she had been molested by an uncle, or Barbara’s boyfriend, the usual places. It was only coincidence that led me to her and to this thing at the same time.

It will be over soon, I calmed myself. Joey will take you to this boat. The cops will move in. It will be over.

I took Elysian Fields to Law Street. But Law was a truncated and tortuous road, abruptly running into embankments and railroad yards. I had to backtrack and find another way. I hoped that it wasn’t a metaphor.

In the dark of an autumn night, the unlit building that used to be the Heart of Desire became a black monolith. Even the tacky red lights would have been welcome instead of this dim shape. With only the headlights of the car to guide me, I nosed into the alley behind the building. Joey’s Porsche was parked there.

When I cut my lights, all illumination disappeared. I quickly dug in my knapsack for my flashlight. I decided I liked the feel of my gun under my arm and left it there.

Trying to be discreet about using my flashlight, I made my way to the back door. Joey had left it ajar.

I closed it behind me, so the beam from my flashlight wouldn’t be seen outside.

“Joey?” I called softly. I got no answer. Damn him, he could be anywhere in this cavern. I took a few more steps down the hall before calling out again. Still no answer.

The doors and stairs of the hallway were shadowy and sinister in the beam of my flashlight, the black very deep beyond its feeble glow. As I played it down the hallway, it caught a macabre sight: the mounted barracuda had been cut open, its stuffing hanging out like exposed entrails. It had probably been searched for drugs or other paraphernalia.

I assumed Joey was going to play a joke on me, jump from behind some door as I neared it. I made my way down the hallway to Zeke’s office. It had been left in disarray. Papers were strewn everywhere, the file cabinets still hung open. The incriminating file was gone, of course, as was the box of pornographic magazines from where I had hidden it. And, most barbaric of all, crumpled under the desk was a pair of wadded-up men’s pants. I poked them with my toe. I wondered if they were really Zeke’s pants or just part of Joey’s bizarre prank.

I backed out of the office into the hall. I started to call out Joey’s name again, but I thought I heard a sound. I snapped off my light, listening intently in the dark. Several minutes passed and I heard nothing. Joey obviously had more patience than I had given him credit for.

Then I heard a soft, indistinct noise that I couldn’t place. I kept my light off and inched down the hallway in the direction of the sound.

Again I paused, listening. I didn’t care to be surprised in the dark by anyone. If this was a joke, it wasn’t funny anymore. In the pitch black of this windowless hallway, my attention focused on listening, I heard nothing. No soft scrape of a shoe, no held breath slowly let out. As I stood in the hall, I had two distinct feelings, that I was definitely alone in the building and that something was very wrong.

Where the hell was Joey, I wondered. His car was in the alley. Was he somewhere in the neighborhood, running an errand, making a phone call, perhaps? Maybe Joey’s double-dealing had been discovered. He could have been followed to the alley and never made it into the building.

The thought and the cold and the dark caused me to shudder. Then I remembered I had a couple of cops tailing me. All I had to do was walk out to the street and wave and I’d have some big men with guns surrounding me. Or petite women with guns, it didn’t matter.

I heard it again, that indistinct sound. It was muffled as if a closed door was between us. The storeroom? I slowly crept down the hall until my hand found the edge of the door. I slid my fingers down until they were on the doorknob. Then I stepped away, my arm at an awkward angle. Slowly I turned the handle, alert for any sound in the room. Nothing. I opened the door an inch. Still nothing.

Then I kicked the door open, slamming it into the storeroom. I jumped back into the hall, in case anyone shot at the door.

Nothing happened. Once the crash and bang I had created died down, there was no sound, nothing. But somehow I didn’t quite feel I was alone in the building anymore.

I reached inside the door, groping for the light switch. Initially I hadn’t wanted to turn the lights on because the building was supposed to be empty and a light coming on was a sure sign that it wasn’t. But now the dark felt too dense and I would do anything to cut through it. I threw the switch, the soft click amplified in the dark. The electricity had been cut off. I pulled my gun, although I kept my finger off the trigger. The dark had already spooked me enough. I didn’t want to do something stupid.

I turned my flashlight back on and quickly swept it around the storage room. The arc of light showed an empty room, the floor littered with some broken beer bottles, the discarded trash from a fast food outlet, and a few cardboard boxes.

Then I noticed in the middle of the room a box with an envelope on it. Out of the careless chaos, it seemed deliberate. I walked to it. On the envelope was my name, strung together with crude, cut-out letters.

I reached for the envelope, then I heard that soft indistinct sound. It was very close.

I looked up and swung the flashlight around the room at eye level. The dirty walls stared back at me. I flashed the light up to the ceiling. Water had damaged it, the rotting tiles exposed rough wooden beams.

An incongruously bright yellow nylon rope was knotted to one of the bare beams. Joey hung at the end of it, his feet over six feet from the floor, as if his killer was trying to prove how strong and powerful he was. I barely recognized him. Someone had killed Joey and they had done it recently.

The indistinct sound I had heard was the soft dripping of his bowels, let loose at the moment of death.

I tightened my grip on my gun, my finger curling around the trigger. Whoever had done this had planned it, the hanging in this place at this time, the box with an envelope addressed to me left on it. I picked it up without thinking. The cops would probably prefer that I left everything alone. But it had my name on it—it was a clue in a game I had to win.

I looked again at Joey. Death had not been kind to him. His face was covered with blood and snot, his open eyes an alien stare blotted with hemorrhages caused by the rope around his neck. I slowly backed out of the room, save for the envelope, leaving everything as it was for the police to search through. They would be the ones to cut Joey down.

I quickly flashed my light up and down the hallway to make sure no one was there. As far as I could see, it was empty.

It was time to go introduce myself to my police escort. I headed for the alley door, pausing for a moment to put my gun back in its holster. Joey’s rictus stare had shaken me. I needed to be more calm and in control than I was to be walking around with a gun in my hand. Only on TV cop shows is the gun in the right place at the right time.

Just before I went out into the alley, I stuffed the envelope inside my jacket. I intended to read it before I handed it over to the police. I would tell them the shock of finding Joey’s body made me forget it.

I opened the door. Standing beside it was a very large man. Given that he wore three earrings and had his nose pierced, I didn’t think he was a cop.

“Michele Knight?” he asked, his voice a rumbling bass.

Seeing no point in denying the obvious, I said, “Yes.”

“I have been sent to be your escort. Would you please follow me?”

“Escort to where?” I didn’t move.

“To the boat, of course.” He started to go.

“Ahh…what about Joey?” I asked.

“I was only told to get you. I only do what I’m told.” He smiled at me. I couldn’t tell whether it was a friendly smile or the smile of a wolf at the sight of a lamb. This man was probably close to seven feet tall with the build of a sumo wrestler. It crossed my mind that he had killed Joey.

“My name is Algernon,” he rumbled as he headed further back into the alley. “I’m leading you the back way so we will not be seen coming from this place. A wise move, don’t you think?”

“Who would see us?” I inquired as I stumbled away from my car, Joey’s car, and the police tail.

“I don’t ask questions. I was told to find you here and take you to a certain location. I was paid well to do it.”

At the end of the alley was a tall wooden fence. There were loose boards at the far end of it. Algernon shoved it open wide enough for us to get through. Gentleman that he was, he held the boards for me while I wiggled through, then he followed. We were in a garbage run, a place where the buildings leave their trash.

“Do you have a gun?” Algernon asked.

“Uh…no.” I wasn’t in a position to pull it on him. I’d be dead before I got my hand into my jacket. But hope springs eternal.

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this without a gun?” Algernon chided me. “I have a few with me,” he continued. “I can let you have an inexpensive revolver I obtained from a young man who didn’t show me the proper respect. If you wish something more reliable I have a Smith and Wesson .38 and a Browning 9mm that we could work out something on. I also highly recommend the SIG-Sauer 9mm, but I don’t care to part with mine.”

“I lied, I have a gun,” I admitted.

“Good idea. What kind?”

“Colt .45.”

“Too big for most women, but you look strong enough to handle it.”

“Who sent you?” I asked.

“A contact of mine passed this on to me. I do not reveal his name and he does not reveal mine.”

My best guess was that there were two possibilities, the one I liked least was that Algernon had been sent to kill me. The other was that he really was sent to escort me to the boat. I couldn’t read what was in the envelope if I was dead.

As we picked our way through the garbage I causally asked, “Can I see the Browning?”

Algernon was wearing a black leather trench coat. He reached inside and took out the gun, then handed it to me.

“Is it loaded?” I asked.

“It would be foolish to pull a gun that is not loaded. And equally foolish to carry a gun you cannot use.”