“No,” the fatter of the two said, setting down his gear. “But we got volume expanders and if he needs faster transport, the choppers all got blood.” He took a look at Rick and at the blood on the floor and swore.
“Call the chopper in,” Jodi said. “Get ’em here fast.”
“Yeah. You ain’t kidding,” he said, pulling his portable radio and making the call.
No one was watching me, so I put my arms down and stepped into the corner. The EMTs were fast, starting IV lines, taking blood pressure. Herbert was walking around, his thumbs in his belt, looking the place over. Jodi was talking to the medics, asking the kinds of questions a cop asked in the field, questions medical professionals had no answers for. Questions that cops asked when one of their own was injured in the line of duty. If I hadn’t already figured out that Rick was an undercover cop, that would have decided it. He was spying on the vamps for NOPD. Did Troll know his relative was a cop?
It occurred to me that I had no car here, no visible means of transportation. I’d have to lie about how I got here when they questioned me. I’d have to tell the cops that I arrived with Rick. Or walked. The first lie would be easily disproved, the second wasn’t likely. I really didn’t want to have to lie to Jodi, especially such a bad lie. When Herbert’s back was turned, I casually slipped out of the house. As soon as the shadows covered me, I broke into a dead run.
I called for a Bluebird Cab on my cell, and was lucky that Rinaldo happened to be off from work. I didn’t expect to be lucky again, and so took extra precautions when I stripped and rinsed my clothes in the bayou. Squatting naked on the bank not far from Fisherman Boulevard Bridge, I was totally exposed in the moonlight, had anyone awake been looking this way instead of toward the flashing lights. I heard several neighbors talking and spotted them, standing on front porches and in the road, not getting closer to the action, but not letting it out of their sights either. I hoped the distraction would keep them from noticing me.
Mosquitoes nipped at me as I worked to get the blood out, and I hoped I was successful before I was drained by insects or attracted every gator within ten miles. When moonlight assured me that my clothes and shoes were mostly blood free, I re-dressed. Dripping, I jogged up Privateer Boulevard in my squishy shoes, keeping to shadows, watching for my cab, watching for anyone who might spot me and then report me to the cops. I was hungry, shaky, sticky with blood and sweat, stinking of bayou, and hot, even with the wet clothing.
I crossed Fisherman Boulevard and was almost back to the Jean Lafitte National Historical Park, my breathing coming harder than I expected, my stomach cramping as if Beast had her claws in me, before I spotted Rinaldo’s cab. I flagged him down and waited, bent over at the waist, huffing and trying to control my hunger before I bit into him for a quick snack. Beast thought that was amusing and sent me images of a big cat attacking from the back of a cab.
“You look like shit, you do,” he said, leaning out the open window, one arm on the door.
I huffed a laugh and tried to stand. My back wanted to spasm, and my legs were trembling. “And you’re a sweet talker, Rinaldo.”
“That what my wife tell me,” he said, sounding increasingly Cajun the better he got to know me. “Lemme guess. You want stop at nearest fast-food joint for half dozen burger and three or two shake.”
“Sounds delicious.” I made it to the car. “I’m wet. Where do you want me to sit?”
“Up front fine. I got towel. What you do, go for a bayou swim? There gator in there, you know.”
I eased into the car and quickly shut the door so the interior lights couldn’t pick out the tinge of bloody red all through my clothes. I rested my head back and sighed, smoothing the edges of the towel to catch the spreading damp. “Home. Food. And not in that order,” I said. Overhead, the moon passed behind clouds, and thunder rumbled in the distance.
Rinaldo made a three-point turn. “Best burgers in state coming up. And boudin balls.”
“I’m not eating anything’s balls,” I said, closing my eyes.
For some reason Rinaldo thought that was funny.
I remembered what they were as soon as I bit into a fried boudin ball—spicy meat and sticky rice, shaped into a ball and fried in lard. They were totally wonderful; I had six, each as big as my fist, and only two double burgers. And two large shakes, one order of fully loaded fries with chili and cheese, and two fried apple pies. I treated Rinaldo to a burger and shake, and let him watch me eat as he drove. He was fascinated.
“Where you keep all that food?”
“I didn’t eat dinner tonight,” I said, shrugging, shoving a handful of fries into my mouth and licking the chili off my fingers. “Fast metabolism.”
“Like a damn race car, you is.”