And Zach knew what it was. Because it had literally knocked him flat on his ass.
He started walking again. This time with purpose. The fortune-teller wouldn’t evade him this time.
He remembered where she lived. Outside the Quarter, the fringes. Where people like Brite Knight always lived. It wasn’t the sort of block one walked alone at night, though he reminded himself he carried both a badge and a gun. A gun he had drawn but was uncertain he would be able to use against another human being.
He reached Knight’s home and climbed the couple of sagging stairs to the front porch. The sound of a TV came from inside; a local news station.
He knocked; she came to the door, cracked it open and peered out. No gloves. No sunglasses. Eyes as bright as a cat’s. Just the way Miller’s friends had described them.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
“Not interested.”
She moved to shut the door in his face; he stopped her, forcing the door open. “I want answers.”
“I want,” she mocked. “Like a child. You’ll have to find your precious answers somewhere else.”
“You’re going to tell me the truth. I’m not leaving until you do.”
She narrowed those strangely bright eyes. “Arrogant Half Light. Spoiled child. Given gifts you have no idea of. No appreciation for. You—”
“Missing University of New Orleans student Gwen Miller—”
He jerked his gaze past the fortune-teller to the TV in the living room beyond. Miller’s face.
“Anyone with information please call Crimestoppers at—”
A reward. Her parents were offering a ten thousand dollar reward. They’d taken a second mortgage on their house to do it.
Zach looked back at Knight. She, too, was staring at the television, face as white as a ghost’s.
“What do you know?” he asked softly.
“Leave me alone.”
“I can’t do that.”
She shook her head. “You’re sticking your nose into things far bigger, far more dangerous than you have any idea of.”
“I know more than you think. It’s got an energy . . . strong. Furious. You felt it, when you took Gwen Miller’s hand—”
“Leave me alone! You’ll get us both killed.”
“There’s another girl. Her name’s Angel. Angel Gomez—”
Her fear crackled in the air between them, racing along his nerve endings. The hair on his arms and legs stood straight up.
“There’s no help for them.” Her voice shook and tears filled her eyes. “The darkness is greedy and—”
“Are they dead? Are we too late—”
“—light is fleeting.”
“What do you mean? If they’re not dead—”
“Good bye, Detective.”
This time he allowed her to slam the door in his face. He heard the dead bolt turn into place. His thoughts were scrambled, whirling with what she had said.
She had called him a Half Light. Had said the darkness was greedy. That he would get them both killed.
Zach turned and walked away, sensing the fortune-teller watching him go. Feeling those bright eyes boring into his back.
Parker, he thought. They had to talk. But not by phone. Face-to-face. Saturday, when he returned from Washington.
Chapter Twenty-four
Thursday, July 11
8:15 A.M.
Zach couldn’t stop thinking about the things Brite Knight had said to him. She’d called him arrogant, a Half Light, whatever that was. And that he’d get them both killed.
He’d been unable to sleep, so he’d done his own internet search: light and dark were symbols for life and death, good and evil. He got all that. Light—life—was fleeting. And darkness—death—was greedy.
Mumbo jumbo, as Mick was fond of saying.
Or was it? Maybe something more. Something that could lead them to Miller and Gomez.
“Good morning, Mick,” he said and set a triple tall latté on her desk.
“Hey,” she said, reaching for the cup. “Thanks.”
She took several sips. Made a “Mmmm” sound and glanced up at him. “What the hell did you do last night?”
“What?”
“You look like shit.”
“Don’t act so happy about it. So do you.”
She took another sip of the coffee. “Fell asleep at my desk.”
“At least you slept.” He propped himself against the desk. “Couldn’t switch off.”
She looked sympathetic. “Why do you think pills and alcohol are so many cops’ best friend?”
“Is that what you do, Mick? Anesthetize?”
“Nah. I figure I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” She slid him several printed pages. “Seven’s a very popular number with mystics, numerologists, astrologists, and religious scholars. Lots of symbolism.”
He skimmed them. “The seven wonders of the world, seven deadly sins, seven continents, seven levels of hell, seven days of the week—” he looked up, eyebrow cocked with amusement. “—Snow White and the seven dwarfs?”
“I was being thorough.”
“That’s my Mick.” He flipped through the pages. “This is pretty amazing, actually. Nothing about light and darkness?”
“Should there be?”
“Just a theory.”