Moments later, he was on the French Quarter street. And was assailed by energy. Not the dark energy they were tracking, but the chatter he’d experienced his first night in the city. The roar of it in his head.
It took him by surprise and he stopped cold. People streamed by him on the sidewalk. Most paid him no mind, a few sent him irritated glances.
He shook his head, worked to focus. Force it back. Quell the momentary panic. Dull the roar.
He succeeded and turned toward Jackson Square. Why now? he wondered. What did it mean?
He caught his reflection in a shop window and stopped again, stared at it. Not quite clear, a shadow reflection.
What’s your word worth to me, Hollywood?
What was it worth? To her? Or anybody else? The reflection seemed to beckon him closer. He responded. Straining to see. To know. What did he stand for? At his very core, who was he?
At a sharp rap on the window, he jerked back. The sales woman. Motioning him to take off. Looking at him like he was either crazy or high. He turned quickly away, embarrassed. Maybe he wasn’t superhero material. Maybe he should stick with what worked for him, what had always worked for him.
Use his freak factor to live the good life. Take the path of least resistance. Quit the Sixers. Leave this beautiful, old city with its psychic chatter, murdering energy, and prickly partners that demanded boundaries and loyalty far behind.
His cell went off. Parker. Zach considered ignoring the call, but knew the man would find him no matter where he tried to hide.
“Yo,” he answered, “Park-man.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“California dreamin’, dude.”
“Stop it. You don’t have that luxury.”
“Screw you. Brite Knight’s dead. Did you hear?”
“Yes.”
“My fault. She said I’d get her killed. And I did.”
“So, that’s what this pity party’s all about.”
He’d picked up his psychic vibrations. “Think you have a bead on me, P? Don’t get over-confident.”
“Where are you?”
“Outside the Eighth.” He resumed walking. “You?”
“The airport. Landed ten minutes ago.”
“Coming or going?”
“Coming.”
“Pathologist called Brite’s death natural causes. A heart attack.”
“I heard that, too.”
“We both know that’s bullshit.”
“Do we?”
“I was there.” Zach paused for effect. “I saw it, Parker. The thing that murdered her.”
For a long moment, the man was silent. “Then we need to talk.”
“We do. Mick needs to be included.”
“Not her area.”
“She’s my partner.”
“Only at the Eighth. Everything else, I’m your partner. Your allegiance is to me, the Sixers.”
“That’s not going to fly. Sorry.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Day in and out, she’s the one on the street with me. And where are you, Parker? Flying all over the freaking globe.”
“She can’t know any of this, Harris. Not yet.”
“When?”
“When the time is right.”
“And when will that be? Never’s my guess.” His voice had risen; he saw a few folks look his way and lowered it. “More of your bullshit, Parker.”
“This is bigger than her being pissed off.” He paused. “It’s bigger than the Sixers program.”
Zach stopped on that. Bigger than Sixers? Parker’s pet project. “How’s that?”
“You’ll know soon.”
“That thing tried to kill me. I want to meet. Now.”
“I have another meeting this afternoon. Tonight. Seven-thirty.”
“Where?”
“Your place. In case I’m running late.”
“And you’ll tell me everything?”
“I’ll tell you what I can.”
“That’s such a load of—”
Parker hung up.
“Crap,” Zach finished, holstering his phone.
Parker had been stringing him along this whole time—from their first meeting in the bar until just now. Portioning out information as if he was a Dickens’ waif asking for more please. Jacking him around, leaving him hanging.
Partners his ass. Partners shared. They had each other’s back, a bond of loyalty.
He sounded like Mick. Allegiance. Loyalty. Commitment. To something. Someone besides yourself.
Son of a bitch. He got it.
Chapter Thirty-three
Tuesday, July 16
3:05 P.M.
Micki sat outside her friend Jacqui’s apartment building, engine running. The back seat of the P.O.S. sedan was loaded with groceries from the nearby Winn-Dixie. She’d picked up all the staples her friend might need, as well as all Alexander’s favorites: Goldfish crackers, Stouffer’s mac ’n cheese, chicken nuggets, and Oreos.
Jacqui would not be happy about the last, in particular.
But every kid needed at least one adult in his life who understood the importance of sandwich cookies being eaten guts first.
Micki fixed her gaze on a spot in the distance. Her confrontation with Zach—if that was even what she could call their bizarre exchange—had sent her reeling. All of it, from his otherworldly claims—murdering alien energy—to her anger at his two-faced deception, and her shocking physical reactions to his gaze and grip on her arm.