“Mike. What about you?”
“Amanda.” She dropped her gaze to his hand, then met his eyes again. “No ring. You single or just acting that way?”
“Single. Very.”
“Glad to hear that.” She smiled. “Considering the way you’ve been flirting with me tonight.”
“I just met you, Amanda.”
She laughed. “I guess you did. Like I said, it’s last call. Can I get you anything?”
An invitation behind question. He ignored it. “I’m good. Thanks.”
“What are you doing out alone tonight?”
“New in town. Checking out the mid-week party scene.”
She bent and propped her chin on her fist. Her blouse gaped, offering him a glimpse of her breasts. “Picks up a bit tomorrow, and the weekend’s insane. During Mardi Gras or one of the festivals, forget about it. Absolutely nuts.”
A perfect opportunity. “That bartender—” He indicated Mr. Twitchy. “—what’s his story?”
“Kenny? Why?”
“Not very friendly, that’s all. Asked me if I was a cop. I mean, do I look like a cop?”
“Only a Hollywood cop.”
Hollywood. He gave his head another shake. “What did you say?”
She laughed. “You know, Bradley Cooper, Brad Pitt, Matthew McConaughey. Hollywood cops.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I meant it as one.”
“So, what about Kenny?”
“You asked me this before.” She laughed. “How long ago did you switch to soda?”
No recollection. None.
He lowered his gaze to his drink, realization landing with a thud. Somebody, at one of his stops, had slipped something into his drink. He shifted his gaze to Kenny. In an animated discussion with the other bartender. His heart began to race.
“Humor me.”
The words reverberated strangely in his head, as if he shouted them through a tunnel.
Amanda seemed not to notice anything amiss. “He’s okay. His girlfriend dumped him recently. He’s been a little off ever since.”
A little off? Zach wondered if that description encompassed coed-abducting, numeral seven-gouging, and dark bearer-morphing? It obviously included twitching.
“Poor guy,” he said.
“You know it.”
From the corners of his eyes, he saw Kenny duck out from behind the bar and make a beeline for the front of the club.
Amanda motioned his empty glass. “Sure I can’t offer you another? On the house?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got to go.” Zach laid two twenties on the bar, he caught her gaze, held it. “I’ll be in tomorrow night. But you won’t remember me.”
“Okay.” She scooped up the cash. “I look forward to that.”
Chapter Forty-three
Thursday, July 18
3:50 A.M.
Zach slid off the barstool. His legs felt rubbery and he paused to steady himself.
Pull it together, Zach. If Kenny’s the guy, he may lead you to where he stashed Miller and Putnam.
He hurried out of the club, opting for the stairs instead of the elevator. From the second story vantage point, he’d have a clear view up St. Peter Street, of Jackson Square and Cafe du Monde.
He stepped out onto the landing, swayed slightly and grabbed the railing for support. Two girls moving past him giggled. The sound echoed in his head; he realized they were laughing at him. That they thought he was drunk.
Ignore them. Power through, Zach.
He clutched the rail. Traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian had thinned considerably. As the night breeze hit him, he caught the stench of something foul.
He looked in the direction of the smell. The bartender. Heading toward the wharfs. But not quickly. Stumbling, bent over. As if he was drunk. Or sick.
Having just seen the man, Zach could eliminate the former. Which meant he was sick. Parker had said the transformation to Dark Bearer was excruciating. That holding together his facade would become more and more difficult. Damn near impossible at the end.
Zach started after him. Cautiously, not wanting the man to pick up his presence—and for fear he might collapse himself. He couldn’t lose him now.
Kenny ducked down a side street. Zach followed, but several minutes behind. The man, it seemed, knew the most deserted streets, the ones with few lights. A residential area. Rows of shotgun style homes, all raised, most with small front porches.
Did the man live in one of these nondescript homes? The kind of place no one would suspect? Like that house of horrors in Cleveland? Did he have Putnam and Miller chained up in one? In a closed off room or attic?
He tried to notice the street names as he cut from one to another. To remember, bring Mick and the others back.
The bartender mostly out of sight, Zach followed the sound of his labored breathing, the slap of his shoes against the pavement.
The occasional whiff of death.
The street narrowed, the homes on either side grew, elongated.
Closed in on him.