He frowned as he lay there, wondering if he was going off the deep end.
Why had he been convinced that he needed to see her home last night? How he had known someone was there? Lurking. Watching from the street.
Was it the same person who had planned on meeting Ann?
The same person who had arranged a meeting with Jenny Trent?
Had they ruined the killer’s plans for Ann and made him turn his attention to Kendall, even though she didn’t fit the profile?
Or was he just creating demons in his own mind?
It was during that thought that he saw a strange light blink across the night sky outside his window.
Instantly tense, he rose, slipped his feet into the deck shoes he’d left by his bed and picked up the Colt.
He waited, and the flicker of light came again. It was coming from the rear, near the slave quarters.
Not the graveyard.
He hurried downstairs and slipped out the front door, then, his back against the house, moved carefully toward the back.
There it was. A small pool of light inside the farthest slave cottage.
Keeping to the shadows, he left the concealment of the house and made his way from shack to shack. Someone was inside the last one.
He carefully made his way closer, then paused and looked over his shoulder, trying to determine if the intruder had any accomplices. He heard something moving, but not from anywhere around him.
He moved toward the door of the building and held out his gun with both hands, finger on the trigger.
And then he kicked the door in.
13
For the first time ever, Kendall felt uncomfortable walking home.
The action was starting on Bourbon Street, but toward home, the streets seemed unbelievably still. It wasn’t late, but for some reason, none of the other residents seemed to be out and about.
As she walked the last block, a streetlamp sputtered and died.
Then she thought she heard footsteps. Someone was following her but managed to disappear every time she turned around.
She felt a sense of growing fear, which she told herself was ridiculous. She had to get past this new edginess if she ever wanted to feel normal again.
A car went by. That should have made her feel better, but it didn’t. She looked over as it passed and felt spooked, because it seemed to be moving in slow motion.
In fact it was, she realized, then told herself it was probably just someone looking for a certain address or maybe a parking space. She kept walking until she passed it, then got the uneasy sensation that it was following her.
She made an abrupt turn toward Bourbon Street. The car couldn’t follow, because the street was one way against it.
She almost ran up the block to Bourbon. Even at this end of the street, there were a few bars. And luckily, there seemed to be a lot of drunks out as well.
A shill was handing out three-for-one flyers. A couple of men were standing in front of a strip joint, trying to lure in the unwary. A voluptuous woman in a skimpy outfit and badly fitting wig was hovering in a doorway behind them.
She turned down the next street, back toward Royal, thinking how ridiculous it was to think she was being followed. And anyway, even if she had been, she had shaken off whoever it was.
But as she headed toward home again from the opposite direction, she felt a growing sense of unease once more. She started walking faster.
As she neared her front door, someone suddenly rose from the front step. She let out a scream and turned to run.
“No! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Don’t hurt me!”
The frantic plea came from a man in threadbare jeans and a worn tweed jacket who was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall of the shack, a small fire burning at his feet, a dirty newspaper in his hands, and a flashlight, a bag of chips and a can of beer at his side. He was fifty or sixty years old and had a full beard, but he looked clean enough, despite his shabby appearance.
And with Aidan leveling the Colt on him, he also looked terrified.
“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?” Aidan demanded.
“Please, for the love of God, put that gun down,” the man begged.
Aidan took his finger off the trigger and lowered his two-handed grip. He didn’t completely lower the gun or his guard, though. “Answer me,” he snapped.
“Jimmy. I’m just Jimmy.”
“What are you doing here, Just Jimmy? And get the hell up,” Aidan commanded.
“Okay, okay, just don’t hurt me.” The man carefully put down his newspaper, then showed Aidan his empty hands as he got to his feet. “Please, mister, I don’t do no one any harm.”
Aidan quickly surveyed the little hut. Jimmy seemed to keep all his belongings in a shopping bag against the back wall.
Easy to pack. Easy to unpack.
“How long have you been living here?” Aidan demanded.
“Oh, I don’t live here—”