What more can I say? What more can I do? I need her to get it, get me.
I watch the rise and fall of her chest beneath the red fabric. “I’ve never told anyone except for my mom and dad and Lemy that I loved them.” She nods and tenses. “I’d never felt it before. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the next few minutes . . . or hours—but I think it’s safe to say tomorrow isn’t guaranteed for me.”
“Rachel—”
She sets three soft fingers to my lips. “Shhh.” I can see her eyes close behind the mask. “You gave me a beautiful gift. Love. Love like I have never experienced before. You make me high, Ryder. You make me feel secure and strong, and weak and soft, and happy and pissed off, all at the same confusing time. And I absolutely love the way you make me feel.”
I watch her eyes open as she peers into my soul. “I love you Ryder.”
Before I can respond, she whips around and stalks into the crowd towards the streetcar stop.
“Your heart still beating?” Briggs voice squawks through the ear comm.
“Barely,” I confess, my senses filled with her every word and motion.
“Get your head in the game, Ax. I’ve scouted this streetcar for the last twenty minutes and haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary except for three Grecian goddesses, a couple of dudes in rainbow glitter bikinis and Elvis,” Bryan says.
“Height differences?” Patti asks.
“There are several children on board,” he informs her. “I’ve tried pinpointing one traveling with a single adult but keep coming up empty.”
“Maybe they’re not on yet?”
“It’s possible they’ll board at the designated stop together,” Briggs says, thinking out loud. “Any kids, Ryder?”
“No, almost everyone at this stop either has a bottle of booze or a cigarette in their fingers,” I say, reminded how good some nicotine would feel right now in my lungs. “Hey, check for a child with two men—or even a very unhappy kid with a set of parents—Miguel could have easily tried to put Lemy into the most inconspicuous situation so as not to be recognized.”
“It’s possible she isn’t even on the streetcar, Ryder, you know that.”
“Miguel has no need for the girl,” Patti states, and I’m grateful.
“We just stopped at Camp Street. Give me a minute.” I know Bryan is doing mental inventory—who’s been on, who’s getting off and who’s boarding now.
Toulouse is only four stops away. We have to get that visual.
Farrington turns her head to spy me, mixed in with the mass of people. Once her eyes settle on me for just a fraction of a second, she keeps looking around casually.
Good girl. She doesn’t give me away.
More tense minutes pass with nothing discovered.
“Canal out of the way—only one more stop before Toulouse,” Bryan announces.
“Hey, handsome. Got a light?” A woman dressed in a sexy Alice in Wonderland costume waves her Marlboro Light at me.
“No, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? Honey, how old do you think I am?” she drawls with a thick accent.
“Excuse me.” I quickly detach myself from the situation so she can’t distract me or make a scene.
“Oh, Ryder, you’re so attractive.” Briggs feigns a female voice—it’s hysterical, considering how low and deep his normal tone is.
“Fortunate you’re not on life support, ’cause I’d be all for pulling the plug,” I quip and watch as a parade of people walk past Farrington, draping her with colorful Mardi Gras beads as they do. She tries to step away from them, but she’s hemmed in.
“There’s no suspicious activity that I can detect,” Briggs tells us. He’s a couple blocks over, sitting in the parking lot of the French Quarter Visitor Center on the corner of Decatur and St. Peter, which runs parallel with the streetcar tracks. We rented a black Camaro, and he’s keeping watch from it, just in case we need a vehicle.
Farrington slips away from the bead givers and checks her position next to the bench. She’s nervous; her leg bounces up and down in frustration, and every couple seconds she runs her hands over the tops of her leg.
“We’re at Bienville. Fuck a duck—it smells like something just died in here,” Bryan yelps. “Holy hell!”
“Can’t be worse than your midnight under the covers flatulence sessions,” Patti says, setting the record straight.
“This is so bad you can’t breathe. Passengers are commenting about getting off before their stops,” he explains. “The driver looks perturbed and I need a gas mask.”
“Toulouse Street”—I glance at my watch for the timed juncture—“is in four minutes. Suck it up.”
“Yeah, Christ, it’s like someone dumped a pile of manure.”
“Like they wanted the streetcar cleared as much as possible?” Briggs suggests.
“Just like a distraction,” Bryan confirms.