“I’m afraid that won’t work in a murder case,” I explain.
Dolores looks into her lap and begins to sob quietly. I look to Serenity for help, but even she doesn’t seem to know what to do. While we stare at each other, Dolores’s house phone begins to ring. The bell is soft, but Dolores’s head snaps up so fast that it scares me.
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “Nobody knows we’re here.”
“Maybe it’s Cleotha, checking on me.”
“I’m sure it is. Why don’t you answer it?”
She gets up, walks to an occasional table near the door, then picks up the phone and says, “Yes?”
About five seconds pass. Then she says, “Hello? Hello . . . ?”
As she hangs up, her face drains of color.
“They said my name,” she says dully. “They said ‘Dolores Booker?’” Suddenly her eyes go wide. “They’ve found me. After all these years . . . oh, dear God. I should have never—oh, Lord. What do I do? Call the police?”
My heart is pounding, but my brain is working fine. “I’d rather call the FBI. They have a field office in New Orleans, and I know a guy who can get a team here fast.”
“‘Fast’ is a relative term,” Serenity says. “Their field office is out by Lake Pontchartrain, isn’t it? That’s what I remember from Katrina. We need help now.”
Serenity is assuming that Snake or the VK have already got people coming to this house. Is she right? We can’t afford to hope otherwise. “Then let’s help ourselves. What’s the address of this house again?”
Dolores is too frightened to answer, but Serenity says, “2304 Dufossat.”
I pick up the phone and hit 911.
“Nine-one-one emergency,” says the dispatcher.
“There’s a home invasion in progress at 2305 Dufossat! I heard shots, right across the street! And there’s a man carrying a TV out of the house. Two more are carrying a generator. Hurry, please!”
I slam down the phone. “It’s going to ring again, but we’re not going to answer. Dolores, this is a big house. Is there any way out that nobody would know about? Or think of?”
“I can’t think!” she cries, holding her hands to her cheeks.
“Breathe, Dolores. Think about how you leave the house.”
You never know how someone will hold up under stress. Dolores St. Denis looks like she’s on a one-way trip to infantile helplessness. But just when I think I’m going to have to heave her over my shoulder and carry her out, she says, “I can’t let them take me.”
“They’re not going to,” I assure her. “But we need a way out. A way nobody would expect.”
She nods jerkily, like someone trying to convince themselves they’re still alive and capable of movement.
“We’re with you,” Serenity tells her. “Think, Dolores. How do we get out?”
“There’s a side door,” she whispers. “Right up against the hedge.”
“Show us.”
Chapter 21
We exit Dolores’s house into near darkness from a side door that opens onto a shrub-lined fence. With less than eighteen inches of clearance between the wall and the hedge, I pray that if anyone has already come for Dolores St. Denis, they’ll be unlikely to try this side of the mansion first.
Without any discussion Serenity rushes past me and takes point, leading us toward the backyard, away from our rental car, which has probably already attracted attention out front. Tee has a pistol in her hand, a black semiauto that looks like a .40 caliber. Dolores is hyperventilating, but something keeps her moving—probably her memory of what she experienced in the Lusahatcha Swamp back in 1966.
As we pass the back corner of the house, I find myself wishing I’d called Kaiser for help. He could put an FBI tactical team around this house capable of stopping a frontal assault by a crazed mob. The question—as Serenity realized—is how fast could he do it?
Tee’s left hand whips up to stop us, but not quickly enough to prevent me from colliding with her back. When she turns, I see her frustration at dealing with untrained civilians.
“Stay here,” she says.
Before I can argue, she sprints to the stucco wall that borders the back of the property, leaps up and catches the top with her fingers, then pulls herself up and looks over it. After about twenty seconds, she slowly lowers herself, then runs back to where we await her.
“There’s an alley back there,” she whispers. “There’s a motorcycle parked in the alley, and there’s a guy on the motorcycle.”
“VK?”
“It ain’t Steve McQueen.”
She must have watched The Great Escape with her uncle Catfish, I think crazily. I don’t relish getting into a gunfight, especially with Dolores in the middle of it. “Should we wait for the cops to respond to my home invasion call?”
Serenity clearly doesn’t like this option. “I don’t hear any sirens yet,” she whispers. “I don’t want to sit here waiting for the NOPD. They might not show for half an hour.”
“What, then?”
“His kickstand isn’t down.” She bites her bottom lip, then gives me a hard look. “I can take him out.”
“You mean kill him?”
“No. Neutralize him.”
Before I can give any opinion, Serenity unbuttons her blouse, then yanks out her shirttail. “If you hear me shoot, I had no choice. Okay?”
“Jesus, Tee. Are you—”
“Listen. When I yell ‘Now! Now!’ you bring Dolores through the back gate and get right on my heels. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
Serenity squeezes my hand, then turns and sprints far out to her right. This time when she reaches the wall, she climbs it and drops over to the other side.
“Where’s she going?” Dolores asks. “Why aren’t we following her?”
“We’re going to in a minute. Just wait. I don’t see the gate.”
“There’s a Judas gate over there in the ivy, to the right. I have the code.”
A little good news. Unable to stand waiting in the dark, I lead Dolores forward to the wall, then pull myself up and peek over.
What I see astonishes me.
Serenity is sashaying up to the biker like a drunken crack whore, cooing something that sounds like sex slang from the hood. It’s gibberish to me, but the biker seems to understand well enough. He sits up straighter on his Harley and waits for her to reach him. I can clearly see the VK patch on the arm of his jacket. When Serenity is close enough to touch, he reaches out and takes hold of her left breast.
Tee lets him get a good feel.
After he samples the merchandise for a few seconds, she unzips her jeans, digs her hand into her crotch, pulls out her Glock, and cracks him across the face with it. Before the biker can recover, Tee raises her right foot, jams it against the gas tank, and kicks out with all her strength. The Harley teeters, then crashes over on the VK man’s leg.
“NOW! NOW! NOW!” Tee yells, waving her Glock at me.