In the Blood (5 page)

Palmer was sure he'd seen the stranger's face before. Was it possible he was being
followed? Pocketing the florist's ribbon, he turned and hurried back the way he'd
come. He wondered where the man could have gone so quickly. He also wondered
how the stranger could stand hanging around a graveyard on an overcast February
morning in nothing warmer than a silk jacket. He stopped and turned to look back
in the direction of Chaz's grave. He reached into his anorak and pulled out the
snapshot that Pangloss had given him.

Impossible. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back. His scar tightened. It
was the lack of sleep doing it to him. And the dreams. Even though it was a perfectly
rational explanation, it didn't make him feel any better. He had to do something
about the dreams before they drove him completely out of his mind. But not now. It
would have to wait until after the case was out of the way.

"Yeah, that's ours, awright," said the florist, studying the length of faded yellow
ribbon Palmer handed him.

"I was wondering if you might be able to help me find out who placed the order."

"Look, fella, we sell a
lot
of flowers..."

"Black roses?"

The florist pulled his bifocals down a fraction of an inch and squinted at Palmer.

"Black roses, you say?"

Palmer nodded. He was on the trail, he knew it. He could feel the familiar, almost
electrical, thrill of connections being made, invisible machinery dropping into gear.

"A dozen of them. Delivered to the Rolling Lawns Cemetery."

The florist moved to a filing cabinet. "Deceased's name?"

"Chastain."

The florist grunted and pulled a manila folder from one of the drawers. Yeah, I
remember filling that order. Customers usually don't order roses for grave
decorations. Mother's Day, St. Valentine's Day, anniversaries, birthdays, sure. And
black roses, at that-specially this time of year."

"I take it they're expensive."

"You could say that." He tapped the order form. "Says here it was a phone order.

Long distance. Paid for it with a credit card."

"Could 1 see?"

"I don't know- My partner wouldn't like me letting strangers look at our files."

"Uh, I understand. Say, how much for one of those thingies over there?" He pointed
at a large floral display shaped like a horseshoe, GOOD LUCK spelled along its rim
in white carnations.

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"That runs around seventy-five, a hundred bucks, depending on where you want it
delivered."

"I'll take one." He peeled five twenties from the roll in his pocket.

"The order was placed a week ago and was paid for by Indigo Imports of New
Orleans, sir."

Palmer let himself grin. He could feel it coming together. For the first time in his
professional life he knew he was on a real case, like the ones Sam Spade and the
Continental Op solved, the kind that cloaked his profession in glamorous clouds of
cigarette smoke, whiskey fumes and gunpowder. The years spent staking out hot-sheets joints with a Polaroid in his lap seemed to melt away, reviving the
romanticism that he'd thought had died long ago.

As he headed for the shop door, the florist called after him. "Sir? Sir! Where and
when would you like the display delivered?"

"Send it to the same place the roses were delivered to. There's no hurry."

Carnival

During a carnival men put on masks over their masks.

-
Xavier Forneret

3

When Palmer informed Pangloss of his destination, the good doctor assured him
Renfield would see to airline tickets and accommodations. Palmer pointed out that
flights into New Orleans during Carnival were booked solid weeks in advance, not to
mention the hotels. Pangloss laughed and said there was nothing to worry about: He
kept an apartment in the French Quarter, away from the serious tourist areas but
still close to the action. He'd call the housekeeper and have the place aired out in
anticipation of Palmer's arrival.

Palmer arrived late Sunday evening. The city was swarming with drunken, raucous
merrymakers. Still, he had not expected Renfield to answer the door. "You're here,"

was all the pale man said in way of greeting, stepping back into the hallway to allow
Palmer entrance.

"Doc didn't say anything about sending you to keep tabs on me." If Renfield
noticed the barb, he ignored it. He pointed to the staircase, curled inside the house
like a chambered nautilus. "Your room is on the second floor. Third door to the
right."

"I thought Doc said he only kept an apartment here." Renfield shrugged. "In a way.

He owns the entire building." Palmer frowned at the stack of junk mail piled
haphazardly on the antique sideboard inside the foyer. Most of it seemed to be
addressed to "Occupant" or "Current Resident." Renfield cleared his throat and
lead Palmer upstairs. As they made their way to the landing, Palmer could tell by
the echoes that the downstairs was empty.

Palmer's quarters were quite spacious, consisting of a bed-sitter, a sizable bathroom
complete with a cast-iron tub with lion's feet, and a kitchenette furnished with a

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stocked refrigerator and a microwave oven. There was also a widescreen TV, a video
deck, a stereo system and a wet bar. The apartment also came with two of the
wrought iron balconies the city was famous for.

The bedroom balcony offered a view of the patio and what had been, a century and
a half ago, the slave quarters. It was too dark for Palmer to see much, since the patio
below was unlit, but a faint reek of vegetable decay rose From the garden beneath
his window.

The balcony fronting the sitting room was better, as it overlooked the street, empty
now except for the occasional passing mule buggy and cruising taxi. As he stood
savoring his Shermans in the pleasant evening breeze, Palmer could hear Bourbon
Street-its roar blurred and muted, but still distinct in the otherwise quiet
neighborhood. Every now and again a drunken celebrant would shriek with
laughter, the echoes losing themselves among the ancient buildings.

Palmer experienced a slight twinge of unreality, as if he were dreaming and aware of
dreaming at the same time. When he had left for New Orleans that morning, there
was still frost on the ground, and in certain alleys where the shadows rarely part,
there were still hard crusts of snow and ice to be found. Now he was standing in his
shirtsleeves, taking in the fragrant subtropical night air while listening to the sounds
of Carnival.

He contemplated going out and joining the party, but jet lag claimed him instead.

He fell asleep splayed across the massive four-poster, wisps of mosquito netting
fluttering in the breeze from the open French windows.

He dreamed that he woke up. In that dream, he lay in bed for a few seconds, trying
to place where he was and what he was doing there. When he remembered, he sat
up, rubbing his eyes. It was still dark outside; a pale sliver of moonlight fell through
the open windows. There was a table and chair near the foot of the bed. Palmer's
dream-self was aware that someone-or something-was seated in the chair, watching
him. At first he thought it was Loli-he could see enough to tell his visitor was female-and he instinctively put his hand to the scar over his heart. The puckered skin
remained cool to the touch. Whoever this dream-intruder was, at least it wasn't her.

Palmer wanted to stand up and walk toward the mysterious woman, but he couldn't
move.

Who are you?

The dream-woman did not answer but instead got to her feet. She stood in deep
shadow, fingering the length of netting draped across the footboard. A spear of
moonlight struck her face, but all Palmer could see was his own perplexed frown,
reflected in miniature.
Who are you ?

The shadow-woman smiled, revealing teeth too white and sharp to belong in a
human mouth.
That's funny, I was going to ask you the same thing.

It was her. The one he'd traveled so far to find. Palmer had never seen her photo,
much less heard her voice, but he was certain that the woman standing at the foot of
his bed was Sonja Blue. Before he could ask her another question, her attention was
drawn to the balcony.

Here? No, not here. But close. On its way.

She sprinted for the French windows. Palmer opened his mouth to shout a warning

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that they were two stories up, but nothing came out. He felt slightly embarrassed for
trying to warn a dream about breaking its legs. When she reached the open
windows, she seemed to expand and elongate at the same time, stretching like a
spaceship achieving light speed, then shot headfirst into the early morning sky.

Palmer was suddenly aware that he was cold and sweating and shaking like a
malaria victim. His scar began to burn like a hot wire pressed against his chest.

Loli popped up from behind the footboard like a malignant jack-in-the-box, the .38

leveled at his heart.

" Surrr-prizzze!"

He was unable to control himself this time and woke screaming, his fingers clawing
at the scar.

There was no listing for Indigo Imports in either the New Orleans Yellow or White
Pages. Palmer hadn't expected one, but you never could tell. Still, if you wanted a
credit card, you had to have a phone. It was a fact of life. It was probably an
unlisted number, but there was always the chance she relied on a message service to
relay her calls. And those were listed.

After three hours and eighty-six answering services, he called Telephones Answered,
Inc. and asked to speak to the head of Indigo Imports.

"I'm sorry, sir, but this is her answering service. Would you like to leave a
message?"

He had her. He fought to keep his voice from betraying his excitement. "Yes. Tell
her William Palmer called. It's very important that she contact me," he said, and
gave the operator the number off Pangloss's phone.

"Very, good, sir. I'll make sure she gets the message."

Palmer replaced the phone in its cradle. Sightseeing would have to wait.

The call came at six that evening. He'd fallen into a light drowse, helped by a couple
of shots of expensive bourbon he'd found in the wet bar, and nearly fell off the
couch attempting to answer the phone before the second ring.

"Hello?"

There was silence on the other end of the line, then a woman's voice. "Mr. Palmer?"

"This is Palmer."

"What do you want of me, Mr. Palmer?"

"I'm a private investigator, Ms. Blue. I was hired by your grandfather, Dr.

Pangloss, to find you."

"You work for him?" There was both suspicion and curiosity in her voice.

"In a fashion. Let's say I owe him a favor. All I know is that I'm supposed to deliver
a letter to you. Please, I'd like to arrange a meeting with you, if it's at all possible."

"You will be alone." It wasn't a question.

"Of course. You set the time and place. Whatever you're comfortable with."

"Tuesday night at eleven. The Devil's Playground, on the corner of Decatur and
Governor Nicholls."

The severed connection droned in his ear like an angry hornet. Palmer's hands were
shaking, his shirt glued to his back. It was the same woman. The one from his

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dream. He'd recognized the voice. He blinked and massaged his brow with the flat
of his palm. Christ, what was going on? Was it the acid he'd done back in the
seventies? If so, it had picked one hell of a time to treat him to a flashback.

Still, so many things had changed since he'd awakened from the coma. Sometimes it
felt as if he'd spent the past thirty-eight years stumbling around in a sleepwalker's
daze and was only now fully awake. Other times it seemed as if he was on the verge
of complete and utter mental collapse.

He'd never considered himself an ordinary schmuck, but before his "accident" he'd
never experienced much in the way of nightmares. Not since he was a kid, anyway.

He'd had some doozies back then.

His parents had disapproved of his discussing the dreams, so he'd stopped. His
father insisted that talking about "things that ain't real and never will be" was
pointless and only lead to confusion and, in some strange logic that only his parents
seemed to grasp, insanity.

Whenever Palmer pressed the point, his father would threaten him with Uncle
Willy.