Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (73 page)

"Lanier," Stasi said.

"What?" Mitch said, glancing around wildly.

"My son was twenty months old," Emilie said. "He was raised by my sister when my husband was hanged. Until the necklace killed her too." She opened her fan like a gesture of long habit, a secret smile crossing her face. "She's named for me, you know. Milly. Emilie. That's her real name but they call her Milly. She escaped. She got rid of the necklace. Maybe it will never touch her or her girls either. She has two daughters now, away in St. Bienville. And I thought the curse was finally done."

"It's not," Stasi said grimly.

"Who are you talking to?" Mitch whispered again.

"A ghost," Stasi said. "And maybe she can help us. Now hush."

"I can help you," she said. "And I will help you if you'll promise to take that necklace far away from here and lock it away."

"We can promise that," Stasi said. "But not if we don't get away from your descendant. He's trying to shoot us."

"I know." Emilie lifted her head, looking down the long row of tombs. "He hasn't been right since the war. It takes some men that way." She glanced back at Stasi. "But isn't it so pretty? Nothing like the shadow of old blood to make a man attractive. It does lend an air of virility."

"Yes, well, right now he's going to shoot us," Stasi said. "We need a place to hide until morning, or we need to get out of here without him seeing us."

"Hiding is better," Emilie said. "There's only one entrance and you'd have to go past him to get to it. And frankly you're not that quiet." She glanced at Mitch appraisingly. "Or that sober."

"Yes, I've noticed," Stasi said.

"Noticed what?" Mitch demanded in a whisper.

"That you're blotto. Now be quiet and let me talk." She squeezed his hand tightly.

"I suppose I am," Mitch said thoughtfully.

Emilie shook her head. "Men! They're all the same," she said in her lilting accent. "I've seen this one before. He's a big boy, isn't he?"

"Are we going to gossip or are you going to help us hide?" Stasi asked. "Because frankly we don't have all night."

"Come this way." Emilie turned, slipping between two mausoleums. "Quietly."

"This way," Stasi said, dragging Mitch behind her. He didn't resist, just followed after like Theseus on the thread.

Between tombs, around corners, down a long avenue where a wall was filled with tombs four high, like a catacomb only above ground, each one marked with names and dates, into the older part of the cemetery. The tombs were closer together here, a neoclassical façade almost wall to wall with the ones beside it. Over the door was a Latin inscription, and before it an empty urn.

"Here," Emilie said. "The door will open if you give it a little push. They didn't get it quite to catch the last time they came."

"Are you sure about this?" Mitch asked, swaying a little in the moonlight, bareheaded and rough looking. "In a tomb?"

"It's all right," Stasi said, glancing at Emilie. "The owner doesn't mind." She pushed on the bronze door and it gave on well-oiled hinges. She went in and closed the door behind them. It was pitch black.

"There," Emilie said. "Now you stay here until morning, and I'll go lead him off."

"You can do that?" Stasi whispered.

Emilie laughed. "Of course I can," she said. "He's my own bone and blood. I'll keep you safe until dawn, and you make sure that necklace leaves New Orleans."

"Deal," Stasi said. There was a warm breeze, or rather the absence of Emilie's cold.

"What's the deal?" Mitch asked. He was breathing hard.

"It's a long story," Stasi said. "But we should be safe now. Do you still have your lighter?"

There was the sound of fumbling, and then the Ronson lit, Mitch looking around in the narrow space.

It was quite nice, actually, and not ghoulish at all. There were six spaces, three to each side, each covered in a marble slab with names and dates. Stasi traced the first one, not at all surprised. "Emilie Rose Angelique Marie Daigle Lanier, August 4, 1797 — January 8, 1826."

Mitch put his hand out to steady himself. "That's the ghost you were talking to?"

"Your Milly's great grandmother ," Stasi said. Her fingers slid down the marble to the one beneath it. "Charles Felix Daigle, 1769 — 1834. He followed the eagles." The marble was smooth and hardly worn at all. "Her father, I suppose."

"Another sister?" Mitch said, looking at the other side. "Victoire Louise Justine Daigle? They're all Daigles here."

"Of course they are, darling," Stasi said, sinking down to sit with her back to the tombs. "Every last one of them following the eagles." She looked up at him. "Why don't you sit down before you fall down?"

"That might be a good idea," Mitch said. "Ouch!" The light went out abruptly as the Ronson got too hot. She felt rather than heard him slid down beside her.

"Oh, my feet," Stasi said, folding her legs and massaging her instep. "Give me the lighter, darling. I think I saw a votive candle over here." She felt around in the dark until she found the glass, leaning across Mitch's lap. There was a little puddle of wax in the bottom as she'd hoped. "There."

His hand bumped her breast. "Sorry," he said. "Trying to give you the lighter. I can't see."

"Because it's dark," Stasi said, taking the lighter and flicking it, coaxing the little bit of candle left to light. It caught at last, a faint gold and blue flame at the bottom of the glass. "Isn't that better?"

Mitch leaned his head back against the mausoleum and closed his eyes, his face gray.

"We'll just wait him out," Stasi said. "It can't be more than three hours until dawn."

"Sure."

She looked at him closely. "Are you all right, darling?"

Mitch didn't open his eyes. "For a drunk lunatic in a fugue state, I'm doing pretty well."

"What's my name?"

He almost smiled. "I have no idea," he said. "You said your name was Rostov but Jeff called you Ivanova, and I wouldn't take any bets on either one being true. What's your real name?"

"Darling, that's like asking a woman her real age," Stasi said. Oh her feet hurt. But any one you could walk away from was a good one. "Let's try this. What's Lanier's real name and how to you know him?"

He still didn't open his eyes. "Jefferson Murat Lanier," Mitch said. "I was in the army with him. He was transferred out of the Veneto to the Western Front. I ran into him again after the war. He and his sister had inherited that house in the Garden District, Eden. I stayed with them for a while." He moved his head a little, like a man in a dream. "I don't know how long, so don't ask me. And I don't know why I left or when. Gil had been wiring me, asking me to come to Colorado Springs. At some point I did. Couldn't tell you why. I don't remember most of 1919 and part of 1920. Jeff's right that I'm a certifiable lunatic."

"Oh," Stasi said. She moved her toes back and forth. Yes, they still moved. "And he thinks you…seduced his sister?" she asked delicately.

Mitch's mouth thinned, closed eyes twitching. "I'm pretty sure I didn't do that."

"Ah," Stasi said. She took a deep breath, leaning back against the stone beside him. "And that's where you saw the cursed necklace before."

"Yeah. That's where I saw it. I guess Jeff's got it back now. I dropped it in the fight."

"I've got the necklace, darling," Stasi said.

At that he opened his eyes and blinked at her. "You do?"

She nodded. "The question is what to do with it."

He frowned. "I thought he paid you to bring it to him. Why don't you just hand it over and collect the money?"

"Because now I've seen what it does," Stasi said. "And I'm sorry but I don't think he's able to prevent it from wreaking havoc. It wants to kill and it's terribly strong. It belongs somewhere it can't harm anyone, or it needs to be destroyed."

His frown deepened. "And that matters to you?"

Stasi stretched out her leg and smoothed her tattered silk dress. "Darling, it may come as a complete shock to you, but I have a problem with killing innocent people. Unlike some present company."

He didn't look away from her. "You think I'm the Axeman."

"Are you?"

Mitch took a deep breath. "I don't know."

"Well," Stasi said.

"I don't remember killing those people, but I don't remember much of anything from that year. The killings stopped about the time I left town." Mitch shook his head, leaned it back against the wall again. "I don't know."

Stasi looked around at the pale tombs. "I could find out," she said.

"How?"

"The Dead probably know." Stasi smoothed her dress again. "I'm sure at least one of the Axeman's victims is still lurking around. Given a few days I could probably find one. Mind you, it's terribly difficult getting a witness description, you know how that is, darling, and it's worse when it's someone who was very upset, which the victim usually is. Ma'am, would you mind giving me a description of the man who killed you? Terribly awkward. But I could certainly ask them if they recognized you. Though it would probably be better to do something more like a police lineup. More scientific."

He closed his eyes. "I'm not sure I want to know."

"Ah," Stasi said.

"W
hat's that?" Lewis pulled up sharply and Alma stopped on his heels. Ahead of them were the gates of Lafayette Cemetery, a wrought iron arch overhead proclaiming its name.

"What's what?" Alma asked quietly.

"That." Something dark lay in the gutter like a dead animal. Lewis jogged across the street and investigated, then picked it up as Alma came over.

"Mitch's hat," she said. She took it from him and turned it around in her hands. No blood, thank goodness. It smelled like smoke and booze but nothing worse.

Lewis looked toward the cemetery gates. "If he was running and dropped it…"

Alma let out a long breath. "I can't think of any good reason to run into a cemetery in the middle of the night." She looked at her watch, tilting her wrist to catch the light from the nearest streetlight, and suppressed the urge to swear a blue streak.

"What time is it?" Lewis asked.

"Quarter till five," Alma said. "We're supposed to be at the airport ready to take off in two hours and fifteen minutes."

"Crap," Lewis said. He looked at the gates again. "We should…"

Alma closed her eyes. "We have to find Mitch," she said. They were in first place. They were winning. Forty five minutes drive out to the airport, and nobody had slept a wink. Henry would be chewing the wallpaper. And if they missed their start time they'd lose their lead and everything they had invested in this. If they didn't win a purse they'd have to sell the Jenny when they got back to Colorado. She took a deep breath. "We don't leave our people behind."

Lewis nodded. "Let's find him. At least in daylight we can get a cab to the airport more easily."

"And let's hope Jerry has packed for us," Alma said. "And that he assumes we'll meet him there."

Chapter Sixteen

J
erry let the curtain fall, turning away from the street and the cars still parked below, no longer gray in the rising light. He’d managed to snatch a few hours’ sleep, despite waiting for a telephone call that hadn’t come; now he was busy throwing things into suitcases, ready for the moment Alma walked in the door. He reached into his pocket and checked his watch: quarter past five. Their start time was seven o’clock, first out, and they had to reach Pensacola by noon if they wanted to take part in the pylon race. Forty-five minutes to the airfield… He went back to the window again, peering out into the light. Oh, Alma, where the hell are you?

There was a soft knock at the door, and he lurched to open it, almost falling in his haste. His shoulders sagged when he saw Henry in the hallway.

"Anything?"

Jerry shook his head, stepped back to let the other man in.

"Damn it to hell," Henry said. He was keeping his voice down with an effort that made the veins on his forehead stand out. "Where are they?"

"I wish I knew," Jerry snapped. "If I knew, don’t you think I’d tell you?" He controlled himself with an effort. They wouldn’t get anywhere shouting at each other. "I’ve got everything packed up. We can leave any time."

"But will they go to the field?" Henry asked. He went to the window in turn, looking down on Poydras Street as though he could make them appear by sheer force of will. "if they come back here, waste time looking for you –"

Jerry took a breath, made himself focus, shoving aside the worry and the sleeplessness and the night’s confusion the way he’d learned in the War. "She’d call," he said. "Alma knows how close it’s getting, she’d find a pay phone and call the hotel. We can leave a message with the switchboard, have the operator tell her we’ve gone on to the field."

Henry nodded slowly. "All right. That makes sense." He crossed to the telephone, dialed the operator and left his message, then ordered a bellboy and cab with the absent ease of a man who did this regularly. Jerry latched Alma’s suitcase, gave the room a quick search to be sure he wasn’t leaving anything important.

What the hell had Mitch been thinking, to let that thing get hold of him? But it wasn’t about thinking, he knew that from his own encounter with it. The curse was worked deep into the iron, growing in strength with each death, with every drop of blood and every tear. It tugged and it probed until it found a weakness – he’d felt it himself, and seen the look on Alma’s face when she handed it to him. And somehow, somewhere, it had found something in Mitch that it could use.

Henry was finished with the phone, had gone back to the window, and Jerry looked at him.

"What else do you know about the necklace?"

"What?"

"The necklace," Jerry said. "Anything more you can tell me about it. Maybe we can figure out some way to find it, or something."

"I told you what I know," Henry said. "It came with a questionable history, like I said, and when I hired a guy to look into it, he came up with the story about the curse. Which he thought was pretty much someone trying to drive up the price, but I’d gotten my hands on the thing by then, and – I knew. My safe’s warded as well as locked – and they’re damn good Chubb locks, by the way – and I figured it would be safe there." He shook his head. "I guess I was wrong."