Undying (17 page)

“New Orleans?” Fia echoed.

“That’s my educated guess.”

“But he was supposed to meet Fin in Italy. What the hell is he doing in New Orleans? And where is Fin?”

“I don’t know.” Arlan got up. “But I gotta go. Tonight. Now.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Fee—”

“You don’t know what kind of trouble he’s in. Could be bad. Could be—”

“The Rousseau brothers,” he interrupted.

“Shit.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Macy was at the bathroom door again. She knocked.

“Be out in a sec,” Arlan called to Macy; then to Fia, “I gotta go.”

“Meet you at the airport,” Fia said.

“Soon as I can get there.” He slipped his phone back in his pocket, took a deep breath and walked out of the bathroom.

Arlan found Macy sitting on his bed. She was now wearing her shorts. She looked up at him, her face sweet and soft. She looked worried. She offered the glass of water, which he accepted. He took a sip and then went to the other side of the bed and lay down, his head on the pillow.

Macy crawled across the bed and peered into his face. “Want me to go or stay here with you?”

He closed his eyes. “I don’t know. Usually if I can get to sleep, I can get rid of it.”

“I’ll go.” She kissed him ever so lightly on his lips. “See you around?”

He felt her weight lift from the bed. He kept his eyes closed and smiled, lifting his hand and letting it fall. “See you around.”

Macy walked back to the hotel, packed her backpack and her laptop and put on a pair of sneakers. Outside, the air was finally beginning to cool. She got into her car and drove the two blocks to Arlan’s house. She didn’t know why, just a hunch. Something was going on with him; she had sensed it back at the house, and the feeling was only getting stronger. She didn’t know what was going on, but it was something weird. Something
M. Night Shyamalan weird.

He was just backing out of his driveway in his truck. He didn’t notice her. She stayed well behind him all the way through town. Within ten minutes, he was on Route 1, headed north. She wondered where they were going.

A
rlan and Fia caught an early morning flight to New Orleans. Not knowing where to go or what to do, they checked into a quaint hotel on a street off Bourbon. By noon, they were sitting on the lobby’s veranda, sharing a muffaletta sandwich and drinking sweet teas.

“You check your phone?” Fia pinched a stray olive that had fallen from the sandwich and popped it in her mouth. “Nothing from Fin?”

Arlan shook his head and used his cloth napkin to wipe his forehead. “Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” he said under his breath. “I hate this city. I hate this heat.” He tugged on the collar of his John Butler Trio T-shirt. They were one of his favorite bands. Wearing one of his favorite T-shirts should have made him feel better. It didn’t.

She frowned, taking a bite of her half of the huge sandwich. “It’s not any hotter here than in Delaware in August. Stop being such a pussy.” She threw an olive at him. “And be honest, it’s not the heat that’s got your fur ruffled. It’s the Rousseaus.”

He pushed back in his chair. He’d been in a foul mood all morning. Mostly just because he was worried. He’d kept his mind open, waiting for word from Regan, but he was getting nothing.
Nothing.

The possibility that Regan might not contact him again…might never contact him again, chilled him to the bone.

And he was worried about Macy back in Clare Point. She’d played along with his migraine story, but he was afraid she hadn’t believed him. He had smelled suspicion on her breath. And her comments about Clare Point being weird had him doubly worried. Every summer their town was flooded with humans. No tourists ever noticed that the Kahills were different. After all these centuries, members of the sept did a fine job of blending in, of appearing human. Some of them were so good at the game that they half believed they
were
human. So what was it about Macy that was different than the average human? Was she one of the one in a million who had a pinch of psychic ability? It wasn’t unheard of, of course. Just not likely.

“I’m not afraid of the Rousseaus,” he grumbled, reaching for his sandwich.

“Didn’t say you were. Far as I know, you’re the bravest guy on earth. Pedophiles in Athens, serial killers with axes in Brussels.” She pointed at him. “And remember those zombies in Amsterdam? Zombies? Ugh. They’d have had me quaking in my stilettos.”

If she was trying to make him feel better, it wasn’t happening.

She leaned closer, studying him through the dark lenses of her black Ray-Bans. “Look, I don’t want to tangle with the Rousseau brothers any more than you do.” She shrugged her muscular shoulders. “But they might not even be involved.”

“Oh, they’re involved, all right.” He chewed his sandwich, but he didn’t really taste it. “If Regan is in trouble in New Orleans, I can guarantee you the Rousseaus are involved. They’ve hated us for two centuries.”

She sat back, flapping her napkin before spreading it on her lap. She looked like the female tourists seated at the tables near them; khaki capris, a red tank top. But there was an air of sophistication about Fia that few could match. Human males, young or old, gay or straight, couldn’t walk within thirty yards of her and not be attracted. She was that hot.

“What do you think we should do now?” she asked. “Just start looking in the cemeteries?”

He stared at her. “I can’t believe you just called me a pussy.”

“Well, you are sometimes. You’re too soft. You’re way too
in touch with your feminine side.
”

“It’s a good thing I like you,” he said quietly. “Otherwise I’d have to turn into a Kodiak bear and eat you
and
your half of the sandwich.”

She snatched up the remainder of her lunch.

“I guess we don’t have any choice but to start looking for him.” He took another bite. “But I don’t know if he was actually in the cemetery or if he was just sending me images he thought I would recognize.”

“Would have been easier if he’d just telepathed an address,” she quipped.

“It’s Regan,” was his response. He contemplated their options as he chewed. “I’m thinking we wait until dark and hit the French Quarter. Talk to a few of the local freaks. Who do we know?”

She thought for a minute. “The voodoo queens in Vieux Carre. That coven of witches off Dumaine. We can see what the word is on the street. Ask our favorite witch doctors if they know anything. A door to door canvas.”

He managed a grin and winked at her. “Shouldn’t be much different for you than cruising bars in Philadelphia.”

Pussy,
she telepathed.

“You keep this up,” he threatened aloud, “and we’re definitely not touring Anne Rice’s neighborhood.”

“Now that’s cutting below the belt.” She rose. “Be right back. Ladies room.”

Arlan waved to the waiter and was waiting for him to bring the pitcher of iced tea for refills when he saw Macy stroll through the veranda doors. He was so shocked that he did a double take to be sure it was really her. It was her all right. She was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and a Saints ball cap and carrying what appeared to be a mimosa in a tall glass.

“This seat taken?” She sat down beside him.

“What the hell—” He looked away. When the waiter had filled the glasses and moved on to the next table, he turned back to Macy. “What are you doing here?”

“Research for a piece on old houses reconstructed since Katrina.” She looked at him over the rim of her glass. “What are you doing here?” She glanced at Fia’s plate. “You know, you tell me there’s nothing between you two and I believe you’re not having sex with her, but there’s definitely something weird going on here.” She motioned, indicating his plate and then Fia’s. “Something M. Night—”

“Please,” he interrupted, raising both hands. “Don’t start that again. I have no idea what you’re talking about with that, and frankly, I’m not all that interested.”

Macy had taken him so off guard, showing up like this, he didn’t know what to say or where to start. She had followed him. Not only had she followed him, but he hadn’t
known
she was following him. What was wrong with him? He was better than that. The wrong person following him could get him killed.

“You shouldn’t be here, Macy.” He leaned toward her. “You can’t be here. This is FBI business,” he lied.

She set her glass down on the table and dropped her bag over the back of her chair. Apparently, she was intending on staying a while. Fia was going to kill him. She was going to separate his head from his body and hurl his soul into everlasting purgatory.

“So, I’m just trying to figure this out,” Macy said conversationally. “Are you an undercover FBI agent, using the handyman thing for a cover, or are you like Fia’s Watson? Maybe her Barney Fife?”

“Barney Fife?” He shook his head in confusion.

“You know, on
The Andy Griffith Show,
the sheriff’s deputy, Barney.” She shrugged. “I watch a lot of TV.”

“Macy, I can’t talk about this with you.” He glanced in the direction of the lobby. “Fia see you?”

“No, but I saw her. Inhumanly nice legs. Is she six foot tall?”

“’Bout that.” He scooted forward in his chair. Fia would be furious when she found out Macy was here. Maybe he could just get her to go. Maybe Fia wouldn’t have to know. “You’re supposed to be in Clare Point. Fia asked you to stay put. When the FBI asks you to stay put, you stay put.”

“I have to make a living. I told you, I just came to New Orleans to—”

“I’m not buying it, Macy. This is not coincidence, you catching a four
A.M
. flight to New Orleans. The same flight I took.”

“I took the six.”

“You followed me here,” he continued. “You swore you weren’t a stalker.”

“I’m not a stalker!” She said it loud enough that a husband and wife, cameras around their necks, at the table next to Arlan and Macy glanced in their direction.

This was just what Arlan didn’t need—anyone calling attention to his and Fia’s presence. If at all possible, he wanted to get into New Orleans, get Regan, and get out before the Rousseaus ever knew he’d set foot on their soggy soil.

“This sure makes you
look
like a stalker,” Arlan said under his breath. He was now as perturbed with himself for letting this happen as he was with her.

She glanced away, her face falling.

Arlan was at once contrite. He knew she wasn’t a stalker. He just—

“I don’t know why I came,” she said softly, with that ethereal voice that always tugged at his heartstrings. “I swear, lately, I don’t know why I do half the things I do.” Her elbow on the glass-top table, she lowered her forehead to the heel of her hand. “I just…I feel as if you can keep me safe.” She spoke the words like a dreaded confession. “You know, when I asked you yesterday what made you think you could help people, that was about me, not you.” Her voice was breathy with emotion. “I guess what I’m saying is that I feel it, too.” She ran her hand upward, through her hair, and sat back in the chair. “I feel as if you can help me when no one else has ever—” The words caught in her throat and she couldn’t go on.

“Macy…” He took her hand. He was no hero. He did what the sept asked of him because he was one of them; it had nothing to do with heroics. But he wanted to be Macy’s hero.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to put such a heavy responsibility on you. Honestly I don’t.” She looked up at him. “You think I’m crazy. You think I’m a crazy stalker.”

He studied her green eyes, the flecks of gold that seemed to illuminate her very soul. Her good soul. All evidence to the contrary, he
didn’t
think she was a stalker. Somehow this was all tied in to the Buried Alive Killer; he sensed it. And he sensed that he would have some part in what was playing out with Macy and this man. He just didn’t know where he fit in yet.

He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers. “I really need you to go back to Clare Point. There are people there who can keep you safe. I think
that’s
what brought you to Clare Point.” He clasped her hands between both of his. “I think that you know that, on a subconscious level. I think that’s why you followed me there.”

“You think that’s possible?” Her eyes were wild and childlike and Arlan wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms.

He sensed Fia approaching before he heard her footsteps on the tile flooring. He sat back, releasing Macy’s hands. “Warning you now,” he said under his breath. “She’s going to be pissed.”

“Macy.” Fia halted at the end of the table. “What are you doing here?” She looked to Arlan, not giving Macy a chance to answer. “What is she doing here?”

“She’s going back to Delaware.” He shot Macy a look that he hoped might intimidate her. “Aren’t you?”

“Just as soon as I see the houses I came to see.” None of the vulnerability he had heard in her voice a moment ago was now present. She rose, taking her purse and drink with her. “You two have a good day.” She walked away, raising her glass in good cheer. “Good luck on your case.”

“I still can’t believe you would risk a human’s life like this,” Fia said. They walked single file in the dark, down a narrow alley. On both sides, the brick walls of the buildings rose high over their heads. The alley smelled of mold, crumbling mortar, rodent feces, and orange jello, of all things.

Arlan led the way. “And I can’t believe you don’t believe me when I tell you that I didn’t invite her. I didn’t even tell her we were coming here.”

“She just followed you?”

“Yes.” He looked over his shoulder. “We’ve been over this already, Fia. I’m beginning to think she’s psychic. She just doesn’t know it.”

“I think she’s a fruitcake.” They reached the end of the alley. “Left.” She pointed. “That door. The one with the finger bone hanging in the window.”

“Charming friends you have.”

Fia checked the pistol she wore in a holster at the small of her back, under a loose T-shirt. “They’re not my friends.”

“More snitches? Witches snitches?”

She brushed past him. “They see you, they won’t talk. They don’t trust me as it is. So do your thing.” She flapped her hand. “Make yourself into a mouse or something.”

“A mouse?” He lifted a dark eyebrow, unamused. “I don’t
do
mice.”

“Whatever.” She knocked on the door.

The shop reminded him of a Hansel and Gretel cottage in the Bavarian forest, only the gingerbread was painted purple and a sign hung by the door advertising
POTIONS
&
BREWS
.

“Feline or canine?” he asked Fia.

There was a sound on the other side of the door. The curtain in the shop window moved.

“Rodent,” she quipped.

As the door opened, Arlan morphed into a lean, leggy mongrel.

Two women answered the door. The best word Arlan could come up with was
hag
. The women were hags. Young for hags, but hags nonetheless. Their hair was long and stringy. Dirty. The four eyes that stared at Fia were white with cataracts. Their faces weathered by harsh living. They smelled of cigarette smoke, gin, and evil.