The Brotherhood of the Wheel (16 page)

“What did he say?” Lovina asked.

“‘Fuck Nixon,'” Russell said.

“I'm serious,” she said.

Russell nodded. “So am I,
chère
. I swear it. What has you so jumpy? You know you can tell me—what is it?”

“I think I ran into a pair of these … kids at Rears's apartment last night,” she said. “They had the eyes, the voice, everything. And, Russ, I was terrified of them, and now I couldn't tell you why. You think I'm crazy?”

“No,” Russell said. “Not even a smidge. I take it you refused to let them in the apartment? Were you alone, was Roselle with you? Local PD? Anyone?” Lovina shook her head. Russell frowned. “I see.”

Lovina saw the wheels turning in the old scientist's mind. She pointed to another photo that had been in the computer file with Shawn Ruth's photo. She recalled seeing a crumpled printout of it in Rears's apartment office. It was a blurry photo depicting shadowy outlines of people, a forest in daylight. There was a central figure, dark and featureless against the sunlight and blur, with branches, perhaps, behind the looming figure—they looked like massive antlers growing from the shadow's head. “This one,” she said. “Russ, what can you tell me about this one? Rears had some note on it about ‘patient zero,' or something.”

Russell frowned slightly and went back to work on his computer. He pulled up the photo and began to examine it with both his eyes and an array of forensic computer programs.

“That's interesting,” he said, furrowing his thick white eyebrows. “You do have a knack for picking them,
chère
.”

“What?” she said, looking over his shoulder. The photo was a blur of pixels on his screen. He clicked a control, and it zoomed back a few magnifications but was still blurry. In the right corner of the photo, Lovina could now see a symbol superimposed over the photo. “What the hell is that, Russ?”

The symbol came into focus a bit more. It was a circle, and above it was a crescent turned on its side, so that it touched the top of the circle and the two points at the end of the crescent pointed upward.

“I don't know,” he said, “but I aim to find out. I'm running it through Forensic Image Analysis and a few other databases, including what the Feds have access to—the SST and BCOE over at the Department of Justice. It may take a spell to cook, but we'll get something. It looks like this photo has had a history online since the late nineties. It's a tangled mess, but I'll see what I can get for you, darlin'. It may take a day or two to hear back. You, uh, need me to let Roselle know it will be a bit, keep him off your back about the delay? I know you said the case is hot right now.”

They looked at each other. Russell had an odd look on his face. Lovina had seen it before. Russell's inner bloodhound was close to chasing down a hidden scrap of truth. She shook her head.

“Okay,” she said. “Roselle has no idea I'm here. I'm on the beach. I'm mucking around in a case that's not mine, and it's far from hot. But I am onto something, Russell. Shawn Ruth, those other kids, this Karen Collie girl … they're gone like they were swallowed up whole. Rears was onto it, too—”

“Or part of it,” Russell interrupted. Lovina held up a hand.

“Maybe, maybe he is … was,” she said, “but I think he stumbled onto something and that something came for him. How many missing-children cases are there in Rears's database?”

“‘Something'?” Russell said, narrowing his eyes. “You think Black-Eyed Children snatched Dewey Rears because he knew too much? Lovina, darlin', knowing the world is odd and having any kind of walk-into-court proof of that strangeness is a whole 'nother animal. You have a solid career here,
chère
. You start talking this cooyon and—”

“How many, Russ?” Lovina asked. “How many missing children?”

“About eight hundred kids,” Russell said. “But, Lovina, and please forgive me for bringing this up, but no matter how many of them you go hunting for, no matter how many you find, it don't change what happened to Delphine.”

Russell felt the name strike Lovina like a slap, and he regretted having to invoke her dead sister, but they both knew why she had latched on to this case, why she always chased them. They were quiet for a moment. The murmur of the lab's usual chaos filled the empty space.

“I know, Russ,” she said finally. “You have always been a good friend to me and to my family. Mama always appreciated all you did for us when Pops was in the hospital, at the end. And all the help you've given me over the years when I started on the job. I appreciate all of it, more than I can ever say. I don't want to cause you any trouble. I understand you can't—”

“The hell, I
can't
!” Russell said. “Pardon my language, Lovina.”

“Russ, you got a good thing going here. I don't want to get you mixed up in my crazy,” she said.

“Then don't,” he said. “If Roselle gets wind of this, I will tell him everything looked in order on this end. He don't ask, I don't tell.”

Lovina leaned over and hugged him. “Thank you,” she said. “You're a good friend, Russ.”

“A good friend would tell you to stop this damn fool nonsense before you do lose your job over it. You have a lot of people who care about you—Roselle, me—and none of us want to see you suffer for this obsession of yours.”

“Russ, if it had been your sister those animals … did that to—”

“I'd do the same damn thing,” he said. “I know, darlin'. But you can't find all of them, you can't save all of them.”

“Eight hundred kids, Russ. All connected to one missing man. Isn't that worth at least a little inquiry?”

Russell sighed and took the last doughnut. “I'll tell you what I get on the history of your blurry-antler ‘patient zero' picture and that symbol on it.”

“Thank you, Russ,” she said, and handed him the crumpled paper she had taken from Rears's place. “I found this in Rears's apartment. It's some GPS coordinates and a bunch of babbling about Four Houses or something. Can you try to make some sense of it for me, please?” Russell nodded.

“And there was someone in that apartment with Rears,” Lovina said. “I'm betting a print is going to come through the system off that overturned beer can or something else in there.”

“If they've been printed,” Russell added. “You want me to run it down for you?”

“I want to find whoever it is,” Lovina said, “before someone else does.”

“I'll call you,” he said. “I'll keep all this on the DL,
chère
.”

“On the DL?” Lovina said, and laughed.

Russell chuckled. “Always good to see a smile on that pretty face,” he said. “My love to your mama, as always.”

“Love to Treasure as well,” Lovina said. “How is she, Russ?” The twinkle left Lime's eye at the mention of his wife's name, but the smile remained, set on his face. “Oh, Russ … is she—”

“Back to the hospital for a spell,” Russell said. “Been there about two weeks. They say it's the cancer again, but I think she bribes the doctors to tell me that so she can get a little break from me.” He chuckled; it was a dry sound in his throat. Lovina hugged him again, tight. He patted her back gently. “It will all be fine,
chère
,” he said. “Just fine.”

Lovina lived in the Contesta Apartments, third floor, overlooking Decatur Street. She had lived there since she started with the NOPD, back in 2004. Even when the Quarter was trashed by Hurricane Katrina a year later, Lovina had stayed, along with the other die-hards who refused to let the most deadly force of nature in U.S. history drive them from their city. She remembered sitting in her dark, hot living room, only a stale humid breeze from the open balcony doors to cool her; dressed in her sweat-stained police uniform, drinking water in plastic bottles provided by the Red Cross and the National Guard. This place, this city, was home. She had fought for it, cried for it when it fell, reveled in it when it arose, and shed her most precious blood here, in New Orleans. Some places marked you, made you theirs.

She unlocked the front door, and as she did she heard the click of the lock on the door across the hall, Lake's door. She turned to see her neighbor open his door and step out.

“It's about damn time you showed your narrow little ass up in here, sugar!” Tyson Lake said, hugging Lovina. “That four-legged little misanthrope you call a pet was about ready to maul me!”

Lake was a slender, six-foot-four black man with delicate features, large expressive eyes, and a body that had been sculpted to perfection by long hours of worship at the temple of iron and sweat. She was a drag queen, working a burlesque show down in the Quarter at the Golden Lantern, over on Royal Street. Miss Lake, her stage name, had been named for Mike Tyson by the father and mother who no longer talked to Ty. Tyson had actually played a few years in the Erie BayHawks, a D-League NBA team that was a feeder for talent for the Orlando Magic. Ty had been pretty good, but he fell in love and decided to quit living a life that belonged more to his dad than to him. Lovina was Lake's only family now.

Lovina hugged her neighbor back. “You mean to tell me you afraid of a trifling little pussy hissing at you, girl?” They both laughed.

“Mmmhmm,” Lake said. “Them nasty things scary.”

“Sorry about last night. I expected to be back yesterday afternoon. The case got hot,” Lovina said, opening her door. “I'm actually just home to tell Wafflez to leave you be and to grab some clothes. Do you mind feeding her, Ty? I hate to ask.”

“It's no trouble, Love,” Lake said. “You know I got you, boo. Something … odd happened last night, though. I thought I should let you know.”

“What?” Lovina asked, flipping through the mail that Ty had left on the small table by the door, just inside her apartment.

“There was a pounding on your door last night,” Ty said. “Round three or so. I had just got home from work, and it was so loud it scared me. I looked through the peephole, and there were two kids beating on your door—boom, boom, boom, not stopping. No pattern, y'know, like, knock, knock knock, then stop.… They just kept on pounding.”

Lovina felt a sick fear twist in her gut, like rats gnawing on her intestines. “Boys?” she said. “Hoodies? Ty, did you see their eyes? Did they look at you? Did they see you?”

Lake shook her head, frowning. “No,” she said. “Only through the peephole. That was the weird part. By the time I unlocked the door and opened it, they were gone. Not by your door, not in the hall, no sound of them headed down the stairs, just … gone. Love, what's wrong? You look sick, honey, what's happening? Let me help.”

Lovina walked into her apartment, gesturing for Lake to follow. “Listen to me, Ty, please listen. I mean this. Do not approach those kids if they show up again. If they knock on your door, do not answer it. Do you hear me?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Just don't,” Lovina said. “They keep knocking, you call the cops, y'hear me? But you
do not
answer that door! They are dangerous, and I'm … I'm not sure what they are, exactly.”

“Okay,” Lake said, placing her hand on Lovina's shoulder. “Okay, Love, I will. I promise. This some kind of work thing?”

“I guess,” Lovina said. “They must have tracked me somehow. This can't be real, can it? This is stupid. Things like this don't really happen … do they?”

“Talk to me,” Lake said. “I sure as hell ain't gonna judge you, boo. You tell me.”

“I'll tell you when I'm back from this,” Lovina said. “I promise. Right now, just please do what I say, Ty. Okay?”

Lake raised her hands as if she was surrendering. “Okay, okay,” she said, turning back toward her apartment. “I'll feed the little creep while you're gone. Do you need me to turn over the engine on the Charger while you're—”

“No,” Lovina said. “I'm taking Dad's car.”

“Not a cop car,” Lake said. “You sure this is about work, boo?”

“Jesus!” Lovina said, stepping into her kitchen and opening the fridge. She fished out a cold bottle of Dixie beer and opened it. “I must be the worst damn liar in town.” Lake hurried toward the door and began to pull it shut.

“Too damn earnest for your own good! Love you, Love,” she said, and blew Lovina a kiss. “Be careful, baby, and I'll stay clear of weird little skate punks. You be safe, boo!” Lake shut the door and the apartment was quiet. Lovina sat at her kitchen table, pulled her pistol from its shoulder holster, and placed the .40-caliber Glock 22 on the Formica tabletop. She was scared, no getting around it. Those kids had found her, had made their way to her door hours before she was even in back in New Orleans. So it was either the same night-eyed kids she had faced at Rears's apartment and they had managed to cross space in an impossible amount of time or it was different kids, sent from the same unknowable source on the same cryptic mission.
“They're always saying they were sent to gather you,”
Russ had said,
“but they never say why or to where.…”

Lovina took a long draw on the beer, let it slide down her throat, and felt calmness settle over her in the act. Dixie had been Pops's brand. They didn't make it in town anymore, but it was part of the mythology of her dad and it always gave her some comfort. She remembered the first time he let her have a swig. She had been twelve, helping him work on the Charger. The first taste of beer was horrible, gross, and strange. Pops had laughed at the face she made. “Good,” he had said. “Now you won't be all-fired curious to try it again, will you, Smiley?”

The thought brought the grin back to her face, the same grin that had made Pops give her the nickname. He called her that up till his last breath. She tipped the bottle to empty air.