“Dang it!” I swear, ready to toss it aside and run to the neighbor’s house. Then I realize it’s an iPhone X. It has facial-recognition software.
Darting back to Cash, I hold the phone to his face. The stupid device remains stubbornly locked.
What am I doing wrong?
I feel the seconds ticking away. Seconds when more life-sustaining blood oozes from his head. Seconds when swelling inside his skull could be putting pressure on his brain.
I figure I’ll give it one more shot. With a trembling hand, I wipe away as much of the blood from the side of his face as I can. It’s hot and tacky, and the smell makes my nostrils flare. Then I hold the phone up to his face, and this time…
Hallelujah!
Dialing 911, I grab Cash’s hand and hold it tight as I wait impatiently for the operator to answer. When he does, I rattle off Cash’s condition and go on for too long about the amount of blood.
“Slow down, ma’am,” the dispatcher says. “Do you know where you are? The address?”
My mind blanks.
Here’s the thing about living in the Vieux Carré. Most houses are known by names like the Hermann-Grima House or the Beauregard-Keys House—or in the case of my apartment, the place above the spice shop on St. Louis Street. I have no idea what Cash’s actualaddress is.
“I-I—” I stutter, completely discombobulated. Then I shake my head and explain which block we’re on. “Look for the Creole cottage with the red shutters and the newly sanded front door. And please,hurry!”
The operator stays on the call with me, asking questions I think I answer, giving me instructions I think I follow. But through it all, I’m not paying that much attention. I’m too busy making deals with the universe.
Like, if Cash is okay, I’ll never break the speed limit again. Never eat a test grape at the grocery store before deciding whether to buy the bunch. Never log on to Mr. and Mrs. Monroe’s Wi-Fi when mine goes down.
I realize I’m sobbing when the dispatcher says, “Calm down, ma’am. I can hear sirens in the background. Help will be there soon.”
Sure enough. The loudwoo-woo-wooof an ambulance breaks through the quiet of The Quarter. Barely a minute later, two paramedics burst through the open front door with a stretcher and medical gear in hand.
After that, there’s a lot of action and noise. When Cash has been carried outside to the waiting ambulance, I jump in behind him and watch as the paramedics hook him up to lines and machines. Never before have I felt so helpless.
The only thing I know to do is take his hand—in case there’s some portion of his unconscious mind that registers my presence—and pray.
Please Lord, don’t take him from me. Don’t takeeitherof them from me.
Chapter Sixty-seven
______________________________________
Luc
In life, there are moments that matter. Moments that change everything.
Last night is one of those for me.
The question is, will it change my life for better or worse? The not knowing is where the fear lies. The not having any idea if, best-case scenario, no charges are brought against me since it was a matter of self-defense, and Maggie and I can finally crawl out from under the shadow of Dean’s death and Sullivan’s threats. Or, worst-case scenario, Sullivan’s grasp on the NOLA Police Department (and his particular brand of corruption) is strong enough to see me charged and tried for murderregardlessof any laws that would otherwise see me blameless.
Crossing my arms, I rest my head against the cold, concrete wall, block out the astringent smell of bleach (which doesn’t do much to cover up the more pungent odors of piss and flop sweat) and imagine I’m out in the home of dirt roads and bare feet.
If I concentrate, I can almost smell the dry, woodsy scent of Spanish moss mixed with the earthy aroma of lichen. I can almost see the night jasmine blooming. Hear the crickets chirping their mournful tune.
I perfected this skill in Afghanistan.
It could be as cold and miserable as a well-digger’s ass in those mountains, but I could always close my eyes and put myself deep in the bayou. In one of those places where the sun never shines. Where thick, cool shadows linger all year long. Where the gators lurk hungrily and—
“You’re up, asshole,” the officer who booked me and swabbed my hands for gunshot residue calls from outside my holding cell. “Good luck seeing if your lawyer can help you, you murderous prick. ’Cause sure as shit, no one in this department will.”
It was clear right from the get-go that Officer Florer was one of Sullivan’s lackeys. Also clear was that he speaks two languages, English and Threat, and neither one all that well.
