Tess, as beautifully broken as she is, doesn’t match the image of a victim that the media would like. She’s too brash, too vulgar. Between her tattoos and drugs, her sexual deviance and history of occasional prostitution, the real Tess is not the character I need. She’s too much for the readers I want to reach.
Her story, however, is compelling. I’ll edit and cut, and soften her edges. I’ll create a more sympathetic heroine. The fiction of Tess will be heartbreaking in a way that book clubs will embrace, and luckily, she has no desire for fame. I’ll take care of her. She doesn’t need to know that I’ll be the one paying the ridiculously low rent on her home, but if she does, I can’t imagine she’ll mind. She’ll stay in her beloved city without the burden of worrying about ending up homeless.
I’ll be her savior, and she’ll be there as my escape. As often as I need her, I can escape to the city where she thrives. Maybe if the book’s big enough, I’ll even write a sequel. All because of Tess, my broken sparrow.
28
Juliana
I’d spent two more days wandering the French Quarter with no more clues than I’d discovered the first night. If I’d been here for any other reason, I’m fairly sure it would be easy to see why people love this city. Music floats from so many corners. Some of the best is on the street, while semi-tuned cover bands blare from more than a few bars. The smells of food, cigarettes, pot, and spilled drinks give way to unmistakably unappealing smells the later it gets. Shops that range from antiques to negligées invite browsing as they blast their AC on full with doors propped open—if the trinkets don’t lure you, perhaps the cool will. It’s unapologetic in its efforts to sell every visitor something. And on a different trip, I could be enchanted, but today, I’m only frustrated.
Street hustlers look at the pictures of Teresa and shake their heads. Several times, I heard them say, “Tess.”
When pressed, though, no one admits it. No one will tell me a thing. I’ve run out of ideas. She’s here, or she’s been here. I’m sure of it. It’s not just because of the picture either. I see the expressions on people’s faces that say they recognize her, but they do nothing to help me. They lie. They shrug.
In their reactions, I understand how she’s stayed hidden. For whatever reason, no one here is willing to reveal where she is or even put me in touch with her.
I’ve given my name and number to several dozen people now. No one has called.
I ask every vagrant, musician, and shop worker willing to look at the pictures on my phone. I’m starting to think she is still a captive, and they are afraid of the Creeper. I can’t think of too many other reasons to see the flash of fear that comes over their faces more often than I can explain.
On the morning of the third day, my phone chirps. A text from an unknown number says, “Go to NOPD by St Louis 1.”
After only a couple of days in the city, I already know where that is. Exploring on foot makes it impossible not to get your bearings. There are several police stations, as in any city, but there is only one cemetery that draws every tourist: St. Louis Cemetery Number One.
That walled cemetery is the supposed resting place of both the voodoo queen, Marie Laveau, and the theorized tomb of serial killer Delphine LaLaurie. I laugh at the fact that even the dead are only reputed to be present here. Neither the living woman I’d believed dead nor these infamous dead women are truly locatable in New Orleans. The city, apparently, is designed for hiding women.
I can’t be too angry about it. Teresa Morris deserves to hide if she escaped the Carolina Creeper. With every report I’ve read, with every photograph of torn flesh, broken bones, and crudely drawn tattoos, I can’t imagine surviving after being his victim. Sometimes in the days after my meetings with Andrew I dreamed about the Creeper's victims, but my dreams are often of finding more bodies, of finding him, of being the dead woman staring up and unspeaking. I don’t dream of being Teresa or Ana or any of them when they were alive. I don’t ever imagine having to live with the things he’s done.
The horror of it is more than I can process.
Some days, I could barely face the glimpses of things I can tell he’s done to his victims.
I walk to the police station, the one closest to the cemetery, along Rampart Street. The area here is dirtier. Tourists seem to stay closer to either the heart of the French Quarter, or Canal Street where it borders what is called the Central Business District. Other than that, they go further up-river in the Garden District. It makes me think that Teresa must live further away, where she wouldn’t be exposed to the constant flood of tourists who could recognize her.
The area around the cemetery seems to be more locals—or people on guided tours.
“What the hell were you thinking?” The voice greets me before I see him. Henry Revill, Durham Police Detective, is standing outside the New Orleans Police Department with his arms folded and a glare on his face that could make the sweetest woman confess to any manner of sins just to make him smile again.
I, luckily, am not sweet. I’ve also been on the receiving end of that glare more times than I can count. “I was thinking that I’m a grown ass woman who can take a trip without permission. Uncle Micky can cover—”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know why you ought to tell a person when you’re leaving town, Jules. There is an investigation. You are . . .” He looks at me, not like I’m a suspect, but like he just needs to see that I’m okay. That, more than the glare or the words, makes guilt flare to life in me.
“I’m in another city,” I say carefully. “He wouldn’t know where I—”
“Why? Because it’s impossible to find you? Because you’re sure he’s not watching you?” Henry reaches out like he’s ready to snatch me to him, but he doesn’t. His hand is outstretched, but not touching me. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? I talked to Andrew—”
“Did you tell him where I am?” I interrupt.
“He seems to think you said you’d be in New York. For a wedding . . . but I can tell you right now that he believes it about as much as he believes you’re going to take up knitting and cookie baking.”
“I can bake.”
The look he gives my attempt at levity is not unexpected. He stares at me, visibly takes a second to calm the temper that’s come near the surface, and offers me his arm like a proper Southern gentleman. He doesn’t say anything further as we begin to walk.
Somewhere between the shock of seeing Henry and the fact that he’s rarely been this close to me the last year or so, I am at a loss for words. We are crossing Bourbon Street before I look up at him and say, “I’m sorry I frightened you. I hadn’t thought . . . I just had a lead and all I could think about was finding her.”
“You do realize that you are not a detective, right?” His slightly kinder tone is the closest he ever gets to saying we’re all right again.
It’s not much, but I’ll take it and be glad. “I know.”
We walk quietly, and I realize that instead of waiting until I’m back in Durham, I ought to tell him now. In truth, I should’ve told him when I found out that Tess is alive. The thought of finding her, of finding a way to save myself and every other woman that the Creeper wanted to hurt, skewed my logic.