His face darkened as Nana heaped her maledictions upon him. All amusement disappeared. He pursed his lips and started shaking his head. He was confused. “What you saying, you damn old witch?”
“I curse you!” Nana continued, her contempt doubling as she distilled into words all her rage and pain, her disgust growing in measure with his cowardly alarm.
“Shut yo’ mouth!” he almost pleaded.
She filled her lungs, raised her chin, and looked deep into his eyes. “Maudit!” she answered, knowing it was so.
He panicked. His breathing was fast and labored. His eyes bulged from the surge of adrenaline. He raised one immense fist and aimed it at Nana’s face.
The lights went out everywhere in the Superdome.
Nana sensed the speed of the punch, felt the displacement of air, and heard the tremendous bang just beside her ear as his fist slammed into the wall. Her legs gave way. She slid to the floor. On all fours she groped numbly for the door. She pushed it and kept crawling until the humidity and heat told her she was back in the tunnel. The only illumination was from the emergency lights pointing the way to the exits. She dragged herself to the wall and somehow found handholds that let her get back to her feet. Leaning against the concrete block wall, she took one step after another, wondering how she could still hear the stifled sobbing of that poor woman before finally realizing she was the one making those agonized sounds. She stopped and forced herself to breathe deeply and steadily. There was a draft in the passage, and it built to a steady blast, as if she were standing in a wind tunnel instead of sheltering in a stadium passage. She felt a spreading wetness below her waist. She knew what it was, but even so, her hand went between her legs to verify her shame.
The lights came back on and Nana began to scream.
30
NOT TONIGHT
New Orleans, Louisiana
Early morning, Monday, August 29, 2005
Amaia came awake slowly and listened carefully. She made out rhythmic breathing. Johnson and Charbou were sound asleep despite the roar of the storm and the constant ringing of telephones in the command center next door, which was only slightly muted by the walls. She assumed Dupree and Bull were still busy somewhere else in the fire station. Checking her watch, she found it was almost five in the morning. Dawn would arrive soon, though as yet the covered window admitted no light.
From the cot she could see some of the crime scene photos they’d sorted spread out across the conference table. Disorder, destruction, and chaos ruled each scene. Her impressions were jumbled. She was absolutely certain crucial clues were to be found at the crime scenes, and she hadn’t been able to get them out of her head. The answer lay in the killer’s staging, again and again, a desired outcome. Was it some sort of macabre therapy in which he took out his bitterness upon others? Or were these just rehearsals for an upcoming final act? If so, what was he waiting for, what permission did he need before murdering his entire family a second time? How many more times would he be driven to rehearse his final solution?
She closed her eyes and called up images—Lenx, alone, smiling at the photographer; Brad Nelson in a group of policemen at a party; the Lenx daughter and Nelson’s, both redheads; Lenx’s wife with her prudish, fearful expression; Nelson’s Sarah, confident and smiling. The two women were so different! Amaia wondered if this was the sort of adjustment a psychopath would be capable of making. Would he seek out a good-looking, independent wife? That didn’t fit Lenx as Amaia understood him. Captain Reed had tried to convince them the Nelsons’ domestic disturbance hadn’t been terribly serious, yet he’d acknowledged it wasn’t the first time Nelson had gotten carried away. Brad Nelson had tried to force his wife to accept his way of thinking and return to the fold.
Sarah Nelson’s smile on her driver’s license looked carefree, but Amaia knew that meant little. Could she have been enduring abuse? Violence, even? And then there was the business about Nelson sneaking into a church. It would have been interesting to have photos of the Nelson home before and after the domestic dispute that brought the police into the picture. Nelson’s wife left him after that and took the children almost a thousand miles away. What would Lenx do in that situation? Resolve it the way he had eighteen years earlier? He’d go after them, certainly. But if he was a policeman now, he couldn’t just go running off to kill them all.
Someone opened the door at the end of the hall. The clamor of dozens of telephones ringing simultaneously burst across her like an ocean wave, then lowered abruptly when the door swung shut. She had the impression that the incoming calls in the operations center had intensified over the last hour. She needed to think, but as her mind grappled with the information she’d received over the last twenty-four hours, she realized she was going in circles, a sure sign that sleep was about to overpower her. She could choose to resist it or give in. Falling asleep wasn’t deliberate, and sleep wasn’t something she willingly yielded to. It stole up on her like a thief in the night. It kidnapped her consciousness while she struggled and resisted. She’d always been that way.
And . . .
She’s very tired, but she knows she mustn’t sleep, so she forces herself to open her eyes, sit up, and leave the bed. She feels the warmth of the waxed floorboards beneath her. She looks down at her little feet, tiny and pale, shuffling across the dark floor to stand between her sisters’ beds. Ros’s eyes are closed, and she looks like she’s sleeping, her long, dark hair in an intricate braid stark against her pillow. Flora, also with her hair in a braid, is reading by the light of the little bronze lamp with the mermaid base. Flora becomes aware of her sister’s presence and puts down the book with an annoyed expression. “You again? Now what’s wrong?”
Amaia takes a deep breath and exhales before answering. “I’m scared, Flora. Let me sleep with you.”
“I already said no. You better go back to bed before Ama finds out.”
Ros opens her eyes and pushes herself up on one elbow. She heard everything, but she repeats the question anyway. That’s just how Rosaura is. “Amaia, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you asleep?” She regards Amaia with infinite patience.
“Ros, I’m really, really scared. Let me sleep next to you.” Her voice breaks. She’s about to cry, but she wills herself not to, because Flora makes fun of her whenever she weeps.
“Amaia, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” As usual, Ros speaks slowly to her, as if Amaia is just a baby. “Flora’s bed is by the door, and I’m here too. We’ll protect you.”
“Not me!” Flora contradicts her. “I don’t protect anybody at night. All I do is sleep. And you two had better do that too. I’m going to turn off the light.”
Amaia is terribly tired, and she feels everything slipping away. “No, no, no, don’t turn out the light, don’t do that, don’t turn it off, don’t turn out the light!”
Despite the chill in their bedroom, Amaia is sweating in terror, her eyes squeezed shut. She’s sinking fast. She tries opening her eyes wide, but that triggers the first tears, and after that, they flow freely down her cheeks, a torrent of fear and anguish.
“Please!” she begs in a whisper, so exhausted she’s almost inaudible.