Johnson took offense. He stepped in close, so only the supervisor’s console stood between them. Johnson glanced at the man’s nameplate on the front of the desk.
“Listen to me closely, Mr. Ante.”
“Antée,” the supervisor corrected him automatically without looking up.
“Look at me, Antée,” Johnson insisted.
The supervisor did. The aggressive lift of his chin emphasized his foul mood. “What is it now?”
Without visible emotion, Johnson leaned over and whispered into his ear. “We are here to help; we’re looking for a killer. He’s going to murder, in their own home, some luckless family who managed to survive this catastrophe. And yes, there will be a series of gunshots, because he’ll blow their heads off. One after another, including the children, forcing the others to watch. I know you’re not having a good day, but don’t you dare think we are. Those are not my gunshots; unless we can prevent them, they’ll come from the execution of a family guilty of nothing but surviving this disaster.”
Antée’s expression changed. He looked up at Johnson, nodded, and said nothing more.
35
BEAUTY
New Orleans, Louisiana
Martin chose this hotel because the bathrooms had no windows. They’d been designed as separate little rooms off the hallway between the bedroom and the door to the hotel corridor, and their only connection to the exterior was a grated air shaft. He’d blocked it with towels so he wouldn’t have to listen to the threatening low moan as the wind made the metal vibrate. In the late morning, he finally decided to step out of his refuge. The windows to the balcony had disappeared, as had every bit of furniture, even the bed. The headboard, bolted to the wall, was still in place. Ceiling panels had been ravaged, and the yellow electrical conduits for overhead lights dangled like wild vines. The worst of the hurricane was past, even though the wind was still blowing hard. Stepping over the debris, he approached the gaping opening where the window had been. The balcony railing was still in place, though it was battered and badly bent. Martin decided not to risk stepping outside. He leaned out to survey the scene. The sky in the east, still dark, was beginning to clear; the rain had let up, and the flood was starting to subside.
He’d been listening to the radio chatter as the Coast Guard’s Sikorsky helicopter pilots prepared to sortie. He had to hurry. He went back to the bathroom, clicked on his flashlight, and checked his appearance in the mirror. He peeled off his cotton shirt. He turned the handle of the faucet but got nothing but a gurgle and empty hissing sounds. Early that morning, the taps had disgorged a brownish, muddy trickle, but even that minimal flow had ceased. He used bottled water from his briefcase to brush his teeth, wash his face, and slick down his military-style crew cut. He put on a clean shirt, carefully starched and ironed, tucked it in, and buckled his belt. He checked himself in the mirror again and pinned his badge onto his breast pocket so the logo was clearly visible. He picked up his briefcase.
He grinned as he traversed what had been the reception area. The water was up to his knees. The downstairs was empty, as if a gigantic vacuum cleaner had sucked everything up.
No doors, no windows, no revolving door, no lights. All the ceiling panels were gone, and silvery sheets of insulation hung down like Christmas tinsel.
He left the hotel and made his way across the submerged sidewalk to the middle of the deserted street, carefully avoiding the splintered remains of advertising signs that hung perilously from building fronts. The rain had all but stopped. He waded down the flooded street. Several of the big trees nearby hadn’t survived the storm, including the immense live oak that had sheltered the local café. Swarms of mosquitoes hovered just inches above the surface of the water. Martin knew that when the sun came out, the marshy stink would be asphyxiating. He looked at his city map. He’d marked his route the night before.
In the distance, people were poking their heads out of windows and emerging into the flooded street. Their movements were sluggish and inhibited. It was like waking to a shared hangover; bewildered, they shrugged, exchanging those dismayed expressions Martin knew so well. He ignored calls for help from some of the people who were beginning to get over the initial shock.
“Hey, buddy! Give us a hand over here?”
He strode purposefully and pretended he hadn’t heard.
He kept wading through the streets, avoiding debris, mattresses, collapsed walls, and fallen trees. A couple of times he was forced to deviate from his planned route to get around fallen power lines. Reports on the radio had said the power was out in most of the city, but some fallen cables were buzzing ominously and generating showers of sparks when they brushed against walls.
It took him more than an hour to get to his destination. The edifice stood on a solid cement foundation, and perhaps that was why its inhabitants had decided to wait out the hurricane there. Access to the apartments was via a side staircase to a balcony passage that ran along the front of the second floor. He climbed eight steps, sat down, and dumped the water out of his boots. He gazed down in distaste at the thick black stain that discolored his trousers almost up to his waist. Glancing toward the end of the street, he was surprised to see turbulent water surging toward his location. That made no sense. The flood was rising, when by all rights it should have already begun to drain. He used his handkerchief in an effort to wipe the slime from his shirt, but all he managed to do was ruin the handkerchief. He folded it carefully and tucked it away in his back pocket.
The pervasive filth that surrounded him was even more disgusting than the discomfort of the damp heat and his wet clothes. Martin was a clean and meticulous person, and he knew that in moments of chaos and loss, when everything around them was covered with mud and dirt, his crisp appearance would project polite concern to his victims. That, along with the detailed advice he gave them, would assuage their initial misgivings and persuade them to give themselves freely into his care.
He pressed the doorbell to make sure the electricity wasn’t working. The result was a dry click under his finger, nothing more. Martin took a deep breath and let it out slowly, an actor preparing his entrance. He rapped his knuckles against the door and heard a distinct echo inside. The almost immediate response to his knock was the murmuring of stifled voices. Their voices were a mixture of both hope and fear. The door started to open but scraped the floor and jammed. A pistol barrel was thrust through the crack.
Martin used a sales technique he’d once found in a 1950s manual written by a traveling salesman. He stepped back just as the door opened. He remained absolutely still when a man’s face poked out. The man scrutinized him suspiciously. Martin smiled and tapped the badge on his mostly clean white shirt to draw the man’s attention. “Sabine family?”
He waited the full three seconds recommended by the manual and was greeted by an exclamation of relief. “Oh, my God! Thank heavens! It’s wonderful you got here so fast!”
Martin stayed where he was. The man hauled at the jammed door and eventually forced it open enough to admit him. Part of the rear wall and roof had been ripped away by the force of the winds, and rain had soaked almost everything inside the apartment.
“Is everyone all right?” asked Martin.
He really did want to know.
“Yes, thank God. We’re all fine, just a few scrapes and scratches, though I think Jana’s wrist may be broken.” He waved his hand toward a teenage girl seated on the floor, huddled under a blanket and shaking with chills. “But the house! Our home is wrecked,” he exclaimed as he kicked a tree branch that had made its way into the middle of the living room. He looked at Martin, who hadn’t moved from his place outside. Martin gave him a rueful, inquiring look; the man looked down and saw he was still carrying the gun. “Oh, of course. Sorry!” He looked around for some place to put it, found a low table littered with debris, swept it off, and left his gun there.