second-floor dwelling from the hallway; he followed before she could close the door.
He didn’t speak. He checked out the bedrooms and closets—and left again.
Yet, she remained aware.
And she knew that even when she was in bed, the doors locked, the lights out...
He was still with her.
He stood in the street below.
Gray eyes intently fixed upon her windows...
seven
A PRIL FELT EYES.
They came out of the darkness.
Odd, she’d never felt the least unnerved leaving the club before. She knew her stomping grounds; this was her neighborhood. She and Marty had an apartment right around from the river, and she had spent her three years working at the club walking home to that apartment every time she was off duty. New Orleans could be scary; stomping grounds or not, everybody knew that. Came with the territory. New York City could be scary, L.A. could be scary, any city could be scary. Safety was in knowing the terrain. She avoided the streets the restaurateurs warned the tourists to avoid; she walked in light. She carried Mace.
She usually left the club with Marty.
Not tonight. Marty was working another few hours; she wanted to get home. Gregory had intended to leave early, she knew, and she’d planned to go the distance with him. But Harry had called Gregory back in, and she’d hesitated. When Shelly, working the bar, had told her that Gregory would be at least another twenty minutes, she’d weighed her fear against her urgent desire to get home to her baby, and relieve her sister. They had a good deal going; she watched Jessy’s baby by day, and Jessy watched her baby by night.
Sleep was the only thing they seemed to miss out on in the deal.
There was no reason to be more afraid than usual—poor Gina. It was heartbreaking. But Gina had just been playing too many places. Falling in love with the artist, keeping Harry on a leash, teasing Jacques Moret when either the desire urged her or the loneliness got her down. With everything going, she’d still call on other friends when boredom seized her, or when she just couldn’t seem to see things straight.
Gina had played with fire. And she’d gotten burned. Poor, sweet, confused kid. Still, her murder had surely been personal.
There was no reason to fear the streets...
But she shouldn’t have started walking home. A mist was rising, dampening the streetlights, settling over the city. Ghostly images of the old, narrow, darkened streets hovered before her. A dog howled; the fog seemed to whirl from the ground, up and around old wrought-iron balconies, fences and gates. The scent of gardenias wafted on the air, curled in with the mist. She didn’t have far to go.
The streets seemed uncannily silent. Jazz had ceased to fill the streets with its trumpets, horns, and saxes. She began to sing to keep herself company.
“Goin’ down by the river where it’s warm and green, I got a lot to think about—” She broke off. She was singing from a Concrete Blond album. Bloodletting . She loved Concrete Blond. She adored that particular album, because there were direct references to New Orleans.
“O you were a vampire, and baby I’m walking dead...”
Oh, good, maybe now was not the time for such a song to keep haunting her.
Too bad.
The tune kept spinning through her head. The streets remained eerily silent.
Was it always this quiet this late, or this early, as it might be?
Turn...her street was coming up, right in front of her. She heard her own breath, heard her own footsteps. Ahead, out of the silence of the fog, a wrought-iron gate creaked.
The gate stood ajar. She felt as if she was on a movie set. More and more fog seemed to be spilling from the gate. Any minute a man in a floating black cape and top hat would take a menacing and deadly step out into the narrow streets from the field of mist and fog. The moon would rise, and light would reflect from the glittering steel blade that he carried.
“Get a grip, April!” she said aloud firmly. She
He didn’t speak. He checked out the bedrooms and closets—and left again.
Yet, she remained aware.
And she knew that even when she was in bed, the doors locked, the lights out...
He was still with her.
He stood in the street below.
Gray eyes intently fixed upon her windows...
seven
A PRIL FELT EYES.
They came out of the darkness.
Odd, she’d never felt the least unnerved leaving the club before. She knew her stomping grounds; this was her neighborhood. She and Marty had an apartment right around from the river, and she had spent her three years working at the club walking home to that apartment every time she was off duty. New Orleans could be scary; stomping grounds or not, everybody knew that. Came with the territory. New York City could be scary, L.A. could be scary, any city could be scary. Safety was in knowing the terrain. She avoided the streets the restaurateurs warned the tourists to avoid; she walked in light. She carried Mace.
She usually left the club with Marty.
Not tonight. Marty was working another few hours; she wanted to get home. Gregory had intended to leave early, she knew, and she’d planned to go the distance with him. But Harry had called Gregory back in, and she’d hesitated. When Shelly, working the bar, had told her that Gregory would be at least another twenty minutes, she’d weighed her fear against her urgent desire to get home to her baby, and relieve her sister. They had a good deal going; she watched Jessy’s baby by day, and Jessy watched her baby by night.
Sleep was the only thing they seemed to miss out on in the deal.
There was no reason to be more afraid than usual—poor Gina. It was heartbreaking. But Gina had just been playing too many places. Falling in love with the artist, keeping Harry on a leash, teasing Jacques Moret when either the desire urged her or the loneliness got her down. With everything going, she’d still call on other friends when boredom seized her, or when she just couldn’t seem to see things straight.
Gina had played with fire. And she’d gotten burned. Poor, sweet, confused kid. Still, her murder had surely been personal.
There was no reason to fear the streets...
But she shouldn’t have started walking home. A mist was rising, dampening the streetlights, settling over the city. Ghostly images of the old, narrow, darkened streets hovered before her. A dog howled; the fog seemed to whirl from the ground, up and around old wrought-iron balconies, fences and gates. The scent of gardenias wafted on the air, curled in with the mist. She didn’t have far to go.
The streets seemed uncannily silent. Jazz had ceased to fill the streets with its trumpets, horns, and saxes. She began to sing to keep herself company.
“Goin’ down by the river where it’s warm and green, I got a lot to think about—” She broke off. She was singing from a Concrete Blond album. Bloodletting . She loved Concrete Blond. She adored that particular album, because there were direct references to New Orleans.
“O you were a vampire, and baby I’m walking dead...”
Oh, good, maybe now was not the time for such a song to keep haunting her.
Too bad.
The tune kept spinning through her head. The streets remained eerily silent.
Was it always this quiet this late, or this early, as it might be?
Turn...her street was coming up, right in front of her. She heard her own breath, heard her own footsteps. Ahead, out of the silence of the fog, a wrought-iron gate creaked.
The gate stood ajar. She felt as if she was on a movie set. More and more fog seemed to be spilling from the gate. Any minute a man in a floating black cape and top hat would take a menacing and deadly step out into the narrow streets from the field of mist and fog. The moon would rise, and light would reflect from the glittering steel blade that he carried.
“Get a grip, April!” she said aloud firmly. She
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