stress disorder, but I’d thought she was exaggerating, as she is prone to do from time to time. Now that I’d somehow managed to shake off the numbness and depression, I thought I was on top of the world. But on the way home, it had come over me without warning. Maybe it was the enormity of the wreckage I’d seen out there—I vaguely remembered starting to feel a little overwhelmed on my way out there—but I thought I’d successfully fought that off. I’d also been relatively fine while going through Iris’s house—but on the way back to my neighborhood it hit me with the full force of an almost complete emotional breakdown. It started as I passed under I-10 on Elysian Fields—my hands started to shake on the steering wheel. The harder I gripped it, the worse they shook. Before long, my entire body was trembling and I was having difficulty catching my breath. My eyes began watering, and all I could think was oh my God oh my God oh my God over and over again. My mind began racing, heading down into a deep dark space. It was horrible. I was aware of it and unable to stop it. The car started swerving a bit, and I slowed down to a crawl, and I finally managed to pull over into the deserted parking lot of an abandoned Exxon station. I sat there for a few moments, listening to my heart pound while I tried to focus on breathing normally. I cleared my head and focused on the breathing, closing my eyes. In and out, nice and slow, nice and steady, that’s it, just breathe, in and out, in and out. I don’t know how long I sat there, trying to get a grip on myself, but it eventually started to pass, leaving me breathing hard and still shaking a little, completely drenched in sweat. I managed to get the car back home and once I was safely inside my house I loaded my pipe and took a couple of hits. That seemed to help take the edge off, and I decided it might not be a bad idea to meet Paige and everyone over at the Avenue Pub for a drink or two—or three, or however many felt right.
It was fucking scary as hell.
*
I glanced at the phone and didn’t recognize the number. The caller ID just said NEW ORLEANS. I generally don’t answer numbers that aren’t familiar to me, but I was in a good mood and chances are it was a wrong number, so I answered, “Chanse MacLeod.”
“Please hold,” a woman’s voice said, and for a few seconds I listened to hold music—a horrendous Muzak version of something that sounded vaguely Andrew Lloyd Webberish—and was just about to hang up when a raspy, whispery voice said, “Mr. MacLeod?”
“This is Chanse MacLeod.” Now I was getting annoyed. I’d reached the Prytania corner, and if this call wasn’t over pretty soon, I was going to hang up before entering the Avenue Pub. “Who is this?”
“Percy Verlaine,” the voice replied, sounding like he was having trouble breathing.
I stopped dead in my tracks. Percy Verlaine? Iris’s grandfather? Why the hell was he calling me? “Yes? What can I do for you, Mr. Verlaine?”
“Are you free tomorrow at noon?” he asked, pausing between each word as though forming the words caused him pain.
“Perhaps.”
“Please come to my home for lunch. There are some matters we need to discuss.” And the phone went dead.
Now I was annoyed. First of all, I hadn’t said I was free. Second of all, what on earth did we have to discuss? Unless he had some information about his missing son-in-law. Joshua Verlaine must have told him I was continuing the investigation Iris had started. That kind of worried me a little—if Iris had indeed been killed because she was looking for her father, that didn’t bode well for Joshua. After viewing the remains of the crime scene, I was relatively certain Iris’s death hadn’t been a random burglary. I couldn’t make any sense of why, though—unless, of course, her father hadn’t disappeared but been murdered himself—and what did that note on the back of the picture mean? Chartres
It was fucking scary as hell.
*
I glanced at the phone and didn’t recognize the number. The caller ID just said NEW ORLEANS. I generally don’t answer numbers that aren’t familiar to me, but I was in a good mood and chances are it was a wrong number, so I answered, “Chanse MacLeod.”
“Please hold,” a woman’s voice said, and for a few seconds I listened to hold music—a horrendous Muzak version of something that sounded vaguely Andrew Lloyd Webberish—and was just about to hang up when a raspy, whispery voice said, “Mr. MacLeod?”
“This is Chanse MacLeod.” Now I was getting annoyed. I’d reached the Prytania corner, and if this call wasn’t over pretty soon, I was going to hang up before entering the Avenue Pub. “Who is this?”
“Percy Verlaine,” the voice replied, sounding like he was having trouble breathing.
I stopped dead in my tracks. Percy Verlaine? Iris’s grandfather? Why the hell was he calling me? “Yes? What can I do for you, Mr. Verlaine?”
“Are you free tomorrow at noon?” he asked, pausing between each word as though forming the words caused him pain.
“Perhaps.”
“Please come to my home for lunch. There are some matters we need to discuss.” And the phone went dead.
Now I was annoyed. First of all, I hadn’t said I was free. Second of all, what on earth did we have to discuss? Unless he had some information about his missing son-in-law. Joshua Verlaine must have told him I was continuing the investigation Iris had started. That kind of worried me a little—if Iris had indeed been killed because she was looking for her father, that didn’t bode well for Joshua. After viewing the remains of the crime scene, I was relatively certain Iris’s death hadn’t been a random burglary. I couldn’t make any sense of why, though—unless, of course, her father hadn’t disappeared but been murdered himself—and what did that note on the back of the picture mean? Chartres
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