The Last Family

38

Woody carried the small nylon book sack as he escorted Reb to the red Volvo 850 that he had parked by the front doors. Children were scattering as they passed out of the doors of the buildings. Reb’s bus was in the line, along with ten others waiting for their passengers.

“Why can’t I ride the bus?” Reb asked as they reached the car. “And you follow like always.”

“Not today.” Woody’s reply was flat, businesslike. Alton Vance, one of the agents who had spent the last few days watching over Reb’s school, was in the rear seat, waiting.

Woody scanned the line of cars and buses for anyone who might be out of place before he climbed into the Volvo. Reb looked at the agent in the backseat. “Hi,” he said. His eyes rested on the short black object beside the agent’s leg. “What’s that?” he said, barely able to mask the excitement.

“That’s my water gun,” the agent said, smiling.

“It’s an Uzi, isn’t it?”

“Belt in, Reb,” Woody said.

“Can I shoot it sometime?”

“Get your hands wet. It leaks something awful,” Alton Vance said.

Woody cut his eyes to the backseat, and the agent shifted uncomfortably. Then he looked at Reb. “Forget it,” he said. He reached over and belted Reb into the seat. As they were pulling out, the cell phone rang. Woody opened it and put it to his ear. “Yeah?”

The agent listened for a few seconds and then put the telephone in his lap. The car accelerated rapidly and kept gaining speed until the needle was passing eighty. Alton’s eyes met Woody’s in the rearview.

“All right,” Reb said, his eyes searching Woody and the speedometer. “Smoke it, baby!”

Alton’s eyes asked the question.

“Sean dropped the package on St. Charles,” Woody said.

Alton tensed and nodded.

Reb looked up at Woody. “That’s code. A package means a person. ‘Dropped’ means ‘killed’? He killed somebody?”

Woody cut his eyes over on a straightaway. “No. Dropped means dropped. Lost.”

“Erin?” Reb’s face had lost color.

Woody nodded.

“The killing man got her?” His voice trembled.

“No,” Woody said, adding a reassuring smile. “She’s in a Mustang with some girlfriends.”

“That’s Jessica’s car. Jessica’s a B.”

“What?” Alton said.

“You know, beeotch.”

“What?” Woody said.

“Bitch,” Alton said, snickering. “Slang for bitch. Maybe it’s a Louisiana thing.”

“There’s an APB out on the Mustang,” Woody said.

Woody pulled the Volvo up in front of Laura’s house. Thorne stepped out onto the porch with an Uzi in his hand and waved. “The car’s been spotted on Canal Boulevard near the big cemetery. Go give Sean a hand.”

Woody put his mind to remembering the main streets, the way the city was laid out. Canal Boulevard, not Canal Street near the river.

Woody waited for Alton and Reb to get inside before he did a rolling turn in the middle of the street and took off toward St. Charles.

The telephone rang as Woody turned onto St. Charles. It was Sean calling from a prowl car.

“There’s a problem,” Sean said.

“You got the Mustang?” Woody asked.

“Well, sort of. We have the car. It’s just that Erin isn’t in it.”

“Where is she?”

“The girls are taking the fifth. They refuse to say anything. It’s some sort of misplaced loyalty.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Woody pulled around the prowl cars and slid to a stop, tires squealing. There were six city cops standing beside the car, swapping teases with the girls. Woody stepped from the Volvo with his hand behind his back and strode over to the driver’s-side window. “Pretty boy’s here,” he heard a cop say.

A red-faced Sean stepped back from the car, and the girls laughed. He gave Woody wide berth.

Woody put his face even with the driver’s. She was sixteen, had blond flyaway hair and wide, excited blue eyes. “You gonna take us in?” she said, putting her wrists together and holding them above the wheel. The other girls giggled their pleasure.

“Girls, this is an emergency. Where’s Erin?”

“You gonna beat it out of us?” the driver asked coyly.

“Erin’s life is in danger.”

“From Eric?” she said, then put her hand over her mouth and laughed.

“I bet it is!” another said.

“Where’d you drop her off?” Woody was still smiling.

The driver shrugged.

“This is a nice car. I bet your daddy bought it for you.”

“He sure did.”

“I hope he insured it.” Woody lost the smile, reached in and pulled the keys out, and threw them. They arced high, catching the sun as they traveled far into the cemetery.

Jessica crossed her arms in defiance. “I don’t have to tell you shit. When my father-”

“Your father isn’t here.”

“You better get those keys…” Her face was red with anger and disbelief. She stopped talking because Woody was pulling a gun from the holster under his navy blazer. He aimed at the front tire and pulled the trigger, filling the still air with the explosion. The tire gave up its air in a whoosh. The cops were stunned, and their hands went for their holsters reflexively. Sean stepped between the men and Woody, his own gun in his hand. “No interference!” he yelled. They froze.

Woody took a couple of steps as he contemplated the car. Then he placed the muzzle of the Glock against the front of the hood and pulled the trigger again, punching a black hole and causing a waterfall beneath the car. A plume of steam rose from the curb as the hot water rushed out and searched for the gutter drain. The girls in the car began crying but were too frightened to move. Passing cars slowed, startled faces took one look at what was happening and sped away.

“She’s in the Quarter!” Jessica yelled. “She’s meeting her boyfriend.”

“Name?”

“I dunno, Eric Garcia.”

“Eric Garcia,” Woody said.

Sean was speaking to the sergeant in charge, whose face was red. He ran to join Woody as the Volvo pulled away toward the Quarter. “He said he’s gonna report this.”

“What’d you say?”

“I told him to spell your name with an e.”

“The French Quarter is a big place. She might not even be there still. We need the police on this. They found the car.”

“What car? That’s crap. Fuck that. I know where she is.” He tossed Sean the partially empty magazine from the Glock and jammed in a fresh one, which he pulled from his pocket. “Fill that back up, will you? Shells in the glove box.” He turned to Sean. “So, cute girls, huh?”

Sean started laughing. If Woody knew where Erin was, his ass was going to be safe-chewed raw, but safe. In the meantime, if anything happened to Erin, he was convinced that Paul Masterson would kill him. Literally.

Martin had followed the Mustang filled with girls across Canal Street and into the French Quarter. He kept far enough back so they wouldn’t spot him, though he knew they wouldn’t look back. He had been wary of the prowl car, but it was far behind them.

Martin wasn’t certain why she had ditched the young agent Merrin, but he assumed she had a reason. He had wondered briefly if it might be a trick to flush him out, but he was fairly certain they believed he was out of state. He didn’t see anyone else on their tail. Unless one of the girls was a ringer, an undercover cop, it made no sense. He didn’t sense a trap, he sensed a fifteen-year-old runaway.

Now what would he do? What could he do? Tipping his presence wasn’t in any of his contingency plans. He decided to watch and wait. He imagined himself, a large python sliding in the grass behind a grazing rabbit, hungry but not starving.

The Mustang pulled over after the car turned onto Canal off Carondelet. The door opened, and Erin stepped out onto the curb. The Mustang sped away, the girls waving and squealing as the car gathered speed. She started walking down the street into the French Quarter, and Martin passed her, pulled into a parking garage, and stepped out. He handed the attendant his keys and a five-dollar bill just as Erin walked past the open door. What if Paul is in town? What if she is going to meet him? No, she hates her father. Or does she really? Probably not. He let her go a block before he started following her.

Erin had never been to Roscoe’s. It had been pointed out to her by friends who knew underage people who’d been served in the place. She stopped and gazed across Iberville at the sad front of the place as she gathered her courage. The sign had been neon, but vandals, or patrons, had put an end to that part which flickered blue. ROSCOE’S TAVERN. She looked at her watch. Two forty-five. She had told Eric she’d meet him there at three.

Erin walked to the front door and tried to open it. It was locked. She pressed her face against the window, using her hands to cut the extraneous light so she could see inside. There was movement inside the room, like a ghost moving in a dream. She tapped on the glass, and the form moved closer. Then the door cracked open at the seam, and she was staring into the eyes of a boy who couldn’t have been much older than she was.

“Yeah?” he said.

“You closed?”

“Open at six,” he said. His eyes didn’t move from hers.

“I was supposed to meet a friend here,” she said. “At three.”

The boy leaned up against the doorjamb and wiped his hands on a towel. “You can come in. It’s hot out there,” he said.

“Not if you’re closed.” She smiled.

“You could wait inside. I’m just cleaning up.”

“You work here?”

“My old man owns the place. It’s okay.”

“Your old man Roscoe?”

“Roscoe was a bulldog. Died before I was born.”

“I’ll wait out here.” She turned and saw that the man who had been on the corner was standing across the street in the window of another bar, staring at her. When she looked into his eyes, he averted them. She opened the door to Roscoe’s and slipped inside.

“Lock it back,” the boy called from behind the bar.

“You have a phone?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Pay phone.”

My purse is in my book bag! Erin reached into her pocket, but it was empty. She heard the sound of pool balls clicking in a back room and laughter. “Aren’t you closed?” she asked.

He turned his head toward the back room and then back to her. “My brother and some of his friends. Waiting for my dad for a handout. He’s gonna kill me for letting them in. They’re assholes.” He placed a quarter on the bar, and she took it. “I’ll pay you when my boyfriend gets here.”

“No prob,” he said.

She dialed the number Eric had given her. It rang and then a woman picked it up.

“Hello,” she said.

“Is Eric there?”

“Eric is taking his music lesson.”

“Where?”

“In the den. Who is this?”

“This is Erin Masterson. I’m a friend of Eric’s.”

“Might I take your number and have him call you after the lesson?”

“Could you get him to the phone for a second?”

“Sorry, Erin, I can’t interrupt.”

“How long is the lesson?”

“It’s over at four.”

“He must have forgotten the lesson, I guess?”

“No, the lesson is every Tuesday and Thursday. Is there a message?”

“No. Wait. Yes.” She thought for a minute, anger building at the betrayal. “Tell him he’s a liar. No, tell him he has no honor.”

Erin hung up, and when she turned, there was a beer on the bar between her and the boy who was busy cleaning glasses.

“You want the beer?” he said.

“Sure,” she said. “But I’m presently undercapitalized.”

He looked at her and tilted his head slightly.

“Broke.”

He smiled crookedly. She took a swallow, and her eyes teared from the cold, alien bite.

“He ain’t coming, huh?” the boy said. “It was me, I’d come.”

She thought he was sort of cute except that his head was all but shaved, his ears were big, and his unevenly spaced eyes were slightly different sizes. But he had a nice way about him. He was a boy with adult responsibilities.

“I don’t think so. Screw him.”

“Jaaaaackieee rat!” a voice boomed from the other room. The bead curtain parted, and a large man in his late thirties dressed in a black leather vest and jeans came into the room. His chest was filled with thick black hair. “You fuckin’ punk. Bring us a round. Well, well, well, little brother. You want to introduce me to your sweetheart?”

“This is my brother. He’s not really a doctor, he just looks like one.”

The man laughed out loud. His hair was black stubble. His skin was blue-white, and there were numerous homemade tattoos on his arms and chest. He moved up to stand beside the stool Erin was seated on, his unfocused eyes pinned on her.

“Buy you a drink?” he said.

“No, I have to go,” she said. He was scaring her.

“Stick around.”

“No, really. I have to go.” She moved.

“Come on, I insist. One little drink and you can go.”

Erin watched as the bottle arrived. The boy started to pour a jigger, but the man slapped it away, reached over the bar, and picked up a freshly washed mug. He poured three inches into the bottom and pushed it to her.

“I’m tellin’ Dad. That shit’s like forty bucks a bottle, wholesale.”

“I don’t drink whiskey,” she said.

“Leave her be,” the boy said.

“That’s a solid suggestion,” a voice said.

Erin looked up to see Woody standing in the doorway that led to the back room. The two other men who had been playing pool were standing behind him holding their cues. He walked out into the room. The two men followed menacingly, their eyes blurred by drink and drugs. Woody stopped three feet from the bar. The taller of the men behind Woody had a large ring through his nose. The agent didn’t even look at them.

“She’s old enough to do what she wants,” the biker said.

“Actually, she’s only fifteen,” Woody said.

The men moved farther into the room.

“He came straight in through the back door like he owned the place,” one said.

Woody crossed to the front door, unlocked and opened it for Sean. The agent walked in, glaring at Erin.

“What you guys want with her?” the biker at the bar asked.

Sean opened his badge case, and the biker looked at it.

“I don’t want to go home,” she said.

“Oh, DEA! Nice badge, but there’s no drugs here and the kid don’t wanna go. No tellin’ what you got planned for her. I know how you feds operate.” He put his hand behind his back as though he was reaching for something. Sean put a hand on the butt of his weapon inside the jacket.

“I’ll bet you do,” Woody said. “Why don’t you just sit on your hands? I? you’re thinking about pulling whatever you got back there, I have to warn you that I’m going to disarm you.”

The other two had moved up beside Erin and the biker.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Sean said.

“I’ll go,” Erin said weakly.

“You don’t gotta,” the biker said. “These cheese dicks got no authority here. This ain’t a federal deal.”

Woody moved to Erin, his face inches from the biker. “Erin, get up and walk to the door.”

The biker at the bar cut his eyes at his friends, and as he did, he swung his left hand, which held Erin’s mug, toward Woody’s face. With one fluid motion Woody caught the man’s wrist and allowed the swing to continue until the man was off balance. Then, using the man’s weight and the motion of the swing against him, he reversed it and there was a sickening pop as the bones in the wrist broke. The biker was left holding his limp hand in his right one like a sleeping puppy.

The other two men stepped back with their pool cues upraised defensively. “Jesus!” the larger one said, stumbling.

“Jesus!” Erin repeated.

Then Woody turned to the biker, slapped him hard across the face, and when the man turned from the blow, Woody lifted the large hunting knife from behind his belt. Woody looked at the blade for a second, then lifted the knife over his head. The biker collapsed against the bar as the blade came down in an arc and was driven so deeply into the bar’s surface that little more than the handle was showing.

“Hot damn!” the boy behind the bar said, amazed. He reached out and touched the handle tentatively. Then he gripped it with both hands and pushed and pulled for a few seconds with everything he had, but the knife wouldn’t waver.

The other two men had backed up all the way to the door leading to the pool room.

Woody looked at the boy behind the bar and smiled. “Keep trying, King Arthur. Who knows?” He put his hand on Erin’s arm and led her to the door.

Sean stepped out into the street first and scanned the sidewalks and tops of the buildings until Woody had secured Erin in the backseat of the waiting Volvo. A pair of police cars had parked one at either end of the block.

Martin had seen the cars approaching, the Volvo leading, and had stepped into a small rare-book shop located diagonally across the street from Roscoe’s. He stood inside the shop’s window with a book of poetry in his hands, looking up casually as the agents loaded Erin into the waiting Volvo. Sean Merrin climbed into the driver’s seat, and for a brief second Martin’s eyes met Woody’s as the agent paused before entering the car’s passenger door. Martin dropped his eyes to the pages of the book, and when he looked up again, the Volvo was gone. He glanced at the book’s spine as though he were checking the condition of the cover and then set it back on the shelf.