Harrison Investigations 2 Ghost Walk (10 page)

Julian stared out to the street and searched the cleanshaven faces. So did she.

"Where?" Julian said.

"There, in the middle of them," Nikki announced. She ran into the street, into the midst of the ten or so young men.

"Hey!" said one, almost falling into her.

"Hi, there, babe," another slurred. He cast an arm sloppily around her shoulder.

"Hey, get your hands off her," Julian demanded forcefully.

Nikki was barely aware of their exchange.

"He… he was here," she said, puzzled.

"Who was here, honey? I'm available," a blond kid with a New York accent said, smiling stupidly and coming up on her other side.

"Leave her alone," Julian said angrily.

"Yeah? And who are you? Her daddy… pimp daddy, something like that?"

Julian hauled off, catching the young man beneath the jaw. He sucked in his breath, staggered back and fell.

"Julian… shit!" Nikki breathed, her attention wrenched back to their current situation.

"Hey, asshole, there was no call for that," the blonde from New York said. He dropped his plastic drink cup and strode menacingly toward Julian.

Others began to follow suit, circling him as their friend staggered to his feet.

"Everyone!" Nikki announced loudly. "Stop it right now. I'm going to scream, I'll get the police. Just calm down."

No one seemed to hear her. The first kid reached Julian. He dodged that blow, but another one of the youths was to his right, and he took a swing.

"Stop!" Nikki jumped onto the back of one of them. He didn't even seem to notice her weight. She banged a fist on the top of his head. "Stop it right now!"

He still didn't seem to notice her. She slid off his back, landing on her rump.

In a fair fight, Julian could handle himself. Against ten or so…

He didn't stand a chance.

Nikki opened her mouth to start screaming. The police had to come, and come quickly.

"Hey!"

The voice that suddenly thundered through the crowd was deep and resonant, and had a note of such pure authority that everyone, including Nikki, suddenly went dead still.

A man came striding into the frozen tableau. From her position on her butt in the street, he seemed extraordinarily tall, dark, broad shouldered and well muscled beneath a casual knit polo shirt and jeans. He caught hold of the kid who was about to deck Julian.

"What the hell is going on here?"

"He started it." The college boy sounded like a grade-school kid in trouble.

"They were coming on to Nikki," Julian said.

"Just break it up, all of you," the man said irritably.

"Or what?" ventured one of the drunker college boys.

The man stared at him. That was it; he just stared.

"Just asking," the boy muttered. He turned and started down the street. "Come on, guys, let's get out of here."

They all followed suit, heading down the street.

The man turned toward where Nikki was still sitting on the street. He strode toward her, offering her a hand up.

She saw his face.

His complexion was a deep tan, almost bronze, his eyes a startling, brilliant green. The hard chiseled angles and planes clearly denoted a Native American background somewhere. His hair was pitch dark and dead straight, just a little long. It wasn't so much that he was typically handsome, but he was one of the most arresting individuals she had ever seen. He seemed to emit confidence and authority, and not just because of his imposing height or the breadth of his shoulders. There was a sleek agility about him for a man of his size, and his features were hard cut, seeming to exude an essentially masculine sensuality mixed with stark assurance.

His hand, outstretched to her, was large, the fingers long, nails neatly clipped, clean—and powerful, she quickly discovered.

But it wasn't the strength of his grip, bringing her easily to her feet that so disturbed her.

It was his touch.

Energy, almost like a fire, or a current, streaking from him to her.

And then…

His eyes.

They looked into hers.

And they saw something.

What, she didn't know. He released her instantly, stepping back, surveying her, not in a sexual way, and not with disdain or disinterest.

As if he recognized her.

"Are you all right?" he asked politely.

"Um… fine," she murmured.

He nodded. "You?" he asked Julian.

"Yeah, thanks to you," Julian told him, eyeing the stranger curiously. "Hey, we kind of owe you. Can we buy you a drink or something?"

The man shook his head. "You don't owe me anything." He cracked a slight smile, which transformed his face. He was suddenly striking. Still hard, but striking.

"I just wouldn't mess with large crowds in the future, huh?" he suggested.

With a wave, he turned and left them.

 

Brent walked down the street, shaking his head.

New Orleans.

America's most European city. A mixture of architecture and mood, sultry heat and shifting shadows. It was as if time had cast a mood over the city that had sunk into the very bones of its man-made structures. History piled upon the passions of those who had lived before.

It held the remnants of days gone by, mixed with the new, the lively, the present-day city, with its love of gardens, jazz, good times and voodoo.

There was unbelievable talent to be found with the turn of a corner, like the old black man two streets over who had played a banjo better than he'd ever heard before. The man had just been sitting there, playing and smiling and, Brent hoped, making a fair amount of money from the passersby who were dropping bills in his instrument case.

Brent passed a closed shop with a storefront announcing "Dolly's Dolls," and next to it was a neon light advertising "Girls, Girls, Naked Girls."

People laughing, drinking, admiring artists, musicians, mimes…

People drinking themselves silly, picking fights.

The encounter he'd just had was disturbing, and he didn't want to think about it.

He could still feel her hand in his.

And he'd walked away. Which had been smart. Still, he couldn't help but wonder about the woman. She had the biggest, brightest eyes he'd ever seen. Green. Blue. Aqua. Something like the sea, somewhere in between. Fairly tall, nice figure, obvious even in the long black dress she'd been wearing.

A Goth? Hell, everybody in this city seemed to think they were a voodoo queen, a long-dead duchess, a vampire or a tarot reader.

No, maybe not. The guy with her had been wearing a somber black suit.

Funeral, he realized suddenly.

He shook his head, stopped in the street. From the corner to his right, a rock band hammered out a Stones tune. From the other corner, he could hear jazz. Somewhere down the street, a blues guitar was belting out an indiscernible tune.

He swore softly.

New Orleans.

Hell, welcome home.

Oh, yeah. It was just great to be here.

 

"You're going off the deep end, Nikki," Julian said. "That was just great. Throwing yourself into a group of drunks. What were you expecting? And don't even think about giving me a lecture on how no one deserves to be attacked. You went flying into a sludge of inebriated testosterone in its sweet young prime, so what were you expecting?"

"I saw him!" she said, finding the catch on the gate and pushing it open herself. Julian's words made her feel guilty—he was a good friend, and he would have defended her to the death, which, considering the drunken mood of the rowdy gang, just might have been the sad finale if it hadn't been for their strange savior—but he couldn't begin to understand how she was feeling. "Julian, I'm sorry, but… I saw him," she repeated.

"Yeah, and I saw him, too, whoever the hell he was, and I have to admit, it was a damn good thing he showed up when he did. I'm not much brighter than you are, apparently, since I got it into my head to defend you from a pack of wolves."

She waved a hand in the air. "Not
him
," she said, though the "him" to whom Julian was referring had been almost as disturbing as the man she had first seen. "Not… not the guy who came along and broke the whole thing up. I mean, I saw the man who was in the coffee shop that day. The day before Andy was killed."

"Okay, okay, so you saw him," Julian said, hurrying behind her to the door. "Some bum who was in the coffee shop. You saw him. Great. But… so what? Nikki, I'm sorry to say that we have tons of drunks and addicts in this city. You saw a loser in a coffee shop, and tonight you saw him again. Hell, I run into the same people I
don't really know day after day. And as to this guy—you can't really think that he followed you all day, through a tour, into the night… and then went after Andy?"

She had reached her door and was suddenly so irritated that she nearly twisted her key in half unlocking the door. Before letting Julian in, she spun on him. "You don't understand. Julian, Andy said something about him."

"When? At Madame's?" he demanded. "Was he someone she knew? What exactly did she say?"

Fiercely, she shook her head. "She didn't know him, or at least I don't think she did. And she didn't say anything about him in the
café. It was… in the dream. Julian, she said something about him being dead. And I… I think it's important somehow."

He stared at her wide-eyed for a moment, then caught her by the shoulders and pushed her forward, into the parlor of her apartment. Once they were inside, he closed and locked the door, then looked at her sternly. "Nikki, you had a dream. A nightmare. Weird? Yes. The mind plays tricks, but I think you're just feeling guilty about the fact that Andrea was murdered. People do feel that way—why her, why not me? Nikki, what happened was terrible, tragic things happen on a daily basis. It's just that usually bad things don't occur so close to us. So think about it—under these circumstances, it's a very normal thing that your mind might play tricks. People don't remember their dreams in detail, so you don't really know what you dreamed. Listen to yourself. You're telling me that Andy said the guy was dead, but now you're certain you saw him on the street. It's one or the other, Nikki. You've got to get a grip."

"Julian, what if—"

"I know a doctor, Nikki. A good one."

She stared back at him, her mouth open, no sound coming out. At last she found her voice. "I don't need a doctor, Julian. I need some faith here."

"Nikki, I'm sorry, but… " He stopped with a sigh, then walked into the living room, hit the light switch and sat down on the Victorian sofa. "Okay, you really believe that you had a dream, and Andy was in it—right when she was dying."

"Or being killed."

Julian sighed. "Or being killed. She was talking about the guy you'd seen at Madame's. Now, tonight, you saw the guy. What you need to do, logically, is go to the police. I think you'll feel better if you stress to Detective Massey the fact that you've seen this guy, this kind of scary bum or junkie, on the street again. Massey can hunt him down and question him."

She had been standing angrily, her arms crossed over her chest, frowning. But his words made sense.