Catacomb (12 page)

“W
hy are you following us?” Dan shouted as he ran, startling the drunk, dancing girls and a cluster of pigeons out of his way. He hopped the wooden barricade protecting the square from traffic, barreling toward the red car.

“Why?”
he yelled again.

Already the guy and girl were scrambling to get inside the car. Dan reached the car, sweating hard and out of breath, just as the boy slammed the driver-side door shut. But his window was open and Dan latched on to the edge. A dark-haired guy who looked to be in his twenties stared back, his eyes blazing.

“Who are you?” Dan clung to the window even as the guy turned the key in the ignition. “Why were you photographing me and my friends? What the hell do you want?”

“You want to know who I am? Here.” The guy shoved a business card at him. “Meet us later. Eight o’clock sharp. I don’t want to talk here, for more reasons than one.”

When Dan didn’t take his hands off the window, the guy flicked the card at him. It hit him in the neck and then fluttered to the ground, distracting Dan just long enough that the guy had a chance to back down the street into an alley, rolling up his window with a grim look on his face. Still full of adrenaline, Dan stooped to sweep up the card and then took
off after the car. Immediately, he collided with a man trying to unpack his trumpet for busking. Dan apologized and tried to keep going, but the car had found a break in the foot traffic, speeding too far ahead for Dan to catch up.

He swore under his breath.

Close. So close.

Dan stared down at the card, finding scrolling black print on an off-white background.

Berkley & Daughters:
Purveyors of the antique, aged, and absurd—since 1898.
New Orleans

No address. No phone number. Just a name and a time.

They would have to be enough.

T
he sounds of slurping and gulping were almost as loud as the music, and getting more nauseating by the second. Dan stared down at his tray of oysters and then pushed it away, unable to dredge up any enthusiasm for cold, raw shellfish.

Jordan took what Dan refused to eat, spooning red sauce into the craggy shells before bolting it all down.

“I think we should go,” Dan said for the third time.

His friends seemed hell-bent on ignoring him.

“What have we learned about this kind of thing?” Jordan asked, lowering his voice so Uncle Steve wouldn’t hear. There was little danger of that, though, since Steve was doing just about everything he could to flirt with their waitress. At the moment, he was at the bar “ordering a drink,” even though there was table service. “It’s usually a trap. Someone winds up hurt or dead. Hardly the way you want to spend your first night in N’Awlins.”

Dan sighed, looking down at the Berkley & Daughters card sitting on the red-and-white checked tablecloth. It was barely visible in the low light. He had to wonder why it was so dark in the oyster shack, if not to keep people from actually seeing what they were swallowing.

“Look, whoever is sending messages from Micah’s account keeps contacting me whenever these people show up,” Dan said, meeting Jordan’s eye. “Either they’re the ones behind the messages, or there’s another connection there, and I want to know what it is. Don’t you?”

“Do you think there’s going to be a reasonable explanation?” Abby asked, chiming in from across the table. She sipped her sweet tea, then wiped at her chin, only now catching the powdered sugar stain that he’d noticed before. “Do you think it’s going to set your mind at ease? Or will it just make things worse?”

Dan stalled, stumped. Put like that . . . “Well, I don’t know. But I really don’t think this would be that big of a risk. These two didn’t seem all that scary up close. Maybe there is a logical explanation.”

Wouldn’t that be a change of pace?

Jordan chewed at the inside of his cheek, sharing a look with Abby before adjusting his glasses and saying, “Felix didn’t seem all that scary at first, either. Neither did any of those students mixed up in the Scarlets. Just because someone
seems
okay up close doesn’t mean they’re innocent.”

“Well, that’s a terrible philosophy to take through life,” Dan said.

“You’re not going to drop this, are you?” Sighing, Jordan finished another oyster and then pushed his empty basket away. “Will you at least let me ask Uncle Steve about this place? It would make me feel better if he knew about it.”

That was a bargain Dan could easily make. “By all means.”

They waited until Steve returned to the table on his own—to
his credit, he’d actually managed to obtain a new drink—and then Jordan showed him the card.

“Sure, I know it,” Uncle Steve said immediately. “Little antique place just a few blocks from the house. They do a mean poetry slam there once a month. Nice family owns it, I think. One of the sons is usually behind the counter.”

Dan cleared his throat softly, trying not to look too smug.

“You win,” Jordan said, putting up his hands. “Uncle Steve seal of approval granted. Let’s just hope this
nice
boy behind the counter is willing to talk.”

“I feel like the
adults
should have chaperones here,” Jordan whispered, pulling Abby and Dan in closer to him as they navigated the New Orleans streets that evening.

“What about us?” Abby asked.

“At least we’re sober.”

Dan laughed, but it died quickly in his throat. His upper-middle-class suburban neighborhood back home felt totally safe, even quaint, at night. Here, shadows moved between shallow pools of lamplight, and sometimes a laugh or a shout burst out of an open doorway or a window. He could smell the lake, but the humidity dampened the fresh air, and any time they passed by a restaurant, the harsh bite of spices cooking and sizzling overpowered everything else. Groups brushed by them, most too stumbling and rowdy to notice who or what they were knocking into.

“I feel like we’re back on a college campus,” Abby said. “I’m just glad this isn’t too much of a walk from your uncle’s.”

“So what do you think, Abs? Wanna stay here with me for your big year off?” Jordan asked, grinning. “I bet Steve would let you stay in that office as long as you want.”

“It certainly feels . . . artistic . . . here.” Her tone didn’t ring with interest. “But if I don’t stay in New York, I was thinking maybe L.A., just for a real change of pace.”

That was about as far from Chicago as it got. Dan wondered if maybe he could convince her to tag along with him, but he decided that was a conversation for another time.

Leaving behind the French Quarter, they passed tattoo parlors open late and a handful of noisy bars, ever more patrons spilling out onto the sidewalk. Then, following the directions on Jordan’s phone, they turned onto a quieter side street that ran toward the river, and the noisiness gave way to a calmer nighttime hush. Dan breathed a little easier.

Beyond a bookstore just beginning to close up shop and a candle emporium, they finally found themselves outside a wide storefront window with the name printed across the grimy glass. It was hardly a store that invited you in. Dan could barely make out the BERKLEY & DAUGHTERS in faded gold lettering, and dusty red curtains were drawn behind the panes.

“Charming,” Jordan muttered, motioning for Dan to try the door.

It opened with the sound of a tinkling bell. Inside, it was almost pitch-black. A smattering of candles lined the floor, but Dan had to pause with his hand on the door, trying to get his bearings. The red candles, he realized, were giving off an overpowering scent of clove. Gradually his eyes adjusted, and he noticed a small, round table set up just a few yards into the shop.

Four people sat holding hands around the table, a small tray heaped with trinkets centered among them.

“I think it’s a séance,” Jordan stage-whispered. “Looks like when my friends used to try and freak each other out with Ouija boards in middle school.”

Dan tore his eyes away from the strange tableau, drawn by sudden movement in the corner. There was the guy from earlier, watching them from behind a tall wooden counter. He flicked his hand, inviting them over, and Dan inched toward him. This didn’t seem like the family establishment Uncle Steve had described, but Dan was determined to settle this.

They shuffled to the counter and then behind it, where Dan discovered a curtain separating the front of the store from a larger and better-lit stock room. He couldn’t tell if it was part of the store during the day, but it was filled, floor to ceiling. There were bookshelves in the back and glass cabinets toward the front.

Jewelry; stacks of postcards and photographs; old spectacles; even tiny, delicate animal skulls were all arranged in the glass cases with seemingly no thought given to organization or theme. It was one giant cabinet of curiosities—one Dan admittedly felt tempted to explore.

“You actually showed up,” the dark-haired guy said, watching them from where the cabinets transitioned to shelves. “That means Sabrina owes me ten bucks.” He came forward and extended a hand to Dan. “Oliver Berkley. Welcome to my humble shop.”

“You don’t look like a daughter to me,” Jordan rasped, leaning against one of the cabinets.

Oliver laughed weakly, motioning with one hand for Jordan to get off the cabinet and sticking the other hand into the back pocket of his faded jeans. Tall and thin, he had a classic, almost cherubic look to him, with ruddy cheeks and chestnut brown hair piled carelessly on his head, cropped close at the sides. He’d look like a teenager if it weren’t for the small, shiny scar cut diagonally into the curve of his upper lip. Something about that scar gave away his real age. “There were plenty of daughters when the store opened, but that was a few generations ago.” His tone dropped its levity. “Now there’s only me.”

A farther door opened to Oliver’s right, and Dan recognized the girl who had been in the car with him earlier.

“This is Sabrina, my girlfriend,” Oliver said, introducing a petite black girl with a shaved head and bright, round, hazel eyes. Two tiny silver rings pierced her right nostril.

“They really did show up,” she said, smirking and joining Oliver near the shelves. She wore a slashed-up pink tank top over black denim shorts and purple tights. “This kid explain yet how he knew we were following them?”