Relatively Risky (18 page)

A green neutral ground ran down the middle of the street, separating this side of the cemetery from some houses and possibly a gas station partly hidden by some trees. It felt as if the street weren't sure whether to swing residential or commercial. It was a common problem she'd noticed in her peddling, her gaze caught by a church-like spire peeking over the top of a house of some sort. The quirky image made her wish she'd brought her portfolio.

“Too quiet?” he muttered.

Nell had the feeling the question wasn't for her. He surveyed their surroundings like a cop looking for threats.

“Do you think we were followed?” She didn't remember anyone behind them when they'd circled the block twice before settling for the dubious parking space.

“This is a bad idea.” He frowned at the less than salubrious cemetery interior.

Nell turned to join him in his contemplation. It might not be the best idea ever, but bad seemed a little harsh. She'd followed her instincts, but if his cop instincts were twitching—a burst of chatter broke the local silence and a gaggle of tourists were herded out of the dead space by a guide. He directed them across the street and out of sight, letting silence settle in once more.
Dead space
. The nickname suited these cemeteries.

Alex shifted from one foot to the other and hunched his shoulders. Was it her imagination that his cop instincts settled? His last survey seemed a little less intent, falling more in the annoyed range. He wanted to ask her why. She felt that to her toes.

Perhaps if she knew why…but she didn't. Nell couldn't explain why she'd felt a need to look at the place where her parents weren't buried. Maybe she just wanted to get out of the house. Sitting anywhere, being watched like she was about to break out in wise-kid-ness made her want to crawl up the wall. Or out of her new wise-skin.

Sarah was only one who hadn't acted shocked when she said she'd like to do this, though she was hard to shock. It was one of things that made her so great. And so terrifying. It was why Nell joined the band, did bad Karaoke with her, even when she'd rather poke out her own eye.

“You don't even know where—”

“I know.” This wasn't her first visit to a cemetery, though the Metairie cemetery was more upscale than this one. Were cemeteries upscale? Using up for burial felt wrong, though most people weren't buried here. They were interred, so it was kind of a lateral move.

This particular “little city of the dead,” had a high sinister vibe and a low maintenance look with lots of mildew creeping up the sides of the crypts, rusting mini fences and crumbling stone. The signs of life, the city sights and sounds around them should have reduced the creep factor but somehow didn't. It really did look like a creepy little city.

“Why do you suppose they put them here?” She'd read in the paper that St. Cyr would be interred in the Metairie cemetery in the family crypt. Why hadn't his son been put in the family crypt? It was possible it hadn't been available at the time. Tombs couldn't be opened for a year and a day after use. But it had been thirty years and several days. Was this the wise guy version of being banished?

“They aren't buried here,” he reminded her with a touch of impatience.

“I know, but supposedly they didn't know.” Who were the crypt surrogates for her parents? Dead body doubles? This place was so different from where they were buried. Flat, green, tastefully sprinkled with graceful trees. Neat rows of headstones between narrow, paved lanes. Well kept versus unkempt. The artist found the contrast intriguing. The daughter—not so much.

“We don't even know which part of the cemetery the crypts are in,” Alex said, eying the cemetery entrance without enthusiasm.

Was this the cemetery with the voodoo queen's tomb? The silence felt intense, despite the sounds of a busy city all around them. She'd mostly gotten used to city noise. The sirens, the horns honking, the clamor of engines revving and brakes being applied, but for some reason this place made it all feel both more and less. Like they were in a dead bubble, not really part of the city but too alive to be part of the cemetery. Some of the dead might rest easy in this place, but not all of them. If you'd been buried under the wrong name, did that make you one of the uneasy?

“Wouldn't you rather—”

She didn't get a chance to hear the rest of the question. A bulky Humvee rumbled down the street and, without even a pretense of trying to park, stopped in one of the three traffic lanes on their side of the neutral ground. Even before doors opened, Alex turned as stony as the angels on the tombs.

A dark-suited guy emerged from the front and opened a rear door. Another dark-suited guy emerged, then another one. The last one to emerge was an old man wearing—in a departure from the black theme—an elegant, gray suit that was wholly unable to mute the thug vibes.

“Calvino.” There was a lot of not happy in the single word.

Nell studied this sort of grandfather, curious on so many levels. Well, maybe not that many. Mostly she kept waiting to feel some kind of genetic connection with one of them. A call of shared family blood. This was the husband of her mom's mother. The father of her mom. Part of her DNA string. The thug who may have blackmailed Ellie into marriage. Yeah, her DNA was probably thinking, “I do not know this man, girl, and I do not want to.”

He was broad at the shoulders and across his beam. His hair was iron gray and his eyes were dark and chill. The skin around the eyes, in fact his whole face, had aged pretty well. The lines cutting through kind of reminded her of an evil Tony Bennett. If he had a heart, he didn't wear it on his sleeve. Might not even have it on him. It was a bad time to remember both his wife and daughter had booked on him.

He stopped about a yard from them, giving her a broad smile that didn't dent the lethal in his eyes, revealing teeth so white and so even they had to be caps. Good thing she hadn't expected a happy families moment. Alex took a half step forward, not interposing himself between them, but kind of implying it. At least somebody liked her.

The silence started to get uncomfortable as Calvino's gaze assessed her face. The eyes narrowed and he uttered a soft, vulgar expletive. “—you look like—”

“I know.” Nell cut him off, tired of everyone looking at her and seeing someone else.

Gray brows arched some and his scary smile got scarier. Then his gaze shifted past her, to the cemetery, and the humor faded. What? Was it a hostile act to visit her parents' not graves? One gray brow arched, as if asking her why? She arched both brows back. It was not his business.

“Visiting Toni's tomb, Calvino?” Alex asked.

Calvino's attention shifted toward him, the smile doing a fast fade. “A Baker.” The smile returned, with tiger overtones to it. “Which one are you? There are so many of you, I lose track.”

“Do you?” A scary pause, then, “I'm the one with her.”

That was one for Charlie, Nell decided, shifting closer to him in mute support. Did his arrival mean someone had been following them or was it a weird coincidence?

Before Calvino could react, another vehicle rumbled down the street. This time it was a long limo. It also scorned actual parking, choosing to stop in the lane next to the Humvee. She guessed that traffic laws were small beans to wise guys, but it still seemed brassy to turn two of three lanes of traffic into personal parking…

More doors opened. More bodyguards emerged. More than Calvino had. Then Dimitri Afoniki emerged. One wise guy could, maybe, be a coincidence, but two? All they needed now was grandma not-dearest to take out that last lane. Nell gave Alex a bemused look, but he didn't see it. His glare had expanded to include the new wise guy and his wing men. Flanked, even more outnumbered, he still didn't look intimidated. He'd managed to pull his piece without her noticing. She mentally backed up. His weapon. She wasn't a wise girl and didn't plan to start thinking like one. Besides, she didn't know what wise guys called their armament these days.

Dimitri arched a brow. Was it a required skill for wise guys? His amused gaze swept past Calvino before settling on Nell. His thin mouth curved into a smile that should have looked good on a face that pretty. And now that she knew why he was interested in her, she liked him even less than before. If that was possible.

“An odd place for a meeting.” His gaze took a little trip between her and Calvino again. He ignored Alex as if he were invisible.

Nell sensed some puffing, some ruffled feathers. Lots of alpha-vying-for-dominance, which the already thick air did not need. It so reminded her of rival boys meeting at the check-out desk. She couldn't help it when librarian dropped on like a shroud—like a coat. Like a coat. She needed to better edit her analogies. She gave both men her boosted, stern librarian look, the one heavy with “not in my library you don't.” To her amazement, they looked a bit abashed. A couple of the goons even shuffled their feet. She caught a small twitch of Alex's lips and felt a hint of warm ease the chest tightness she hadn't realized she had.

It wasn't silent, because, hello, city all around, but the street looked and felt quiet, like they were in one of those Westerns where all the normal people took cover before the shoot out. Not a happy thought, but Nell felt the urge to sketch as everyone stared at everyone else, though not all at once, since no one had more than two eyeballs for the job. Didn't stop them all from trying, which made everyone but Alex look a bit twitchy. He managed to look both cute and menacing, but she might be a bit prejudiced. One sensed the shadowy presence of all of his siblings and his dad at his back. It more than trumped the plethora of wise guys and goons.

Had she interrupted their meeting or had they come here because of her?

No one wanted to be the one to ask the first question. And there was so much she didn't know, it was almost impossible to know where to start her asking. Or to figure out if she really wanted to know. If they were here because of her, she could figure out why the two wise guys and their respective entourages were interested in a chat with her. They were both afraid she'd come to make a deal with the other. She could tell them she didn't have it—whatever it was—didn't know where it was, couldn't make a deal with Alex Trebek, but why would they believe her? They most likely didn't believe anything ever. These were two men with major trust issues, weapons, and goons with weapons.

She tried to think of something she could say that someone would believe. The weather wasn't bad, but she didn't think they'd care. With the weather off the conversational menu, what was left. Religion? Politics? Good places to eat? She sucked at small talk without the cemetery, goons and guns.

The silence was trending toward deafening again when Calvino broke it.

“How do you like the Big Easy?”

Nell blinked. No argument that she'd enjoyed the city more the day before yesterday, but it wasn't New Orleans' fault things had gone uneasy overnight.

“It's—” whatever she'd planned to say, got lost in a squeal of tires. Two squeals, she realized.

Two SUV's swung around the corner. Both vehicles raced toward their position. They had to swerve, single file, round the parked wise-vehicles. Shrieks as brakes were applied and tires tried to grip pavement. Both veered toward the line of parked cars but managed to skid to stops that blocked the limo and the Humvee. And the rest of the street.

Windows slid down.

Muzzles began to slide out.

Alex grabbed her arm and pulled her back toward the cemetery entrance.

The tough guys signaled an intent to fight, until they saw the level of the opposition.

Tough guys turned into Keystone crooks as they scrambled for the only available cover inside the cemetery. The melee pushed Alex and Nell apart. Nell landed on her stomach just inside the wall, the breath knocked out of her in a rush. Stars did a spin around her head.

Bullets whistled over her head and dug into the walls and crypts closest to her.

Lots and lots of bullets.

A cacophony that increased as the small missiles hit stone and ricocheted every possible direction.

I
t would have been
funny if it weren't so damn dangerous. The brief struggle to get inside the cemetery. Bullets and bodies going in every direction. Alex lost his grip on Nell, tried to get to her but had to dive for cover when the bullets tracked his way. Through the press of scrambling bad guys, and as he skidded behind a crypt, he caught a glimpse of her hitting the ground on the other side of the alley. He grabbed a rusted fence to keep from skidding back into the line of fire.

He saw one of the goons slam into the ground the next crypt over. Good thing there was plenty of them to go around. No sign the shooters were skimping on bullets.

Alex almost felt sorry for them as two more went down, tripping a third. One scrambled, crab-like, behind a low wall and looked around. Maybe to check on his boss. Maybe not. Hard to tell if the bodyguards were guarding or dodging.

One guy started to shoot back. Then another. Alex planned to shoot back, too, but not while the shooters were being so generous with the return fire.

Nell had moved on, he noted. Good thing. Attackers lined up like they wanted to come inside and play. Alex retreated left, heading for a break in the line of crypts, cursed when the ground cover changed to crushed shells. Good thing there was lots of noise cover—the shooting stopped as abruptly as it started. Alex froze, grabbing a fence to keep from falling, the shift of shells seemed loud in the sudden silence.

Movement to the right drew a short, sharp burst of fire. Someone got dropped. A hand fell into view, the gun sliding Alex's direction. He stared at it, tempted by the extra fire power. He eased forward. The shells shifted a bit, and then he was back on asphalt. The gun seemed to be out of sight of the shooters but probably wasn't. Couldn't be that lucky. He eyed a scraggly bush, broke off a section as quietly as he could, and inched it toward the weapon. Hooked the trigger guard. Tugged. Bullets kicked up dirt all around it, then one hit the handle. It spun toward him.
Thanks, asshole.

He didn't waste time checking it, not when someone had made his position. He waited for the fire to kick up again and darted down the alley. Made it to better cover before they stopped shooting. He crouched by a crypt, trying to slow his breathing.

He needed a plan. And he needed to find Nell. Had they been separated by accident or design? No way to know, so he didn't waste more than a brief thought on it.

Best way to find her was get more help. No sound of sirens yet. Didn't the neighbors care? He pulled out his cell. Too quiet to call, but a text should start something. He made sure it was on silent, and opened a text window. Felt kind of like trying to drive and text. He had to keep watching—damn spell check. He wasn't at the secretary, he was at the cemetery. Maybe Ben could figure it out. Cuz he could tell he needed to move again.

N
ell did not expect
to feel homesick with all the bullets flying around, so it caught her by surprise. Her dad had loved the shooting range. Was it genetic? Not a good time to be the only one not packing—carrying. Not carrying. Was it proximity with the goons that was messing with her vocabulary? She hadn't learned to think goon at home, that was for sure.

One of the goons staggered back, falling on his back almost under her nose. He blinked, his stone face breaking into surprise. Surely he knew that being shot was one of the risks of being a goon?

He looked at her looking at him and surprise gave way for something else. Something that prompted her to lean forward. His hand grasped her arm between the wrist and the elbow, the grip on the feeble side.

“Take it.”

She started to ask what, but then saw the hand loosely clasping his handgun shift a bit. She felt a bit guilty that the universe had delivered her firepower at this cost, but also grateful. She hadn't made him be a goon. She leaned forward, gripped the stock, her fingers meshing with his for a couple of creepy seconds. She eased the gun away, feeling a commensurate rise in confidence in her ability to survive. He tugged her arm again, the now free hand inching inside his jacket.

“Magazines—”

She had to admire a goon who could focus on the details like that. Nell reached inside and found three. She also found his wound, blood smearing along the back of her hand as she abstracted the magazines. She stowed them in pockets, one magazine to each, hoping she wouldn't need them. She needed to move but—

“Why?” She wasn't sure he heard her at first.

“Knew your grandma—” His gaze caught hers. “Nice to me when I was a kid…”

“Thanks.” It was all she could think to say.

“Go.” His head moved in a parody of a jerk, the light in his eyes fading fast.

Before she could, a gunman stepped into sight. The rifle on his shoulder firing almost without a break, he began to pivot her direction. Range training kicked in. She lifted the gun and fired. He staggered. She fired again, then jumped and, at a half crouch because the height of the crypts varied without warning, ran for it. Felt panic rise when she realized the line of crypts were set too close together for her to get through. Her only hope was the alley that looked like it cut across at the end. If she made it that far. And it did cut across.

She didn't dare look back. She knew that would slow her down. Might cost her the seconds she needed to survive, but her imagination did a great job of bringing another shooter into play, looking for who'd downed his buddy. His rifle lifting, aiming at her back—

Bullets tracked after her, hitting the crypt near her face as she rounded the sort of corner. Bits of stone rained on her as she skidded sideways, bounced off a metal fence, righted herself and pushed forward, heading for the next turn and then the next. She dodged left, then right—froze when the shooting stopped as abruptly as it began. Flight paused, leaving fright to take its place.

The pungent bite of mildew mingled with the stink of cordite, making her throat and eyes sting. Cuz she wasn't crying over a goon that used to know her grandma—

She saw a sort of shabby pantheon-like crypt, with steps and chipped columns. The steps were slightly less gnarly looking than the ground. She sank down on them, avoiding eye contact with the hanging spider webs. Noticed she still had blood on the back of her hand and tried to scrub it off on her jeans.

Panicked breathing began to slow. It wasn't silent, but it felt quiet, an intense quiet that magnified the sounds of flight and pursuit. Everyone seemed to be either listening or—Nell heard a scuffle of sound that was quickly followed by some shots. Was someone actually trying to kill her? Or had the wise guy entourage dragged them into a fire fight?

The last seemed more logical. It didn't take that many shooters to take out a librarian. That she'd dragged Alex into it sucked, even though he'd insisted on coming here with her when he couldn't talk her out of it. She hadn't really believed anyone wanted to kill her, she realized now, though this didn't feel like it was about her. But she'd been glad Alex came along because she liked being with him, not because she was afraid.

She closed her eyes, took a couple more breaths. Last time she'd seen him he'd been all right. He was smart and tough.

And she'd just shot a man. Her hand shook a bit, and she realized she hadn't secured her weapon, which was currently pointed at her calf. Great. She secured it, checked the magazine. Five shots left. One chambered. Okay. She waited for a burst of fire to cover the sound before shoving the magazine back in place. The stock sat snugly in her palm, the feel of it comforting. It wasn't about the wise DNA, but about her dad. He felt close. She hoped it wasn't because she was about to join him in the after life.

He always said where there was life there was hope. Okay, he tended to live in cliché-ville, but he always managed to make even the most tired cliché seem reasonable. And he'd know, wouldn't he?

That she felt sort of safe was an illusion. Something tickled her neck—almost she shrieked. She managed not to use the hand holding the gun to swat at whatever had decided to crawl on her neck. If she was going to be chased through a cemetery by bad guys, she shouldn't have to deal with bugs, too.

Was that movement she heard? She strained to hear, her gaze passing over crypts that had little fences around them, creating not just dead spaces, but tight spaces. She felt caught between the need to get away and a realization that she didn't know where “away” might be. Cowering and hiding seemed indicated, but she also needed to retreat. Where to go was an open question. Not in the direction of the shooting seemed like a good choice. She wished she could figure out what that was. What with the shooting at, and the shooting back, how was a girl to know—

She'd been staring at the crypt across from her without seeing it, straining to hear, but suddenly she
saw
. Her mom's not-grave. She'd managed to find her mom's not-grave by not looking.

Antonia Calvino. 1963-1980

That was all. No
beloved daughter of
or a
rest in peace
.

She checked both sides, not really expecting to see Phil's not-grave close by. Why would their families care that they'd wanted to be together?

Like the tombs around it, it looked neglected, though someone had left a posy of forget-me-nots at the base. No more recent interment dates on the slab. Did that mean the tomb hadn't been opened since her mom's not-burial?

And just like that she knew why she'd wanted to see this. This wasn't the place where her parents had died. It was where they'd been born. Later, if she lived, she'd feel guilt for undoing what they'd done. But just for this moment all she could feel was grateful to them both for what they'd given up for her. And she knew, because she knew them, that she had been the driving force, the reason they'd fought to live, had built that ordinary life in Wyoming. They'd managed to survive. Could she do less?

It might feel safer here by her mom's not-grave, but it wasn't. In the distance, she heard the sound she'd been waiting for: sirens. At what point would everyone quit shooting at each other and flee before the cops? How long had there been shooting?

She looked at her watch, but she hadn't looked at it when it started, so it didn't help. Probably not been as long as it felt. The cops couldn't take forever to get here, could they?

Seemed she had two choices. Try to find a place to hide. Or try to get out. Only way out, that she was aware of, was the way she'd come in. Either way, she should probably move—

She started to lean forward, when she heard a slight sound. She shrank back as a shadow grew long on the narrow path between two crypts to the left of her mom's not grave.

A
lex stopped
. Considered his current location, trying to fit perp movement to his memory of the cemetery layout. It felt like they were being herded. He hated that almost as much as he hated getting shot at. Seemed like if they wanted him going one way, he ought not go that way. He crouched in the shadow of a tall crypt, wondering why the sirens wailed in the distance without seeming to get any closer.

The silence wasn't a good one. It felt weighted by the menace stalking the many alleys. Other than the usual city sounds, it had gone quiet again. Like everyone was listening. Or thinking.

Thinking seemed like a good idea. Felt like the shooters were trying to herd them away from the gate they'd come in, so that's where he'd go. If backup hadn't arrived, he could remove any roadblocks to getting the hell out and brief the first cops on the scene when they did arrive.

He'd resisted thinking about Nell. He couldn't help her. She'd surprised him before, though. He hoped she'd surprise him again. That's all he could do for her right now, just hope.

He worked his way toward the outer edge, aided by the occasional outburst of fire. He noticed it seemed to be moving away from him. He kept it quiet. Was almost stealthy. Who knew those nights trying to sneak out of the house would work for him now?