Katie begins screaming to Emily that her leg is going numb, and Jeremy can see Emily desperately trying to convince her to push forward. He smiles as Katie withers down into a ball, pressing her knees into the swampy earth. He begins closing the gap between himself and them. He can see Emily weighing her options as she fearfully scans the tree line in front of them with their remaining light. Katie is sobbing and gagging, and Emily tries to hoist her to her feet with an arm around her waist.
Emily is ready to abandon her. Jeremy can feel it. Self-preservation will win. He pumps the shotgun once and places the scope to his eye. Emily and Katie hear the sound, and Emily tries again to pull Katie along. Jeremy squeezes the trigger and hits his target with ease. Katie lets out an agonized screech as the bullet rips through her right kneecap, leaving a mangled mess of flesh and muscle flayed in each direction on her leg. She crumbles beneath the weight of her upper body and hits the moist ground with a slapping sound.
Emily’s choice is clear. She flees.
Jeremy slings the shotgun over his back and slides the bowie knife from its sheath as he swiftly walks toward Katie’s pathetic sobs. Like an apparition, he appears in front of her, and her eyes are wild with fear. He grins and squats beside her, pushing a piece of matted hair behind her ear.
“Shhh,” he whispers with a smile.
He grabs a handful of her hair, tilts her head back, and slowly drags the blade across her throat. He holds her there for a moment, allowing her to sputter and struggle until her body goes limp. Jeremy closes his eyes and listens to the music, both the organic symphony of the bayou and the canned music slithering through the speakers. He lets Katie’s head drop into the mud and cracks his neck.
Now, where did Emily run off to?
CHAPTER 18
“THIS IS DR. WREN MULLER from the ME’s office. We need an ambulance to 425 Basin Street.”
Wren digs through her bag, balancing her phone on her shoulder. The minutes are ticking by quickly as Leroux weaves the car through traffic toward their destination, toward a victim who might still be saved.
“Yes, St. Louis Cemetery 1. Possible medical emergency. If you can meet us at the entrance, we should be there in about”—she pauses to look at the dashboard clock—“eight minutes. Okay. Thank you.”
She lets the phone drop to the seat next to her and snaps another pair of gloves onto her hands. Her face is an equal mix of calm and resolve. Pieces of her hair have fallen loose from the high bun on the crown of her head. They fall around her hairline and lay delicately across her cheeks, now sprinkled with dirt from the crime scene.
The New Orleans landscape speeds by as Leroux honks aggressively at the car in front of them. Anyone who fails to pull over at the sound of their sirens falls victim to an unrelenting slew of curse words. His knuckles are white as they grip the steering wheel. He’s not your typical jaded detective from a big box office thriller.
“Do you think this is a trap, Muller?” he asks finally, his tone measured and deliberate.
Wren leans her elbow against the passenger-side window, resting her temple in her hand.
She sighs. “I have to believe it’s not. And either way, we both have to treat it like it’s not. But just remember that we are adequately prepared if the situation proves otherwise.”
Leroux nods almost imperceptibly.
Wren straightens up. “Besides, Will and his gang of shiny youths will be there to back us up.”
A small smirk plays at the corner of her lips, and Leroux lets out a little chuckle.
“Youths,” he says, shaking his head. “Come on, they’re rookies, but they have been outside the womb longer than that, Muller.”
“I know. I’m only joking. If I didn’t trust their abilities, I wouldn’t be leaving my safety in their capable paws.”