“I’m so sorry, but you’re going to hear this soon enough, and I don’t want you taken off guard... I mean, nothing can ease this, but...”
“But what, Lorna? You’re babbling. I mean, thank you for sparing my feelings. Oh, no! Jeremy—is Jeremy okay?”
“Your cousin is fine. He called a few seconds ago. He wanted to know if we were together. It’s already on the news—”
“What is? Lorna, please!” Katie said, frustrated and worried.
Lorna sighed. “Brutal murders in the Marigny. Cops are there now. The media isn’t getting much, but you can see there isn’t one cop car here where there are usually a dozen and... Oh, Katie! There’s been no official police announcement yet, but...they believe everyone in the house was killed sometime last night. Um...murdered with an axe...”
Her voice trailed.
Lorna had been Katie’s friend since she had come to live with her dad’s cousin, Jeremy Delaney, after her parents had been killed. The girls had been in the same class in high school; they’d even chosen to go to Tulane together.
Of course, Lorna knew Katie’s family history. That her parents had been murdered and the killer had never been caught.
Lorna also knew Jeremy had gone down to Florida with Katie six years ago when there had been another murder and they had thought they’d finally caught the killer—her dad’s best friend! A man who had also lost his wife that day twelve years ago. But the police hadn’t been able to prove it.
Katie didn’t want to feel sick—there was no reason to assume the same person that struck twelve years ago was the same person who had struck six years ago—and now, again, today. Or last night.
No reason... Except whatever had happened was already on the news. She could see people on the street stopping to stare at their phones.
A carriage driver with one of the other companies shouted out to a group waiting for passengers. “He’s back! The Axeman is back in New Orleans!”
Lorna let out a soft sigh, shaking her head. “What the hell is the matter with him? Does he want to send us all to the poorhouse? Idiot! I mean, this is truly ghastly and horrible—but come on, a crazed killer can’t attack every tourist in New Orleans.” She looked at Katie and winced. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, that was just Bucky being a jerk—and clearing the sidewalk of our would-be customers. His, too. But truly, I’m mostly worried about you. Please don’t be upset. This probably really is different, Katie. I feel terrible for the police—this is going to be a nightmare for them. More, I’m worried sick about you.”
“Lorna, I’m all right. You know I’m a sound, normal human being. Well, as normal as anyone else. But yes, I will be concerned. You don’t need to worry about me, though.”
A couple walked by them. “David, my God!” the woman said. “We have to leave—there’s a crazy man out there killing people!”
“Martha, this vacation cost a fortune. We’re in a major hotel. We’re not going down any dark alleys.”
They moved on by.
“The Axeman!” someone else said as they walked past. “How do you catch a ghost?”
“There’s DNA today. Cops are way better now than they were then,” their companion said.
For a few minutes, both Katie and Lorna were quiet, listening to the conversation going on around them. Katie noticed dryly that their friend Benny Morten—a human statue/mime who worked the corner of the square—had forgotten he was playing a silver superhero and reached into his pocket for his phone, as eager as anyone else to get what news he could.
Katie, too, pulled out her phone and checked her news app. There weren’t a lot of details available yet, but the early reports were grisly and grim.
“It could be,” Katie whispered. She looked at Lorna. “My parents were...hacked to pieces. And six years later in Orlando, an old couple and their niece were killed. And now, here. In Orlando, they wanted to convict George just because he was living there. He was my dad’s best friend. His wife was murdered. His best friends were murdered. He barely survived.”
Lorna, still distraught, was just staring at her.
“I loved my parents. Naturally, I was crushed by what happened. But I’m all right now. I was a lucky kid. I had Jeremy and then you and other great friends. I will be following this like a bloodhound, but I’m not going to take this personally. No matter how similar it seems.”
“Katie, I just don’t want this to upset you,” Lorna told her. “You’ve got a reputation for being not only the most knowledgeable driver out here, but the most beautiful, too.” Her friend smiled. “You’re smart and savvy and busy with growing your business... You can’t let this get in your way.”
“Lorna, thank you. I’m not going to fall into a terrible depression or need any more therapy,” Katie said. “I’ve had enough therapy for a lifetime. Jeremy insisted. You learn to live with something like this. You cling to the good memories. You manage to be rational. But you don’t forget. I’m going to the police station. I’m going to tell them what happened before, what I saw. Maybe I can help.” She forced a smile and hugged her friend quickly. “I love you, too. You’re the best friend anyone could have. I love what I do. I love the mules and the dogs at the stables. I even love our crotchety old boss. But there is no way I can keep myself from finding out everything I can about what happened.”
Lorna sighed. “The cops are all at the crime scene,” she said. “Katie, no one is going to talk to you right now.”
“Yes, but we’re not busy this week. Mardi Gras is over, and we don’t have a festival for a few weeks. The city is quiet. I’m taking Sarah and this carriage back, and when I can find out a bit more, I’m going to get myself to the right police station and talk to someone,” Katie said.
“Katie, maybe you should take out more tourists today. It’ll keep your mind off what is going on—”
“Seriously?”
Lorna sighed. “Okay. I’m sure Matt and I can keep business moving along. But I wish you’d wait. I wish you’d let me go with you. I mean, tomorrow we could plan—”
“Thank you for covering whatever,” Katie said. She headed back to her carriage. “You get a break today, Sarah,” she announced to the mule, crawling up to the driver’s seat. “We’re heading home.”
Sarah must have understood. Her ears pricked up, and she clopped along at a decent pace as Katie led her around the square and through the French Quarter, headed for the Trudeau stables across Rampart Street and deep into Treme.
Easy enough. Katie had purchased her own little home, a small house built around 1890, right next to the large property where Monty Trudeau lived and kept his stables. She loved it: no commute to work.