The fact that the French Quarter was normally so lively and boisterous made the loneliness seem more intense. And the weather didn’t help. Even the high-powered streetlights cast only a dim glow on wet, shiny streets.
“Some Christmas this is,” she grumbled. Even The Moody Blues was closed, leaving her with little hope of a meal. And the person who’d stolen her purse had the key to her room. He didn’t have her room number, but that didn’t reassure her. It was such a small hotel he could easily have gone door to door until the key worked.
Was he in her room, waiting for her?
The letdown after the adrenaline rush of the afternoon had left her exhausted but not relieved. She still felt apprehensive, although she couldn’t say why. If the person who’d pushed her into the cellar had wanted to harm her, he’d already had the chance. At this point, she was pretty convinced that was Phillip, who didn’t strike her as all that dangerous. Besides, even bad guys celebrated Christmas. If she’d learned anything in profiling, it was how normal—at least on the surface—criminals could be.
Hopefully, the man who’d taken her purse had a family and all the usual Christmas obligations. She’d simply get her room rekeyed and hole up until morning, when the money would arrive and she’d be able to move to a different hotel.
Her decision made, she drove a few blocks to the public lot, where she’d already paid for a week in advance. She parked the sedan and got out.
Her footsteps echoed on the pavement as she walked through the fog. She felt strangely bereft without the security offered by the contents of her purse and wished she had her Mace. But maybe she was being paranoid. She could buy another can tomorrow, after the money showed up.
As she reached the entrance to the alley, she glanced up at her hotel—and froze. The fog was so thick she couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw a light shining in her room. Had she left it on herself?
The fears and doubts she’d battled only moments before descended again as she wondered what to do. She couldn’t return to her room alone, not without a weapon. She could call the police or ask Mr. Cabanis or his wife or daughter to accompany her. But chances were she was jumping at shadows. And even if one of the Cabanises walked her to her room, there was no guarantee someone wouldn’t be hurt.
Then she remembered the fire escape. She could use it to take a quick peek, see whether it was safe to go back.
Grazing her fingertips along the gritty brick surface of the building, Jasmine walked slowly. She didn’t want to twist an ankle or fall over a pile of garbage or worse. She might be risking more by coming into this dark alley than by returning to her room, but her curiosity about that light coaxed her on.
A rock skittered across the ground, and she halted abruptly. She was pretty sure she’d dislodged it with her own feet, but the noise heightened the foreboding that’d settled over her when the wind died down and the fog rolled in. It took her a few minutes to recover the nerve to press forward, but the closer she got the more certain she was that the light was coming from her room.
The metal of the fire escape felt cold and clammy beneath her hand. It shook as she stepped on it, and she wondered if it’d bear her weight without pulling away from the building. The metal squeaked loudly as she gave it a strong jerk, but when it held fast, she managed to summon the confidence to climb it. If everything was okay, she’d be able to enter her room, at which point she’d pack up her belongings and ask to switch rooms.
But everything wasn’t okay. Her room wasn’t as she’d left it.
Although the light actually came from the bathroom, she could see that the bed had been torn apart, the drawers of the nightstand pulled open, her computer thrown to the floor….
Someone had come here, just as she’d feared.
Pressing a hand to her chest, she stood with her mouth agape, scanning the interior—until something moved. Then she blinked and refocused. A man, dressed in a long black trench coat and wearing a black ski mask stared back at her, just on the other side of the glass.
With a scream, Jasmine scrambled down the fire escape. She thought the locked door would give her a good lead but the fire alarm sounded briefly, and she knew he was coming after her. She could feel the fire escape shimmy as he jumped down a few steps with every stride.
She slipped and fell on the wet metal and had to get up again, which cost her valuable time. Still, she hit the ground before he reached her. But it was so dark she tripped on a pothole and nearly fell into a puddle.
He jumped to the ground only a few feet from her. She felt the air stir and briefly wondered if she’d be able to hide. She couldn’t outrun him. Whoever he was, he was in good shape. But her hope of hiding didn’t last more than a second. He had a flashlight, which he snapped on—and the beam found her immediately.
Croc, who owned the Flying Squirrel, was a widower. He’d grown up in Portsville and had one of the best shrimping boats in the area, but these days it was his son who used it. Croc went out on the bayou every once in a while, but he was getting old and seemed happier pouring beer for other fishermen, listening to their stories and retelling a few of his own.
Romain had always liked Croc, but he was never more grateful to have him in the community than during the holidays. Most other places were closed, especially for Christmas. But not the Flying Squirrel. Croc opened from four until midnight 365 days a year.
“You gotta love a dependable Cajun,” Romain said, as he tossed a few peanuts into his mouth.
“Who you talkin’ to down there?” Croc demanded.
Romain swiveled to face him. “You. I said I’m ready for another beer.”
“’Course you are.”
As Croc pulled the tap, Romain rested his elbows on the wooden bar and glanced around at the handful of people who were smoking, drinking and playing darts. It wasn’t the best Christmas Eve he could imagine—nothing could equal those he’d shared with Pam and Adele—but drinking made the holidays bearable. The Flying Squirrel beat his other offer, anyway. His parents had invited him to Mamou for the night, but his sister, Susan, and her family had already arrived from Boston.
They’d be staying for most of a week, so he intended to make himself scarce—except for dinner tomorrow, of course. He’d join them for a couple of hours, but only because his parents would be disappointed if he didn’t.
“You were here last Christmas, too,” Croc commented, placing Romain’s beer in front of him.