It was moving slowly, ever so slowly, and Jac became aware of another light at that moment, shifting back and forth along each side: the patrolman obviously hanging his torch out the window, every inch of the alley being scoured and checked.
Jac sucked in his breath as they came closer — only six or seven yards away now — but in that instant he also became aware of movement and rustling in the grass, something brushing against one leg. His first thought, with all the rubbish around, was rats, but he daren’t move. His whole body in that instant frozen, breath held, swallowing back even to try and calm the pounding of his heart in case they heard it as they edged alongside.
The rustling moved away from his leg, but Jac was worried that even that faint sound might be heard by them, and they’d stop to investigate — his eyes wide as the torchlight hit the board at his side. It moved gradually away in a steady sweep, then suddenly returned, lingering longer this time.
The sound of the engine idling and the radio static now seemed deafeningly loud, as if Jac was actually inside the car with them, and the torch-beam stayed on the boarding for a full eight seconds — though to Jac it felt far longer — before finally shifting.
The car, though, didn’t start edging forward again immediately, as if the driver was more uncertain about the boarding — then its engine rattle slowly, tooslowly, receded along with the fading torch-beam. Jac didn’t finally ease out his breath again until it was a good thirty yards past and he was sure that they’d gone, that one of them suddenly wasn’t going to pace back to investigate.
The sound of radio static stayed in the background for a while longer, between anything from half a block to two blocks away it sounded to Jac, with a fresh siren joining them at one point — before it all finally faded away.
Yet still Jac stayed where he was, breathless, body winding down, listening to the sounds of the night for almost ten minutes more — until he was sure that the police had cleared from the area and no more sirens were coming for him. Then he started thinking about what to do next.
He looked at the bag in his hand, then the wild grass and earth at his feet. It wasn’t ideal, he’d have preferred an absolute guarantee of disappearance, but there was still a high chance that it would never be found here. And if he ran on with it, more eyes raised, more risk.
Jac looked around briefly, then started clawing at the earth with his hands.
But what Jac hadn’t noticed was the man at a third floor window further along, who had seen him crouched in the rough grass and wondered if he might have anything to do with the sirens he’d heard below a few minutes ago. And as he watched Jac dig and bury the bag, thought he might have his answer.
Nel-M was late getting to the phone, slightly out of breath.
Glenn Bateson, a harrowed edge to his voice. ‘I tried you earlier.’
‘I just got back in,’ Nel-M said. He’d spent half the evening waiting, tapping his fingers anxiously on his steering wheel while McElroy and the girl ate. So after phoning Roche to tell him it was all done, he felt he’d earned a celebratory meal and dived straight into a plate of crawfish and crab claws at Deanie’s, bib up to his neck, smiling and raising a glass of chilled Chablis to the air as he imagined McElroy at that moment being grilled by the police, or perhaps already in lock-up and making his one call to one of his buddies to save his sorry ass. And he’d started to feel mellow, relaxed for one of the first times in weeks. The sense that now, finally, it was the end of everything with McElroy and Durrant. But with the edge in Bateson’s voice, he could feel the first bubbles of anxiety returning. ‘What is it?’
‘You wouldn’t believe it.’
‘Yes, I would — just fucking tell me.’
‘McElroy. He’s arranged for a psychiatrist to come and see Durrant. Some guy called Ormdern.’
‘When for?’
‘Two days time, straight after the BOP hearing, then another session the day after. McElroy will be there as well, presumably to — ’
‘No, he won’t.’
‘What do you mean — no he won’t? I just picked this up fresh and hot from Haveling’s diary, and — ’
‘Can’t say it plainer than that, my friend. McElroy won’tbe there. And if you want to know why — I suggest you keep an eye on local news channels between now and tomorrow morning.’ Nel-M sniggered, but he could still feel a tightness in his chest where Bateson’s word psychiatristhad hit him, as if part of his crawfish hadn’t digested and had decided to burn a hole through his ribs. Almost certainly everything with the psychiatrist would now be axed too, but it was an uncomfortable reminder of how close they’d come. More brownie points scored with Roche when he told him, more back-pats for his timely ingenuity. ‘Or, if I were you — you know those special occasions when prisoners are allowed to watch TV? Like the World Series or President’s inauguration, or last episode of Seinfeldor Friends? And you get them all in one room looking at an oversized screen? Why don’t you arrange that now for the local news — then just watch Larry Durrant’s face when the piece about Jac McElroy comes on.’
‘What have you been up to?
Nel-M had never liked Bateson, and while he’d invited the question, Bateson’s folksy, slyly gleeful tone made his skin crawl. I’m not one of your good ol’ boys, asshole! he felt like screaming. But he immediately slipped into similar sly mode for his response.
‘Now, that would be telling.’
Jac went to a cash machine on Gravier Street and took out $300 to add to the fifty in his wallet, then started thinking about how to get a change of shirt. He knew he’d be hard pushed to find any shops open, his only hope was probably the French Quarter, so he’d drifted that way, trying to keep in the shadows of the buildings. A police car had passed him on the way, but he’d just kept walking normally, one hand by the stain on his shirt, as if he was scratching his stomach. The car just kept drifting past, didn’t pay him any attention.
Then, as he approached the corner of Bourbon and Iberville and saw a Lenny Kravitz look-a-like handing out promotional cards for a new club, he was struck with an idea.
Jac took one of the cards, ‘Thanks,’ nodding towards Lenny K’s chest. ‘And have you maybe got some club t-shirts to sell, like the one you’re wearing?’
‘Nah. Just paid me to hand out these here cards.’
‘Maybe at the club itself?’
‘Doubt it. I think these were jus’ printed up for the bar-staff.’
‘Shame. They’re nice, jazzy design.’ Jac smiled tightly. ‘How about you selling me that one? Fifty bucks?’
Lenny K smiled incredulously. ‘Man, I got another hour out here wit’ these. An’ how am I gonna explain away losing my shirt?’
‘Shrunk in the wash, amorous stalker ripped it off.’ Jac shrugged, smiling again. Despite the protests, there was a hint of temptation; though maybe, with the connected hassle, $50 for a ten-dollar T-shirt still wasn’t enough. ‘A hundred bucks.’
Lenny K looked each way, as if concerned who might be viewing the transaction, and part of his eye-shuffling also took in the stain on Jac’s shirt; one last cloud of doubt before he finally nodded, ‘Okay, man, let’s do it,’ pulling back into the shadow of a shop doorway as he pulled off his shirt and held it out.
Jac peeled five twenties from his wallet and they made the exchange, and, as soon as he was round the corner, he ducked into another shop doorway to change into the t-shirt. He bundled his old shirt in his hand and threw it in a bin halfway along North Rampart Street, then headed towards the phone kiosk fifty yards along to call John Langfranc.
Jac checked his watch. 9.32 p.m. Just under fifty minutes since the shooting.
Langfranc answered quickly, and equally Jac started speaking rapidly, at one point garbling and running ahead of himself with pent-up tension as he struggled to explain.