He circled the tableau, wondering where to jump in. Liz'd done an admirable job of getting herself out of a jam, but she wasn't free yet. The three men feinted toward her, trying to catch her off balance by drawing her attention. She hadn't much time before she had to cast her spell or let it fade. The fourth man had gotten over the radiating pain and was climbing up from the ground, angrier than ever. Though he would have been curious to see how his efficient British counterpart would handle the situation, it was time to intervene.
Boo pulled a bag of dust out of his pocket. With only a cursory glance to make sure it was the right one, he slammed it down on the ground in the midst of the group. Billows of noxious green rose around the group. They wailed miserably, clawing at their faces and one another. Boo-Boo felt a twinge of guilt. He hated to use that stuff because of what it did to people—the residual effect gave them nightmares for days, sometimes as much as years after exposure—but it was really effective. It was comprised largely of graveyard dust and bile, but it had half a hundred other ingredients. One man cried out in alarm and struck out with a fist, smacking his nearest comrade in the ear. The man he struck responded with a wild yell and began flailing with both arms, dropping Liz's purse. Things were getting just a little too dangerous in there.
Pulling the lapel of his ragged jacket over his mouth and nose, Boo-Boo reached into the roiling green smoke and pulled Liz free. He helped her over to lean against the wall of the derelict department store while she coughed the powder out of her lungs.
Chanting the counterspell in a whisper so it would only affect her, he kept an eye on the four men while she recovered her sanity.
"What was that?" Liz demanded, coughing.
"Fear dust," Boo-Boo said. "Local product. Effective, isn't it?"
"Very." Liz watched the men screaming and struggling, fighting against invisible opponents and hitting the others in their frenzy. "Will they recover?"
"Sooner or later," Boo-Boo said. "They're fightin' with their inner demons just now. I'll give 'em a moment before I stop the effect and ask 'em questions. It's amazin' how cooperative they get when the terror stops. They see nightmares, monsters, all kinds of terrible things. I hate to use it, but it works."
"You're right," Liz said, shuddering. "It does."
"What did you see?"
"Mr. Ringwall."
Boo-Boo grinned. "Hey, now, hold on. I know those two." He pointed at the two men who had been waiting concealed at the head of the street, a white man with a handlebar mustache and a shaved head, and a black man with a grizzled beard clipped to a point. "One of them works as a bouncer for one of the jazz clubs on Bourbon. The other is security in the state museum buildings. They're not the kind who normally go in for muggin'."
Over Liz's protests, Boo-Boo pulled them out of the miasma and counterspelled them. The first pair, startled at the sudden movement, cowered, throwing up their hands. The eyes of the other two stopped whirling. The men shook themselves like large dogs coming out of a lake. The bearded man's mouth dropped open.
"Beauray! Hey, man, what happened?"
"Oh, just a little thing, Samson. Whatcha doin' hangin' out in this neighborhood?" Boo asked. "Gets kinda dangerous in the evenin' around here."
Samson and his companion looked sheepishly at their feet. "Sorry, man. Din't know it was you. Sorry, ma'am. If you're a friend of Boo's, we're pleased to meet you. I'm Samson. This is Tiger."
"Eliz—er, Liz," she said, holding out her hand to them. Her fingers were swallowed up in their vast handshakes.
"You gonna tell me why you're standin' on street corners scarin' strangers?" Boo-Boo asked, in his easy way, but there was steel in his bright blue eyes.
"They hired us," Tiger said, in a basso growl. "Said there was some bad-ass who needed a little kickin' around. Thought it was a good cause. We had no idea they were puttin' a mark on you. I woulda known better than to try. You want us to mess 'em up a little?"
"No, thanks. I'd rather talk to 'em," Boo-Boo said. "I need to know why they hired you." But when he turned to the others to undo his whammy they shied away from his moving hands. Before he or Liz could do anything, they ran away down the street, shrieking as if the fiends of hell were after them, which, for all he knew, they might be. "Left it a little too long," he said apologetically to Liz. The spell would work itself out in a few hours. "You fellas have any idea what was goin' on?"
"Not a clue," Samson said apologetically. "They're from out of town, that's all we knew. We thought there was some big problem they needed help with. They sounded like nice fellas. They had some money. We had some spare time. We sure are sorry, ma'am. Can we do anything to help?"
The sudden surge of courtesy did little to calm Liz's temper. So much time had been wasted! She produced the picture of Robbie she had taken from Nigel Peters.
"We're looking for this young woman. We were in pursuit of her from the Superdome when you interfered with us. Any assistance you can offer would be greatly appreciated." She knew her voice sounded cold, but the men didn't seem to mind. They looked at one another, and nodded.
"This girl's not much to look at," Tiger said. "But we'll keep an eye out. If she comes into the bar tonight, I'll let you know."
"I'm on night shift," Samson said. "If she comes through Jackson Square, I'll see her."
"Don't make a fuss," Boo said, genially. "We just want to know who she's drinkin' with. We feel kinda protective of her, you understand?"
And the men seemed to.
"We'll spread the word," Samson promised. "You can count on that."
"Thanks," Boo said. He felt around in his coat pockets for a grubby notebook and pencil, tore out a page and handed half to each man. "Here's my cell phone number. And if you see those guys again..."
"You want us to mess 'em up a little?" Tiger asked, hopefully.
"Not right away," Boo said. "We need to know who hired 'em."
Tiger crossed his huge arms. "We'll find out for you. Least we can do."
"In the meanwhile," Liz said, "we'd better resume our search for Robbie. Time is running out."
Chapter 15
Ken Lewis followed the pointing fork attached to the top of his direction finder as he trudged slowly along Bourbon Street. This stupid city smelled. He was tired of the pervading odors of mold and spice and old paint. The river behind him was a power presence in its own right he couldn't ignore, and far too big for him to deal with. His feet were so hot and sore he wanted to go soak them in the Mississippi and tell Mr. Kingston to hell with him and his project. Trouble was, he knew it would be to Hell with him if he failed. Kingston wasn't the only person who had a vested interest in its success. Ken was part of only a distant outer circle of the Council, but he, too, had hopes of ascendance one day. If he didn't make this work, he was cooked.
He'd run up and down half the crumbling streets in that section of the French Quarter, only to find every track he followed belonged to a total stranger, and some pretty weird strangers at that. Who the hell knew there were so many people in this city giving off magical vibes? Voodoo priests, shamans, witches, clairvoyants—the place was full of practitioners and talents. Why did he have to lose a sensitive in the middle of all this? Why couldn't Green Fire have had its all-important concert in, say, Cleveland, Ohio?