Greg Herren - Murder in the Rue Ursulines

The little digital window informed me that I had two new voice-mail messages.

I checked the messages as we crossed Canal Street. The first one was from Paige. Hey Chanse, Paige here. You are so not going to believe what happened during my interview with Shirley Harris! I still don’t believe it myself. I did get some rather interesting dirt on both Freddy and Jillian before we were interrupted-and therein lies a tale like you wouldn’t believe…Sandy Carter had to postpone-I’m meeting her for breakfast in the morning. So, call me whenever you get home so we can get together and compare notes. Why don’t you just come over to my place and we can order in? I am dying to hear what the assistant wanted to talk to you about, and if you got anything out of her. Love ya!

I punched the seven key to delete it. I smiled to myself. I was definitely curious to hear her opinion of the Rosemary conversation. The Shirley Harris thing sounded good too-Paige’s voice had been in her high-pitched “I don’t know if I can keep from laughing” mode.

Chanse MacLeod? Hello, how are you, this is Veronica Vance, from CNN Headline News. I would love the opportunity to interview you tonight on my show. It airs at seven o’clock eastern, and I can guarantee you I’ll be the most fair journalist you could speak to. Please give me a call back at 415-555-0909, so we can make arrangements for the satellite feed from either your office or your home, or from a local affiliate’s studio; whichever is the most convenient for you. If you’re familiar with my show, you KNOW that I am the only journalist who would give you a fair shake to tell your side of the story. Thanks in advance, and I look forward to talking to you further.

I couldn’t delete that one fast enough.

Oh yes, I was familiar with Veronica Vance, all right. Before the flood, I’d found her shrill and obviously affected Southern accent offensive-as offensive as her regular claims to be fair and unbiased. She was one of those horrible ‘journalists’ who never allowed her guests a chance to finish anything they were saying, cutting them off rudely, and while she claimed to be giving them an opportunity to tell their side of whatever story she was reporting on, she usually came across as a cross between an avenging harpy and a banshee. Every once in a while, I’d watched her show when I was bored and nothing else was on. But after the levees failed, when all the news networks were reporting on New Orleans 24/7-I’d grown to hate her with the burning intensity of the sun. The lies and inaccuracies that had flown out of her mouth, while she sat in her high and dry studio in Atlanta, wrapped in her usual cloak of sanctimonious superiority, made me burn with rage. She placed blame everywhere but where it belonged-with the Army Corps of Engineers and the White House. She blamed the mayor, the governor, the people who hadn’t evacuated-you name it, she blamed them.

To me, she was the epitome of everything that was wrong with the news media.

I wondered how she’d gotten my cell number. Undoubtedly, she had sources everywhere. I sighed and took no small pleasure in deleting the message. There was no way in hell I was going to call her back-let alone agree to an interview.

The car swung around the corner of Euterpe onto Camp Street and came to a dead stop. The traffic on Camp Street was intense-which was rare. I craned my neck forward to see what was going on, and my jaw dropped. I felt all the blood draining from my face.

The street in front of my house was clogged with news vans.

The sidewalk in front of my house was filled with photographers and cameramen.

Oh my God, oh my God oh my God.

“Stop here and wait a minute,” I said to the cab driver, my voice shaking.

How am I going to get into the house through that mob? I thought.

My heart was beating so loud I could hear it in my ears.

My breath was coming fast.

A panic attack. No, please God, no, I can’t melt down in front of the media.

Somehow, I managed to croak out Paige’s address to the driver. He pulled around the vans along the curb and headed up Camp Street.

I tried to measure my breathing as I scrolled through my stored numbers.

I found Paige’s number and hit call.

“Tourneur.”

“Paige, it’s Chanse.” I was beginning to hyperventilate. I tucked my head down and tried to control my breathing. “Please…I need…help.”

“Are you okay?” Her voice was alarmed. “Where are you?”

“There’s a-there’s a crowd of reporters in front of my house.” I forced myself to take long, slow, deep breaths. I was getting faint. There was a roaring in my ears, and my heart was pumping so hard it felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. Breathe, just breathe, focus on your breathing, everything is going to be okay.

“Don’t answer the door, make sure the curtains are closed, and don’t answer the door whatever you do.” She instructed. “Those fucking vultures.”

“I’m…not…in…the…house…” I started gasping for air. Think about your happy place, think about the beach, get a hold of yourself, you can do it, Chanse, you can stay calm and focused… “I…am…in…a…cab…”

“Oh God, where are you right now?”

“On…my…way…to…your…house”

“You’re having an anxiety attack, aren’t you? Shit, fuck, SHIT! Hang on, how close are you?

“Corner…of…Melpomene…and Camp…” I swallowed. “I…think…I…can…make…it…”

“Buddy, are you all right?” the cabdriver asked as he turned up Melpomene.

“Hang in there, Chanse! I’ll be out front waiting for you.” Her voice was panicked. She hung up.

“I’m…fine…” I said to the cabdriver. “Just…drive…” I put my head down between my knees.

Breathe, just breathe, you’re on a beach, close your eyes and imagine you’re on a beach, with the sun shining and the waves coming ashore and…

It wasn’t working.

My mind raced on. Horrible thoughts filled my mind, one after another, each one worse than the one before.

I hadn’t had an anxiety attack in months.

They’re terrifying, absolutely terrifying. There’s nothing worse than having your mind race out of control. What makes it even worse is there’s a flicker of awareness, of your normal mind working, and it KNOWS you are acting crazy, that you’re mind is racing out of control and there’s not a goddamned thing you can do about it. You can’t stop yourself, no matter how you try, and while it’s going on you want to die, you pray to die, anything would be better than letting it go on.

I’d thought they were a part of the past.

After I’d returned from the evacuation, they’d happened almost daily. They would come on suddenly, without warning. One moment, I’d be perfectly fine. The next moment, I’d be on the floor in a fetal position, my mind racing out of control, my breathing so fast I was close to hyperventilating, my heart beating so fast I thought it would explode. My doctor had prescribed Xanax for me to handle the anxiety attacks, and Lexapro to handle the depression. It didn’t take long before I was addicted to both.

But I’d kicked them both, and now the last of the Xanax sat in my medicine cabinet collecting dust for those increasingly rare anxiety attacks… I’d been proud of myself, and my therapist had given me some control exercises-breathing, creative visualizations, all that psychoanalytical mumbo jumbo I’d always dismissed as stupid in my past life. But much as I hated to admit it, they did work most of the time.

But they weren’t working as I waited for the cab to get to Paige’s house. Time seemed to have slowed to a complete standstill. Nothing was working. All I knew was that I was helpless, melting into a puddle in the backseat of the cab. I tried imagining myself on the beach again, tried imagining myself in any number of happier places, tried to remember times when I enjoyed myself and was happy…and nothing would come to replace the panic overwhelming me. Tears began streaming out of my eyes as I fought for my sanity, to keep my grip on reality, to stay out of that dark pit where I’d spent so many horrible hours.