J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

I wake up on the couch, sticky with sweat, the sound of Gene’s snoring in my ears. He lies sprawled in a recliner surrounded by bottles, his leg elevated, a deflated rag still dripping across his swollen knee. The blanket, now coiled around my ankles, must have been kicked off during sleep, during my muddled recurring dreams. The girl on the bed was there, but she was dead now and her face didn’t belong anymore to the teenage New Orleans prostitute. That one I saved, but the girl in the dream I didn’t. As far as I know, the dream girl lies at the bottom of the Gulf, left there by two policemen, one of whom I killed.

The green Ford was there, too. Leaving the bedroom, I walked out onto the churning pavement, where the silent dog barked and the gleaming car from thirty years ago made its circuit around the park, a recurring thump buckling the metal trunk lid, like something wanted out.

My bones ache as I hoist myself up, padding across the carpet toward the bathroom, where I borrow Gene’s cheap space-age-looking Gillette to hack at my face, then dress in my clothes from yesterday sitting cold and wrinkled in the dryer.

There’s a can of chicory in Gene’s pantry and an electric kettle on the counter, but instead of settling for a pot of instant, I gather my things and slip out the front door. Café du Monde, open twenty-four hours, beckons from across the river. Coffee and beignets, and then I’ll start the seven-hour drive home. As I climb into my car, the horizon glows in anticipation of sunlight.

My grasp of the geography fails me. After a wrong turn, I end up cruising along River Road, feeling a deep kinship with the immobile rust-colored barges out on the Mississippi that, like me, could probably use a dry dock and refitting. But they still get the job done, regardless of looks.

The thought of me running through a graveyard, winded, while Gene clutches his blown knee brings a smile to my lips. Old men playing at what looks to be a young man’s game.

With some effort I find the highway and cross the river into downtown, driving in the general direction of Jackson Square. My tourist’s knowledge of the city is long out of date, forcing me to resort to a little trial and error until I find Decatur and take it all the way, pulling into one of many empty parking spots along a stately and semi-decayed building with a series of French doors on the ground floor and wrought-iron galleries decked with hanging plants on the two above.

As I cross the street to the porticoed café, my phone buzzes in my pocket. The screen reads CARTER ROBB.

“It’s a little early for you to be up, isn’t it?”

“Roland? It’s Carter.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Are you. . I need to. .” He lets out a sigh. “Listen, the first thing is, everybody’s okay. There’s no need to worry. But I have to tell you. . Something bad happened.”

Despite the preamble, my heart constricts.

“What happened?”

“Someone broke into the house.”

“Was Charlotte there? Is she all right?”

“She’s a little banged up,” he says.

“Let me talk to her.”

“They’re with her now. She’s the one who told me to call.”

“Who’s with her?”

“The police. They’re here. Gina called 9-1-1.”

My legs go weak. I lean against one of Café du Monde’s pillars for support, clutching the phone with one hand and my forehead with the other. I tell him to go back to the beginning and talk slow, explaining everything that happened.

At four thirty in the morning, Carter woke up to the sound of his phone ringing. When he answered, Charlotte whispered to him that she’d heard a noise and there was somebody in the house. He roused his wife and told her to call for help, then descended the apartment stairs to the back door of my house, keeping the line to Charlotte open. He found the door ajar and went inside. There was a crashing sound from upstairs.

“I raced up two at a time,” he says. “The noise was coming from the bedroom. Over the phone I could hear Charlotte screaming that he was trying to get in. I found him pushing against the bathroom door. She’d locked herself inside, and the crashing was him kicking the lock open. They were pushing back and forth on the door.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“It was dark,” he says. “I yelled at him to stop. For a second, he just stood there, and then I saw something shiny in his hand. He rushed at me and shot his arm out. He sliced my forearm pretty good, but I got ahold of him and wouldn’t let him do it again.”

He tells me this in a boyishly calm voice.

“For a couple of seconds we kind of wrestled-it seemed like forever. I could smell the guy’s breath, feel his spit on my face. Then Charlotte came out of the bathroom and threatened to shoot him.”

In her nightstand I keep a loaded.38 revolver, an older all-steel model so she can manage the recoil, fitted with red-dot laser grips. The laser activates as soon as she picks the revolver up, and the bullets hit wherever the dot falls.

“I could see the red dot on the wall next to us, and he must have seen it, too. One second he’s trying to gut me, and the next he goes slack. I misjudged it, though. I thought he was giving up. Instead he kneed me and took off through the door.”

“Are you all right?”

“My arm is bandaged up, but they gave me something for the pain. I’ve had worse.”

“You said Charlotte was hurt? Did he do anything to her?”

“The door hit her in the face when he kicked it, but she’s okay. She was a real trouper. She probably saved my life.”

“I want to talk to her,” I say.

“Hold on.”

In the background I can hear voices, some close and some far away. A portable radio squawks. The phone changes hands and a woman speaks. Not Charlotte.

“March, is that you?”

Theresa Cavallo. “What are you doing there?”

“Gina called me after it happened, so I figured I should come over. Charlotte’s giving a statement, but I’ll put her on when she’s done. She’s holding up well under the circumstances. She says her only regret is not shooting the guy.”

“She’s really okay?” I ask, hardly believing it.

“I promise. And you owe Carter a debt of gratitude.”

“It sounds like I do.”

“Not just for rushing over,” she says. “Thanks to him, you might just have a break in your case.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m holding it in my hot little hands.” She rattles what sounds like an evidence bag over the line. “ The knife ,” she says, her voice electric. “He dropped it on the floor.”

I take a deep breath.

“There’s Carter’s blood on the blade, but they’ve lifted some good prints off the handle. They’re gonna take the hilt apart and see if there’s any other blood or trace evidence.”

“You’re saying the guy who broke into my house is the same one who killed Simone Walker? How would he even know where I live?”

“I don’t know. The same way he knows your email address? Obviously I can’t say for certain it’s the same man, but I told the detective to make sure Dr. Green gets a look at the knife to see if it matches.”

“No,” I say. “Have Bridger do it.”

“Whatever. That’s your problem. The point is. .” She pauses. “Never mind. Here’s your wife.”

“ Roland? ”

At the sound of Charlotte’s voice, a wave of relief goes through me. My mouth twists into a painful smile.

“Are you okay, baby? Are you sure you’re all right?”

“It was horrible,” she says. “I had the gun and couldn’t use it. He could’ve killed me, Roland, and I couldn’t pull the trigger. I feel ashamed. Terry says it was probably him, the man you’re after. I couldn’t even give them a good description.”