John Miller: Too Far Gone

Alexa’s professional life was one long-running stress test. She thrived on edge living-consuming gallons of coffee and running headlong through nights and days without meaningful sleep. She loved the atmospheric highs that success brought, and she somehow slogged her way out from the pit that failures dug. The job was her life. She read inside politics expertly, for doing so was a necessary evil: it often meant the difference between being relevant and sitting behind a desk in some dismal Bureau FO-or field office-in the windswept boonies. Alexa walked the walk-navigating the spiderweb red-tape bureaucracy-and talked the requisite Bureau-jabber. This was the life she had freely chosen, and the other agents were almost the only family she had left. Alexa’s was a family headed by inflexible, often paranoid, and generally disapproving parent figures who were slow to reward and eager to punish-and the Bureau was a family where sibling rivalry was unrelenting and pitiless.

With the agility of a panther, Alexa rose from the bed and crossed to the window. Opening the heavy curtains, she peered down through the dark glass at a wide-awake city. Twenty floors below, an ambulance attendant slammed the door of the vehicle whose siren had awakened her and she listened to its scream as it made its way toward Charity Hospital, which had the best trauma care unit in the city. And New Orleans did its dead-level best to make sure the ER remained the busiest venue in town.

Alexa Keen sometimes wondered if there was a place she could call home. All through her adult life she had moved from city to city, settled in superficially, learned the relevant streets in those cities, developed preferences in stores and restaurants, but invariably they all felt cold to her.

Alexa’s apartments were interchangeable. She hung the same art on the walls, shifted the same modern furniture in her space. There was no extraneous clutter, plants to be watered, pets to anchor her, and Alexa’s telephone seldom rang since the advent of the do-not-call list. Her residence mailboxes collected only spiderwebs and generic adver-junk. Due to the amount of time she was away on-site, all of her bills were automatically subtracted from her checking account or paid electronically. Her television set was only a means to monitor the flowing river of news and the local weather.

Her sound system played Billie Holiday, Wes Montgomery, the Gipsy Kings, R.E.M., The Beatles, the Stones, or Elmore James, depending on her mood. Alexa kept a library card, and she read fiction for entertainment, nonfiction for information.

She was five feet seven inches tall and maintained her weight between 125 and 130. She worked out at the FBI gym before daybreak, and in the evenings she ran several miles. For days when the weather was bad, she had a treadmill in her apartment. When she was on the road she did push-ups, sit-ups, and squats. And over the years she had taken both karate and kickboxing lessons to keep up her self-defense skills. She was strong, agile, had good stamina, was fast on her feet, had remarkable balance, and knew how to defend herself. She went to the firing range monthly to stay sharp, but she would never be more than adequate with a handgun.

Alexa looked down at the pedestrians on the sidewalks. Most were tourists-which was a polite way of saying they were marks whose wallets held the blood that powered the city’s real heart-the French Quarter, the casinos, the restaurants and bars.

Alexa had only visited the Crescent City on FBI business. It wasn’t her nature to spend her vacation time in tourist magnets like New Orleans, San Francisco, Las Vegas, or Miami. When she took her required vacations, she hiked obscure trails, floated down rivers, camped where few other people wanted to be. She liked the salt air and the solitude of beaches in the winter.

Alexa had mixed feelings where New Orleans was concerned. She loved the jazz, but didn’t drink. She enjoyed the restaurants, but she only ate rich foods on remarkable occasions. She appreciated antiques, but wouldn’t spend the money on them because she had no desire to own things she might worry about. She enjoyed the architecture and the art. She appreciated the way most of the locals accepted eccentrics and misfits and how they took everyday life with a grain of salt.

New Orleans was a cautionary illustration of what could happen to the entire country as it descended from its golden age. Alexa knew that the things residents and most nonresidents loved about the city were hardly more than smoke and mirrors that hid the real New Orleans, which was a collapsing sump, crippled by rampant ignorance, grinding poverty, shameless nepotism, an inadequate tax base, a crumbling infrastructure, a long-ignored levee system, a generational welfare system, wholesale crime, underpaid and overworked city employees, decaying structures, morally bankrupt leaders who propagated a third-world-style corruption-and it was all gathering speed in a downhill direction.

Some years earlier, she’d been hunting down a sexual predator who had abducted a girl and, in the process, killed two Chicago policemen. She had tracked him to New Orleans. The man had been staying in a motel, using the abducted sixteen-year-old girl to satisfy his sadistic sexual desires. Alexa had found him, and, when he’d run, he ended up abandoning the girl in his car, and Alexa had found herself chasing him through the French Quarter. Alexa wasn’t religious, but she had decided that if there was a hell, it must look and feel like Bourbon Street on Fat Tuesday. After catching him he’d wanted to fight with his much smaller adversary, so she’d used her fists and feet on him while the crowd had cheered wildly. As he’d begged for mercy, she handcuffed and arrested him.

Despite the fact that she was wide-awake, the ringing telephone startled her. The red numerals on the clock said 12:22.

“Yes,” she said.

“Special Agent Keen?” a male voice asked.

“Speaking.”

“This is Michael Manseur. I’m a detective with NOPD Homicide.”

“Winter Massey’s friend,” she said, smiling. Six months earlier, she and ex-Deputy U.S. Marshal Winter Massey, a close friend of hers since childhood, had worked together on a kidnapping case in North Carolina. Massey had spoken very highly of Michael Manseur, the man who had helped him locate and save a young girl’s life. The child, whose mother had been murdered by a professional killer, had become a member of Winter Massey’s family.

“Well,” Manseur responded, “I expect friend might be a stretch. Acquaintance is closer to it. I have nothing but respect for Winter, that’s for sure. He is one memorable individual.”

“I spoke to him last week, and he told me I should call you. I really did mean to.”

“He called me a few days ago to tell me I should call you while you were in town. I intended to ask you to join my family for dinner while you’re here, but I’ve been up to my belt loops in alligators. And this hurricane track is looking bad.”

“I’m leaving first thing in the morning,” she told him truthfully.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Manseur replied.

What Alexa couldn’t imagine was why Manseur was calling her after midnight. Maybe the detective had been working late shift in a windowless room and lost track of time. It had happened to her enough.

“Maybe the next time I’m in town…” she suggested.

“Kyler Kennedy, our Missing Persons detective, sat in on your talk today.” His heavy Southern accent was warm and comforting. Alexa liked the way he stretched his vowels out like soft taffy.

“Well, maybe we can get together next time I’m here. It was nice talking to you, Detective Manseur.”

“That isn’t why I called you, Agent Keen. I’m thoughtless to a fault, but I sure wouldn’t bother you at this hour just to chat. I was wondering if I could impose on you a little bit.”