Colleen Thompson - Phantom of the French Quarter

At the chipped sink, he ran warm water over a thin washcloth, then wrung it out, and returned to sit beside the bed and gently clean her face. She stirred, and he smiled, the first real smile that had crossed his features in… He shook his head, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to remember a time when he’d still been his own man, pursuing fame instead of hiding from it.

“Caitlyn,” he said softly. “Caitlyn, can you hear me?”

Her eyelids cracked open, lamplight reflecting off irises the shade of moss touched by the morning sunlight. Relief washed over him, a floodtide of emotion.

She stared at him for a moment before those eyes flashed open and she scrambled away until her back was pressed against the peeling, laminated headboard. Looking around wildly, she cried, “What—where am I? What are you doing here? What happened?”

But she didn’t scream—not yet—something Marcus counted as a blessing.

“Let me explain,” he said, rushing to cram in as much as he could before the inevitable explosion. “You’ve had an accident, or not really an accident. I’m pretty sure someone hit you on the head. I caught him dragging you off in the chaos after the lightning strike.”

He could still smell the ozone, still hear the tourists screaming and scattering as a male voice—Reuben’s? —warned them to stay together for their safety. But Marcus’s eyes, already adjusted to the darkness from his long wait, had seen more than the others—perhaps because Caitlyn had been his sole focus from the spot where he had watched in silence, mentally framing every angle for a photo he had no camera to take. And waiting for his chance to…

“I had to get you out of there,” he tried to explain.

She shuddered, revulsion twisting her mouth. “So you could abduct me, drag me to some sleazy hotel and—”

“No! It wasn’t like that. I never touched you that way. I only meant to keep you safe.”

She tugged at her peasant blouse, which had fallen off her shoulder, and narrowed her eyes. “Then why not take me to a hospital? I was—”

Her hand drifted toward the side of her head, and before he could warn her, she was hissing in pain, fingers coming away tacky with coagulating blood.

“Ow…” Her face lost color, putting him in mind of the dead girl’s from that morning. “He—whoever hit me could’ve killed me.”

“You’ve been stirring, making noises. I didn’t think you were under too deep,” Marcus said, but even to his ears, the excuse rang hollow. “And once I’d taken you—because I was afraid he’d come after you again—there was no way I could go anywhere the police could…where they could get hold of me.”

“So instead you disappeared again, like some sort of phantom—only this time, you’ve dragged me with you.” Her expression hardening, she said flatly, “You’re on the run from the law, aren’t you? That’s why you wouldn’t get involved this morning. Why you were afraid to stick around tonight.”

Her eyes flicked toward the softly shifting light of a slow-motion slideshow on his laptop. His photos from the cemeteries, running as a screen saver. But she said nothing of them.

“I was afraid for you this evening,” he insisted. “You have no idea how damned hard I’ve prayed—”

“To what gods, Marcus?” The stone angel’s image, miraculously captured in the instant before she’d knocked the camera from his hands that morning, flashed across the screen. “Do they have a separate pantheon for stalkers?”

“This is the thanks I get for saving you? For watching your every breath these past two hours? I’m no damned stalker, Caitlyn. I swear to you, I’m only—”

She bolted upright, flinging aside a cobweb-thin sheet and swinging her feet to the floor. “Two hours? Oh my God. Poor Reuben—he’ll be frantic. He’ll have called the police. And Jacinth, too—my sister.”

She stood, or tried to, wobbled and then sank down again with a groan.

“I know they’ll be worried.” Marcus struggled beneath the weight of resignation. “I know that, and I’m sorry. But you’d better rest for a few minutes before you call. Before you report…whatever you decide to tell them.”

His gaze locked onto hers and held it. But instead of the accusations, the curses, he’d expected, he saw something soften in her eyes.

“You’re going to let me do that?” she asked.

He nodded. “Of course. Which is not to say I’m going to stick around and wait to be arrested.”

She studied him for several moments. “Why were you out at the cemetery tonight? I mean, your camera is broken, right?”

“I was hoping you’d show up,” he confessed. “I was hoping for a chance to catch you alone for a moment.”

Her brows rose. “While I was leading a tour group?”

He smiled and shook his head. “I never said it was a great plan. But I was thinking maybe afterward you’d let me take you for a cup of coffee.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, Reuben would’ve loved that.”

“I was hoping your pit bull would look away for a minute.”

“He’s not my pit bull, he’s my assistant. He’s just a little… He used to be a cop, so he’s naturally protective.”

“Protective’s one thing, but he looks like he enjoys ripping off heads just for fun.”

“He grew up in a shack on Noble Street, smack up against the old projects,” she said. “So what did you expect, a handshake and a warm welcome?”

Worry creased the smooth skin of her forehead, and moisture clumped her lower lashes. “Reuben may look like a tough guy, but he’s going to be absolutely beside himself with me gone.”

“Then call him,” Marcus said. “Tell him you’re all right.”

Caitlyn looked worried. “You’ll really let me do that?”

Marcus nodded solemnly. “I said I would. But if you can wait for just a minute, there’s this one thing I have to show you first.”

“This better not involve any body parts, or I promise you, I’ll scream louder than you’ve ever heard a woman scream before.” Her eyes sparkled like a honed blade. “In theater school, they always called me the girl with the made-for-horror-movie lungs.”

“I remember from the cemetery.” With another smile pulling at one corner of his mouth, he pulled the matchbook from his jeans pocket and tossed it to the bed. “That’s the only thing I’m whipping out. Even if you beg me.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” she murmured, picking up the matchbook.

“This morning in the cemetery, I accidentally grabbed this when I was gathering the stuff that fell out of my bag. I didn’t notice it ’til later, after I’d already left your house.”

She turned the matchbook cover, reading the advertising logo: New Orleans After Dark Guided Tours.

“I worked with Josiah Paine’s company,” she said, her voice trembling, “before I went out on my own.”

“How does your old boss feel about the competition?”

Her gaze dropped, and she ran a corner of the sheet through her fingers, flicking the frayed hem with a chipped pink thumbnail. There was an unconscious sensuality in the small gesture, one that left Marcus too aware of their closeness in this cramped room, of the gulf of need that hollowed him out when he looked into her face.

In his mind’s eye, the thin mattress grew feather-soft and cloud-thick. The worn cotton sheets rewove themselves from sumptuous threads of wine-rich silk. She lay back, her rain-tangled hair brushed to a fine sheen and splayed out against the heaps of fluffy pillows.

Looking away, he bit down hard on his tongue, desperate to bring both his imagination and his body to heel before she noticed and really did scream.

“Paine was furious about it,” Caitlyn admitted in answer to his question. “But he never would’ve lost me if he’d kept his hands to himself.”