Let the Devil Out (Maureen Coughlin #4)(18)

Stay here, she told herself. Stay here in New Orleans. Stay with that oblivious girl.

She reached into her hoodie pocket for her cigarettes; she craved smoke to cover the taste of the trunk of that car, but she stopped herself. She didn’t want to illuminate her face for anyone else on the street, and she didn’t want to risk the man she was following turning at the flick of the lighter or the smell of the smoke.

She concentrated her vision on the hunched shoulders of the man walking in front of her. Look to the future, she told herself, boring into the space between his shoulder blades with her eyes, to what’s ahead of you. Don’t give him any reason to turn around. She was counting on the man’s own vulnerability, on that unattended and forgotten space a breath-width behind his back.

The blindness she lamented in the girl was Maureen’s best advantage over the man a dozen paces ahead of her. Watching him, she thought again of hot smoke in her mouth, of that next cigarette. She’d save it for after her work was done, savor the anticipation of it.

When they had walked three blocks along Magazine, the girl made a wide, slow turn down Philip Street, taking her pursuer and his pursuer toward the river and into the Irish Channel, where the streets got quieter and darker. Fewer porch lights. More broken streetlights. Virtually no car or foot traffic. Maureen thought the girl might on instinct turn and look behind her up Magazine as she turned the corner. She didn’t.

The girl did stop half a block down Philip, her back to Magazine Street.

Maureen watched as the man hesitated, slowing almost to a stop.

The girl never sensed him. Never turned. She stuffed her phone in her purse, continued digging around in it as she continued walking. Maybe she’s smarter than this guy and I both assume, Maureen thought. Maybe she’s reaching for a gun. The purse was big enough to hold a smallish weapon, a .38 or a .22. Maybe she had heard the stalker stories. Maybe she had been waiting to make the turn onto the darker, quieter street because she thought that gave her an advantage, or because it reduced the chance of witnesses.

Maureen had a disappointing realization.

If this girl pulls a gun, she thought, and if it looks like she might pull the trigger, I have to intervene on the stalker’s behalf. A telltale metallic jingle made the issue moot.

No gun in that purse, only house keys.

The girl walked quicker. The stalker hastened as well, closing the gap between him and the girl. Maureen moved closer, too, convinced that neither player knew of her presence.

Whatever was going to happen was happening very soon. Like in-less-than-a-minute soon. Maureen had waited hours to hit this spot. Now she was down to the final seconds. The girl reached for a wrought-iron gate. Maureen heard the stalker catch his breath.

Here it comes, Maureen thought. Don’t miss it.

The gate creaked as the girl swung it open onto a walk leading to a small cottage. No lights were on inside. Not even a f*cking porch light burned.

What was wrong with this girl? Maureen thought. Did she know nothing about the city, about the world she lived in? There are people in this world, Maureen remembered, to whom awful things haven’t happened yet. And I’m here in the dark, she thought, to keep that true for this dumb girl for one more day.

She pulled the ASP from her back pocket. She gave the man half a moment to acquit himself, to let the girl know he was there, to call out her name. Anything to tell Maureen he wasn’t following this girl home with ill intent. Anything. To not be what Maureen knew in her bones he was. Do that, Maureen thought, show me you’re not what I think you are and I will walk on by. I will let this go. The man said nothing. He did nothing but reach for the gate. He’d been smart enough to let it bang closed before he opened it, knowing some part of the girl’s brain waited to register that sound.

The man slipped up the walk behind the girl, impressively silent, had her within arm’s reach. Maureen darted through the gate behind the man. She didn’t wait for him to reach for the girl.

She fell on him from behind, kicking out the back of one knee, locking his throat in the crook of her elbow. He lurched forward, gasping, knocking into the back of the girl, who went facedown without a sound onto the brick steps leading up the porch.

Maureen hammered the ASP down on the knee she’d kicked. The joint gave out. As they fell, she and the man she’d pursued, her foot slipped off the edge of the walkway, and she rolled her ankle. Electric pain shot through her ankle and up her calf. The pain made her gasp. Not again, she thought. This f*cking ankle will never heal. Forget it, she told herself. Use it. Let it hurt. Use the adrenaline, the anger.

They tumbled into a row of ginger plants, falling to the ground among the stalks. The man landed facedown, Maureen on top of him. He clawed at Maureen’s forearm with both hands, trying to pry her arm away from his throat. He yanked at the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Her grip wouldn’t give. When she felt him weaken under her, she released his throat, letting him breathe. She didn’t want to strangle him. Grabbing him by the back of the head, she pushed his face into the dirt. He couldn’t be allowed to get a look at her. He flopped under her like a fish. He was a fighter, but not much of one. He was a weak man.

Inside the house, a dog barked, a crazed yippy thing that would wear on the nerves quickly. Maybe panicked enough to get people looking out the window. She’d have to work quickly.

She straddled the small of the man’s back. She cocked her arm and thumped him a hard shot to the rib cage with the ASP. The blow made a sound like she’d slapped a pumpkin. He cried out into the dirt, his breath exploding from him.