their respective vehicles and drive off.
Now it’s just me, my ex-wife, our damaged truck…and our even more damaged relationship. It’s awkward. Tense. Silent. Finally, I break the silence, hesitantly.
“Mar…I’m so sorry,” I begin. “This is my fault. And I really do promise to find the sons of bitches who did this to you. Whoever it was, they made a damn big mistake.”
“Oh, Caleb,” she huffs, “just zip it, would you? I told you to be careful! Whatever you’ve been running around this past week doing…that’s the damn big mistake.”
I bite my tongue. I’ve been running around working to keep terror from raining down on this city. But in the process, I brought it into my home.
Now I’ll just have to work even harder, smarter, and be ready to give them back tenfold what they’ve done to Marlene.
Chapter 38
SWEEPING UP broken glass. Scrubbing off ugly spray paint. Sifting through mangled belongings. Struggling with a swirl of emotions.
Marlene and I did all this once before. Twelve years ago. After Katrina, when floodwater ravaged the ground floor of our old Tremé town house, back when we were husband and wife, young, and full of laughs and dreams.
Now we’re doing it again by the morning light. Separated, older, still with dreams and laughs. But this time, we’re cleaning up after a disaster that can’t be blamed on random nature, but on a specific evil.
“A flatbed’s en route,” my ex-wife announces, limping back into the truck, phone in hand.
I nod. “Good job, Mar. Let’s check out the stove.”
I go back into our poor mangled truck, get on my hands and knees, and use a flashlight to inspect our mobile kitchen’s most important—and most expensive—piece of equipment.
“Looks like those assholes didn’t rupture any gas lines,” I say, flicking the beam of light around the complex guts of pipes and wires. “But I want a second opinion from a pro before I fire it up.”
“That’s a good idea,” Marlene says from behind me. “Not that I wouldn’t enjoy watching you go down in a literal blaze of glory…”
I chuckle as I stand and dust off my hands. Then, under the glare of a hanging industrial flood lamp—since all the interior lights were smashed—I survey our poor kitchen. After only a few hours of work, it’s already showing signs of life. But it’s still a pitiable mess. And a long way from being functional again.
“I need a little air,” I mutter, brushing past Marlene to head outside.
It’s cooler out here in the morning breeze than inside the stuffy truck, but not by much. I grab a lemon-lime Big Shot bobbing in the pool of chilly water in our ice cooler. I crack it open and guzzle the soda so fast, I feel half of it dribble down my unshaven chin and trickle onto my sweat-soaked undershirt. I don’t even want to think about how unattractive I must look right about now.
“Oh, my God, it’s really true!” I hear a woman behind me cry out.
I turn around. Just my luck. It’s Vanessa. Of course it is.
“Are you guys okay?” she says, hurrying up to me.
I swallow my mouthful of fizzy sugar water and wipe my lips on my forearm.
“Marlene’s the one to ask,” I say. “But she’s fine, thank God. They don’t make ’em any tougher than her. She can handle anything. Our truck on the other hand…”
She cuts me off by slinging her arms over my shoulders and pulling me in for a long hug. I’m caught off guard by the tender gesture, and by how much I appreciate it…and enjoy it.
“How did you hear?” I ask.
She slowly lets me go and steps back, brushing back her hair. “I checked Twitter to see where Killer Chef was going to be for brunch. But every mention showed pictures of the trashed truck.”
I turn and take another sorry look at the flat tires, the spray-painted exterior, and the hammered metal sides. “Look at that,” I say. “Sometimes, the things you read online are true.”
She approaches the vehicle and gently strokes one of the dents in the metal sheeting as if it were a wounded animal.
“How sick do you have to be to do something like this?” she says quietly, shaking her head.
“Not sick,” I say. “Determined. Hard. Here to send a message, hurt Mar and our business.”
“Still…” She steps back. It looks like her eyes are getting watery.
Emotion for seeing this vandalism, or emotion at seeing how distressed I am?
I say, “Vanessa, having you come by…it means a lot. Especially