The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,74

My destination is northeast, but I’m heading southwest.

Oops. Guess I’ll have to make a U-turn.

I give the wheel a sharp twist. My car jumps the median, rumbles across the metal tracks, then back onto the street in the opposite direction.

With each bump, the trunk’s contents rattle and thud.

“Sorry, Angus,” I call, knowing full well he can’t hear me. “My bad.”

Once I pick up speed, I start tapping the brakes every now and then to make my car jerk and lurch—and make Angus toss and turn. My goal isn’t to hurt the bastard. I just want him to feel afraid. Confused. Helpless. All the awful emotions he made Vanessa experience just a few hours ago.

Except in his case, there’s nobody coming to save him.

After a few blocks, I roll down the windows. It’s stuffy in the car. I can only imagine how uncomfortable it is in the trunk.

I flip on the radio and tune it to my favorite station: 90.7 WWOZ, all jazz, all the time. A scratchy, virtuoso trumpet solo blares. I recognize the song right away as the famous “Dippermouth Blues,” recorded by the man himself: Satchmo, Pops—the Big Easy’s own Louis Armstrong. I can’t help but nod my head and drum my fingers along to the lively beat. They say one reason jazz was born in New Orleans is because it was the only place in the world where slaves were allowed to own drums. It’s testament to their creativity and spirit that out of such an awful institution came something so infectiously good.

I merge eastbound onto the Pontchartrain Expressway. I’m heading out of the city, so traffic is pretty light. This gives me ample ability to jerk the wheel and swerve sharply between all four lanes.

“How ya doing back there, Angus?”

Soon I’m cruising over the Crescent City Connection, the massive steel bridge that spans this bend of the Mississippi. To my left, the downtown New Orleans skyline twinkles beautifully against the hazy night sky.

I exit the expressway in a part of the city known as Algiers. The area has high rates of gang and gun violence, but it looks quaint and feels suburban, almost like a small town. It’s also where many Carnival krewes have their “dens,” the giant warehouses where members build and store their outlandish floats.

If my theory about the upcoming attack is right, some of those floats could be carrying bombs as well as beads. That makes me shiver, that somewhere in one of those warehouses, at this very minute, the components of a bomb are being carefully assembled to be placed in a tractor or a float.

But there’s still that nagging question: Is it a terrorist attack to cause random death, fear, and destruction…or could it still be a family affair among the Needhams?

I just don’t know.

But I’m hoping my frightened cargo back there might just help me find out.

I turn onto Winston Street and get in line with a few other idling cars. We’re about to cross the Mississippi River again—but there isn’t a bridge in sight.

“How many passengers ya got?” asks the ticket-taker with a snap of her gum.

“Just me, thanks,” I answer, handing her three dollars for the toll.

She waves me forward, and I drive onto a massive, red-and-white, open-air ferry. I ease into a parking spot behind a silver Ford Explorer with a bumper sticker that reads KEEP N’AWLINS FUNKY. Within a few minutes, we’re moving. I check my phone, see no voicemails, no texts, not much of anything. But I spare a few moments to send a text before stepping out of my car.

If you’ve ever sat inside a car that’s on a boat, you know it’s a strange feeling. It makes me a little nauseated.

It must be even worse inside a claustrophobic trunk.

And I’m depending on that.

After a short ride, I’m back on dry land in a community called Chalmette. Driving through, I pass gritty industrial sites and a massive oil refinery. When the roads start getting gravelly, when it feels like I’ve gone too far, that’s when I know I’m getting close.

I turn onto Bartolo Street heading north, and take it as far as it goes. I finally stop—on a small concrete bridge spanning the Florida Canal, a man-made industrial waterway. All around me is vast, dark marsh.

I kill the engine, which also kills that sweet jazz. I get out, draw my Smith & Wesson, walk around to the trunk, and pop it open.

Angus is inside, curled up in the fetal position.

He immediately starts twisting and