The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,95

of my plans, but not all of them. We’ve just begun. Honest.”

“What else is going on? Billy, come on, tell me!”

Another laugh. “And spoil my fun? Really?”

Jesus Christ.

“Why?” I shout. “Why would you do this? Why in God’s name would you bomb, ram, shoot up your hometown?”

And like the sociopath he is—carefully hidden over the years—he’s got his sermon all ready.

“Because I love my hometown, Caleb,” he says, voice strong and determined. “For years I’ve been watching this city slip lower and lower. Its culture and character worn away by outsiders. The fabric of its society ripped apart. Someone had to stand up, unite us all, and fight back!”

“By killing innocent people?”

“No, by purging our city of the outsiders who come in here and suck away what’s right and noble of New Orleans,” he says. “C’mon, Caleb, as a cop, you’ve seen what the outsiders have done to our city. They take away our food, our culture, our music, and what do we get in return? Dirty money…and when the time comes when we need real help, like Katrina, we’re treated like an old hooker who’s overstayed her welcome.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m just a cop, not a shrink. But somehow, I’ve got to stop him…or at least delay him. My heart is thudding so hard that it nearly hurts my chest, and I realize that right now, in these very seconds, I have the possibility of stopping any more carnage, to halt whatever it is that Billy is planning to do next.

I take a breath. Swallow my anger, my pride, my cop mind.

“Billy…you know, I’ve never thought of it that way. I hate to admit it, but…please, tell me more. Tell me what else is coming.”

Another laugh. “A few seconds ago you were promising to blow my head off. And now you want me to believe you’re a convert? Not bad, but Caleb, please, don’t insult my intelligence.”

“Billy…”

After a pause, he asks, “Just before I go, consider this, you greasy spoon line cook. Have you ever lost something dear to you, Caleb? A job, maybe? A business? What about…a person? Maybe two?”

My mouth turns dry as sandpaper. My pulse soars.

Did this son of a bitch just threaten Marlene and Vanessa?

“Billy, what the hell did you just say to me?” I shout back. “Are you still there?”

Another laugh.

“The sky’s the limit, Caleb,” he says. “Remember that.”

Then he hangs up.

Chapter 85

MY FEET jackhammer the pavement.

My arms pump like pistons.

My throat and lungs are blazing.

The MP5 threatens to shatter my shoulder from all the bouncing around.

The distance from here to where Killer Chef is parked is only about a third of a mile.

But right now, it feels like light-years.

I tried phoning Marlene and Vanessa multiple times as soon as Billy hung up on me. No luck. The calls never went through.

I tried texting them. Warning them. Imploring them to find shelter and stay safe, wherever they were. But the messages never went through.

I have no idea where they are.

Or…God, if they’re even still alive.

And Billy could very well be bluffing. Trying to distract me, throw me off his trail.

But I’ve seen what he’s capable of. If he really does have something planned against the two most important people in my life, I need to protect them.

I can’t take any chances.

I have to find them. Save them.

And the food truck is the best place to start looking.

I still have so many damn questions. What are Billy’s true motives? What’s his end game? Why does he carry so much vitriol, so much pain?

Most of all, what other horrors does he still have tucked up his sleeve?

But that can wait.

Sprinting through the deserted streets of the French Quarter, all I can think about are the two I hold dearest.

But I see and hear some encouraging signs, like the first green colors of spring.

More helicopters overhead.

National Guard Humvees roaring by.

State police and NOPD cruisers screaming in the distance as well.

And I’m hearing the flat, sharp crack! of rifle fire in the distance, from what seems to be upper stories.

Not the rapid fire from automatic machine guns, but the carefully aimed and discharged .308 bolt-action rifle rounds, the ones used by SWAT team snipers.

Meaning my message did get through, and the good guys—now able to identify the bad guys—are taking them out, one by one, even with their body armor.

Finally, I round the corner onto Bienville Street.

I see Killer Chef parked just up the block, right where I left it.

I start shouting, “Vanessa? Marlene? I’m back!