piety and wealth, with ornately tooled leather and gaudy clasps; others were unassuming, worn utilitarian objects of daily devotion. For some months Gwen had been laboriously transcribing the handwritten family chronologies and notations scattered throughout these books. Now working among the Js, she’d already passed the richly decorated quarto Bible of the Balazar family.
She was a sweet, pudgy woman, as likable as a stuffed toy. Nick was already sorry for what he was going to do to her.
He grabbed several Bibles, seemingly at random, the Balazar one among them. Then, he took a seat at a separate library table.
Thumbing through the Bible, he quickly decided there were three pages in the front he wanted: “Births,” “Marriages,” and “Deaths.” He kept his knife ready.
Ten minutes, twenty minutes went by.
Nick squirmed in the too soft, crushed-velvet, Victorian chair. He was getting desperate.
But just as he was about to do something rash like grab the book and dash out, Gwen said, “God! I just have to have a cigarette. You smoke? No. Well, I’ve tried my derndest to quit. I’m chewing that nicotine gum.” Shaking her head, she removed a wad from her mouth and wrapped it in a piece of paper. “Doesn’t do a bit of good. Watch my stuff will you? I have to go outside. The old bat won’t let me smoke in here, of course.”
Innocent as baby Nero, Nick commiserated.
The old bat followed Gwen out of the room, not so discreetly indicating her disapproval of Gwen smoking even exiled to the wide front gallery, where the soaring square white columns had endured the breath of cannons. Gwen’s briefcase was the kind lawyers and accountants use, a deep box-like affair. In a pocket inside the lid Nick noticed an extra pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. He took the matches, lit one, and dropped it and the matchbook in the briefcase. A brief, violent flare erupted. In a few seconds, smoke and flames roiled up from the crib of Gwen’s “baby.”
Poor Gwen. The world will just have to wait for your book…lacking, alas, the Balazar Bible details.
By the time the first of the smoke detectors started to blare, Nick had removed the pages he needed from the Balazar Bible and made it to the lobby, where he shouted, “Fire!”
The old bat ran past him, followed a moment later by Gwen. Several other Daughters of the Glorious Gray appeared on the curved stairs, pausing melodramatically before a mammoth triumphal painting of the First Battle of Bull Run, their faces mimicking the expressions of the snorting war-horses in the picture.
At least that’s the image Nick had as he left the building, nearly colliding with a black woman in a maid’s uniform, who ran in from somewhere with a fire extinguisher.
He drove toward the highway, gunning through every yellow light, consoling himself with the thought that maybe he’d helped Gwen kick the habit.
“Oh, hell! Just what I need!”
Blue lights flashed in his rearview mirror.
Nick wasn’t sure how fast he’d been going. The vision of Corban’s dead face again had commanded most of his attention.
For an interstate, I-49 was little traveled; Nick had become accustomed to the clear field. If need wasn’t the justification, some legislators, contractors, and their cronies must have made a killing on this thing. Ah, the Louisiana way. He figured he was about to find out firsthand about one of the new revenue sources the highway had brought.
Nick could see the officer gesturing with his arm, toward an exit. Why not just pull over on the shoulder? he wondered. Great! He would have to go in front of some judicial bumpkin to pay a fine. He had little cash on him, and he doubted any trustworthy person would take one his checks. He had too much precious cargo to spend a few days in a local jail while Hawty scrounged up enough to spring him.
The two cars pulled into the dirt lot of a boarded-up convenience store on the verge of being reclaimed by the pine forest behind it.
The officer got out of his car and began walking toward Nick. Nick didn’t have insurance, as required by state law, so there was no reason to go through the charade of searching his glove compartment for the papers. The guy might think he was reaching for a gun, anyway. Maybe he could talk his way out of this.
“Afternoon, officer. Was I speeding?”
“No sir. Problem is, you wasn’t going fast enough.” The man drew his pistol, which to Nick looked