the theory that the Composer wasn’t just avoiding capture, he believed no one even knew he existed. She thought the same. “No, he’s not going to allow himself to be trapped, but in this storm and in this city . . . You saw it in Bill’s face on the way here and on Bull’s as well. This is like the end of the world. Just imagine the mentality of someone who seeks out this kind of devastation. What I meant when I said he didn’t care is that I believe he’s nearing a climax. The grand realization of his destructive work is at hand. In my opinion, Katrina isn’t just a sign,” Amaia argued, “for him, this storm is his direct channel to God. ‘There shall not be left one stone upon another, that shall not be thrown down.’ He’s accelerated his rhythm, and he’s not going to stop. New Orleans is his revelation. I believe that, somehow, he doesn’t really care what happens next.”
Johnson studied the stain on the floorboards. “He wiped up most of it, but there’s still a lot here. Any normal person with an injury like that would try to get to a hospital. You think it’ll help to notify the emergency rooms?”
“He bandaged it himself. A pressure wrap would be good enough, unless the nail hit an artery. Besides, remember what it’s like out there—there’s mud everywhere, nobody can see the bottom, and there’ll be lots of injuries to feet and legs as time goes on.”
“He’ll stay in the city,” Johnson replied.
“I’m sure he will.”
“So am I,” Dupree said. “The only thing we can be sure of is that he’s facing the same difficulties we are. Operation Cage, as we planned it, is cancelled. I just radioed Captain Forneret, and they’re overwhelmed. They stood down the roadblocks because they need every officer. The 911 center can’t handle all the incoming calls. They’re talking about leaks in the levees, maybe even breaches. And that’s what they’re really scared of: if the levees give way, that’ll create a massive surge, and New Orleans will disappear.” Dupree raised a hand and pinched the sides of his nose, trying to forestall a developing migraine. He smiled, but his expression was bitter. “Listen, I radioed the District 8 police station to see if we could get someone to evacuate these bodies. Never got the chance to ask. After he gave me that information dump, I didn’t even bring it up. We’ll seal the door and mark it with crime scene tape. That’s all we can do. We had a taste of the storm damage on our way here, but it was enough to show us things are only going to go from bad to worse as the day goes on.”
Amaia heard the churning sound of an approaching outboard motor and went to the front door just as Bill and Bull returned from their tour of the building.
“Police launch just got here with a rescue team, a real one, all of them state troopers. We talked with them. The old lady next door phoned in about the gunshots. She has an old landline. Nobody else in the building. Took us a damn long time to convince her to open up, and when she did, she told us she’d been hiding under her bed since she heard the shots. She couldn’t tell us much more than what we heard from the ops center. She heard five or six shots, one after another, maybe four or five seconds apart. And, worse, she heard people screaming. She said whoever it was tried to open her front door and stood out there for a while, but she didn’t see a thing. She was paralyzed with fear, and that saved her life. The troopers are going to evacuate her, unless you want to talk with her first.”
Johnson sprayed over the fake rescue sign with the correct information, according to the FEMA protocol. Dupree went to the old woman, whom two troopers were carrying out on a stretcher. She was deathly pale and terribly upset. He leaned close, intending to ask her the same questions she’d heard from Bull and Charbou. She smiled weakly, and Dupree realized he really had no desire to bother her.
She reached out a thin arm and took his hand. “God bless y’all! You so good to me. I was scared to death, the devil come to get me, but y’all my Good Samaritans.” The troopers quickly carried her down to the