The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,44

us out if things go bad. They sayin’ the city gonna open that Superdome for emergency shelter.”

“Oh, Nana!” objected Dupree. “The stadium?”

“Only if they have to. Bobby’s daddy, bless his departed soul, worked there when they buildin’ it. Bobby says it’s high, above the water, good and strong, made with concrete and rerod. Says the space under the stands good as any bunker.” She smiled and gestured toward the altar. “Anyhow, you know I always been faithful to the Santos.”

Dupree tried to smile back, but he wasn’t very convincing. His concern was plain. He went to the door, still ajar, and retrieved the sack he’d left on the porch. He held it out. “I thought you’d need this.”

She closed the door, took out the package, put it on the kitchen table, and used a butcher knife to cut the fabric Meire had wrapped it in. She studied the contents. She looked into the silk bags, examined the labels Meire had laboriously prepared in his backward-leaning handwriting, and held the vials and powder tubes to the candlelight. She turned to Dupree.

“I got just one question. What you want to do with all this, mon cher—drive away that hurricane or call it here?”

15

PAIN

New Orleans, Louisiana

Joseph Andrews Jr. wore jeans and an olive-green Tulane University sweatshirt. His long hair dangled over his blue eyes and stood out against the pallor of his face. He slouched in a chair in the dean’s conference room with a book on the table before him. He wasn’t reading. Amaia observed him from the hall, listening to the dean’s whispered comments.

“He’s an amazing young man and a brilliant student. We try to do everything we can for him, especially since the tragedy. He lives on campus and never leaves the university. When the evacuation order was given, we knew some students wouldn’t leave. We set up a shelter in the main building, and I was sure Joseph would be one of those who would stay.”

“Is that wise?”

“The main building has weathered hurricanes before.”

It wasn’t much of a guarantee.

Joseph Jr. straightened up when they went in. His attitude changed as well; he tensed and hunched his shoulders. He was slim, but his impressive biceps were visible through his cotton sweatshirt. Joseph stared at them through that dark curtain of hair. They held out their credentials; he glanced at them, not particularly interested. Johnson gave the boy their names and said nothing more. He’d told Amaia to take the lead, guessing that a young male student would be more likely to open up to a woman closer to his age.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Andrews,” she said. “Amaia Salazar, I’m from the FBI. I’d like to ask you some questions. May I call you Joseph?”

“You’re no FBI agent,” he countered. “Your badge says ‘temporary.’ How old are you? Twenty-two?”

Johnson crossed his arms and stepped back to give Amaia room to work. He’d guessed right. Despite the hostile tone, Joseph was willing to talk to her.

“Twenty-five, actually. You’re right, I’m not an FBI agent. I’m a police officer, temporarily with the Bureau.” She jerked a thumb at Johnson. “But that guy is the real deal. We’re in the middle of an investigation, and we’d like to talk to you about what happened to your family.”

The young man smiled bitterly. “What happened to my family? Nothing happened to my family. Disease happens, accidents happen. Disasters too. My family was murdered. I’ve been trying to get somebody to listen to me for eight months. Why is the FBI taking notice all of a sudden?”

Johnson spoke, careful to keep his tone neutral. “We just want to clear some things up.” He didn’t want the boy to think they were reopening the case, as no official decision had been made. “Detective Nelson tells us you believe your family was killed by a stranger. We want to understand why you think this.”

“I saw my father’s body. His face was bruised and bloody. Like he’d been in a fight.”

Johnson gave Amaia a doubtful look.

“And I knew my dad,” the boy added. “He’d never have hurt any of us.”

Johnson nodded. He’d heard that before.

Joseph knew what he was thinking. “You don’t understand. My parents loved us, and they were like lovebirds to one another. We were always making fun of them for all their kissing and hugging. My father was a good man who adored us. Nothing anyone says will ever make me believe he was a murderer.”

“Sometimes a life event like relocation for work can destabilize a family,” Amaia