name of the gang, or would you like to give me that information?”
“That’s one of the reasons I came to you. The only thing we know is the design of their Holotat. It’s in the shape of the letter P and uses a bloody dagger in the image.”
“Yes,” Murray replied with the blank face of a gambler. “I know that tattoo, and its appearance is a recent one to this city. Unfortunately, I know little about the men who wear them. I am sorry I cannot tell you more.”
Without saying a word, Payne turned toward Greene and pleaded for him to dig deeper. Payne sensed that the old man was holding something back, and Greene picked up on the nonverbal request to continue.
“Terrell, I know that you try to stay out of other people’s business, but in this case, I’m hoping you’ll make an exception. Earlier today a man bearing that Holotat burst into the apartment of Jon’s girlfriend and abducted her. So far, there’s been no ransom demand and very little police activity. We’re afraid if we don’t do something immediately we may be too late. Please, any lead that you can give us would be appreciated.”
Murray considered Greene’s plea for several stress-filled seconds before nodding. “Above Rampart Street near St. Louis Cemetery #1, there is a small tattoo shop. It is operated by a man known as Jamaican Sam. He’s the most popular skin artist in the area, and I would bet he’s the man responsible for designing that Holotat. Go to him, and see where it leads you.”
CHAPTER 19
Galléon Township Docks
Galléon, Louisiana
(37 miles southeast of New Orleans)
THE driver of the Washington Parish ambulance stopped near the narrow dock, then made a three-point turn in the gravel driveway. Once the vehicle pointed away from the Gulf of Mexico, he backed it carefully to the edge of the secluded pier. Satisfied with its positioning, he turned off the motor and stepped under the wharf’s lone streetlight.
Tension was evident on his face.
While listening to the lapping water, he checked his watch and realized he was a few minutes early. To kill time, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a paper match. He took a deep drag, then blew a puff of smoke into the nighttime air.
This would be his last delivery for a while, and for that he was quite thankful. He didn’t know why, but he’d grown more and more anxious with each mission that he’d completed for the Plantation. At first, he blamed his uncomfortable feelings on the recent death of his aunt. He assumed her passing had caused some sort of subconscious guilt since his after-hours duties centered on the shipment of cadavers for medical experiments. But lately, his concerns were a little more tangible. Snippets of overheard conversations, copies of phony death certificates, and deliveries that were scheduled for the dead of night.
All of which made him nervous.
But that was only part of it. What freaked him out more than anything were the sounds. On more than one occasion, he could’ve sworn he heard noises coming from the back of his ambulance—loud thumps emerging from the sealed containers, muffled screams leaking from the crates of the dead. God, the thought of it made him shudder.
To calm down, he took another drag on his cigarette and stared at the warm waters of the gulf. Something about this didn’t seem right.
As he continued to wait, he pondered his role as a deliv eryman, thinking back to the day he was first hired. A well-dressed black man spotted him washing his ambulance and asked him if he was interested in making some extra cash. The man claimed he was operating a private medical center off the coast in Breton Sound and was looking for the quickest way to deliver his research from Lakefront Airport to his new facility. Since emergency vehicles were given special privileges on the roadway, he felt that an ambulance would be the most efficient mode of transportation. Plus, he pointed out, he was looking for someone who would be comfortable around dead bodies and felt a medical worker would be perfect.
The driver glanced at his watch again and realized he still had a few minutes until the workers from the Plantation would arrive. If he hurried, he figured he could sneak into the back of his ambulance and investigate the crates that had been loaded for him at the airport.