ONE

ONE

Present Day

St. Dismas Parish

THE AIR FELT THICK, and Curtis Jones always had trouble breathing this time of year. The rain had followed the sunset, but it couldn’t wash away the humidity of summer. The moisture in the air hung like damp towels, causing Jones to work harder for each breath.

It might have been the after-effects of Desert Storm. Or the cigarettes. Or maybe it was the fact he was on the downslope toward sixty. For whatever reason, he should have been at home, taking it easy with a bourbon in hand and a sizzling steak fresh off the grill on a paper plate. Or maybe watching the news. Or one of those Lifetime movies Georgina used to like so much.

He should have been doing anything but driving his classic 1987 Grand National T-Type at seventy-plus miles per hour on the slick tarmacadam of Route 21 South while being chased by two sheriff’s deputies in a couple of Ford Explorers. But such was the life of a criminal who dipped his wick in the territory run by Major Tommy Dufresne—whose day job was running the St. Dismas Parish Sheriff’s Department.

The irony of being a cop who’d turned to crime, being chased by crooked cops, did not escape Jones. He glanced in his rearview mirror at the SUVs with their bright bulbs flashing blue and red, the rain and the dark evening sky making the flashing lights more ominous. The sirens were going, too, for good measure.

“Boys,” he murmured, “you haven’t a hope in hell.”

Jones was once clean cut like he was sure the boys chasing him were. The Major couldn’t stand any man in his department who wasn’t sporting a buzz cut and a freshly shaven face. The former cop had always assumed it was because the bastard Major couldn’t grow a beard of his own. Though Jones used to look like those boys, those days were long gone. His mussed long grey-white hair, salt-and-pepper goatee, and denim jacket were the exact opposite of what the Major would approve of.

Georgina had liked it though. He smiled at the thought.

Jones hit a straight section of Route 21. He mashed the clutch with one alligator-skinned boot, while easing off the gas with the other long enough to shift into fifth. He turned on the radio, and his smile broadened at the sound of this particular Mardi Gras song. It had been a piece of NOLA he’d always carried with him abroad.

He cranked the volume.

My grandma and your grandma were sittin’ by the fire . . .

“Be seeing you boys,” said Jones to the rearview mirror.

He red-lined the twin turbos and the old muscle car was soon at a hundred miles per hour. Foolhardy in these conditions, perhaps. But the deputies broke off pursuit when they realized just how crazy the driver of the black ’80s muscle car was. Jones knew they had radios, and they’d be on them now, calling ahead. The Major wouldn’t want Jones to get out of St. Dismas Parish—he’d have to fight the city and state cops for Jones if he made it to the next jurisdiction.

It was normally an hour to New Orleans from Curtis’ home outside of Bush. A bit more to get to the airport. Curtis was betting he could make it in half that time.

But getting away wasn’t the point of his running.

Curtis let the words of the song wash over him. Music, smokes, and a fast car. His grin widened.

The tolls at the causeway to cross Lake Pontchartrain would be where they’d get him. Jones could go around the lake, of course. But that would take time. No, it had to be the causeway. He had to give them that chance to get him, to get them away from everyone else. They’d spring a roadblock at the tolls before he could cross into Orleans Parish and get lost in the city.

Jones had made peace with that. As long as they were focused on him, they’d miss what was important back at home. Oh, they’d get to his double-wide eventually, but by then everything would be cleared out. Or burnt to ash.

By that point, Jeannine would be here. After all this time, he’d actually see her again. At his age, there wasn’t a lot that made Curtis anxious. He’d fought in multiple wars, worked as a cop, and now was the head of a group of grumpy old criminals. He’d seen death, and worse. Life was like that—a numbing exercise to the horrors the world could inflict.

But he and Jeannine had fallen out hard. Only a double murder rap could get her to take his calls. He’d made her a promise that he’d failed to deliver on, and he wanted to make it right between them.

Not that he honestly cared anymore about going to prison since his wife Georgina had passed. But the thought of seeing Jeannine again rekindled a sense of responsibility for her. Strange that it would be so after so many years of bad blood. But that was behind them. She was smart, and a lawyer. She would find him a way out of wearing an orange jumpsuit. She’d promised.

Or at least promised to find a way for him to avoid the needle.

Jones knew he was being framed, knew the system was rigged against him. Even his higher-up contact wouldn’t help him this time.

But Jeannine . . . she said she would.

The song was roaring as loud as the motor, egging Curtis to drive even faster.

Jones hit the outskirts of Covington and took his foot off the gas. No way his classic would take the turn onto Dismas Parkway at speed. Besides, there was a light. And he always hit the damn things as they were changing from yellow to red.

The Grand National protested at the applied brake, the reining in of its horses. His baby hadn’t had a good run in nearly a year. Jones patted the steering wheel affectionately, whispering words of love and encouragement only a true motorhead would understand.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds. He slipped one between his lips, tossing the nearly full pack on the seat. He grabbed his Army Ranger Zippo, but never had a chance to light his smoke.

The car was slowing to forty when the headlights illuminated the nail strips in the middle of the road.

No! Too soon!

He slammed both feet on the brake and popped the clutch. But given the wet road, the tires, made more for racing than for stopping, slid on the slick pavement. He turned into the skid, of course, tried to control it, but the car had been going too fast. It hit the nail strips, blowing all four tires.

Jones lost any semblance of control.

Sparks flew from the front left, where the tire had shredded right off the rim.

The Buick’s rear end led the momentum-fueled crash, bouncing off a light pole and spinning the car 180 degrees.

Then 360.

720.

Thump!

That’s when Jones’s car hit the edge of the roadway and rolled over an embankment. What was left of his classic car ended up on its side in a McDonald’s parking lot.

Jones blinked a couple of times, then struggled to unsnap his racing harness. Once he’d done that, physics—or, more accurately, gravity—brought him crashing down on the passenger side of the vehicle, which, he supposed, was now the bottom of the car.

Vehicles pulled up to where he and the shattered remains of his Grand National lay. Sirens wailed in the background. The rain fell once more, dripping on his face through the shattered window.

“Fuck,” he said. I’ll have to kick out the windshield to get . . .

“Jonesy,” called a voice from outside the wreck. “You ain’t dead, are ya?”

“Fuck,” said Jones again. This time, he meant the curse. He recognized that voice. A voice from his past. A voice he never thought he’d hear again.

His old partner.

The Major must be desperate to pull Randy out of retirement for this, Jones thought, as he attempted, unsuccessfully, to extract himself from his ruined classic. But his flight and now capture had hopefully bought enough time for his krewe—he liked the irony of labeling his band of thieves and rogues after a social organization dedicated to celebratory parades, Carnival, and Mardi Gras—to clear out and regroup at their safe place.

“Nah, Randy, I’m cool,” Jones called back from inside the shattered car. “But I’m starving. Could you grab me a Big Mac from the drive-through? And I seemed to have misplaced my smokes.”

Flashlights and people approached. Randy’s voice directed the effort to extract him. A firetruck pulled up and Jones knew he’d be out from the tangle of metal, glass, and plastic soon enough.

As Jones was pulled from the car, his only thought was: Why isn’t the Major here to gloat? He’s been waiting to stick it to me since their deaths. Where the hell is that little bastard?

Meanwhile, the radio somehow played on.

Jack-a-mo fee-no ai na-ne, Jack-amo fee-na-ne!