Fallen (3 page)

“You have the money?” The woman’s scraggy voice came up behind me.

I nodded, without looking at her. Instead, I reached down
into
my backpack and pulled out four bills, one thousand dollars each.

She gawked at me
before I
had a chance to
explained,
“You said over the phone you didn’t mind large bills.”

“Huh,”
was all
she replied, mouth still agape, taking the money.
I turned away and swung a leg over the bike, settling
into
the seat
; I felt
like a queen on her throne. The woman dangled the keys toward me, though her expression appeared uncertain. “You sure you can handle this thing?”

“My aunt’s ex-boyfriend taught me to ride,” I asserted. For proof, I took the keys and inserted them into the ignition with great confidence.

“Hmmm.” She scratched her nose and leaned her head to one side. Her eyes narrowed at me and she said, “Not that I’m accusin’ you of anything but…where’d you get this kind of money?”

I paused and it occurred to me that I would eventually need to have an explanation for how I made my income. It wasn’t as if an elderly woman selling me a bike through eBay would be the only one to
ever ask the question. I needed to have a story; one simple enough to prevent further questions but that adhered to my belief system of telling the truth. I certainly couldn’t tell the whole truth so I settled for telling just half my story.

“I’m a messenger.”

The woman snorted and chuckled under her breath. “Well…now ya
’ll
have a faster bike.”

I grinned back
,
even while
knowing that no bike could get me
where
I went to deliver messages.

“Ya wanna take it for a test ride?” she offered.

I turned the key and listened to the engine rumble to life – a heavy thud, thud, thud, thud.

I felt exhilarated
, a
grin draw
ing
up my cheeks.

She handed me a black, shiny, perfectly new helmet which I strapped securely to my head.

I circled her property a few times, getting a feel for how it handled and stopped outside the barn doors.

Her eyebrows rose, questioning.

Then, with a deep breath, I waved goodbye, shifted the bike
into
gear and pulled out
onto
the dirt road
,
heading back to
load it on the U-Haul truck
.

The bike was mine.

After returning the truck,
I drove
my motorcycle
until just after sunset
,
unable to stop
smiling for most of that time.
I decided to find
the house I’d rented
,
and a
fter storing and locking my bike in the shed
,
I
headed upstairs and
swung open the French doors leading to the balcony
. I
took a seat at the edge in the plastic chair
and
propped my feet
up
on the rail,
dozing
while listening to the Cajun music filtering up from the bars.

I had learned to sleep pretty much anywhere
,
but it surprised me when
I woke
up the next morning still in the chair. Lifting my head, I felt the
kink in my neck
from the night before
,
but the pain ebbed when I remembered I had a new motorcycle to ride.

I
hurried to take
a shower, using a towel I carried in my backpack to dry off, and
headed
downstairs. Standing in the kitchen
,
the house was empty, silent and still retained that musky scent, but I smiled my way out the door anyways.

I rolled my bike from the shed and started it, enjoying its rumble even more today. A
fter a quick stop at a local coffee shop
,
for a shot of espresso and a croissant, I took a tour of the French Quarter.

The
roads
were narrow
and most were cobblestoned or
had
broken pavement
that made
it challenging to ride
, but t
hat didn’t bother me much. The city was
captivating
.

The
streets
were lined with
aged, bowing trees
that
s
haded
weathered
,
brick buildings and intricately designed iron balustrades. S
mall shop
s opened to
colorful
art galleries and restaurants propped doors and window shutters open to allow the
teasing
aroma of spicy southern food to waft out. There was peacefulness to the city, even between the bursts of thrumming
jazz
music, with everyone moving slowly about their business.
Their leisurely pace
may
also
have been because of the soaring temperatures and
ridiculous humidity that fell over the city like a stifling blanket. The air was the only thing I would have trouble adjusting to.

After my brief tour of the French Quarter, I arrived at
Jackson Square
.

It was a raised park of green grass and shrubbery set in a square
shape
.
There
is an enormous iron statue of Andrew Jackson on horseback
standing in the center
.
Jackson Square
is historic
because
slaves were often sold
here during the 18
^th
and 19
^th
centuries. Now though, along the outskirts of the park, it clearly had become a place for artists to sell their wares and for tourists to have their palms or tarot cards read. The traditional other name for the park is Place d’Armes
,
but I naturally
decided to call
it “The Square”.

I parked my bike
and walked through the
tarot card and palm readers, caricatur
e artists, and local craftsman
.
Then
I stopped
a few minutes later
at a woman’s table
,
scan
ning
the hemp products
crowding her space
.

“Looking for anything in particular,” she asked, pleasantly.

“No.” I shook my head. “Actually, I was wondering something…”

“Uh huh,” she encouraged me to go on.

“How do you set up a table here…as a vendor?” I asked
,
even while
still wondering
if I was going to pursue it.

She explained the
lengthy, bureaucratic
process and then wiggled her finger at me, beckoning me closer. When I leaned in, she added, “But don’t waste your time. Just grease the security guards with a hundred dollars and they won’t say a word.”

I was surprised at her frankness but appreciated it. “Okay, I will.”

“What is it you sell
anyways
?” she asked, only
seeming
remotely intrigued.

I opened my mouth to draw in a breath
but
stopped. I
realized that if I
told her, she wouldn’t believe me anyways. Instead, I decided to respond
cautiously.
“I’ll show you tomorrow.”

The woman smiled,
now curious
. “I’ll be waiting.”

I strolled The Square a while longer and was about ready to leave when something happened.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up – and they had no business standing up on such a hot, humid day.
Suddenly
my hands began to shake and my stomach went queasy.

Something was very wrong.

With all the noise and movement, you’d think I could easily have missed him
, but as it turned out, I didn’t.
In fact, I knew he was there before I saw him.

My eyes scanned the crowd with some faint notion that I was looking for whatever was causing this reaction in me. A large man chewing on a sausage
,
his chin smothered with grease
,
passed by.
Next
was
a pair of thin
wom
e
n
in business suits leaning together and gos
siping. Either of these scenes c
ould have made my stomach slightly queasy
,
but I
instinctively
knew they weren’t the cause of my sudden inability to control my body’s reactions.

All of a sudden
, there he was…leaning against the wall of
St. Louis
’s Cathedral, hidden in the shade, hands in his pockets
,
despite the day’s heat, and his eyes positioned directly on me. There was no doubt in my mind that he was staring at me because he didn’t bother to look away when our eyes met.

As I stood in the sun a chill ra
n through me.

My first
instin
ct was to run. This stunned me since I never ran from anything…ever
, but
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to
leave immediately, as if something deep in my core were screaming at me
to escape. This reaction made no sense to me
,
so I ignored it completely and turned my attention back to the creepy guy.

He was still staring at me.

I noticed that h
is mouth was turned down
now
and his nostrils flared out. Clearly he was furious about something.