Mr. CEO (41 page)

T
he local news
is buzzing as the sun sets, and I sit on the floor of my hideout, but it's not as bad as I thought it would be. Darcy surprised me about forty-five minutes ago, showing up with a chocolate cake. “Happy Birthday,” she says, handing it over. “It's only from the supermarket, but I thought you'd like it anyway.”

“Thanks, but it isn't my birthday,” I say, confused. “You know that isn't until October.”

“No, today's your real birthday. You're born again today,” Darcy says. “I left Henry with Jeff. He understands, and he's just grateful that he's not on-duty today. Tomorrow, though, he's not looking forward to work for the short-term. It's gonna hit the fan.”

“I bet. Thanks for coming by. Have you heard from Andrea or Jackson?”

“Nope. You heard from Nathan, I take it?”

I nod, taking the cake and leading her into the loft. It's small, but for the past three weeks, it's been a good enough place to crash. I sit down on the couch, and Darcy pauses before sitting down, looking at the small box on the table. She does a double take and points once she recognizes the name that's upside down on the box. “Is that?”

“Yep. I'm late, and wanted to be sure.”

Darcy picks it up, and sees that it's empty. “You took the test.”

I nod. “I did.”

She gives me a sideways glance, and half a smile. “I've known you for six years, Katrina. You wouldn't be playing coy with me unless the results were something I'd like. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I say, still not sure how I feel about it. This was certainly not in my plans, but I have to admit I feel a little thrill about it. “Maybe now I'll get some decent-sized boobs.”

“Either that or you're going to get really good at making formula,” Darcy chuckles. “So you're going to keep it, no matter what?”

I nod, and look at the cake. Hey, I'm hungry, and stress makes chocolate look damn good. “I am. Even if he never comes, I want to keep it.”

“You sound like he may not come.”

I sit back, and turn on the television, where the local news should be starting soon. “Nathan gave him the address, but there's no promise he'll come.”

Darcy gets up and goes to the kitchen area, getting two forks. We've been friends for a very long time, we don't need to worry about plates between us. I start on the right, she starts on the left, and we'll work our way toward the middle. “So are you going to take a chance with him?”

I think about what Nathan told me, about how Jackson had told off Peter, kicking him down when he tried to grab him, and more importantly, how Jackson passed up the money and jewels, taking with him only the handguns to protect his sister while they made their getaway. That's not the Jackson from the limo... hell it's not even the same Jackson who flew with me to Miami and thought that a seventy-five dollar a night hotel was slumming it.

Before I can answer, Darcy sets her fork down, and takes my hand. “You know I love you, right?”

“I know, Darce. You've been my big sister for a long time now,” I reply, letting her speak. “I love you, too.”

She swallows and smiles. “Well, for six years we've known each other, and there's been only one hope that I've had that I haven't been able to see. I've watched as you grew into an intelligent, beautiful young woman and into a hacker even better than me. And we're going to sit here and watch as you get your vengeance, your mission complete. So that leaves only one hope that I've kept inside myself for so long. I want you to find happiness, to find a future. Now, I've only talked with Jackson a little bit face to face. But I saw the way he cares for you, that boy is head over heels for you. Give him a chance. Andrea told me that he's trying to become something, even when it was just the memory of you. Imagine what he can be, what you both can be, together.”

I think, then nod. “Well, first, let's watch the news.”

The six o'clock news comes on, and Peter DeLaCoeur's arrest is top news. We watch silently as the video feed shows him being loaded into an ambulance, his wrist cuffed to the gurney, holding his ribs and groaning. “Damn, Jackson must have really gotten a shot in,” Darcy says. “Wonder how the cops will spin that one.”

The story continues as the lead anchor continues the story. Darcy and I had gone through at my lead and released only about half of my files, the ones that most damaged Peter while sparing Margaret DeLaCoeur and Nathan Black what I could. I spared Margaret because I feel at least a little bit of pity for the woman, who's lived in her own version of hell for the past twenty-five years. She's sick more than anything else, and part of me hopes that she'll get treatment for her sickness, although as I watch the police lead a broken, sobbing Margaret out of the DeLaCoeur plantation mansion, I doubt it.

I spared Nathan what little I could because, despite the evil acts he's done, he's trying to repent, to do the right thing. Maybe I’ve grown a little weak, or maybe I just think the man deserves a second chance, but none of the files that Darcy released have his voice or likeness, and most of the text files don't refer to him by full name. If Nathan moves quickly and uses the contacts I'm sure he has, he'll have a chance to redeem himself.

I couldn't do much for Andrea, but she's told me she wanted her mother's story told. She's got her own mission anyway, and the case of Aiko Mori's death is one of the more dramatic ones, even if it is smaller in terms of scandal compared to the other information the cops and FBI received. A tearjerker for sure, but since it is nearly twenty years old and doesn't have any political sizzle, it doesn't make the broadcast.

“The story of the downfall of what could be the most powerful man in New Orleans, the Don of the Delta, as some people are already calling him, is going to be even more intriguing as the days progress. With multiple sources receiving what is potentially thousands of pages of information along with dozens of hours of audio and video, it will take a long time for the full impact of today's events to be revealed.”

I sit back and feel a great weight lift off my shoulders. I close my eyes and bow my head, resting my forehead in my hands as I start to cry, tears of relief and farewell to the pain that I've carried for a whole decade. I feel a hole inside me finally close, and Darcy rests her hands on my shoulders, letting me do what I need to do.

When the tears are done, I wipe at my eyes and look over at Darcy. “Thanks. I guess there's only one thing left for me to see now.”

There's a buzz at the security system, and Darcy looks at me. “Ask, and you shall receive. Good luck.”

Darcy hurries over to the fire escape and slips out, giving me a thumbs up and a smile as she does. Kneeling once she's out the window, she looks back. “I love you, Katrina. Goodbye.”

There's a finality to it, and I nod, blowing her a kiss. “Goodbye, Darcy. I love you, too.”

Darcy goes up instead of down, probably to take the second fire escape on the far side of the building, and I hurry over to the security system, where the monitor shows Jackson standing outside the building, looking at the buzzer. He's dressed differently than I've ever seen him, but the hair's the same, and my heart leaps in my chest. He hits the call button again, glancing between the slip of paper in his hand and the numbers on the box. “Hello? I was given this address. Can someone inside help me?”

I look back over my shoulder, to the bathroom area of the loft where I have the last piece of my tests for Jackson and hit the door lock release. I watch just long enough to see that he's pulled the door open and is going to come up the three mini-flights of stairs before I turn and hit the circuit breaker that controls all the lights in the loft and run for the bathroom. The dim light still filtering in through the fire escape window gives me enough light, and I pull on the oversized cloak with padded shoulders and Mardi Gras mask with the built-in electronic voice changer, waiting.

I don't have to wait long, Jackson reaches the door quickly and rings the bell. I come out of the bathroom, and flip the switch that unlocks the loft door, standing with my back against the fire escape, waiting.

I'm surprised, my heart is nearly in my throat as the door opens, and I see Jackson standing there. “Hello?”

“Enter, Jackson DeLaCoeur. You have come to the right place.”

I
t was harder
than I thought it would be, saying goodbye to Andrea, but in the end, there was no dramatic embrace or tears. Instead, she gives me a kiss on the cheek, and a smile. “E-mail me when you get a chance. I promise, I'll check it from time to time, although I don't know how often I can reply.”

“Good luck, Andrea. I will,” I say, watching her climb into the cab. She actually slipped me another hundred bucks from her pile to pay for my cab, which is waiting for me behind hers. I watch her cab pull away, and I get into mine, where the driver is waiting relatively patiently, especially after seeing the Benjamin that Andrea gave me.

“Hey man, that's one fine lady. Your girl?” the driver, a guy with a non-New Orleans accent, asks. He sounds like maybe he's from up north some, not all the way to 'Yankee land’, but maybe Arkansas or Tennessee.

“No, she's my sister,” I say, my tone clearly showing I don't want conversation. “Federal City.”

“You the boss. Mind if I play some music, since you don't sound like you up for talking?” the driver asks, putting his cab into gear. “Federal City's a hell of a drive from here.”

“Go ahead,” I say, leaning back and closing my eyes. I'm not sleepy, but I still semi-doze as the cabby drives me to Federal City, lulled by the sound of the RnB. I come back to full awareness when he pulls over and turns around. “I'm good, I wasn't sleeping.”

“All right man, but you need to give me more directions than Federal City. This is a pretty big place, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, go along General Meyer here a bit,” I say, recalling what I know about Federal City, “I need some clothes and stuff. Let's find a mini-mall or something, you can drop me there.”

The cabby shrugs and we drive for about a mile before he finds a strip mall with a hardware store, a dollar store, and a pizza joint. Pulling over, the cabby looks at his meter. “That's forty-five dollars, my friend.”

I pass him three twenties out of my wallet, keeping Andrea's hundred for later. “Keep the change, man. Thanks for the ride.”

“Have yourself a good afternoon,” he says, and I get out of the cab, watching him pull out. I look down at the clothes I'm wearing and realize I need to get rid of it. The name brands, the custom tailored gear... that was the old Jackson DeLaCoeur. The new Jackson... he's not that sort of guy.

My first stop is the hardware store, where I find a pair of carpenter's jeans that's way too baggy, but as I change in the bathroom, transferring my wallet and phone to them, I feel somewhat comforted. They remind me of jeans that Katrina would wear, the same sort of functional bagginess, even down to the fact that I cinch the waist tight with a friction buckle web belt. I chuck my pants in the dumpster outside, and toss my button-down shirt behind it, leaving me in just my tank top undershirt. Going down the mall's sidewalk, I stop in the dollar store and buy a two pack of plain black v-neck t-shirts which ironically costs seven dollars, strange for a place calling itself a dollar store, along with a cheap mesh backpack for ten bucks. I peel off my tank top and pull on one of my new t-shirts, but keep the shirt, tucking it into my backpack. I'm down to sixty dollars, and I don't care.

Content that I won't be recognized as Jackson DeLaCoeur any longer if someone's looking for me, I take out the address from my wallet along with my phone, and do a quick GPS search. My phone still works at least, and I see that I'm about a half mile away, the address being next to the river, in a line of warehouses it looks like. As I walk, I feel myself walking faster and faster, hoping that whoever or whatever is there, maybe there’s a future for me.

The building is like I expected, although it looks like the former warehouse has undergone some renovations since the BRACing of Federal City a few years ago. The main door's got a security system along with a line of mailboxes, like a lot of office buildings, or maybe artists’ flats. I hit the button for the second floor. “Hello?”

There's no answer, and I start feeling panicked. What if Nathan was fucking with me? What if whoever gave him the address was fucking with him to fuck with me? I take a deep breath and hit the button again. “Hello? I was given this address. Can someone inside help me?”

There's a click on the intercom and then the door buzzes, and I yank at the handle, pulling it open before whoever's inside can change their mind. I step inside and take a deep breath, looking up the narrow, steep staircase. It switches back before reaching the second floor, and I start up, my steps echoing off the painted concrete walls. Ten steps, and then a mini-landing, where I turn and go up another ten, and then another five to reach the landing for the second floor. There's a single steel door with a pane of security glass in it. The glass has been painted over though, clearly a leftover from the days of the building being used by the military.

I see another intercom button and hit it, finding out that it's a buzzer as well. There's a click in the door and I try the handle, finding that it opens easily. Inside, the room is dark, and near the far wall, which has a window that looks like it leads to a fire escape and overlooks the river, is a tall, dark figure. “Hello?”

“Enter, Jackson DeLaCoeur. You have come to the right place,” the figure says, and I can tell right away that whoever it is, they're using some sort of voice distorter, there's a clear electronic hum to their voice.

“Who are you?” I ask, stepping in closer. It's so dark I can barely see anything, but there's enough light coming in that I can at least avoid running into anything. “I was given your address by... a friend.”

“Nathan Black is a friend, is he?” the figure asks, circling around to the side. I circle with it, and as we move, the light from the window illuminates the person a little more. They're wearing a floor length robe, or maybe some type of cloak with a hood, the kind that looks like it's definitely straight out of a Halloween getup.They're also wearing a Mardi Gras mask, one of the type that covers your entire face and has painted decorations over the eyes, the type normally worn by women. But, if this person is a woman, she's a very tall woman, with shoulders bringing her up to definitely a man's size. “I didn't think Nathan had many friends.”

“I don't know if he calls me a friend, but it's a convenient word to use,” I reply, not getting rattled. Less than seven hours ago I kicked my father in the stomach and unleashed enough hell to put him in jail for life. Somebody using some parlor tricks and lighting to try and hide themselves isn't going to rattle me, even if it is confusing. “I trusted him enough to come here when he gave me this address, if that's a better definition.”

“Better,” the figure says. “Have a seat. I have some questions.”

I look behind me and see a couch, although it's not much. It's probably been sitting here since this was a military building, and I sit down, carefully avoiding the small coffee table in front of it. I see there's some stuff on the table, but the light's too dim now in the early evening to figure out what it is. “Okay, I'm sitting. What are your questions?”

“First, are you going to use that gun?”

I reach into the waistband of my jeans and take the pistol out and set it on the table. “I don't think I'm going to need that here. I assume Nathan told you I had it?”

“He and I have talked. What brought you here?”

The figure's question stops me, and I think for a moment before answering. “Hope, I guess. Hope that there is a future for me.”

“You're Jackson DeLaCoeur. Even with your father in police custody, you should have plenty of money and the ability to get in with the right society people. What do you mean, hope for a future?”

I laugh harshly and roll my eyes. “Money? I've got sixty-three dollars in my pocket, a cell phone that I might be able to hock for twenty bucks, and that's it. To hell with those society people with their connections. And to hell with any money I could scrounge from Peter DeLaCoeur. It's blood money. I can't spend it anymore.”

“Who could? Hypothetically, who would be clean enough to spend it?”

“Who?” I ask with a laugh, shaking my head. “Well, I can think of two people. Andrea, my half-sister, and she got herself a share before we left that place... and if she were alive, Katrina. She deserved the whole damn pile.”

The figure nods, barely moving. “Tell me about Katrina Grammercy.”

I sit back, shaking my head in disbelief. “Are you nuts?”

“It’s important to your future,” the figure says, the voice emphatic even if it is distorted. “Tell me about Katrina Grammercy.”

“What can I say? She was tall, deadly, smart... and so beautiful. I miss her so much. For six years as children, she was my best friend, and in just over a few weeks as adults, I realized she was the one for me.”

“Do you love her?”

I stop, and nod, looking down. I reach into the pocket of my jeans and take out the two stones that Andrea gave me, and set them on the table. “If I regret anything about the time I spent with Katrina, it's not that she died. It's not that I'm still living, because as long as I do, there's a part of her that won't die. My only regret... my only regrets are that I didn't have a chance to apologize to her for letting money come between us... and I regret not telling her that I love her. I’ll always love her. As we were leaving the plantation, Andrea gave me these two stones, saying that I should give them to someone special someday. I've carried them for the past seven hours in my pocket... and I don't want them anymore. Because the only woman I want to give them to is Katrina.”

“How?”

I look at the figure, who's stepped closer, kneeling down on the other side of the coffee table. “If I could, the diamond would be in her engagement ring... and the sapphire would be in a necklace that I'd give her on our wedding day. The blue is the same shade as her eyes were. So yeah, I guess your answer to your question is, yes. I love Katrina, even if she's gone.”

The figure reaches for the chin of its mask, pushing it up, and my jaw comes unhinged, dropping into my chest.

“I'm not gone,” Katrina says, pushing the mask off and the hood back. “I'm right here, Jackson. And I love you, too.”