Louisiana Lament

thwarted his attempts to win control over his fellow human beings, to gain a following and to dominate. He would be back and he would try to kill her sooner rather than later. To forget it for a day in the woods, for an evening in her courtyard, for a moment, for a millisecond, was dangerous and possibly deadly.
    Jacomine’s son, Daniel, had been arrested, charged with half a dozen crimes, and eventually convicted of murder as the result of one of Jacomine’s schemes. He was due to be sentenced in a couple of days.
    How that would affect his father Skip couldn’t know, but it had probably precipitated the dream. Jacomine might not even notice, perhaps having written Daniel off. He could do this—he seemed sometimes to have no feelings.
    On the other hand, he perceived himself at the center of the universe. He might feel proprietary towards Daniel, no matter how unlikely he was to have true paternal feelings. And if he did, he might… what?
    Surface. Treat it as an occasion to make himself known. Trade an eye for an eye—kidnap Kenny and demand Daniel.
    Anything.
    That was what the dream was about.
    She left for work feeling hunted, and resentful of her psyche for rubbing her nose in it. She knew all that, and what could she do about it? Exactly
what?
she asked herself angrily. Later, the dream seemed more a premonition than a warning.
    That morning as always, she walked the few blocks to the garage where she kept her car, pointed the remote at the automatic door (a process that never failed to give her childlike pleasure), and waited for the door to raise itself high enough to allow her ingress. Instead of the familiar rumble, an explosion ripped through the quiet morning, followed by a loud
ping,
like a beer can hitting a metal drum.
    She felt an arm around her waist, another at her back and then she felt herself falling, a great weight upon her. She tried to fight it, but it was too heavy—she was helpless. Her head hit the pavement.
    It took a second to put it together. The explosion had been a shot, the
ping
a ricochet.
    Another shot blasted the momentary peace, a second bullet thunked into the sidewalk. Closer. She felt her muscles contract, involuntarily seeking shelter.
    She heard a woman scream, and she held her breath, but a shocked hush had enveloped the corner.
    After a moment, a man said, “Owww.” The man on top of her, she realized. Someone was shooting at her, and he had pushed her down, remained on top of her so that she couldn’t move.
    When she had waited long enough to be sure the shooting had stopped, she said to the lump atop her, “Police. Are you hit?”
    The man rolled off, and she saw that he was a light-skinned black, well-muscled, wearing jeans and white T-shirt—laborer’s garb. He said, “You’re po-lice?” Her detective status meant she wore no uniform.
    She didn’t see any blood. “Are you all right?” She was frantic.
    He was examining himself. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right. That was real close, though.”
    A crowd was gathering around them. Unless the sniper was in it, he no longer had a clear shot. Skip scanned the rooftops, wondering where the shots had come from.
    The idea of asking what happened made her feel shamed somehow. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to get it together, and the man said, “Somebody just tried to kill you.”
    “You saw him?”
    “No. I was right behind you when I heard the shot. Didn’t stop to look around—you understand?”
    “Thanks. I appreciate what you did. But how did you know he wasn’t shooting at you?”
    The man shrugged. “I didn’t ax no questions. Just hit the pavement.”
    When they paced it off, she could see that the man wasn’t really right behind her—he’d had to run a step or two to tackle her. She’d been facing the garage door, and the bullet had hit it immediately to her right. She was between it and her rescuer.
    There was no doubt in her mind it was meant for her. She grabbed for her radio.
    After that, it was chaos. A sniper in the French Quarter was a big deal, shots fired on a police officer an even bigger deal. But when it was Skip Langdon, it was nearly enough to declare a state of emergency. Everyone in the department knew Jacomine was as likely to come for her as get up in the morning and put on his clothes.
    He might even come in person, and catching him would be as big a coup as discovering the whereabouts of D.B. Cooper.
    Certainly her sergeant knew all this—her good friend and