Read Online King of the Dead (Jeremiah Hunt Chronicle) by Joseph Nassise - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joseph Nassise
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who truly believe in its existence in the first place.
First there was the City-That-Was, an ephemeral sense of a time gone by that still lingered in a kind of mystic echo, one that would suddenly rear its head in the glimpse of a face in the window of a Garden District plantation house or in the swagger of a sailor fresh off one of the boats along the lakeshore. From the narrow streets and wrought iron balconies of the French Quarter to the aboveground cemeteries that dotted the city haphazardly, the past cried out for recognition.
Then there was the City-That-Has-Been, the spirit that stubbornly refused to bend in the aftermath of disaster, the remnants of what was left after the devastation wrought by the ravages of Mother Nature and the greedy nonchalance of the men who believed that nothing could ever harm their precious jewel of a city, no matter the warnings or the dire predictions that came before. Hurricane Katrina did more than just destroy a few billion dollars of property: it stole the innocence of the city’s residents and snatched away their hope of the future, one aspect of the city murdering its own descendant before it had even been born.
Five years after the disaster and still the evidence remained: Block after block of destroyed homes, some no more than moldering piles of debris, others still standing but forever branded with that discoloration at waist height that marked the high point of the water’s reach and, just as often, the markings of the searchers themselves in the aftermath, those ubiquitous National Guard unit IDs and numbers spray painted on the outside of the families’ homes, noting the presence of their dead and the number that each house contained. Neighborhoods in the midst of rebuilding. Families making do the best they could. Like a cancer that couldn’t be cut out, the ghost of that city had burrowed in deep and haunted the souls of those who remained, just as it would for a long time to come.
Finally, there was the ghost of the City-That-Might-Yet-Be. You couldn’t see it all that well just yet, for it remained cloaked in darkness, hiding from the light. But if you turned a corner in that precious moment when the sun was setting and night was only just beginning to fall, you could see it there, struggling to get out, to show us that the old girl had some life in her yet.
The ghosts of the past, present, and future, all vying for dominance.
Denise began scouting around for a hotel that wouldn’t ask too many questions, where we could come and go at will without being noticed. After driving around for a half hour, we finally found a place that looked like it would suit our needs.
It was called the Majestic, which was the height of irony, for there was nothing at all majestic about it. I didn’t even need my vision to tell me so. The crack of the decades-old linoleum underfoot in the central lobby, the stink of mold and body odor that wafted off the walls, the tepid air that barely stirred as we passed through it, all those things told me the dilapidated old place had probably never heard of better days, never mind seen them. Calling it a roach-infested dump was giving it way too much credit.
The lights in the lobby, though dim, were still bright enough to keep me from seeing much even with my sunglasses on, so I kept myself to the left of Denise and let her motion subtly guide me along. I could have used my cane, but I didn’t want to make it obvious that I was blind. We were a long way from Boston, but the proliferation of shows like America’s Most Wanted meant it was best if we kept as low a profile as possible. Besides, the FBI had placed a fifty-thousand-dollar reward on my head, and in this economy there were too many people who would consider that easy money.
Dmitri went over to the registration desk while Denise and I waited, our backs turned slightly so that the clerk couldn’t get a good look at either of us. Dmitri came back with the keys to two rooms on the
First there was the City-That-Was, an ephemeral sense of a time gone by that still lingered in a kind of mystic echo, one that would suddenly rear its head in the glimpse of a face in the window of a Garden District plantation house or in the swagger of a sailor fresh off one of the boats along the lakeshore. From the narrow streets and wrought iron balconies of the French Quarter to the aboveground cemeteries that dotted the city haphazardly, the past cried out for recognition.
Then there was the City-That-Has-Been, the spirit that stubbornly refused to bend in the aftermath of disaster, the remnants of what was left after the devastation wrought by the ravages of Mother Nature and the greedy nonchalance of the men who believed that nothing could ever harm their precious jewel of a city, no matter the warnings or the dire predictions that came before. Hurricane Katrina did more than just destroy a few billion dollars of property: it stole the innocence of the city’s residents and snatched away their hope of the future, one aspect of the city murdering its own descendant before it had even been born.
Five years after the disaster and still the evidence remained: Block after block of destroyed homes, some no more than moldering piles of debris, others still standing but forever branded with that discoloration at waist height that marked the high point of the water’s reach and, just as often, the markings of the searchers themselves in the aftermath, those ubiquitous National Guard unit IDs and numbers spray painted on the outside of the families’ homes, noting the presence of their dead and the number that each house contained. Neighborhoods in the midst of rebuilding. Families making do the best they could. Like a cancer that couldn’t be cut out, the ghost of that city had burrowed in deep and haunted the souls of those who remained, just as it would for a long time to come.
Finally, there was the ghost of the City-That-Might-Yet-Be. You couldn’t see it all that well just yet, for it remained cloaked in darkness, hiding from the light. But if you turned a corner in that precious moment when the sun was setting and night was only just beginning to fall, you could see it there, struggling to get out, to show us that the old girl had some life in her yet.
The ghosts of the past, present, and future, all vying for dominance.
Denise began scouting around for a hotel that wouldn’t ask too many questions, where we could come and go at will without being noticed. After driving around for a half hour, we finally found a place that looked like it would suit our needs.
It was called the Majestic, which was the height of irony, for there was nothing at all majestic about it. I didn’t even need my vision to tell me so. The crack of the decades-old linoleum underfoot in the central lobby, the stink of mold and body odor that wafted off the walls, the tepid air that barely stirred as we passed through it, all those things told me the dilapidated old place had probably never heard of better days, never mind seen them. Calling it a roach-infested dump was giving it way too much credit.
The lights in the lobby, though dim, were still bright enough to keep me from seeing much even with my sunglasses on, so I kept myself to the left of Denise and let her motion subtly guide me along. I could have used my cane, but I didn’t want to make it obvious that I was blind. We were a long way from Boston, but the proliferation of shows like America’s Most Wanted meant it was best if we kept as low a profile as possible. Besides, the FBI had placed a fifty-thousand-dollar reward on my head, and in this economy there were too many people who would consider that easy money.
Dmitri went over to the registration desk while Denise and I waited, our backs turned slightly so that the clerk couldn’t get a good look at either of us. Dmitri came back with the keys to two rooms on the
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