From the inside come frantic, muffled cries for help.

Angus, the white supremacist piece of human garbage I tackled earlier today, has been tied up in there this whole time.

I can barely suppress a smile as I quietly say, “Let’s go for a little ride.”

CHAPTER 62

I pull onto St. Charles Avenue, a wide thoroughfare with two sets of streetcar tracks running down the middle. My destination is northeast, but I’m heading southwest.

Oops. Guess I’ll have to make a U-turn.

I give the wheel a sharp twist. My car jumps the median, rumbles across the metal tracks, then back onto the street in the opposite direction.

With each bump, the trunk’s contents rattle and thud.

“Sorry, Angus,” I call, knowing full well he can’t hear me. “My bad.”

Once I pick up speed, I start tapping the brakes every now and then to make my car jerk and lurch—and make Angus toss and turn. My goal isn’t to hurt the bastard. I just want him to feel afraid. Confused. Helpless. All the awful emotions he made Vanessa experience just a few hours ago.

Except in his case, there’s nobody coming to save him.

After a few blocks, I roll down the windows. It’s stuffy in the car. I can only imagine how uncomfortable it is in the trunk.

I flip on the radio and tune it to my favorite station: 90.7 WWOZ, all jazz, all the time. A scratchy, virtuoso trumpet solo blares. I recognize the song right away as the famous “Dippermouth Blues,” recorded by the man himself: Satchmo, Pops—the Big Easy’s own Louis Armstrong. I can’t help but nod my head and drum my fingers along to the lively beat. They say one reason jazz was born in New Orleans is because it was the only place in the world where slaves were allowed to own drums. It’s testament to their creativity and spirit that out of such an awful institution came something so infectiously good.

I merge eastbound onto the Pontchartrain Expressway. I’m heading out of the city, so traffic is pretty light. This gives me ample ability to jerk the wheel and swerve sharply between all four lanes.

“How ya doing back there, Angus?”

Soon I’m cruising over the Crescent City Connection, the massive steel bridge that spans this bend of the Mississippi. To my left, the downtown New Orleans skyline twinkles beautifully against the hazy night sky.

I exit the expressway in a part of the city known as Algiers. The area has high rates of gang and gun violence, but it looks quaint and feels suburban, almost like a small town. It’s also where many Carnival krewes have their “dens,” the giant warehouses where members build and store their outlandish floats.