If my theory about the upcoming attack is right, some of those floats could be carrying bombs as well as beads. That makes me shiver, that somewhere in one of those warehouses, at this very minute, the components of a bomb are being carefully assembled to be placed in a tractor or a float.

But there’s still that nagging question: Is it a terrorist attack to cause random death, fear, and destruction … or could it still be a family affair among the Needhams?

I just don’t know.

But I’m hoping my frightened cargo back there might just help me find out.

I turn onto Winston Street and get in line with a few other idling cars. We’re about to cross the Mississippi River again—but there isn’t a bridge in sight.

“How many passengers ya got?” asks the ticket-taker with a snap of her gum.

“Just me, thanks,” I answer, handing her three dollars for the toll.

She waves me forward, and I drive onto a massive, red-and-white, open-air ferry. I ease into a parking spot behind a silver Ford Explorer with a bumper sticker that reads KEEP N’AWLINS FUNKY. Within a few minutes, we’re moving. I check my phone, see no voicemails, no texts, not much of anything. But I spare a few moments to send a text before stepping out of my car.

If you’ve ever sat inside a car that’s on a boat, you know it’s a strange feeling. It makes me a little nauseated.

It must be even worse inside a claustrophobic trunk.

And I’m depending on that.

After a short ride, I’m back on dry land in a community called Chalmette. Driving through, I pass gritty industrial sites and a massive oil refinery. When the roads start getting gravelly, when it feels like I’ve gone too far, that’s when I know I’m getting close.

I turn onto Bartolo Street heading north, and take it as far as it goes. I finally stop—on a small concrete bridge spanning the Florida Canal, a man-made industrial waterway. All around me is vast, dark marsh.

I kill the engine, which also kills that sweet jazz. I get out, draw my Smith & Wesson, walk around to the trunk, and pop it open.

Angus is inside, curled up in the fetal position.

He immediately starts twisting and writhing, but his wrists and ankles are bound with duct tape. He tries to scream, but his mouth is gagged with a red bandana.

“Let’s go.”

Keeping my pistol trained on him, I haul him out and drag him over to the edge of the bridge. I shove him forward onto the railing, so his hands and head dangle over the edge. Staring into the inky-black abyss of the canal, he gurgles out in terror from behind the gag.