Conditions are already bad for making a call, and they’re only getting worse. A marching band is rounding the corner a few blocks away. They’re blaring “When the Saints Go Marching In” and the crowd is starting to joyously sing along.

“Oh when the saints … ”

“Come on, come on,” I whisper as the line rings and rings. “Answer, answer!”

“ … go marching in … ”

If Billy’s the one behind the attack, of course he’s not going to come out and admit it over the phone. I know that. But if I can get him talking, or figure out his location, or convince him to meet up, or trick him into spilling some clue …

“Hi, you’ve reached Billy Needham, please leave me a message.”

“Billy, it’s Caleb Rooney!” I shout, raising my voice over the cacophony around me. “Call me back as soon as you get this. It’s about … your cousin. It’s urgent!”

“Oh when the saints … ”

I hang up and stare at his business card. Then I crumple it in my fist.

I look back over at David, who’s helping his injured bodyguard to his feet.

Then I look out at the street, at the parade reaching its grand finale.

“ … go marching in … ”

Here comes the dazzling marching band, wearing flamboyant pink and gold uniforms, high-stepping and twirling their instruments.

Behind them, a massive float, decorated as the Roman Coliseum, carrying a team of masked gladiators flinging beads and toys high into the air.

“Oh lord, I want … to be … in that number … ”

Lastly, I scan the crowd. Men, women, children. So many children. Lining the metal police barricades along Canal Street, clapping and singing their hearts out.

“Oh when the saints go marching in!”

On this beautiful day, the city is pulsing with happiness. Life. Joy.

But my own pulse is creeping upward.

My stomach is cramping with fear.

My hands are damp, clammy.

I pray that I’m wrong … but I’m terrified that I’m right.

The attack is about to begin.

CHAPTER 77

Seconds later, a series of explosions pounds through the heart of the French Quarter, just a block or so away from where I’m standing.

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

Instinctively, I hunch over and shield my face against the shock waves that ripple outward in all directions.

The marching band abruptly stops playing, the tune whining down to silence, the members lowering their instruments, looking around in confusion.

The parade grinds to a halt, with one tractor colliding into the rear of one of the large floats, this one displaying a Superdome with giant Saints players holding their arms up in triumph.

And the crowd’s cheers of delight turn to screams of fear and terror, as they start charging away from the noise, and just beyond them, three billowing clouds of gray-black smoke float high into the clear blue sky. I can only darkly imagine the carnage that must be down there, just a block away.