Now it’s just me, my ex-wife, our damaged truck … and our even more damaged relationship. It’s awkward. Tense. Silent. Finally, I break the silence, hesitantly.

“Mar … I’m so sorry,” I begin. “This is my fault. And I really do promise to find the sons of bitches who did this to you. Whoever it was, they made a damn big mistake.”

“Oh, Caleb,” she huffs, “just zip it, would you? I told you to be careful! Whatever you’ve been running around this past week doing … that’s the damn big mistake.”

I bite my tongue. I’ve been running around working to keep terror from raining down on this city. But in the process, I brought it into my home.

Now I’ll just have to work even harder, smarter, and be ready to give them back tenfold what they’ve done to Marlene.

CHAPTER 38

Sweeping up broken glass. Scrubbing off ugly spray paint. Sifting through mangled belongings. Struggling with a swirl of emotions.

Marlene and I did all this once before. Twelve years ago. After Katrina, when floodwater ravaged the ground floor of our old Tremé town house, back when we were husband and wife, young, and full of laughs and dreams.

Now we’re doing it again by the morning light. Separated, older, still with dreams and laughs. But this time, we’re cleaning up after a disaster that can’t be blamed on random nature, but on a specific evil.

“A flatbed’s en route,” my ex-wife announces, limping back into the truck, phone in hand.

I nod. “Good job, Mar. Let’s check out the stove.”

I go back into our poor mangled truck, get on my hands and knees, and use a flashlight to inspect our mobile kitchen’s most important—and most expensive—piece of equipment.

“Looks like those assholes didn’t rupture any gas lines,” I say, flicking the beam of light around the complex guts of pipes and wires. “But I want a second opinion from a pro before I fire it up.”

“That’s a good idea,” Marlene says from behind me. “Not that I wouldn’t enjoy watching you go down in a literal blaze of glory … ”

I chuckle as I stand and dust off my hands. Then, under the glare of a hanging industrial flood lamp—since all the interior lights were smashed—I survey our poor kitchen. After only a few hours of work, it’s already showing signs of life. But it’s still a pitiable mess. And a long way from being functional again.

“I need a little air,” I mutter, brushing past Marlene to head outside.