Chapter 3
PROCTOR SAT AT THE brEAKFAST TABLE of his kitchen, sipping coffee and reading the Times-Picayune.
He would have preferred the Washington Post, but home delivery to Louisiana was expensive—one of the sacrifices he’d made when he decided to spend time in New Orleans.
Besides, daily events around the world were of little concern to him—he didn’t even own a TV—but reading a newspaper from front to back every morning had become habitual, and, like all the habits he’d acquired over the years, he preferred to retain it.
Finally, coffee and paper both finished, he stood up, went to the sink, washed out the cup and saucer, and put them in the drying rack. Normally he ate no breakfast, but since there was a job on today, he’d had half a cup of Scottish oatmeal.
He went into his bedroom to get dressed.
Foreman had assigned him casual office attire.
He had no air conditioning, the windows facing the street were open, and he paused to take a long look.
The scene was typical of the suburban neighborhood he’d chosen.
A young woman in pink booty shorts and block-heeled mules was pushing a stroller down the sidewalk.
A light-gray utility truck was parked down the street, a uniformed man beside it, peering up an electrical pole, perhaps in reaction to the short brownout caused by the intense heat of the last week.
From next door, where his neighbor Otis Burdette worked on his pickup, he could hear a country singer complaining about his achy-breaky heart.
Burdette had been a commercial fisherman until a chum line got loose and sliced his left Achilles tendon.
Now in his late fifties and retired on disability, he spent his mornings puttering around his vehicle.
Proctor stepped over to the closet, chose a blue blazer, white pullover, and khakis. The blazer was cut wide in the shoulders. The pullover was of an artificial material that both breathed and wicked moisture.
As he dressed, he briefly ran over the afternoon ahead.
Riding the rear lookout position would be a welcome change from the backup car, with the endless litany of dirty jokes, idle boasting, and arguments about sports.
From his spotter’s position in the car, he’d seen a dozen or so packages taken into the transport vehicle and, later, removed at their various destinations: they had come in every variety, from steamer trunks to a rolled-up paper bag.
But never before had it been a person. Proctor paused a moment to consider this.
Unusual, but in itself of no particular concern.
More important was Foreman’s worry about a possible betrayal by two of his own men.
Foreman was a type A personality who overthought everything, but that didn’t make him wrong.
He hadn’t told Proctor his source of intel, and Proctor hadn’t asked.
Perhaps the man riding shotgun and the vault guard were getting restless with the squeaky-clean messenger runs and had grown eager to go rogue, make a boatload of money, and vanish.
But then, why with a person involved, instead of a load of gemstones or bearer bonds?
Proctor shrugged into his jacket and exited his bedroom, turning off the light. Speculation without adequate information was counterproductive. He already had all the intel he was going to get.
He glanced at his watch: twelve thirty. If he left now, he’d have time on the way to fill the tank of his indigo Taurus SHO and check its tires: the left rear was looking a little low.
As he closed the living room windows, one after another, he made another habitual glance around the neighborhood.
The young mother had vanished from view.
The utility man had left his van and was starting up a pole a few houses nearer, tool belt hanging low, butt crack the envy of any plumber.
Burdette next door, who ran his retirement like clockwork, had turned off his radio and gone in for lunch.
Proctor knew the man would spend the afternoon napping, have dinner, then watch cable channels until he fell asleep in his Barcalounger.
Proctor spent an extra moment looking still farther down the tree-lined street but saw nothing of note. As he closed the window, he shook his head. Foreman’s paranoia must be rubbing off on him: if there really was an inside job in the offing, he’d be the last guy the offenders would worry about.
Foreman had said the delivery would take six hours, out and back: that meant he’d be home after dark.
He pulled the shades down and turned on the outside light as he bolted the front door.
Then he walked back into his kitchen and closed those blinds, as well: a young couple lived in the house to the rear, but they both worked downtown and he didn’t know their names.
Grabbing his keys, he stepped into the garage and pressed the opener.
As the motor hummed and the door began to rise, he wondered about the years he’d spent in prefab houses just like this, and how they had ultimately brought him to this particular neighborhood.
Once again, New Orleans was temporary parking.
Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home, Lao-tzu had said.
A rather contradictory phrase from Jung immediately came to mind: I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.
Idly, Proctor wondered who would win in a knife fight—the poet or the philosopher.
As he was musing, he suddenly recalled he hadn’t armed himself.
He’d grown so used to jamming his 1911 into his jeans that, now in a suit jacket, he’d forgotten to don his shoulder holster.
He went back into the bedroom, took off his jacket, rummaged around in his dresser for a holster, grabbed it and poked his arm through it.
Then he put his jacket on again, took his sidearm from its drawer in the bedside table, and slipped it in place.
Stepping out into the garage again, he looked up from the holster to see somebody standing before him—the utility worker who’d been climbing the pole a few houses down.
The man, holding a metal-cased clipboard, smiled.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” he said.
“But have you experienced any problems with your electrical supply? I’m having a difficult time tracking this down. ”
Proctor unexpectedly found himself doing several things at once: ensuring his weapon was concealed and the holster was tight, glancing over the man’s shoulder in search of his utility van—and so when the man’s free hand shot forward holding a two-foot cattle prod, and its twin contacts pushed an ungodly voltage through his clothes and into his body, Proctor was astonished even as he was instantly incapacitated.
As he fell to the floor, head slamming against a tool cabinet on the way down, stunned paralysis gripped him.
In a flash, the man flipped him on his stomach and cuffed his hands behind his back.
Next, a hood went over his head and the sting of a needle pierced his neck—and a blackness fell over him.