SEAN

“We ride staggered,” Celia shouts over our engines.

“Guys in front and behind,” Atlas calls back.

I nod and back off the gas, switch the side of lane to complete the formation. It’s a humid day. The wind feels like flying through warm water. But with green trees layered with Spanish Moss under a smattering of clouds, I’m loving every second of this. Atlas laughs and whoops loudly. I join in. Celia follows and for about a quarter of a mile we sound like freedom personified. Such a rush, and as her laughter drifts on the wind, my smile falters. Can’t let Celia’s thighs wrapped around that leather seat, the curve of her ass in stretched-tight jeans, get in the way of doing what I came to do.

She glances back and holds my eyes a second. “Good form!”

I pause a beat, “You too.”

Nodding like she knows she’s a good rider, Celia faces front and calls to Atlas, “You’ve got the map.”

“Yep, another mile!” he looks over his shoulder and jerks his chin to me. “Men protect the women! That’s why you’re in back.”

“Plus he’s shadowing us anyway,” she adds, defensive.

He checks the road, then throws back, “Even if he was an elder he’d be back there, Ceels, and you know it!”

I see her left knuckles tighten to white. Amused I call up, “You are smaller than I am.” Her head swings back and fire shoots from her look. “Oh shit,” I mutter, grinning.

Her snarl shifts to laughter. “You’re a jerk, Sean. Nice one.”

“I thought so!”

Soon we pull off the road and park on a quiet Louisiana street marked mostly by the fact that it’s mostly apartments, and not high end ones. Walking on solid ground feels like floating after controlling a beast like that hog. Didn’t realize how tense I was, making sure I looked good and handled it right, until I have only my limbs to control. Atlas and Celia stare up at the second story of a building with 1970’s brown and orange paint.

“You think it’s that apartment?”

“Hope so,” she says. “Curtain’s closed though. And we can see that guy moving around in the next place so that’s not her.”

“Tip said she’s a caregiver during the days. Probably working, right?”

“Let’s find out.”

I follow them to the buzzers, watch them check read through names, find one they’re looking for, and push the tiny silver button. After a few tries, they nod to each other and push another button. A man answers.

Atlas moves for Celia to say, “Hi, this is Jennifer from 310. I locked myself out, could you buzz me in? Sorry to bother you!”

A beep squawks, front door unlatches, and we head in.

My pulse is quickened as we head to the stairs, walk up to 207 and wait while Atlas pulls out his keys, pretending to be using them while also jimmying the door open. Takes him a long time, so I’m getting nervous. Even Celia glances around. For the sake of hiding his break-in she laughs, “You shouldn’t have had that fourth shot, John!”

He laughs, “You bet me to drink, I drink!” Just then it opens and he says, “See, home sweet home. Stop worrying so much,” loud and amiable so nobody gets suspicious.

We step in, and they move quickly. Opening up drawers and cupboards, looking for I don’t know what. Jett gave them the details without me there—soon as Celia and I returned to the house he pulled them aside. He didn’t want to encourage me taking actions when we got here. You can’t move if you don’t know which direction you’re going in.

Celia says. “This might have been furnished when it was rented.”

Atlas walks out of the kitchen, scans the layout. “That makes sense. It’s got enough space to add what you bring with you, and enough to get by if you’ve got nothing. Plus it’s all old. No character. Not a woman’s home.”

“If the tip is right, this might be a temporary.”

I ask, “What’s a tip?”

“We get calls about problems. Then we check them out to see if they’re real.”

Celia lifts up an old clock radio. “This had to come with the place.” Turning to me, she adds to his explanation. “Since we save the innocent we have to make sure the bad deed we got the call about is really happening, and intentional. Otherwise we could accidentally hurt an innocent. Some people have personal vendettas and call in things just to ruin a good person’s life. It’s not common, but we’re careful.” To Atlas she asks, “So if it’s a Black Widow, then it’s like a serial killer. They keep trinkets.”

He nods, “Souvenirs.”

The search is on again. I hang back, watching. When they come up empty, frustrated at the dead end, I ask, “Okay, what the hell is a Black Widow?”

Rubbing his palm with his thumb Atlas explains, “It’s a woman who pretends to love someone then kills them, takes their money, and runs, often switching identities.”

“Wow.”

“The name is usually used for a woman,” Celia says, glancing around with impatience. “When it’s a guy he usually has a separate life. A wife and family at home who don’t know anything about his evil side.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “You’re looking for trinkets? Something they keep from the victims?”

“Yes,” they both answer.

“I saw this movie once where someone hid things in the air vents. It was the bathroom’s heater, an old one like this place.”

Celia produces a Swiss Army knife from her pocket. She starts with the kitchen vent, unscrews it and finds it empty. Atlas heads for the bathroom, same thing. She hits the one in the bedroom. Empty.

“We have to go soon,” she exhales, irritated. “Maybe there’s nothing here. We can go where she works, check her out and see if she gives herself away. Or hell, maybe she’s innocent!”

Atlas eyes the wall-unit air conditioner. He heads over. “It’s unplugged.” Inserting it in the socket, he presses the power button and the thing turns on, loud as hell, but working. He switches it off. Kneeling in front, he jimmies the front cover off. “They snap off to replace the filter. This ones clean. Celia, your hands are smaller. Dig under here.”

She kneels with him, reaches in, fingers wiggling as she grunts. “Hey!” She pulls out an envelope. Their eyes light up with victory. As they stand, she opens it and I walk over to have a look at a stack of drivers licenses. “Jackpot,” she whispers, reading. “These people are all well into their nineties and hundreds by now. Or they would have been. Look at the years of birth.”

“Missing persons?” I ask.

“Nah,” Atlas mutters. “Let’s go.” He says over his shoulder as we follow him out, me in the rear since I paid attention, “If she kills them when they’re that old then it looks natural. They’re not missing. Just gone before they were meant to be.”

Celia shudders. “At least they get funerals. Unlike those who are never found.”