Madame Bauterre spoke to the upside-down cross. “Janette is lying to me about her trip.” She has gone to meet His warrior, the voice rose in her head. That unlikely candidate for a place behind the Pearly Gates. “Unless I can convince them to leave. . . .” she let the sentence trail off into silence. They will have to be disposed of. Yes. The voice chuckled with black mirth. “You know something I need to know?” I know many things. But as you well know, the rules have been set. I cannot violate them. Good luck. Janette drove her Cadillac to New Orleans and checked in at a downtown hotel. A small hotel, just a few blocks off Canal. She shopped for a time, buying a few clothes she thought she might need, and dropped the film off to be developed. She consulted the yellow pages, and found a nationally known detective agency. She called for an appointment. Come right over, ma’am. The offices were very pleasant, not at all like what she expected. And the man behind the desk did not look like a Mike Hammer or Shell Scott: he looked like ten million other people.
