Violets Are Blue - James Patterson [63]
“He got me so mad. Grrrr,” she said, and shook her head and made a face. “I have a bad temper sometimes, but he was wrong. There’s something fucked up about that man. I have a bad feeling about him. Why would he have it in for me? Because I’m working with you? So what do we do today, Dr. Cross? I’m not leaving because he’s a goddamn idiot.”
“He was wrong. I’m sorry about what happened, Jamilla. Let’s talk about what we do next.”
“Don’t be condescending,” she said.
“I’m not. Why don’t you get off the soapbox, though.”
She still wasn’t over her bad scene with Kyle. “He doesn’t like women,” she said. “Trust me on that. He also practices the three C’s that some men are so fond of: compete, criticize, control.”
“So tell me what you really think about Kyle. And men in general.”
Jamilla finally managed a smile. “I think, and I’m being pretty objective and measured about this, that he’s a total control freak and a complete asshole. Your so-called friend. As for men, it varies with the individual.”
Chapter 67
THE REAL vampires had arrived and they believed they were invincible. William and Michael knew that the exotic city of New Orleans belonged to them from the instant they crossed the bridge. They were a couple of young princes with their long blond ponytails, black shirts and trousers, shining leather boots. Their mission ended here if all went well, and it would.
William drove the Red Cross van through the French Quarter — they were on the lookout for prey. The van went slowly back and forth on Burgundy, Dauphine, Bourbon, Royal, Chartres, all of the more famous streets. The sounds of Readysexgo blared from the tape deck. “Supernatural Blonde,” then “Radio Tokyo.”
The brothers finally got out and strolled along Riverwalk. They turned into the Riverwalk Marketplace, and it made William physically ill: Banana Republic, Eddie Bauer, the Limited, Sharper Image, the Gap — mediocrity, tripe, utter stupidity everywhere he looked. “What do you want to do?” William turned to Michael. “Look at all this commercial crap in the middle of this beautiful city.”
“Let’s take somebody out here in their putrid shopping mall. Maybe we should feed in a changing room at the Banana Republic. I love that idea.”
“No!” William said. He grabbed hold of Michael’s arm. “We’ve been working too hard for this. I think we need a distraction.”
They couldn’t take any more prey. Not now. Not so close to where Daniel and Charles had their domain. A distraction was definitely needed. So William drove out of New Orleans along the Bonnet Carre Spillway. He continued on Interstate 10 into the real Louisiana.
William found what he wanted about an hour outside New Orleans. The rock climb wasn’t much, but at least the face was steep. You had to concentrate; if you didn’t, you fell, and you were dead.
The brothers chose to free solo, the most extreme version of the sport. Also the most dangerous by far. In free solo, the climbers used no ropes or any other kind of backup protection.
“We are a couple of hardmen!” Michael laughed and shouted once they were halfway up the two-hundred-foot climb. Hardmen were the toughest climbers of all. They were the best, and it fit the brothers’ self-image.
“Yes, we are!” William shouted back to his brother. “There are old climbers and there are bold climbers.”
“But there are no old, bold climbers!” Michael roared with laughter.
The climb turned out to be more challenging than it had looked. It required lots of different skills. They had to do vertical crack climbing, then suddenly they were face climbing, pressing tight against the rock, using very small handholds.
“We’re in the climbing groove now!” Michael screamed at the top of his lungs. He had forgotten about hunting for prey, forgotten his hunger. There was nothing but the climb now. Nothing but staying alive, survival of the fittest.
Suddenly, they had to commit — they were at a point in the climb where, once they made the next couple of moves, they couldn’t go back the way they had come. There was nothing to do but go straight up.