Page 36 of The Fourth Option
“My God,” Walker breathed as he maneuvered around a pothole.
It wasn’t that it was unlivable. Some people still tried. He could see them, shadowed figures in doorways, shirtless boys leaning against porch railings, watching the stranger in the faded blue van. But it wasn’t living, he thought. It was resisting death with dignity.
His inward philosopher reawakened.
Is resisting death with stubborn grace what I’m doing?
The nightmares did not care about intent. The cold sweats didn’t respect strategy. And John Staub, his friend, his brother, was still dead because of what Walker had done. Or failed to do.
“Good men die,” he whispered, answering the voice.
Paladin shifted on the passenger seat, watching him.
“Don’t worry, boy, we’re going to set up shop,” he said, voice steadier. “Somewhere quiet.” He reached across and scratched the dog’s ear.
Paladin’s tail tapped the seat twice in agreement.
Walker shifted into third and continued forward, deeper into the decay. Maybe he was still alive so he could finish what Connor had started. And maybe, in doing so, find one small answer to the question that haunted him.
Not whether he was good, but whether, with what time he had left, he could do something that was.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FBI SPECIAL AGENTShad varying reasons for requesting transfers. Jarrett Stanton was looking for a city that needed his help.
That’s what had landed him, two years ago, in a trim Creole townhouse two short blocks east of the French Quarter, close enough to hear the late-night trumpets floating through the alleyways, but far enough not to smell the slushy hurricane cocktails spilled on Bourbon Street.
Like Stanton, the house was dignified and symmetrical. Four bedrooms, a wrought-iron balcony that draped over the sidewalk, and, most critically, no yard to upkeep. Instead, he’d overseen the construction of a square, brick courtyard laid in a herringbone pattern.
Inside, he was hardly the lord of the manor. The house hummed with the friction of female energy: three daughters in various stages of childhood with obsessions ranging from Disney princesses to gymnastics to ninth-grade debate club, all shepherded by Alma, his wife, his rock, and the only person who could conduct this family ballet in time with the Bureau’s demands.
For all that, Stanton had methods to tune the girls out when he needed to, one of which was to open the windows that faced the street and listen to the jazz filtering over the rooftops while he dressed.
Tourists might call the Quarter a theme park, and they weren’t wrong. But Jarrett didn’t live for Bourbon Street. He lived for the undercurrent, the quiet hiss of buskers rehearsing near the golden Joan of Arc statue, the smell of chicory from the French Market, the way jazz didn’t just echo here, itlingered. He would miss it one day. He had come here to help right wrongs, to fight corruption. And yet the city had seduced him too.
He checked his Apple watch. The gala at the Four Seasons would be starting soon. He wanted to walk. The device on his wrist told him he was barely above eight thousand steps, not nearly enough.
Come on, Jarrett.
He stood in front of his bedroom mirror. The stiff white collar of his tuxedo shirt flared awkwardly at his neck like the wings of a startled gull. In one hand, he held a black bow tie, a strip of silk that may as well have been a Rubik’s Cube. He turned it over in his fingers, looped it once, and frowned before exhaling a sharp breath.
Alma moved behind him with the silent efficiency of a mother of three and the steady patience of a kindergarten teacher. Her own dress hung half-zipped, height elevated by heels. “You’re making that face again,” she said lightly, smoothing his shoulders. “The one you make before dental appointments.”
Jarrett offered a lopsided smile. “You ever think it’s a little ironic that I can take down a wire-fraud ring in Baton Rouge, but I can’t figure out how to tie this thing without Googling it?”
“You’re not allowed to mention federal investigations and internet tutorials in the same sentence,” Alma replied, plucking the tie from his fingers. “You’re more interesting than that.”
“Tell that to the kids.”
A raucous argument echoed down the hallway from a playroom that was a minefield of glitter hair clips and half-dressed dolls.
“That’smySnow White headband!” Veronica shouted.
“It is not! Eloise found it in the car!”
“Inmybooster seat!”
Alma winced. “Okay, that’s escalating.”
