by Leo King
She bit her top lip and sucked. No… that’s not it. Her ability to heal was enhanced. She already knew that from previous experiences.
Again, Dr. Hoffman rested his hands on the railing. “Your first few nights here were pretty rough. We honestly thought that you were going to die. But you pulled through. Three times now, you’ve sustained life-threatening injuries and survived. You are truly remarkable.”
Sam continued to suck on her upper lip. She was sure that there was more to it. Vincent had revealed something extremely important. I feel as if I wasn’t in any danger of dying. Why is that?
“Anyway, even in a coma, you’ve been pretty reactive to pain. Every time we’ve applied Silvadene to your burns, you’ve nearly broken a nose or cracked a collarbone. So we’ve restrained you.”
She snorted. “Less for my protection and more for others, eh?”
He continued to regard her with pity. “Sam, I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t remove the restraints just yet. Much has happened since your accident, and you’ve gained a lot of attention. A few people need to talk to you before your personal psychiatrist can see you.”
She gasped. “No, not Dr. Klein. He threatened to hurt me. He threatened to torture me!” The heart-rate monitor quickened until it was a flurry of beeps. Sounds around her started to mute and sensations started to grow.
Ester and Marty traded looks. Dr. Hoffman cleared his throat. “Please relax, Miss Castille. Your psychiatrist is Dr. Lazarus. Don’t you remember firing Dr. Klein? He’s been complaining about it for weeks to anyone who’ll listen. But anyway, Dr. Lazarus will want to know that you’re awake.”
She relaxed, her heart rate returning to normal, and with it the sounds and sensations of the room. She remembered that Dr. Lazarus was much more open to the idea of her being possessed. “Sorry. I’m OK. I just hate Dr. Klein.”
“I can understand that. For now, though, Ester needs to change your bandages. I’ll come check up on you later. Until then, please try to remain calm.” Glancing back once more, he left.
Her ears burned. She felt like a scolded child. Hurt and torture me—Jesus, Sam, shut the hell up! You sound like a damn lunatic.
Ester gingerly approached. “Sam, I’m gonna to give you some morphine while I change your bandages and clean n’ treat your burns. It’s still going to hurt, though. Marty’s gonna keep you steady, all right?”
Sam glanced toward Marty. He was handsome, probably in his early twenties and built like a lumberjack. Suddenly, she wondered how good he’d be at pinning her to a wall while having her. Her cheeks grew hot and she pushed those feelings aside. What was wrong with her? The man she loved had died just a few weeks ago.
Then the world started to swim. Ester had added morphine to her IV. Sam leaned back, smiling goofily. Tears in her eyes turned the light into specks. Then the specks turned into butterflies. “Yeah, I feel it. Good ol’ morphine… lovely Miss Emma… delicious. This is the stuff. Go on, Ester. Hit me.”
Through her semi-daze, she saw Ester nod. Then she felt Marty’s strong hands resting on the right side of her hip and chest. She rolled her head toward him and winked. “Hey, there, kiddo. If you wanna have some fun, wait until we don’t have an audience. Wait until—”
Then, some of the most excruciating pain she had ever felt shot through her left arm. It was just as relentless as when Dallas was slicing into her. Almost against her will, she looked. Ester had removed the bandages. Her entire left arm down to her hand was nothing more than charred meat that stank like bad barbeque.
She thrashed against her restraints. “Fucking stop! The morphine isn’t helping at all!”
“Ma’am, you need to relax,” Marty said forcefully, pushing harder.
Ester pulled back. “Hun, you need to stop. You’re only going to hurt yourself.”
Sam eventually calmed down enough for Ester to remove the bandages from the rest of her body, including her face. The pain was a constant, hot throbbing. He left leg was a gnarled mess that she could barely recognize.
I’m a freak now…
The treatment didn’t get any better. The pain from having her wounds cleaned was bad enough to make her weep. She somehow endured, gritting her teeth and crying out until her throat hurt.
When she was finally done, Ester said, “Sam, I’m going to put the Silvadene on now. This is going to hurt, but I need you to be brave like you’ve been so far.”
“OK,” Sam said in a small voice. She was already hoarse. She just wanted the pain to end so she could go back to sleep. But as soon as the Silvadene hit, her mind went blank, unsure how anything could register as that painful and not kill her. Despite Ester’s pleadings, she struggled harder than before. Marty was barely able to hold on.
Then, quite suddenly, the morphine high start to lift, and the instinct to survive overtook any rationality. Clenching her fist, she let out a guttural shriek and pulled her right arm against the restraints. The leather strap easily popped free. With another roar, she pushed Marty off her. He landed against the wall and collapsed.
Snarling, she grabbed Ester and pulled the terrified nurse closer until their noses were touching. A part of her she didn’t recognize had risen to the surface, something arrogant and angry. She could smell the nurse’s fear. Somehow, it was a delicious ambrosia.
“You will never touch me again, you goddamn little insect.”
She pushed Ester to the ground and then passed out.
Chapter 2
Enter Dr. Kindley
Date: Saturday, September 12, 1992
Time: 11:00 a.m.
Location: Tulane University Hospital
Downtown New Orleans
As Sam slowly awoke, she again felt the spirits, patches of coolness flitting about the warm, muggy September air. Some were very small, like children. Others were the size of adults. And others were no larger than clothespins.
Then she felt another presence, one that was warm, very close, and very familiar.
When she opened her eyes, she saw a woman in an overcoat standing next to her. One of the sleeves lay limp at her side. She looked at Sam with a mixture of sadness and concern.
Sam’s eyes focused, and she recognized Lieutenant Detective Dixie Olivier.
“Hey there, Sam. How’re you feeling?” She touched her arm softly.
It was enough to make Sam feel a little better. “Dixie? Oh, you have no idea how good it is to see you.”
She tried to sit up, only to realize that additional restraints—leather straps crossing over her torso—had been added. She sighed. “I guess I shouldn’t have thrown such a fit, right?” She didn't need an answer—what she had done to Ester was repugnant. And where had all that arrogant rage suddenly come from?
An answer came anyway.
“Yeah, you pretty much blew everyone’s trust with that little escapade.” Dixie gently stroked the right side of Sam’s face.
“Sam, what’s happening to you?”
Sam turned away. Dixie’s kindness hurt more than any of her burns. I don’t wanna feel anymore.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. You’d think I was crazier than Dallas.”
Patting the stump that used to be her left arm, Dixie said, “I think I’ve seen more than enough to know what is and isn’t crazy.”
Sam felt a compulsion to push Dixie away, one that was almost overpowering. But then she remembered Rodger saying that she could be trusted. I guess I can give it a shot.
“It’s Vincent. He’s the reason Dallas became the copycat killer.”
Dixie regarded her inquisitively. “I think you should explain yourself, Sam.”
“Eh, probably a good idea,” Sam said. At this point, it felt like talking it out was the best way to come to terms with it. “After I heard about Rodger’s accident, stuff started happening. Weird stuff. Crazy stuff. I thought I was losing my mind.”
“What happened?” Dixie asked in a low, conversational tone.
“Oh, where to begin? My reflec
tion turned into some sort of ghost monster. The equipment in my office started working by itself. The fireplace in my study lit up with a pale green flame. There were two skeletons playing cards in my kitchen while little black clothespin creatures were making coffee.”
“Yes. That does sound crazy. But, please, go on.” There wasn’t a hint of condescension in her voice.
Sam focused on the window. It was still raining. “So Vincent’s voice starts talking to me. He tells me how he’s been using loa. You know what loa are, right?”
“Yes. Voodoo spirits. But they’re just superstition.”
Looking back, she cocked an eyebrow. “You know I was possessed during the fight with Blind Moses at the wharf, right? By a loa named Marinette?”
Standing up, Dixie rubbed her head. “Right. So, for the sake of conversation, what was Vincent doing with these loa?”
Sam bit the side of her lip. She knew Vincent was doing something extremely important, but she just couldn’t remember. “All I know is that Vincent was using the loa to influence Dallas to commit those murders. He also used them to kill Michael and Rodger.”
Dixie didn’t say anything. At the mention of Michael, her expression grew solemn. For several minutes, she looked lost in thought. Finally, she said, “Well, I’m no expert in these matters, but it sounds like you had a serious psychotic episode.”
“Go to hell.” Sam whipped her head to the side, her heart aching again. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
She then felt Dixie’s hand on her shoulder. “Whoa, whoa. I didn’t say that. I just said that’s how it sounds. I’m sure that whatever you experienced, it was absolutely real to you. I’m not sure what happened to you, Sam, but I don’t think you’re lying.”
Slowly, Sam looked back at Dixie. The other woman was smiling tenderly.
Gradually, Sam smiled back. It felt like Dixie was indeed on her side. “So what happens now?”
“Well, Ouellette is talking to Dr. Hoffman. I’m sure you’ll need to undergo a psychiatric evaluation. After all, you did attack two nurses.”
Sam huffed, annoyed at the entire situation. “Well, they shouldn’t have taken me off the morphine when they were cleaning my wounds. I wouldn’t have lost my shit.”
“They didn’t,” said Dixie, shaking her head. “You somehow managed to burn away its effects, which has everyone scratching their heads. Please understand this, Sam. How you’ve been healing and are able to resist drugs like morphine… well, it isn’t human. If I hadn’t seen you fight Blind Moses, I would think this whole thing is a hoax.”
“Yeah, but now?” Sam tilted her head to the side. The bandages on her face pulled tightly, sending a shock of pain through her.
Dixie chuckled. “Sam, there is very little you could do that would surprise me.”
“Thanks, Dixie,” Sam said, feeling better about her situation.
Suddenly, Dixie’s expression grew considerably more serious, and then she leaned down toward Sam.
Sam blinked. Wha—? Is she gonna kiss me?
Instead, Dixie rested her forehead on hers in an abrupt display of affection. Sam froze up, the sudden emotion catching her off guard. She didn’t know how to respond.
“Listen, Sam,” Dixie whispered. “I can never say enough to apologize for falsely accusing you. I did you a great wrong. If it takes the rest of my life, I swear I will make it right. No matter what, you can trust me.”
Sam didn’t move. This unexpected action and statement stopped her thought processes. All she could do was whisper back, “Um, thanks.”
“Do you two need to get a hotel room?” a rough-sounding voice asked from the doorway.
Dixie stood, her cool demeanor back in place.
Sam blinked again, certain she had a “deer-in-the-headlights” expression.
Then she saw who was at the doorway. What’s he doing here?
Standing there in his usual suit and tie was Commander Ouellette. He had a particularly unpleasant look, sour even for him.
“Sorry, Commander,” said Dixie. “I was just—”
“Close it, Lieutenant. I don’t particularly care whether you were about to suck face with Miss Castille or not. I need to speak with her alone, and I need you to head downstairs. The DA wants this whole thing to go smoothly.”
“Sir! But I think we should tell—”
Ouellette glared at her with the kind of look that would wither a flower. She clenched her jaw and then said, “Yes, sir.”
Confused, Sam quietly watched them.
Dixie then gently touched her hand. “I’ll be in touch, Sam. I promise. Remember what I—”
“That’s enough, Lieutenant.”
“Fine.” She left without another word, stomping out.
Slowly, Ouellette closed the door and approached. “Sam, I’m breaking protocol doing this, and I’m taking a risk. But because of who you are and who I am, you’ve got one shot to tell me your side of the story.”
Sam stared but said nothing. As far as she was concerned, years ago, he had tried to frame Edward, the man who’d raised her like a father. Trust was not something she had for him.
“Look, I know you don’t like me, and to be honest, I don’t care. I don’t like what the Castilles have become. But I find myself in the unique position of being able to help you out, so start talking.”
She continued to look at him with suspicion. Ouellette, someone she had hated most of her life, was now asking for her side of the story. The utter gall of him.
Then he let out an exasperated sigh. “Look, Sam. You need to tell me what really happened in your townhome or life is going to get very uncomfortable for you. And this time, no one is going to bail you out.”
The exhaustion of defeat was once again growing within her. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
He leaned forward. His gaze was focused and unyielding. “Try me.”
With a sniff, she said, “Vincent Castille was behind the copycat murders.”
His eyes narrowed. “And what do you mean by that?”
She locked eyes. “The night Rodger died, Vincent’s… ghost… came to me and told me that he was using loa to manipulate Dallas and others into finishing his killings from twenty years ago.”
Ouellette’s expression didn’t change. She started to sweat, unable to get a read on him.
Finally, he straightened up. “Did he say why he was doing this?”
Sam couldn’t tell if he believed her or not. “I think he was doing a voodoo ritual or something. I… I’m sorry, I’m having trouble remembering. It was definitely a ritual. A voodoo ritual with loa.” Her brow furrowed.
He folded his arms. “You mean like with the Knight Priory of Saint Madonna?”
She nodded, remembering that Vincent had run the original Knight Priory and that some of the oldest and most powerful families in New Orleans were members. They were the ones who had put Marinette inside of her at his behest.
“Yes, them,” she said.
Ouellette grimaced as if recalling something painful. “Go on. So Vincent’s ghost was performing a ritual? How’d he do that? He’s been dead since the seventies.”
“He used something—a focus—to influence the world.”
That seemed to get his attention. “A focus? Do you know what it was?”
Again, she struggled to recall that detail. She knew that the form of the focus, just like the ritual’s objective, was important, but it was no use. She just couldn’t remember.
“Sorry, I got nothing.”
“Sam, you know you sound bat-shit insane, right? You say that your murderous father continued killing after his death, and yet you don’t know why or with what.”
Glaring at him, she spat, “Like your opinion of me matters. You’ve never liked my family, and you’ve never liked me. We’re done here.”
He continued, matching her intensity. “Yes. We’re done. And I think this is the end of the immortal Castille family line.”
As he started to wa
lk away, she suddenly felt a spark of clarity light up. With it came the disturbing realization of exactly what Vincent had done. Murder after murder, suffering beyond suffering, all for the sake of a dark, long-forgotten ritual that would ensure life without the fear of death.
“Vincent made me immortal!” she blurted out.
He stopped in his tracks and looked back. His expression was genuinely perplexed. “What did you say?”
Her voice shook. The revelation had been as horrible as she had feared. “Vincent committed all those murders years ago and then influenced Dallas to commit his so he could complete a ritual to bind Baron Samedi to himself. He did this so the Baron wouldn’t dig my grave.”
Ouellette’s expression became unreadable. “So, you mean… ?”
“I, um, can’t die.” Just saying it made her feel nauseated.
“I need to get going.” Turning away, he shook his head and then left.
Sam tried not to throw up. All that suffering was for me…
For several hours, Sam lay there and thought about the ritual. She hadn’t wanted to face why the murders were committed then, nor did she want to now. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw the victims, their broken bodies excised of tissue and organs, their faces frozen in screams of fear and pain. Even Edward, the man she knew as her father, was tortured to death in front of her. All of that suffering for one reason—to make her immortal.
She felt sick to her stomach.
I don’t want this.
I can’t even free the Baron and die in peace.
Bridgette is probably gone, too.
Everything I touch gets ruined.
She was deep within her self-deprecation when Dr. Hoffman came in with two orderlies. At once, both men detached her from the heart-rate monitor and hooked the IV bag to the side of her bed. She started to feel anxious.
“What’s going on? Where am I going?”