Garden of Forbidden Secrets

by Eric Wilder

  Garden of

  Forbidden

  Secrets

  Eric Wilder

  © 2019 by Gary Pittenger

  All Rights Reserved

  Smashwords Edition

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Please check out all of Eric’s books at his Smashword’s homepage and his Website.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Book Notes

  Other Books by Eric Wilder

  About the Author

  Eric's Links

  Chapter 1

  The only way to deal with a bad situation is to embrace the problem and kiss it on the mouth. Taj Davis was beginning to doubt his lifelong philosophy as he followed a bellman down the hallway of a New Orleans hotel.

  Though only thirty-four years old, Taj was ancient by NBA standards. His surgically repaired left knee still ached whenever he jumped. Arthritis had begun affecting his fingers, though none of his coaches or teammates had yet noticed the knots deforming the digits of his shooting hand. As he followed the hall of the French Quarter hotel, he felt every year of his age.

  Taj had hoped to play in Cleveland during his final years in the league. An early morning call from an assistant coach had informed him his dream was not to be. He’d had about three hours to pack his apartment before taking a taxi to the airport and flying to New Orleans, the NBA city that had acquired him in an unexpected mid-season trade.

  The bellman stopped in front of a door, the odor of must and age greeting them as he followed the little man into the room. The bellman, dressed in a red velvet coat, sat the suitcase on the bed and smiled as he palmed the twenty Taj handed him.

  “You’re Taj Davis.”

  “Right on. What’s your name?”

  “Tommy. You way bigger than you look on TV. How tall are you?”

  “Six-nine. You like basketball, Tommy?”

  The little man massaged the stubble of beard on his chin. “Nothing much I like better. My favorite team is the Pels. One of these days, they gonna be champs.”

  “Hope it’s sooner rather than later,” Taj said. “I’ve dreamed of a championship ring. I’m running out of time to find a winning team to help get me there.”

  “I hear that,” Tommy said. “Hope you’re good enough to replace Zee Ped. He been filling up the baskets lately.”

  “I have no idea why the Pels traded their best player for me,” Taj said.

  “Nobody around here knew a thing about the trade until a few hours ago,” Tommy said.

  “Neither did I. An assistant called this morning and told me to meet him in the locker room. He had my locker already unpacked, a plane ticket and itinerary for me when I got there. I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to anyone. I had to leave most of my stuff unpacked in my apartment.”

  “You serious? You mean today was the first you heard about the trade?”

  The curtains on the large room’s windows were open. Taj nodded as he glanced out at the flashing neon of the French Quarter and running lights of boats out on the river.

  “No clue,” he said. “I know it’s late. Any chance of scoring something to eat around here?”

  “You kidding? This the Big Easy. Most places in the French Quarter don’t even get started good until at least midnight.”

  “I mean here in the hotel. This move has me dogged totally out. All I want to do is eat, take a hot bath and then crash.”

  “I hear that. Tell me what you want. I’ll have someone bring it to you.”

  “Ribeye, rare, and a bottle of your driest cabernet.”

  “If you like Cajun and Creole, the chef makes the best gumbo in town,” Tommy said.

  “Just steak. I’m not much on seafood.”

  “Better learn to like it,” Tommy said. “You could be here awhile, and this is the gumbo capital of the world.”

  “Hope you’re right about me spending some time here. This is my third team in the past five years. I was hoping to play my final season in Cleveland. Tell you the truth, I’ve never eaten gumbo,” Taj said.

  “I’ll bring you a cup, along with the steak. Give it a try. Nothing else like it on earth.”

  “If you say so,” Taj said.

  “Ever stayed at Hotel Montalba before?”

  “First time. When the Cavs are in town, they stay in one of the newer hotels on Canal. How old is this place?”

  “Going on two-hundred years. The oldest hotel in the French Quarter.”

  “Love it,” Taj said. “The elegance, architecture, and service are impressive. What’s not to like?”

  “Maybe the evil spirits lurking around every corner,” Tommy said.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Me and everyone else in town. You will too after you been here awhile. Hell, you might not make it through the night before you see one.”

  “You know something I don’t know?”

  Tommy massaged his chin again. “I already said too much. I better go put your order in.”

  “Not so fast,” Taj said. “You have something to tell me?”

  “This old hotel ain’t just haunted it has more ghosts than St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 over on Basin Street.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “This room, 1413.”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s really room 1313. This is the thirteenth, not the fourteenth floor. The hotel stopped using this room before I started working here.”

  “How long has that been?” Taj asked.

  “Almost thirty years.”

  “Bet you have lots of stories to tell,” Taj said.

  “On just about anything you want to know about New Orleans.”

  “If the hotel doesn’t use this room anymore, then why am I staying here?”

  “We’re extra busy with people coming into town to see the Christmas lights. Management put you here because they couldn’t turn down a call from the Pels. This was the only room that wasn’t booked.”

  Taj stared at the panorama through a corner window. “Even if it’s haunted, it has to be the most beautiful suite in town,” he said. “I can’t imagine a better view of New Orleans. Why on earth would the hotel let a few spirits of the night stop them from using it?”

  “Maybe because someone was murdered here,” Tommy said.

  “Whoa! Somebody was killed in this room? Are you making this up?”

  Tommy
’s smile had disappeared. “Guess I should have shut my mouth when I had the chance.”

  “You started it, now finish the story.”

  “You’re not gonna get me fired, are you?” Tommy said.

  “Course not,” Taj said.

  “A cleaning lady found a body in the bathtub. The murdered woman’s head was missing.”

  “Crime of passion?”

  “No idea,” Tommy said. “The murder was never solved.”

  “How is that possible?” Taj asked when Tommy grew silent. “Wasn’t she a guest?”

  “Like I said, it happened before I started work here.” Tommy handed Taj the antique key to the room. “I better put in your dinner order.”

  The little bellman hurried away down the dimly lit hallway. It was the weekend, the Pels on a road trip out west. Taj had until Monday to report to the training facilities. He’d visited New Orleans often during his tenure in the NBA, though he’d never ventured far from the Smoothie King Center, or his hotel room. Tomorrow, he intended to change all that.

  After another glance out the window, he shut the curtains. Mid-December, the weather had turned cold. Though not as frigid as temperatures in Cleveland, the humid climate in New Orleans was uncomfortable. Taj turned up the thermostat, opened his suitcase, found a sweater, and pulled it over his head.

  Checking his email on the cell phone entertained Taj until a white-smocked waiter knocked on the door. The serving cart he pushed sported a white tablecloth, fine china, and silverware. After opening the bottle of wine and filling a glass with a ceremonial flair, the waiter accepted Taj’s twenty, departing after saying almost nothing.

  “Nice,” Taj said, sipping the cabernet.

  As Taj twisted the tap on the antique porcelain tub and tested the water with his palm, he’d forgotten Tommy’s story of murder. When it grew hot, he returned to eat his steak. He turned up his nose at the steaming cup of gumbo, pushing it aside without tasting it.

  As steam wafted up from the tub, Taj sat the wine bottle and his glass on the barbershop tile floor, and then stripped off his clothes. Not bothering to check the temperature, he slid over the side, sinking into the water to the top of his head.

  Taj had a powerful frame for such a big man. Used to battling in the paint, he had a chest covered with bruises, contusions, and even a few cuts. The hot water soon began to soothe his sore body, and he finished drinking the wine straight from the bottle. After draining the last drop, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  ***

  Sometime later, Taj’s hand relaxed, and he released his grip on the bottle. His eyes popped open when it shattered on the tile. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, though the water had become tepid. Worse, the lights had gone out, the only light coming from a crack in the curtains. When he got out of the tub, he stepped on broken glass.

  Finding a towel, he wrapped it around his bleeding foot and hobbled to the window. Unable to find a light switch, he pulled open the curtains, red flashing neon from the French Quarter flooding through the window.

  The room had grown icy cold. Sticky globules dripped from a windowpane and Taj recoiled when he touched the gooey substance. The inhuman sound of something coming up behind him caused him to wheel around.

  Not a person easily startled, Taj backed against the wall. Heavy feet shuffling across the floor, along with the rattle of chains, made him do a double take. As he drew a gasping breath into his lungs, what he saw almost caused him to choke.

  Neither man nor beast, it was a cloud of white light with flashes of reds, yellows, and blues. Something alive, though anything but human, the thing reeked of death as it floated toward him. The droning noise emitting from the specter sounded like the muted whine of a revving chainsaw.

  With his fists clenched in a fighter’s stance, Taj took a swing at the advancing demon. When his hand passed through the apparition, he realized he needed to run instead of fight. Sidestepping the entity, he stumbled to the door. As he glanced over his shoulder at the demon, he couldn’t get it to open.

  Taj slammed his fists against the door, trying to break it and get away from the supernatural being behind him. When it opened of its own accord, he fell on his face into the hallway. With the bloody towel still wrapped around his cut foot, he sprinted into the arms of an inebriated couple returning from a French Quarter bar.

  Taj towered over the man and woman. Despite the alcohol they’d both consumed, nothing had prepared them for a meeting with a naked giant with a bloody foot. They were both screeching as they hurried away. A dozen doors opened, staring out at the naked man with wild eyes and coated with blood. Hearing the commotion, Tommy came running.

  When Tommy saw Taj standing naked in the hallway, he grabbed a bathrobe from a service cart and tossed it to him. Before Taj could secure the tie around his waist, Tommy had pulled him into an elevator and punched the down button.

  “What the hell, man? You gone crazy?”

  “Son of a bitch!” Taj said. “You weren’t kidding. That room is haunted. I’ll be damned if I’m going back there.”

  “Good God! What did you do to your foot?”

  “Stepped on broken glass,” Taj said.

  “You’re bleeding all over the carpet. Until I can get you downstairs, we need something to slow the flow.”

  Tommy stopped on a lower floor and found a handful of towels in a linen closet.

  “Damn glad it was you that showed up and not the police,” Taj said. “My first day with the Pels might have been my last.”

  “Got that right,” Tommy said. “You look like you been in a knife fight and got the worst of it.”

  In the fluorescent lights of the elevator, Taj could see the little man was correct. Blood already covered the bathrobe, and he felt light-headed.

  “You’ll be okay,” Tommy said. “We got a doctor on staff downstairs. He’ll fix you up. What you got in your hand?”

  Taj didn’t realize he was holding anything until he looked and saw it.

  Recoiling, he let the object drop to the floor. “What the hell is that thing?” he asked.

  Tommy stared with his mouth open as he nudged the gruesome item with the toe of his polished shoe.

  “Good God almighty!” he said. “Looks like a voodoo doll that somebody dunked in a bucket of blood. Where’d you get it?”

  “No earthly idea,” Taj said. “I know nothing about voodoo.”

  “Then what about your tattoo?” Tommy asked.

  The bathrobe had splayed open across Taj’s broad chest, revealing a strange tattoo.

  “I’ve had this thing since I was old enough to remember seeing it. Where it came from, I can’t tell you. You think you know what it is?”

  “Hell yes, I know. It’s a voodoo symbol,” Tommy said. “Around here they call them veves.”

  “Voodoo symbol? You’re shitting me,” Taj said.

  “No, I’m not,” Tommy said.

  Then what the hell is it doing on my chest?” Taj asked.

  Tommy wrapped the bloody doll in a towel and picked it up. “The witch doctor who marked you with it is the only person that knows.”

  Chapter 2

  Though Taj Davis wasn’t oblivious to pain, he’d learned to live with it during his thirteen years in the NBA. He hadn’t flinched when the hotel doctor deadened his foot before stitching up the wound. Used to boots and casts, the thick sock over his bandaged foot and special sandal he wore seemed mild to him.

  Tommy had retrieved Taj’s bags from room 1313. After changing into a Cavs warm-up, the tall basketball player had fallen asleep in a comfortable chair, in the lobby of the old hotel. Tommy was still at work when Taj awoke the next morning.

  “Management’s real sorry about what happened last night,” Tommy said. “We moved your bags to a room on the second floor.”

  Tommy smiled and shook his head when Taj asked, “Are there ghosts on the second floor?”

  “Ghosts are everywhere in the Big Easy. Don’t matter none. Your new ro
om is the safest one in the hotel,” he said.

  “Why are you still at work?” Taj asked.

  “Everyone in town loves the Pels. The hotel’s paying me overtime to stick around and get you settled in your new room. Ready to check it out?”

  Taj grimaced when he got out of the chair and put weight on his foot.

  “Dammit!” he said. “One day with the Pels and I’m already on the injured list.”

  “Doc White said the cut isn’t deep. You’ll be fine in a day or two.”

  “No severed tendons or nerves?”

  “Nope. Just a little soreness. Doc fitted you with a specially padded sandal.”

  Taj tested it with his weight. “You’re right. It’s a little sore, though not bad.”

  “You sure? The hotel has a wheelchair you can use.”

  Tommy’s offer brought a grin to Taj’s face.

  “No wheelchair, or crutches for me,” he said. I’ll be fine.”

  After following Tommy to the elevator, Taj wasn’t so sure. Instead of an antique key, the little bellman opened the door with an electronic card. When they entered, there was no smell of must or age. Except for the view that didn’t hold a candle to the one he’d had the previous night, everything was perfect.

  Taj’s suitcase was waiting on the bed, his hanging clothes on a rack. He almost panicked when he realized he didn’t have his wallet. Tommy grinned when he handed it to him.

  “Lucky for you, I’m not a thief,” the little man said. “Must be a couple thousand dollars in there.”

  Before tossing the wallet on the bed, Taj gave him a twenty from it. “I’m not much on credit cards,” he said.

  “With the money you fellas earn in the NBA, it must be nice.”

  “I’ve had a couple of big paydays. Now, I’m on a veteran’s minimum salary.”

  “Still a million bucks, or more, I’ll bet,” Tommy said. “I’ll never make that much my whole life.”

  “Just dumb luck on my part,” Taj said. “Not everybody is six-nine.”

  “Ain’t many big men can ball like you do,” Tommy said.