by Hunter, Neil
Cyrus Buckman was the first to break. The death of the young woman preyed on his mind, becoming stronger as time passed. His will to resist crumbled and he degenerated into a shambling wreck. His sleep was disturbed and his waking hours no better. He understood the penalty if he admitted to what he had been involved in, yet his attempt to suppress the knowledge he carried inside his head threatened to tear his world apart. As the head of the bank he owned he was able to step aside and allow his staff to run the business without his presence. He needed time away from the bank as he tried, not too successfully, to decide how handle the darkness overwhelming his very existence. Shutting himself away in his study at home and refusing to face his increasingly concerned sister, Buckman began to drink heavily in an attempt to ease the troubles in his increasingly tortured mind … but even in his befuddled state he found himself unable to resist the lure offered by Lacroix and his sister … and he went back for more…
~*~
Lucero Doctor Vallejo. Six-foot-six tall. A lean, almost skeletal, figure. Skin so dark as to be near black. A shaven skull. His eyes bright with a maniacal brightness. The man moved with little visible effort, coming and going with the effortless ease of a shadow. His past history was replete with contradictions and even Lacroix didn’t have the full story. Not that he really cared about that. He employed Vallejo for his murderous skills. The somberly dressed assassin’s ability to carry out any contract he accepted was what interested Lacroix. He had used Vallejo on a number of previous occasions and the killer’s success rate spoke for itself.
When Lacroix sent for him, dispatching one of his underlings to contact the man, Vallejo had shown up at the house within the hour. When he left, less than a half-hour later, he carried Lacroix’s money in his pocket and the information about Cyrus Buckman in his head. The conversation Lacroix had had with the man had been conducted in a couple of dozen words. Alone once again in his study Lacroix sat back knowing he would have no more problems with Buckman.
The man was as good as dead.
~*~
Buckman had roused from his tortured slumber, cold and weak. It had taken him a long time to climb to his feet, feeling the chill of the unheated house. Beyond the windows the rain was still falling. He leaned against the doorframe, shivering and realized he was still wearing his damp clothing. Somehow he managed to climb the stairs and in his bedroom he removed the sodden clothes, dressing in fresh ones. At some point he caught sight of himself in his dressing mirror and almost recoiled at the image.
Dark shadows under his eye. His face blotchy and unshaven. His hair wild and tangled. As a usually fastidious man who dressed well, seeing himself in such a state shocked him immensely.
He left the room, stumbled down the stairs and made for his study. He filled a thick tumbler with bourbon and downed it in swift gulps, almost choking on the liquor. He immediately refilled the glass and took the bottle with him as he crossed the study and sank into one of the heavy leather armchairs facing the window behind his large desk.
Buckman sat in solitary melancholy and watched as rain sluiced down the glass. Now he wrestled with his conscience, unsure what to do. Admit what he had been involved in and face the real possibility of prison – a prospect that filled him with horror. How could he, Cyrus Buckman, be locked up in one of those terrible places? He knew enough about incarceration to believe he would never survive such a place. And in admitting his part in the deviant world of Victor Lacroix, his reputation would be in tatters. There would be little support from those who knew him. The crème of New Orleans society would distance themselves, condemning what he had done, and when it came out – as it surely would – that he had been part of the murder of an innocent girl from a well-to do family – his fate would be surely sealed. Buckman’s world would disintegrate in front of his eyes. It would be over, with no going back. And how would he be able to face the families of those missing girls? He thought of Netta Delacort. He knew the girl’s father and the realization he was involved with the people who had murdered her sickened him.
He gripped the thick tumbler, filled with more bourbon. He had already consumed a number of drinks and raised the tumbler to his lips once more, hand trembling as he considered one option open to him.
Death would release him from the torment. Yet even as he considered it, he knew he could not take his own life. He had always seen suicide as a coward’s way out. Buckman could not take pain. Even the slightest. To inflict it on himself was beyond his comprehension.
So he sat and stared out of his window, unsure where his life was going, and completely at a loss as to what he could do about it.
The decision was made for him a short time later, the need to make choices taken from him as his home received two visitors.
One came to question him.
The other to kill him.
~*~
The cab dropped Brand outside the house and the driver settled back to wait. The city lay behind them, the area a collection of large, expensive houses all standing in their own grounds. This, Brand decided, was where the elite of New Orleans lived. Just before Brand left the police station he had pulled on an oilskin topcoat Noonan had borrowed for him. It repelled the downpour as he approached the house. The fall was heavy and he could feel it drumming against his hat.
A similarly garbed figure was watching the house. He started forward as Brand approached the house.
‘Constable Brenner?’
The policeman acknowledged.
‘And who would you be?’
‘Jason Brand. Inspector Noonan said you were watching the house. Has Buckman showed himself since he first arrived?’
‘You’d be the man from Washington.’
‘Hell, my secret seems to be getting around a sight too freely.’
‘In New Orleans it’s hard to keep any secrets for long. Now there’s been no sight or sound of Buckman since he showed up.’
‘Will you wait around while I go and have a talk with him? Keep an eye out.’
‘Expecting trouble?’
‘I always expect.’
Brand made his way up the path to the front door. His survival instinct made him open the coat so he had access to the shoulder-holstered Colt special he was wearing. It was a normal reaction as far as Brand was concerned. In his business second chances were few and far between, so despite his visit to Cyrus Buckman’s home being an information search, Brand figured caution was needed.
He moved up the wide stone steps to the heavy front door, ready to knock. In her distressed condition Eleanor Buckman had chosen to stay in the city, with an old friend for a time when Buckman had asked. There were no servants in residence at the house, so Cyrus Buckman should be alone.
The sudden shrill scream coming from inside the house made all the difference …
~*~
… it was the faint reflection in the rain-streaked glass that warned Buckman. Even in his semi-stupor from the bourbon he knew he was no longer alone. That someone was behind him. The tall, dark figure looming over the back of his chair clutched a long-bladed knife that was already making a down stroke. Buckman dropped his whiskey tumbler as he pulled his body forward. The blade, aimed for the side of his throat, caught him between the shoulder blades, cutting through his clothing and gouging his flesh. Pain flared, blood flowed and Buckman let out a high scream as he wrenched himself away from his assailant, desperate to get away from his would be killer. In his haste he stumbled, dropping to his knees, then attempted to climb to his feet.
Lacroix’s hired assassin – Doctor Vallejo – reached out and manhandled the chair aside and took a long stride forward, the blade of his knife seeking his target again. He needed to end this quickly. Before anything could happen to put him in any danger. He was used to his kills going without any kind of problem, so Buckman avoiding what should have been a fatal blow had taken Vallejo by surprise. He lashed out with his knife again, this time making a deep cut across the back of Buckman’s neck, from one side to the other, the razor edge
going in deep. Blood spurted from the wound yet the man refused to go down, staggering to his feet despite the heavy flow of blood from the wounds. He managed to turn his body, arms flaying wildly and his left hand caught Vallejo across the side of his head. The blow stung and caught Vallejo in mid stride. He faltered for a couple of seconds before recovering and prepared to launch himself forward again.
Behind him the door to the study crashed open, swinging wide and Vallejo threw a glance over his shoulder at the disturbance …
~*~
… the house door opened freely and Brand went inside. He picked up noise coming from behind a door to his left. He reached it in three long strides. Heard the crash of a piece of furniture being thrust aside. He paused at the door, raised his right foot and kicked the door wide, moving into the room without pause.
Two men.
One he took to be Cyrus Buckman, struggling to remain on his feet, face deathly white as he threw up both hands to ward off …
… a tall, skinny black man with a bloodied knife raised in his right hand, ready to strike again. With Brand’s entrance the man glanced back over his shoulder, lips peeled away from his teeth in a snarl of defiance.
Brand didn’t even pause. He raised the Colt, hammer back, and held it on the man. He tripped the trigger, the .45 caliber crashing out its shot. The lead slug slammed into Vallejo’s right shoulder, going all the way through and knocking the assassin off balance, turning him so he was facing Brand. Before Vallejo could recover Brand fired twice more, each slug placed deliberately on target. The second shot was into Vallejo’s body, tunneling through to his spine, severing it and as the man started to fall Brand triggered his final shot. It slammed into the shaven skull, sinking in and terminating the brain function. Vallejo went to the floor without a sound.
Brand put the Colt away as he crossed to where Buckman had slumped over his desk, clinging to it and as he turned Brand saw the blood streaming from the deep cut across the back of his neck and the wound between his shoulders. He assisted the moaning man into the chair he righted, then ran from the room and to the front door. Rain was drifting inside.
Brenner, alerted by the shots, was halfway up the path.
‘Got a hurt man in here,’ Brand called out. ‘You know Doctor Marcellus?’
‘I know him.’
‘Send the cab man. Tell him there’s a badly knifed man needs his help. Go. Make it quick.’
Brenner nodded and ran to the cab as Brand turned back into the house. He spotted the door to the kitchen and went there, searching for cloth he could use for bandages. He found clean kitchen towels, picked them up and returned to Buckman’s study.
The man was close to being unconscious, blood having soaked his clothes clear down to his waist. Brand turned him sideways and used the towels to wad over the severe, wide-open deep gash across his neck. He was unable to stop the blood flow, the towel quickly sodden. Brand used a second and third towel to hold in place, his own hands becoming soaked as the blood flow continued.
He became aware of Buckman staring at him, his gaze unsteady. The man laid one of his hands on Brand’s arm, his mouth moving soundlessly.
‘I sent for Doc Marcellus. Try to hang on.’
‘I have to tell you … now before it’s too late. We were so foolish. We did terrible things. Let them draw us in … and we knew what had been done … but we were too weak to stop by then … those poor girls … what they did to them …’
Brand could feel the hot blood streaming across his hands. There was nothing he could do and he knew that no matter how fast Marcellus was in coming, even he wouldn’t be able to do anything now.
‘Damned foolish men. All of us. We thought it would be exciting … secret and dangerous … but we just let it happen … the sex and the opium and the drinking … no harm but then we were in so deep there was no way we could escape. When we realized about the girls … what would happen if we were exposed … we fell for their lies … the threats … those pictures they took of us … and then the blackmail. They promised as long as we did what they wanted they would keep our secrets. God, it was such a mess. No way out if we wanted to stay free. Not exposure. Not prison. Everyone knowing what we had been doing … the shame … for our families … businesses ruined … I …’
Brand felt the man shivering as he began to slip into a state of unconsciousness. Buckman’s hand closed even tighter against Brand’s arm, fingers gripping painfully. He knew the man was close to death, but he needed one more thing from him.
Confirmation on who was behind it all.
Brand knew, but he needed to hear it from Buckman himself.
‘Buckman … Cyrus … who was it? The names, man. I need to hear it from you.’
Buckman stared at him for what seemed an eternity. The shivering stopped and it was as if he was already gone. Then his other hand reached across to clutch at Brand’s arm.
‘Victor Lacroix. He’s the one. With his sister, Seraphina. They’re in it together. Look in his house … in the cellars … I think you’ll find the missing girls there … and my friends … they may still be alive …’
~*~
When Doctor Regis Marcellus arrived twenty minutes later, with the cab driver on his heels he stepped into the study and found the man called Vallejo dead on the floor. Cyrus Buckman was slumped in a seat, his blood soaked body still and cold. His blood had run down across the seat and pooled on the carpeted floor beneath him.
Brand, his hands and wrists still covered in drying blood, was leaning back in a chair, a bottle in one hand and a half-filled tumbler in the other. He stared across the room at Marcellus, shaking his head.
‘Couldn’t save him, Doc. Hell, it’s easy to take a life. Not so easy to save one.’
He swallowed the rest of the whiskey and refilled the tumbler. His face was expressionless, eyes bleak and Marcellus knew better than to force the issue.
Marcellus inspected Buckman’s body. His professional eye taking in the terrible, deep slash across his neck and the stab wound in his back. He turned to glance down at Vallejo, seeing the bullet wounds and the damage to the man’s skull where Brand’s .45 slug had taken it apart.
‘This is getting out of hand,’ Marcellus said. ‘Don’t you agree?’
‘No argument from me. After what Buckman told me there’s no question.’
‘He spoke to you?’
‘I guess you could call it his confession.’
‘You have my attention,’ Marcellus said. He glanced back at Vallejo’s sprawled body. ‘I take it he was more than a burglar?’
‘I don’t think he came to steal. More likely to silence Buckman before he gave too much away.’
‘I’m the first to admit New Orleans can be a rough town, but this is all getting beyond me, Jason. Did Cyrus name names?’
Brand drained his tumbler. ‘He told me what I needed to know.’
‘Lacroix?’
‘And his sister.’
‘Seraphina?’
‘All to do with her damned voodoo games and the blackmail of Buckman and his friends.’
‘Netta Delacort? The missing girls?’
‘Down to the brother and sister’s sick games. A Creole Curse that’s gone too far. Lacroix can’t walk away from this now. Buckman had taken enough. He couldn’t hide it any longer. I reckon he was ready to give Lacroix up to the law but he waited too long. Allowed Lacroix to send in his assassin to shut the man up. Buckman thought the kidnapped girls could still be in the house.’
‘So what happens now?’
Brand looked across at him and Marcellus didn’t need to ask further.
‘I had better call the undertaker. Have him move the bodies. Damn, this is going to be hard on Eleanor. Poor woman has already had to deal with Cyrus and his problems. Now this.’
Brand put the tumbler aside and stood.
‘You need any backup, Doc, I’ll be around.’
‘Take care,’ Marcellus said. ‘Jason, just make sure whoever is behi
nd this doesn’t get away with it.’
Brand’s smile was all the more chilling because it failed to show any kind of humor. He stared at Marcellus for a few seconds, as he came to his decision.
‘They won’t,’ he said. ‘You have my word on that.’
~*~
Now.
He left his rented horse tied in the deep foliage a good half-mile from Lacroix’s estate, moving in on foot. The rain was still sluicing from a heavy sky as he worked his way to the high stone wall that encircled the big house.
After leaving Marcellus and returning to his hotel Brand cleaned up and dressed in a dark outfit of shirt and pants and armed himself with his holstered Colt. From the hotel he sought out a livery stable and rented a horse and rode out of New Orleans in the direction of Lacroix’s estate.
Brand’s approach to the place seemed to go unobserved. It wasn’t the first time he had been forced to make a silent approach. His main concern was making certain Lacroix didn’t have any of his people patrolling the outside of the estate. He saw nothing. Heard nothing. It was possible Lacroix felt confident enough not to need outside guards. Even so Brand took his time. It would have been so easy to allow his confidence to let him make mistakes. From his recent dealings with Lacroix’s men he understood the man had no qualms when it came to dealing with anyone he felt a threat. The man’s position in New Orleans had given him a feeling of invulnerability. He knew people who would provide him with backup. Influential people. Brand didn’t let himself worry too much over that. He was operating with the approval of the one man who held influence that would override anything Lacroix could hold up.
The President of the United States.
As far as Brand was concerned he needed no other backup.
Except perhaps Frank McCord. To be honest Brand would have rather gone against the President than face McCord’s disapproval.
He crouched in the shadowed confines of the dense undergrowth. Surveying the high barrier the wall presented he hoped there would be an easier way in. Off to his left the wall snaked its way to the high metal gates closing off the grounds.