The Plantation paj-1

by Chris Kuzneski

  “No cops, no problem,” replied Payne, who was willing to agree to just about anything. “Now, unless there’s something else, can we get this show on the road?”

  AFTER arranging a meeting with his best source, Greene directed his friends through the narrow streets of the Vieux Carré, the historic neighborhood also known as the French Quarter.

  “Some people get confused when they come down here because the term French Quarter is misleading,” Greene said. “Most of the architecture around here is Spanish in design, built in the eighteenth century. Most of the original French settlement was burned during a rebellion a little more than two hundred years ago. And thankfully, much of it survived Katrina.”

  From the backseat, Jones glanced at the buildings and noticed nothing but bars, strip clubs, and T-shirt shops, and none of them looked very old. “Levon? Are you telling me that Spain had nude dancing back in the seventeen hundreds?”

  Greene laughed. “If they did, I doubt the conquistadors would’ve ever left. No, this is the one part of the French Quarter that has been ruined by modern-day greed. If you want to experience the true character of this area, you need to explore the side streets. That’s where you’ll find the flavor of the early settlers.”

  Payne suddenly looked at Greene in a whole new light. He always knew that Greene was intelligent, but he never realized the ex-linebacker had a passion for history. In the past, their playground conversations never got beyond street basketball and life in the NFL. “I have to admit, Levon, I’m kind of surprised. You never seemed to be the type of person who cared about the events of early America. Now you sound like a tour guide.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment or not.”

  “Yes,” he assured Greene, “it’s a compliment.”

  “Thanks. I guess ever since I hurt my knee I’ve had the opportunity to do a lot of things that I wouldn’t have done earlier in my career. One of those things is historical research. I’ve been reading a lot of books on the past, trying to picture what life used to be like down here before the nineteen hundreds. As you can imagine, it was a much different place.”

  Payne nodded as they pulled up in front of the Fishing Hole, a nightclub where the marquee boasted “the Prettiest Girls in

  Nude

  Orleans.” After parking, the three men walked to the front door and were quickly greeted by a bouncer who recognized Greene. With a slight nod, he allowed the trio to enter the club for free. Payne and Jones followed Greene into the smoke-filled lobby and were immediately taken aback by the first thing they saw: the couch dance room.

  Similar in design to the orgy rooms of the Roman Empire, the room consisted of ten couches scattered around a spacious chamber. For a twenty-dollar tip, a naked vixen led an eager man to one of the black leather couches. During the course of a song, she would attempt to seduce him by rubbing, sliding, and grinding against his fully clothed body. Her goal was simple: convince him to purchase another song. And it wasn’t a tough sale. Mix horny men with inexpensive alcohol, naked women, and heavy petting, and there’s a better chance that a guy will file for bankruptcy before saying no to a beautiful stripper.

  Strolling between the couches, Payne and Jones gaped at the erotic scene that unfolded around them while Greene chuckled with childlike delight.

  “It’s kind of hypnotic, isn’t it?” asked Greene. “I always enjoy watching the crowd that stands along the walls. You’ll see an awful lot of perverts with their hands in their pockets, if you know what I mean.”

  Both men knew what he meant, but that didn’t mean they wanted to watch it.

  “What are we doing here?” Payne asked. “Is it for the scenery, or did we come here to meet somebody in particular?”

  “Actually, both. The main guy I wanted you to speak to is the owner of this club. And since I didn’t want you fellas to come to New Orleans without having a chance to experience Bourbon Street, I told him that we would meet him here. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

  Jones continued to stare at the naked females and shook his head. “Nope, doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I’m tempted to borrow twenty bucks.”

  Payne grabbed Jones by the arm and pulled him into the hallway. “Come on, D.J., get your mind in the game. If we start to lose focus, we could miss something important.”

  “Sorry,” Jones muttered, his face flushed with embarrassment. “But the only time I see stuff like this is late night on Cinemax.”

  Greene led Payne and Jones through a back corridor, and before long they were strolling through the dancers’ dressing room. Surprisingly, none of the undressed women were bothered by the men’s presence. When they reached the back corner of the room, Greene spoke to the security guard who stood outside of a private office. “Let Terrell know I’m here. He’s expecting me.” The guard quickly opened the thick metal door to get authorization from the club’s owner but noticed that he was on the phone.

  “It’ll be one minute, Mr. Greene. Mr. Murray is finishing up a call.”

  Greene nodded, then returned his attention to Payne and Jones. It was time to supply them with some background information on the man they were about to meet. “Terrell Murray is one of the most influential men in New Orleans, even though you’ll rarely hear his name mentioned in high society. He tends to stay out of politics and high finance and prefers to deal with the seedier side of the city-strip clubs, prostitution, gambling, and so on. Very few things of an illegal nature get done in Orleans Parish without his permission or knowledge, so there is a very good chance that he’ll be able to point us in the right direction.”

  Payne nodded. “And I take it you’ll do all of the talking?”

  “Since he doesn’t know you, he won’t help you. Fortunately, he’s an avid football fan and has a place in his heart for me, so I’ll be able to ask him anything that you guys want to know. I obviously understand the basics of your case, so I’ll get him to talk about the tattoo and the kidnapping, but is there anything else you want to find out?”

  Payne shook his head before they were led into Murray’s private office.

  The well-lit room was immaculately maintained and outfitted with French Neoclassical furniture from the late seventeen hundreds-definitely not what Payne and Jones were expecting to find. Four Louis XVI chairs, possessing the classic straight lines of the period, encircled a round wooden table that sat in the middle of the hardwood floor. Gold trim lined the walls, ceilings, and picture frames of the chamber, matching a chandelier that dangled above the sitting area. The room’s artwork was obviously influenced by the Roman Empire, a motif that reflected the French’s interest in the designs of the ancient cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum. A marble bust of Tiberius, the second emperor of Rome, sat proudly on a pedestal in the far corner.

  An elderly black man, dressed in a pale gray suit and an open-collared shirt, stood from his seat behind his Louis XVI desk and greeted his visitors with a warm smile. “Please come in. Make yourself at home.”

  “Thank you,” Payne replied as he soaked in the office’s decor. “This is an impressive setup you have here. It’s like a museum.”

  Murray shook Payne’s hand and thanked him for the compliment. “First of all, enough with the formalities. If you’re a friend of Levon’s, there’s no need to call me

  sir

  . Please, my name is Terrell.” Payne nodded in understanding. “And as far as this room is concerned, antiques are a hobby of mine. I own a number of shops on Royal Street, but I’m afraid I deny my customers the opportunity to buy the best items. I tend to keep them for myself.”

  “And you’ve done a wonderful job,” Jones added. “You truly have.”

  “Good, I’m glad you like it.” Murray motioned for the men to be seated in the Louis XVI chairs and eagerly joined them. “So, Levon, what brings you here on a Friday night to see an old man like me? I know it can’t be companionship because most of the lovely ladies of the club would be more than willing to go home with
you.”

  Greene smiled at the thought. “Actually, I’ve come for your knowledge of the city. My friends and I are in search of a particular gang that operates in the area, and we were hoping that you could point us in the right direction.”

  Murray furrowed his wrinkled brow before speaking. “And am I to guess the name of the gang, or would you like to give me that information?”

  “That’s one of the reasons I came to you. The only thing we know is the design of their Holotat. It’s in the shape of the letter

  P

  and uses a bloody dagger in the image.”

  “Yes,” Murray replied with the blank face of a gambler. “I know that tattoo, and its appearance is a recent one to this city. Unfortunately, I know little about the men who wear them. I am sorry I cannot tell you more.”

  Without saying a word, Payne turned toward Greene and pleaded for him to dig deeper. Payne sensed that the old man was holding something back, and Greene picked up on the nonverbal request to continue.

  “Terrell, I know that you try to stay out of other people’s business, but in this case, I’m hoping you’ll make an exception. Earlier today a man bearing that Holotat burst into the apartment of Jon’s girlfriend and abducted her. So far, there’s been no ransom demand and very little police activity. We’re afraid if we don’t do something immediately we may be too late. Please, any lead that you can give us would be appreciated.”

  Murray considered Greene’s plea for several stress-filled seconds before nodding. “Above Rampart Street near St. Louis Cemetery #1, there is a small tattoo shop. It is operated by a man known as Jamaican Sam. He’s the most popular skin artist in the area, and I would bet he’s the man responsible for designing that Holotat. Go to him, and see where it leads you.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Galléon Township Docks

  Galléon, Louisiana

  (37 miles southeast of New Orleans)

  THE

  driver of the Washington Parish ambulance stopped near the narrow dock, then made a three-point turn in the gravel driveway. Once the vehicle pointed away from the Gulf of Mexico, he backed it carefully to the edge of the secluded pier. Satisfied with its positioning, he turned off the motor and stepped under the wharf’s lone streetlight.

  Tension was evident on his face.

  While listening to the lapping water, he checked his watch and realized he was a few minutes early. To kill time, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a paper match. He took a deep drag, then blew a puff of smoke into the nighttime air.

  This would be his last delivery for a while, and for that he was quite thankful. He didn’t know why, but he’d grown more and more anxious with each mission that he’d completed for the Plantation. At first, he blamed his uncomfortable feelings on the recent death of his aunt. He assumed her passing had caused some sort of subconscious guilt since his after-hours duties centered on the shipment of cadavers for medical experiments. But lately, his concerns were a little more tangible. Snippets of overheard conversations, copies of phony death certificates, and deliveries that were scheduled for the dead of night.

  All of which made him nervous.

  But that was only part of it. What freaked him out more than anything were the sounds. On more than one occasion, he could’ve sworn he heard noises coming from the back of his ambulance-loud thumps emerging from the sealed containers, muffled screams leaking from the crates of the dead. God, the thought of it made him shudder.

  To calm down, he took another drag on his cigarette and stared at the warm waters of the gulf. Something about this didn’t seem right.

  As he continued to wait, he pondered his role as a deliv eryman, thinking back to the day he was first hired. A well-dressed black man spotted him washing his ambulance and asked him if he was interested in making some extra cash. The man claimed he was operating a private medical center off the coast in Breton Sound and was looking for the quickest way to deliver his research from Lakefront Airport to his new facility. Since emergency vehicles were given special privileges on the roadway, he felt that an ambulance would be the most efficient mode of transportation. Plus, he pointed out, he was looking for someone who would be comfortable around dead bodies and felt a medical worker would be perfect.

  The driver glanced at his watch again and realized he still had a few minutes until the workers from the Plantation would arrive. If he hurried, he figured he could sneak into the back of his ambulance and investigate the crates that had been loaded for him at the airport.

  “Screw it,” he said aloud.

  He emphasized his statement by slamming his cigarette into the water.

  With quiet determination, he opened the door of the ambulance and climbed across the front seat. Sliding through the narrow entryway, he crept into the back and quickly grabbed the paperwork that had been attached to the top of the first wooden container. It read:

  WALKER, ARIANE

  28 YEARS OLD

  WEXFORD, PA

  JULY 2

  Wow, he thought to himself. She died earlier today. That’s pretty quick for someone to be moved across state lines.

  He continued to flip through the documents, hoping to find a cause of death or the reason she was going to be examined, but the sheets were filled with numbers and other data that he was unable to comprehend.

  Taking a deep breath, he glanced at his watch again. They would be here soon. And the last thing he wanted was to be caught snooping. Not only would they refuse to pay him, but he realized he might end up in one of the coffins as well.

  AFTER leaving the ambulance, the small boat navigated the narrow channel of the cypress swamp, carefully avoiding any logs or stumps that would puncture its bow. As it eased against the moss-covered dock, the captain of the vessel tossed a rope to one of the guards, who quickly attached it to its anchoring post.

  The craft was now secured.

  Octavian Holmes emerged from the shadows of the stern and shouted terse orders to the men on cargo duty. The workers, dressed in black fatigues and carrying firearms, hauled the two wooden crates to a waiting truck. Once Holmes climbed into the back of the vehicle, the driver started the motor and maneuvered the shipment through the thick camouflage of the island’s foliage. A short time later, the flatbed truck burst from the claustrophobic world of leaves into the neatly manicured grounds of the Plantation.

  “Stop here,” Holmes growled with authority.

  The workers lifted the wooden crates from the vehicle and placed them on the charred remains of the burned cross. As Holmes watched closely, they tore into the crates with crowbars and within seconds the boxes were reduced to shreds. Cautiously, the men lifted the two unconscious prisoners from the dismantled containers and placed them in the cool grass.

  “They’re all yours, sir.”

  Holmes nodded while studying the paperwork of his new arrivals. Satisfied, he bent over to examine their sleeping forms and immediately liked what he saw. The first captive was an elderly man with a strong jaw, thinning white hair, and a deep surfer’s tan. He was in amazing physical shape for his age, possessing great muscle tone despite his seventy-one years of life. His wrists were thick, his shoulders broad, and his stomach carried little flab.

  “Jake Ross,” he mumbled as he nudged the man’s hip. “I bet you’re still a pit bull, huh?”

  When he was done with the senior citizen, he turned his attention to the drugged female, and her beauty instantly overwhelmed him. Her chestnut hair flowed over her rosy cheeks, cascading down her neck and onto her slender shoulders like a tropical waterfall. Her bosom, concealed under a bright red golf shirt, danced with each life-sustaining breath, and the image stirred something deep within Holmes. Her legs, tanned and athletic, were in full view since her white skirt had been torn during her cross-country journey. But even in rest, they possessed the fragile grace of a master ballerina’s.

  And her face-her gorgeous face-was the most beautiful he had seen in a very long time.

&nb
sp; After catching his breath, Holmes dropped to his knees and kissed the girl on her lips. “Ariane Walker,” he whispered, “it’s a pleasure to have you on my island.”

  With a smile on his face, Holmes scooped her off of the turf and gently folded her frame over his left shoulder. As her arms dangled against his muscular back, he carried the unconscious girl toward her cabin with little effort. His eighteen years of work as a mercenary, which required stamina, strength, and discipline, guaranteed a level of physical conditioning that few men could ever hope to achieve. His missions had taken him through the severe warmth of the equator, the extreme cold of the Arctic Circle, and all the milder climates in between. In the process, he had learned how to survive anything that this world was capable of throwing at him.

  And because of that, invincibility radiated from him like heat from a flame.

  When he reached Ariane’s cabin, he paused briefly, letting one of the guards unlock the exterior deadbolt. “You go in first,” Holmes ordered. “Make sure her roommates are facing the wall in the back corner of the room.” The guard did what he was told, threatening Tonya and Robert Edwards until they were properly positioned.

  “All clear, sir.”

  Holmes walked into the cabin and eased Ariane onto the hard ground. Then, before either captive could see his face, he turned from the room and disappeared into the dark night, leaving Tonya to take care of another family member.

  This time, her unconscious baby sister.

  CHAPTER 20

  Saturday, July 3rd

  IN

  New Orleans, St. Louis Cemeteries #1 and #2 are referred to by locals as “cities of the dead.” Designed in the eighteenth century, both graveyards feature elaborate aboveground vaults and French inscriptions that are both poetic and charming. Unfortunately, a nighttime visit to either burial ground is liable to add to the body count of the sacred lands. Located west of Louis Armstrong Park, this area is known as one of the most dangerous in the city. Gangs and criminals control the territories to the north of Rampart Street, and they use the popularity of the graveyards to ambush unsuspecting tourists.