by Linda Ladd
Once he got some books that told about World War II death camps and prison camps and all the cruel stuff that had been done to the prisoners locked up inside them, and he spent long hours upstairs in his room poring over them. He still practiced football and was a star quarterback, and all that, but the terrible things that had been done to people in those books fed his hunger for inflicting pain and fear. He read other books, too. Some were set in the olden days of England when they used to draw and quarter people and had put their severed heads on spikes and impaled them with sharp sticks.
He read about the Spanish Inquisition, too, and what had been done to the people who they had thought to be witches. They had all kinds of torture devices back then, but the worst one had been called the Iron Maiden. It had been a hinged iron box with razor-sharp spikes inside. They had put the accused witches inside and slammed it shut so that all the spikes stabbed into their bodies. He’d never read anything so cool. And he particularly loved one book that he’d found in an old bookstore downtown. It told the true story of some crazy lunatic guy that had put his victims in a maze of dark rooms and hallways and then jumped out and hacked them to pieces with a machete. That book had given him cold chills the first time he read it, but he still loved how the victims screamed and ran and were chased around and finally shot in the back of their heads.
That was when he decided he needed to build a Maze of Terror of his own, a place of horrors where no one could ever, ever escape, where he could chase people all day long and watch them through hidden peepholes and trapdoors. It was exciting to think about that and plan for the future. And he knew exactly where he would build it. Way out in the deepest, darkest part of the swamp where nobody ever went, on an island, where only alligators and snakes and nutria rats lived. Yeah, that would be a perfect place. So he began to search the bayous and find secret routes in and out of the swamp from every direction, just in case he ever got caught playing his games and had to run for his life.
It was fun when he stole off by himself. He wondered sometimes if his friends on the team would like to help him, if they, too, had the urge to hurt people and scare the shit out of them. But he was too careful to involve others. He acted the carefree senior in high school, winning games with his friends, dating popular and pretty girls, making his grades, learning to weld and to build houses at his uncle’s construction company, and all the while he was building his own house of horrors, way out in the swamp with the materials he stole from what was left over at his uncle’s building sites. He designed it himself, and it was as complicated and evil as hell, but that’s what he liked about it.
After he won the football scholarship, he perpetuated his dream, all the while building and planning and scaring people. He began to spend his weekends in the swamp, honing all the scary things, just so. It was during this time that he discovered voodoo and all its creepy rituals. He found the altar by accident, just happened to see the flash of a crucifix, where it was hanging in a tree and swinging in the wind. It was daytime and deserted, and he had never seen a single person within miles of this part of the swamp. It was too dark, too dangerous, and too alligator infested. But he’d heard the beat of drums a couple of times, late at night, and that had spooked him a little.
He nosed his boat onto dry land and waded out toward where he’d seen the glint of silver. There he found the crucifix and lots of other stuff. The altar was fresh. There were all kinds of candles and jars of strange-looking things. Some looked a lot like human body parts. Intrigued, excited, and a little frightened, he held them up to the sunlight filtering down through the cypress trees. One was a human ear in a jelly jar, cut off with ragged edges that fanned out in the formaldehyde when he shook it. Creepy as hell. There was a big bowl of blood, some not yet congealed, and human skulls were sitting all over the place. Many had candles set inside of them, and there were framed pictures of the Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ and angels surrounded by clouds and trumpets.
There were little bottles hanging off the trees with unknown liquids in them, but he knew it was probably bodily fluids. Fascinated, he wandered there among the symbols of death and destruction. He stole some of the skulls and other stuff and later read everything he could find about voodoo rituals. He learned about voodoo queens who tortured and killed and caused people to turn into zombies. He saw gruesome photos of a body that had been dug up and had body parts removed. He found stories of people who had been cursed and died horrible deaths and disappeared into the swamps never to be found again. Wow, he didn’t think he’d ever been so excited. This was it. This was his destiny. He would become a voodoo doctor, and he would use spells and terrifying rituals to scare his victims. And he would do it out in the swamp, where it was dark and sluggish with hanging veils of gray moss and alligators sliding into the water and gliding around. The alligators would be his garbage disposal units, after he’d gotten all the fun he needed out of his victims. It was perfect. It would be his perfect little Garden of Evil.
Chapter Seven
Jack Holliday’s house was indeed located in the world-renowned Garden District, on St. Charles Avenue, in fact. He lived close to where the nostalgic streetcars still clanked by. Wow, talk about an exclusive abode. Claire and Zee found his primo address with no trouble and parked in front of a stately home built circa early 1830s, about half a block down the street from the Holliday house. They walked slowly up a magnolia-shaded sidewalk, admiring one Christmas-decorated, beautiful old home after another. Great evergreen wreaths hung on every door, with velvet ribbons and expensive gold and glass ornaments. None of the historic houses had anything on Holliday’s domicile, however. He had an elegant old mansion, well kept, with lots of dark green wrought iron fashioned into intertwined roses and ivy.
Two long galleries graced the front, upstairs and down, entwined with lights that would probably be beautiful when turned on. Garlands of fresh greenery and wreaths were tastefully displayed in swags tied with huge red velvet bows. Claire and Zee stopped at the front gate and stared up at the house. The sidewalk fence matched the balustrades, ornate with medallions of roses and ivy and another huge wreath, this one plain except for one large red bow.
“I cannot believe we are going to walk right in there and meet Jack Holliday in person,” Zee said reverently. “Nobody back home’s ever gonna believe me. I’m nervous as hell.”
Claire stopped there, her hand on the gate’s latch. “Do you think you can control yourself around this guy, Zee?”
Zee revealed openly that he was offended. “Man, Claire, lay off. Anybody’d be excited to meet him. He’s a legend around here.”
“This is not about meeting a football hero. Don’t forget that, and please, let me do the talking.”
Now Zee looked annoyed. “You’re sellin’ me short, Claire. I ain’t exactly some rookie officer who never interviewed a suspect before.”
“No, you are not. But I can see that wowee-I-get-to-meet-the-big-Tulane-super-star gleam in your eyes. It’s a little unsettling, to be perfectly honest.”
“Aww, c’mon, I’m not all that excited. Get real.”
“Well, I hope not. Let’s go. Remember, I’ll do the talking.”
“Okay, whatever you say.”
Zee was miffed, but Claire had meant what she’d said. He was a little too enthralled with Holliday to remain neutral. On the other hand, she was not enthralled with him at all.
Claire opened the gate, and they walked up a red-bricked sidewalk laid in a herringbone design and climbed the front steps. She could smell citrus and found lots of real oranges and apples in the large floral arrangement beside the front door. She considered picking a few pieces off to snack on later, but decided that would be tacky. They stood in front of the most beautiful cut glass door with more facets than the British Crown Jewels. Zee lifted the gold knocker that was shaped like a fleur-de-lis and let it clang down and proclaim their very official presence.
Claire was surprised when a butler opened the door, but then again, who else
would open a sports god’s portal? More surprising, the elegant servant wore a black tailcoat, white starched shirt with ruffles down the front, and a black bow tie. White haired and dignified, he looked to be in his mid to late sixties. But he also looked physically fit and able to repel hysterical sports fans and tittering women trying to get to his boss. His skin was abnormally pale, as if he’d never been out in the sun one minute or was a vampire. Claire stared at him and felt like an extra in Gone with the Wind.
“May I help you?” Said butler’s accent was not Southern, not even a little bit. Oh, no, he was oh-so, ooh-la-la French.
“We’re here to see Jack Holliday on police business.” Claire and Zee presented their badges and stated names and titles, and Mr. Supercilious Servant examined them for a whole lot longer than he needed to. Something about the man’s staid manner gave Claire pause. He wasn’t exactly creepy, but he gave her the willies. Why, she couldn’t quite fathom. But she did not like him, not at all.
“Yes, madam and sir. Mr. Holliday is expecting you. He’s in the drawing room.”
Yeah, she bet he was. Probably with Scarlett O’Hara and Melanie Wilkes and that sissy guy named Ashley that they both had the hots for. Rhett Butler was more Claire’s cup of tea, probably because he was manly like Black. Scarlett must’ve been blind or had a thing for weaklings with wavy blond hair.
The butler preceded them with his über-formality, and they followed with their usual not-impressed-by-you-buster posture. She did feel a bit irked, if only because he seemed so uppity and scornful. They strolled through a beautiful foyer, which contained the expected curved and highly polished staircase entwined with more fresh greenery that smelled heavenly and a ten-foot-high, expensively decorated Christmas tree that would impress Black to no end. They passed under a glittering chandelier that looked as if it had been filched out of a medieval cathedral or the White House. Frenchie walked with the brisk step of a much younger man, and then stopped and slid open a pair of well-oiled, white double pocket doors. They were announced, not by name but as the police officers the gentleman had been expecting. Okay, she guessed that pretty much summed them up.
Frenchie disappeared, and they stood in the doorway. The parlor did indeed look like a room where Jack Holliday’s purported octogenarian granny would serve tea to her hoop-skirted old cronies, all right. Claire sure couldn’t picture Holliday sitting on those little gold and red velvet chairs with knotted fringe and crocheted doilies. Now that would be a big bull in an antique china shop. But he was doing just that, and he did look like the aforementioned bull. He sat on a hump-backed, gold and white striped brocade sofa in front of a pink veined white marble fireplace. The mantel was carved with beaucoup angels and cherubs playing harps and floating on clouds. The logs in the hearth were crackling and snapping up a storm, despite the warm weather outdoors. Hell, it probably felt the stuck-up coldness of that butler, too.
Way across the room, Jack Holliday rose quickly, with all the good manners of devotees of Pride and Prejudice movies. He wasn’t wearing a starched cravat or stovepipe hat, though, just khaki pants and a red polo shirt and black Nikes.
“Okay, show’s on, Zee,” Claire muttered under her breath to her partner. “Now keep your cool, and I mean it. No groveling or drooling on this guy.”
Zee gave her a look of mock hurt, but he was whispering. “Ha ha. You are so funny. Give me a break, will you? I can be as professional as you can.”
“Okay, now’s the time to prove it.”
Jack Holliday strode quickly across to them, and then he was there, right in front of them, towering over them, and she meant towering . Claire hadn’t been around all that many men who were four inches shy of seven feet. Black was six-four, which was pretty good size in her book. She had to look way up at Holliday, which she didn’t like much, and which somehow made her feel at a disadvantage, right off the bat. She was five-nine and felt like a six-year-old looking up at her daddy. A glance at Zee told her that he was maybe a half degree away from the forewarned idol drool. Actually, she watched a second longer to see if he staggered with the sheer delight of meeting his Fabulous One.
Claire showed the big guy the badge hanging around her neck, hoped he could see it from way up there. “We’re with the Lafourche Parish Sheriff’s Department, Mr. Holliday. I’m Detective Morgan. This is my partner, Detective Jackson.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said, all easy and calm and rife with confident charm. Smiling, he held out his hand. And then Claire felt it, too. Like a blow in the solar plexus, an immediate physical attraction to the sheer masculinity of the man. Now, this just wasn’t gonna do. In fact, it made her angry with herself. Black better get home in a hurry, though. She put her hand in his, just to show she could, and his long tanned fingers closed around hers. She shook it like she meant it, with a grip like she meant it. He had the biggest hands, aka bear paws, she’d ever seen on a guy, but all she could think about was how easy it would be for him to press those self-same long, strong fingers around Madonna Christien’s neck and slowly squeeze the life out of her. That pretty much put a damper on her appreciation of his massive sex appeal.
Holliday stared down at Claire for an instant too long, as if he read her distrust of him, and then he released her hand and offered a handshake to Zee. Claire’s unaffected, purely professional Louisiana law enforcement partner then said, “Oh, man, you got on your Super Bowl ring. Wow, man. You were awesome when you played that last game, the one where you blew out your knee. I got all your games on video.” Then he grinned, all white teeth and gridiron-crazed eyes.
So much for Zee’s promise not to wallow in the man’s greatness. She bet Bud, her trusty partner up north, wouldn’t react like that. Oh, well, on second thought, maybe he would. Yeah, he definitely would. And yes, Zee was young and a football fanatic so she guessed she had to take that into account.
Holliday was mighty gracious, yes, ma’am. “Thanks. We had a hell of a good day when we won that game. Wanna try it on?”
When Zee actually squeaked out a peculiar little noise than sounded suspiciously like a man giggle, Claire took back the reins. “We’re here to ask you some questions, Mr. Holliday, if that’s okay with you.”
“Yeah, I know. Rene told me. No problem. Ask away.” He took off the ring and handed it to Zee, who put it on his finger and gawked at it in a really goofy way. It was way too big and hung on Zee’s finger like the class ring of a teenage girl’s boyfriend.
“Please, Detective, call me Jack.” He smiled down at her, but he was watching her closely, really looking her over, and she wondered why. “You know what, I’ve got some good food left over from the charity event I hosted today. You guys want to help me eat some of it? There’s plenty.”
“That sounds good,” said Zee, reverently cradling the ring in his palms.
Claire said, “Thank you, Mr. Holliday, but I don’t think we’ll have time for that. Do you want to talk to us here, or did you have somewhere else in mind?”
He looked surprised by the question. “Here’s fine, I guess. Whatever. You sure about the food? There’s some good stuff out in the kitchen. Barbecue. Seafood. Jambalaya. You name it.”
“Man, I love that jambalaya,” said Zee. The two men grinned at each other, in love already, she guessed. Jeez. But her stomach growled, just to mock her.
The three of them sat down. Holliday took a seat beside her on the sofa and turned slightly to work his magical smile on her. This guy was indeed the phrase hot as fire personified, a real chick magnet, as Zee liked to describe himself. Holliday knew it, too, and he was waiting for Claire to melt into a puddle of goo like the Wicked Witch of the West. She might be a witch sometimes, but she wasn’t about to melt down when a great big hunky guy gave her the come-on. Unless, of course, it was Black, who happened to be equally as hot as, if not hotter than, Jack. But she was not always meltable, even then, depending on the circumstances. Nancy, on the other hand, would be all liquid and soaking by now into the priceless Persian carp
et under their feet. Good thing they’d left her at the morgue.
“So, what’s this all about, Detective Morgan? You really look familiar somehow. Have we met before?”
Claire didn’t like the familiarity of that, either. Claire was rapidly starting not to like anything that was going on. He was playing her—she could feel it. “No, we haven’t. Now, if you don’t mind, we don’t really have a lot of time.” They did, of course. They had all the time in the world, in fact, but he didn’t need to know that. Time to make that big self-satisfied, Crest-white grin fade away and make lots of deep frown lines wrinkle up that handsome brow of his. The smile did falter a bit. He searched her face, openly puzzled at her giant-chip-on-the-shoulder attitude.
“Okay, Detective. What can I do for you?”
“Are you acquainted with a woman named Madonna Christien, Mr. Holliday?”
Well, now, lookee here, the mighty one’s expression just changed, and in a nanosecond at that, the very moment she mentioned their victim’s name. In fact, Jack Holliday was showing her what his most massive frown looked like.
“Oh, yeah, I know Madonna Christien. Unfortunately for me.”
“Unfortunately for you,” Claire repeated slowly. “What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Holliday?”