Die Again

by Thompson, Bill

It was over in a split second.

  “Keep filming!” the addled director ordered as Landry rushed past Tiffany’s recliner to the spot where the girl on the balcony fell to the courtyard.

  She wasn’t there.

  There were paving stones but nothing else. No crushed body, no bleeding, dying girl in a white camisole.

  He looked up. “What the —"

  There were no balcony or iron stairway, and in seconds the clouds disappeared. Everything was as it had been before. As sunshine lit the patio, there was mass confusion, questions without answers, and a hypnotized subject who seemed unwilling — or unable — to return to the twenty-first century.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Landry instructed the guests to return to their seats. Tiffany had been in a trance for two hours, far longer than Little anticipated. As the onlookers watched, he resumed his efforts.

  “Tiffany, can you hear me?”

  No response.

  “Tiffany?” Dr. Little paused and said, “Caprice, are you still with us?”

  “Still here. I ain’t answerin’ to Tiffany no mo’. You see what Madam did? I tole that girl to quit her evil ways. Now she dead.”

  “Was that Elberta?”

  “Yes. But more’s goin’ on now. Massah Lucas is up there now. See him on the balcony?”

  For everyone else in the courtyard, the portal to 1832 had closed. Only Tiffany could see what was happening now.

  Landry knew the history. He knew Lucas LaPiere would die next.

  As everyone stared at the second-floor windows, she described what was happening.

  Madam LaPiere went back into the bedroom as her husband stepped onto the balcony in a light-colored nightshirt. He looked down and shouted, “Prosperine, you killed her, you crazy bitch! You’ll hang for this!”

  “If I shall hang, then let her partner die for his sins,” she bellowed, rushing out and catching him by surprise. Tiffany described how she grabbed his shirt; he lost his footing and reached for the railing as he fell forward. Prosperine knocked his hand away and pushed him over.

  “There he go tumblin’ down just like Elberta,” Caprice declared. “Now she done killed them both.” She sat upright again and pointed to a far corner of the courtyard, beyond the fountain. “Oh my. See James standin’ over there? He was there the whole time. Gonna be trouble for him.”

  “Who’s James?”

  “James? Another house servant like me. He helps Massah Lucas fix things.”

  She was silent for over a minute, looking first at the window and then gazing around the courtyard.

  “What’s happening now?” Dr. Little asked.

  “Madam comin’ down the stairs, she is. She callin’ for James, all sweet-like. ‘Come here, James,’ she say, and he goin’ over to her. I can’t hear them now ‘cause I’m inside and she’s talkin’ real low.” She paused again and said James had gone to the tool room and brought a shovel. She described Prosperine LaPiere standing by the bodies, showing James which flagstones to remove in the courtyard, and ordering him to dig a grave.

  Landry perked up. Any chance to link a legend with reality was very important information. “Ask her to show us where he’s digging,” he whispered to Dr. Little.

  “Caprice, can you stand and point to where he’s digging the hole?”

  She looked at him and shook her head in disgust. “Why you need my help? Look for yo’self. I can’t go out there and point ‘cause Madam will see me.”

  “I can’t see it very well. Use words to tell me where it is.” She obeyed, pinpointing the location so closely that Landry now had a verifiable clue that could prove Tiffany’s words true.

  Landry turned to look at the building behind them — the one that had been the servants’ quarters in the 1800s. There were doors and windows on the first floor. A shiver went down his spine as he sat here in 2020 looking into the same window Caprice was looking out in 1832. Today that window was empty, but he knew a terrified servant had just witnessed two murders from behind those old panes.

  “Caprice, let’s move ahead now. We’re going to 1837. That’s five years forward. Move with me. One year, then another...keep going with me as we go five years. Are you with me? Have we traveled five years ahead?”

  She was silent.

  “I don’t think she’s alive in 1837,” he muttered. “Caprice, can you hear me?”

  Nothing. She lay still, unmoving, not speaking.

  “Tiffany, can you hear me?”

  No response.

  Doc Adams said, “What if you go back to 1832? She was alive then. From there, you can bring her straight to the present.”

  “I’ve never taken a patient back and forth before. I’m concerned what problems it might create for her. Give me a moment to think this through.”

  Just then more commotion arose from the front gate down the corridor. The clerk raised her voice as a figure pushed past her and weaved down the hallway.

  Unshaven and disheveled, Jack stumbled onto the patio. Landry and Cate ran to him — his eyes were glassy, and he reeked of alcohol.

  “Jack, what happened?”

  “What happened? What do you think happened?” he slurred. “I screwed up.”

  “Cate, take him with you. Put him somewhere. We have to finish this.”

  “I shouldn’t be here, right?” Jack said, grabbing Cate’s arm as he almost fell. “I shouldn’t have come, but it’s the building. It calls to me, like I said earlier. It made me come. I knew you wouldn’t like it, but I couldn’t help myself. So here I am.”

  For the first time Jack saw Tiffany lying in the recliner, and he wobbled toward her. Landry tried to step in, but Jack got there first.

  “Caprice.” A clear, deep word, forceful and without drunken slurring. Then he leaned close and said something else — something only she could hear.

  Tiffany’s eyes flew open, she cowered in fear as she saw Jack, and she began to scream.

  And scream and scream and scream.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  "Easy, easy. Everything's fine," Dr. Little repeated, but nothing stopped Tiffany's horrific wailing.

  "Get Jack out of here!" Landry roared at Cate, who couldn't pull him away from Tiffany. Landry lunged at Jack himself, hitting him broadside and sending them both crashing to the pavement. He flipped the man over, straddled his upper body and slapped him hard in the face.

  Jack looked up, surprised to find Landry sitting on him. His bloodshot eyes focused, and he groaned, "What...what the hell are you doing to me? What's all that screaming?"

  "You were hallucinating. You whispered something that started all this. I don’t know if you're hungover or still drunk, but you disrupted the session, dammit. Get out of here. Get the hell out of my sight."

  "Sorry, Landry. I'm so sorry I screwed up," he mumbled as Landry helped him up. "I'll go. Please give me another chance. I'm sorry."

  "Get out!"

  He stumbled back down the hallway and left as Empyrion Richard walked to the recliner and stood beside Tiffany.

  "Go take your seat!" Dr. Little shouted.

  But the tall man ignored him. Instead he knelt and whispered something in the girl's ear. The wailing stopped and she lay still.

  "What did you say to her?" Landry yelled, but the man was already walking across the patio to reclaim his chair.

  For thirty agonizing minutes the hypnotist tried to bring her back. He was afraid to regress her further but bringing her forward wasn't working either. She lay with her eyes closed as if she were in a peaceful slumber.

  Landry beckoned to Richard, and the man came back to the fountain. "She stopped screaming when you whispered to her. Tell me what you did. We're having a problem here."

  "You are, for a fact," the man said with a broad smile. "To what do you attribute your 'problem,' as you call it?"

  Landry hadn't had time to confront this guy when he showed up claiming to be Empyrion Richard, and now his insouciance was getting under Landry's skin. "If you know s
omething about this, now's the time to speak up. We need some help here."

  Without breaking his smile, Richard said, "I know something about a lot of things, Mr. Drake. But it's impossible to help without knowing what it is you want to know."

  "Do you see that girl? She's been in a trance for over two hours. Does that worry you?"

  "That girl? I never laid eyes on her before this morning. I don't know enough about her to worry."

  He's grinning like he's at her birthday party.

  He's taunting me, but why?

  Whoever he was, Landry realized there was far more going on here. The odd man was a part of this somehow. His being here wasn’t coincidental. He knew what was wrong with Tiffany, but he refused to help.

  He took Empyrion by the arm and walked him away from the others. “What’s going on?” he hissed. “You’re talking in riddles, evading my answers, and your actions make me wonder how you’re involved in this. Who are you, and why did you come here?”

  The man’s demeanor never seemed to change. Flashing the same irritating smile, he said, “I am here because I invited myself to this assembly in my building. My speaking habits and mannerisms may differ from other people’s, but I offer no apology for them. They are part of who I am. Regarding your assertion that I speak in riddles, I merely asked you what the basis is for what you refer to as a ‘problem.’ I calmed your subject. That should please you and your friends, but you seem to have become suspicious of me. I regret that, because I could be of immense help to you.”

  “What are you saying, dammit? Talk to me! Help me!”

  “It appears your hypnotist is out of his area of expertise. Your problem is that his subject is in a precarious situation. This girl is trapped somewhere in time, don’t you agree? Someone must bring her back.”

  “Is that someone you? Can you bring her back?”

  Empyrion smiled, which infuriated Landry.

  “What the hell qualifies you —"

  “Time is your enemy, Mr. Drake. I sense you are debating if you want my help. If that’s the case, I suggest you consult with your doctor friends right away before things get worse for the girl. If you would rather your hypnotist continue his attempts to revive her, that is your prerogative.” He tipped his bowler hat, turned, walked across the patio to his chair, and sat down.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The minutes passed like hours as Dr. Little tried in vain to revive his subject. She lay quietly and unresponsively.

  At last the psychologist took Landry aside. “I’m so sorry, but whatever happened is beyond my area of knowledge. We should call an ambulance.”

  “Not yet,” Landry said. Having nothing to lose but a few more minutes, Landry walked to Empyrion Richard’s chair and said, “Bring her back.”

  “All you had to do was ask,” he replied. He walked to Tiffany’s side, instructed Dr. Little and Doc Adams to step away, and sat down. Taking her hand in his, he leaned in and said something.

  She stirred, and he murmured other words. This time her eyes opened.

  “Tell me your name,” he said aloud.

  “Tiffany. Tiffany Bertrand. Who are you?”

  “Where are you, Miss Bertrand, and what year is it?”

  She shot him a puzzled look and said, “I’m in the building on Toulouse Street and it’s 2020. Who the hell are you?”

  He tipped his hat again and said, “Empyrion Richard at your service, ma’am. And here’s your friend Mr. Drake.” He stood and backed away as Landry and Dr. Little rushed to her side.

  She sat up and asked, “Did it work? Were you able to hypnotize me?”

  Yes, it worked all right. It worked almost too well, Landry thought as the psychologist simply said things went fine. There would be time later to talk. For the moment everyone except Tiffany seemed to be recovering from the near mishap.

  The director called it a wrap, and Phil’s crew began dismantling equipment. The guests gathered around Dr. Little and Cate’s father to ask questions, but the psychologist broke away and found Landry.

  “Where’s that man who brought her out? I want to talk to him.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  Cate said during all the confusion, he must have left. The clerk at the front door said he’d walked out a few minutes earlier, bidding her goodbye and tipping his hat. “He was like an old-fashioned gentleman,” she added.

  Landry left Cate with Tiffany and called Jack.

  “I’m sorry,” he began, but Landry cut him off.

  “I’ll do the talking. What did you tell Tiffany that agitated her? You whispered in her ear and she started screaming.”

  “Wait a minute. What are you talking about? I didn’t tell her anything.”

  “I know you’re hungover, but think, man! This is serious. You created an immense problem for me today. You knelt beside her and said something that started her screaming like she was dying.”

  “I swear I don’t know what you mean! I came to find you. I...I know I interrupted the session, and I apologize. But I didn’t talk to her. She was asleep. I saw her lying in that chair. I didn’t say anything, Landry!”

  He realized Jack was telling the truth. For whatever reason — alcohol-based or not — he didn’t remember what happened. He said, “Okay, we’ll deal with this later. I can’t explain a lot of what happened today, including what you did. You did say something that made her scream like a banshee. Everyone saw you, and we’ll review the video later. Enough of that. How do you feel?”

  “Like a truck ran over me, but I’ll live. I’m so sorry —"

  “Let it go. You relapsed. It happens, and you’ve done well until now. Learn from this. I have faith in you, so pull yourself together and come help me as soon as you feel like it.”

  “I can come now.”

  “You’re in no shape to work. Stay sober tonight. Call me if you need to, but stay sober. We have something very important to do tomorrow. Meet me at Café du Monde at eight.”

  “I’ll be there. Is there anything I can do to help until then?”

  “If you feel up to it, there is something you can do. I asked you the other day to look into Charles and Empyrion Richard. It’s even more important now. They both died long ago, but somebody calling himself Empyrion came to the session today. Very tall African American, sharp dresser, in his fifties. You copied a lot of records; look through them and see if you can find these guys. I want to talk to the man who was here today.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Jack was already at a table when Landry arrived. Powdered sugar from a beignet was all over his face. More of the savory pastries sat on a plate, and he had a steaming cup of chicory coffee in front of him. Jack looked good and seemed sober, and that heartened Landry.

  Phil Vandegriff joined them and said everything yesterday in the courtyard was on video. There were a few minutes of crazy camera angles, but it was all there — the balcony and stairway, the body falling, and even Jack’s and Empyrion’s whispers into Tiffany’s ear.

  Jack said, “Sounds like some amazing things happened.”

  Landry said, “You missed something unbelievable, and I want you to watch the whole thing later at the office. Maybe it’ll jog your memory about what you whispered to Tiffany.”

  Phil asked what was on their agenda for today, and Landry turned to Jack. In his condition, Jack might not have felt like going through documents, but maybe he had.

  “Did you go through those copies you made during your research? I’m still wondering about Charles and Empyrion Richard.”

  “I did. After we talked a few days ago, I searched the Richard men’s names in state records. Besides their house here, the LaPieres had a place in the country. In 1822 they bought a working sugar plantation on Bayou Lasseigne near Edgard and built a house. They operated that business along with the more detestable one in New Orleans.”

  Landry said, “That’s interesting information, but what does it have to do with the Richards?”

  “I
’m getting there. I talked to a woman at the St. John the Baptist Parish historical museum. She was very helpful and looked up a few records. The house is still standing, but it’s in serious disrepair and has been closed up for decades. Guess who was the last person to live there?”

  Landry said, “What year are we talking about?”

  “1878. The house has been vacant since then.”

  “I’ll guess one of the Richard men. Charles, maybe.”

  Jack pointed his finger at Landry. “You got it. The last person to live on the LaPiere plantation was Charles Richard.”

  “That’s very interesting information. We knew he was connected to the family because Prosperine made him co-trustee. Now we know after she died, he lived in the family’s country house. Who are these guys?”

  “That’s all I could find. The Empyrion Richard who showed up yesterday couldn’t be the one from 1892, so the man was a fraud or a descendant. You’d think with a name that unusual, something would turn up in the records, but I’ve hit a dead end so far.”

  Landry thought of someone who could help. Using Jack’s name instead of his own recognizable one, he called the building trustee Shawn Leary and said, “I work with Cate Adams. She told me you can’t reveal information about your client, but we need to get in touch with Empyrion Richard. Please give me his address and phone number.”

  “I wish I could help, but that’s not possible.”

  “You can’t even give me a number?”

  “He doesn’t have a phone.”

  That would seem an odd thing for most twenty-first-century Americans, but Empyrion Richard was one of the strangest people Landry had come across.

  “An address, then. He was at the building yesterday and I want to talk with him. How do you reach him?”

  The lawyer paused for a minute and said, “We don’t, and you didn’t see him yesterday because he’s deceased. You must have him confused with someone else. He was trustee of the building in 1892, and upon his death our law firm took over as successor trustee. It has served the LaPiere estate in that capacity for a hundred and twenty years. There are no descendants at all.”