Chasing Shadow Demons

by John Moore

  Charlotte laughed at me. “He’s hot, but I’ll bet he’s a heartbreaker. Remember Tom?” she said, breaking me from my trance. “So what did you and Tom do in Mexico?”

  “You know me. I always look at the desserts, but I never order one,” I said, glancing back at the handsome man. “At least, not anymore.” She giggled, taking in both meanings. “Tom and I did the usual touristy things. We saw sights neither of us had ever seen, and we mingled with the locals.” And every word of that was true. She didn’t need to know we’d done most of our mingling with the locals in a Mexican jail.

  “Have you been watching The Walking Dead?” Charlotte asked.

  “Not really. I feel like I have been living it,” I said.

  “Oh, Alexandra, I am so sorry,” she said. “That was insensitive of me.”

  Misspeaking was uncharacteristic for Charlotte. She was your typical “always knows the right thing to say” person. She felt bad since I’d witnessed a man shot and killed, a woman’s head cut off, and was nearly killed myself. Not your average series of events. I assured her I was not offended. She was my friend, and I needed to be normal again.

  “Don’t worry, Charlotte. Let’s just finish our coffee and get to the shopping,” I said.

  Charlotte and I went up and down each street in the Quarter, stopping to peruse the many antiques displayed. There was some amazing artwork to see as well. I wanted everything I saw, and all of it was outside my price range, but I was alright with that because shopping wasn’t about buying. Shopping was about imagining a world filled with beauty, and an escape from some of the harsh realities of life I’d been confronted by. Besides, I had no place to put any of the furniture I admired.

  Our day flew by. I felt the surge of relaxation through my arms and legs as we ambled through the narrow streets of the French Quarter, my mind occupied by happy thoughts. These were the streets that felt the footsteps of pirates and rogues from all over the world. The city seemed to collect people with pasts to hide because most New Orleaneans didn’t care who you were. They just wanted you to fit into the non-judgmental culture of the city, and I liked that.

  Charlotte suggested, “Let’s have brunch at the Court of Two Sisters. I’ll treat.”

  “You are kidding, right?” The Court of Two Sisters was one of my favorite restaurants in New Orleans. The food was wonderful. “Can you afford to do this, Charlotte? It’ll run us $100 by the time we drink a few glasses of champagne,” I said.

  “No problem,” Charlotte said. “I have something to talk to you about.”

  Oh shit. Here we go again.

  She was setting me up for something. She could always sneak up on me, and even though we’d been friends for years, I never saw any of her surprises coming. She wouldn’t consider doing anything to hurt me. On the contrary, she looked out for me, like when she introduced me to Tom, sensing he was the man for me. She was the friend that lured you to a store to purchase a $20 scarf for herself, and then you find out you’re a guest on a television makeover show, the type of program where they completely transform your hair, makeup, wardrobe, and attitude.

  “If you’re sure,” I said, giving in to the inevitable.

  The Court of Two Sisters has the most amazing atmosphere. White cloth covered tables are scattered throughout a brick-floored courtyard. A fountain emanates trickling water sounds, complementing the smooth music of a jazz trio. Abundant wisteria vines create a canopy overhead, blocking the sun’s harsh rays. The restaurant was named for two sisters, Angaud and Emma Camors, who operated a curio shop on the location in the late 1800s. Many say they can still feel the sisters walking among the diners, admiring the gourmet creations served. The charm gates at the 613 Royal entrance were wrought in Spain especially for the Court of Two Sisters. Legend has it that Queen Isabella of Spain had them blessed so their charm would pass on to anyone who touched them. I didn’t know if the legend was true, but I always touched them just in case it was.

  We both ordered a glass of champagne and the soup du jour, turtle soup au sherry, and I waited for the other shoe to drop.

  Charlotte looked down at her lap, like an eight-year-old would, searching for words to ask her mom if she could play dress up in her mom’s closet. Finally, resolve filled her eyes and she said, “It’s about Mandy Morris.”

  I had to have the most confused look on my face possible. Why would she need to talk to me about her boss’s daughter, the party queen of New Orleans?

  “What about Mandy?” I asked.

  “Alexandra, you know I have worked for the Morrises for more than twelve years. I love my job, and Mr. Morris has been a great boss, and he and I have developed a friendship over the years. He has confided in me on many occasions his concerns about Mandy. I have always assured him that she would grow out of this party phase of her life. Mandy was barely a teenager when I met her. I watched her change from a sweet young innocent child into a party monster. Now, she has taken a hideous turn I didn’t expect and can’t understand, leaving Mr. Morris very concerned.”

  I was still confused. The last time I saw Mandy, she still seemed like the happy party girl I’d always known and tried to avoid.

  “What exactly do you mean? Mandy has always been an out of control Paris Hilton clone. What do you mean by turn?” I asked.

  “She has gone dark,” Charlotte said.

  “Dark?” I asked.

  Charlotte was finding it difficult to choose her words.

  “Just spit it out, Charlotte,” I said.

  “She has gone Goth. Ever since Bob Broussard was locked up, she only wears black. She no longer hits the party circuit, and she has withdrawn inside herself staying in her room and reading black magic and voodoo books all day.”

  “Holy shit, that’s quite a change,” I said. Bob Broussard, a serial killer known as the Quarter Killer—who’d also murdered his own mother—had been Mandy’s best friend. Now he was a guest of the State of Louisiana in a mental hospital for the criminally insane in St. Francisville.

  Charlotte nodded her head in agreement. “Mandy’s father is concerned she may do something to herself. He has tried talking to her. He even sent her to a shrink. She refused to discuss what’s on her mind. She told him she just wants to be left alone.”

  “Maybe she’s just going through some sort of depression,” I said.

  “That’s what Mr. Morris thought. He imagined she’d snap out of it. But, unfortunately, she is heading in the other direction. Two days ago, he found books about the occult in her room. She’s growing darker and darker, and she visits Bob Broussard two or three times per week.”

  “Bob killed more than seven people. Why would he be allowed to have visitors?” I asked.

  “Mandy said the psychiatrists felt his recovery would progress more rapidly if he were able to interact with familiar people,” Charlotte said.

  “Those doctors need their own psychiatrists,” I said. “He was calm that night after he cut his mother’s head almost off. He wasn’t agitated at all. Bob is a dangerous sociopath.”

  “I know, and that’s what scares Mr. Morris,” Charlotte said.

  “What does all of this have to do with me?” I asked.

  Charlotte hesitated for a moment, returning her eyes to her lap. “Alexandra, he wants you and I to talk to her. He knows how smart you are and thinks you can get through to her.”

  “Get through to her for what purpose?” I asked. “To persuade her to return to the wild-in-the-streets party girl she once was?”

  Charlotte acknowledged my sarcasm with a sigh. “Mr. Morris believes Mandy is searching for purpose and meaning in her life. He believes what you are doing with your blog and your career inspires Mandy. He thinks a positive influence in her life like you could head her in the right direction. It’s his daughter, Alexandra. He’s got to try everything he can to help her get on the right track.”

 
“I already have too many irons in the fire,” I said. “I don’t think I have the time to take on a project like Mandy Morris. You know about my work with Sarah’s House. I need to raise funds to provide medical care for the residents and their children. They are in such need. I held a sick baby in my arms yesterday while his seventeen-year-old mother cried because she couldn’t afford to pay a doctor to see her. It was heart-wrenching. I’ll go with you to talk to Mandy, but I can’t commit to do much more than that.”

  Charlotte smiled. “I knew you’d come through for me. Maybe I can help you raise money for Sarah’s House. I think Mr. Morris would help too.”

  “To be completely honest, Charlotte, I planned to ask for your help today. But when you brought up Mandy Morris’s situation, I didn’t think it was the right time. It seemed too much like extortion.”

  “C’mon, Alexandra, I would never take it that way. We’ll help each other.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  We dined like the princesses we were always meant to be. We each had a seafood and shrimp Creole omelet perfectly complemented by sweet potato with andouille sausage. Of course, the champagne flowed and the jazz trio played. Charlotte brought me up to date with all of the happenings on The Walking Dead. After that, we shopped away the remainder of the day, perusing the many antique shops in the Quarter. We saw a little of everything, even people who looked like they walked off of the set of The Walking Dead. All in all it was an amazing day.

  And it completely wore me out. When I reached my condo, I headed straight for a long, hot bath. I put on my most comfortable long T-shirt and went to my blog. Not much news about ACC, but people were burning the blog up with posts about missing girls and serial killers. California figured prominently in the posts. Made sense to me. California accounted for almost 40 million of the total 320 million people in the United States. That’s 12.5 percent of the country’s population. Not only that, but also people go to California from all over the world. They have to have a large number of serial killers operating within their boundaries. Los Angeles County itself has ten million people. They are spread around that cement jungle, the acutely vulnerable mixed with the ruthlessly predatory. Really, it was amazing that there were only 551 homicides in LA County. I wonder what the statistics are for girls who just went missing?

  When Tom came home, we sat at the kitchen table to eat our salads and have a glass of wine. He told me about his day planning a trip in the Gulf to track some dolphins they’d tagged earlier in the year.

  “I think most people believe the Gulf waters have recovered from the BP oil spill,” Tom said. “They haven’t and probably won’t for a long time.”

  “Didn’t all of the oil get cleaned up?” I asked rather naively.

  “Not by a long shot,” Tom said. “Most of it settled to the bottom of the ocean where it continues to foul fish and marine vegetation.”

  “Is there a plan to clean it up at least?” I asked.

  “Not really,” he said. “They are trying to convince everyone the oil has been cleaned up. But the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) data show that dolphin deaths are above average since the spill and that infant dolphins have been found dead at six times the average.”

  “Those poor dolphins. Isn’t there a way to help them?”

  “That is why we’re tracking them. As we learn the areas where they swim, we may be able to divert their migration patterns,” Tom said. “I think ROLF should pay a visit to the parties responsible for polluting the Gulf. It is so frustrating to watch the legal process wind on forever in meaningless circles.”

  “I know how important the animals in the Gulf are to you, and I want to help if I can, but I also have so many other projects going. I can’t afford to go to jail again. People are counting on me,” I said. “I have to talk to you about something else tonight.”

  “What?” Tom asked.

  “You know I want to raise money to provide medical care for the residents of Sarah’s House. Well, I think I’ve come across a possible way. Charlotte thinks she can get Mr. Morris at Superior Sugar to help.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Tom interrupted me to say.

  “Well, I have to do something for her too. She wants me to help bring Mandy Morris out of the depression she’s fallen into,” I said.

  “Mandy Morris!” Tom shouted. “Why would you waste your time with that party slut? You just said you couldn’t help me because your plate is already full. You need to spend any free time you have helping me and the ROLF members.”

  I recoiled. I had never seen him get angry like that. What was going on? Why didn’t he understand I needed to help the women at the shelter?

  “Tom, helping the women at Sarah’s House is important to me. I’ve told you how I felt when I held the sick child yesterday. What’s wrong with me talking to Mandy?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” Tom said. “I’m tired. Maybe we should just go to bed.”

  “OK. I can’t say I understand. But I’m tired too. We can address this subject in the morning.”

  “If you insist,” he said gruffly.

  “Are we having our first fight?” I asked.

  Tom looked at me with loving eyes. “No, I just get upset seeing the marine wildlife suffer and die for large corporations to make huge profits. We’re a team. I don’t really like Mandy Morris, but I see it’s important for you to help Charlotte and Sarah’s House. I love you! We just have to find a way to take care of all of this together.”

  I grabbed Tom and hugged him. We made our way to the bedroom. We managed a few kisses, but that was it. We were asleep in minutes.

  I was a little disappointed we weren’t really arguing because I was hoping tomorrow morning we could have makeup sex.

  Chapter Four:

  Death in the Family

  I woke up snuggling next to Tom feeling the warmth of his body and his strong arms around me. Instead of jumping out of bed and getting us coffee, I just lay next to him, enjoying the comforting feeling couples share. Tom and I were perfect for each other. We shared a sense of adventure, a love of New Orleans, and a passion for protecting innocent victims of corporate greed. The first night we met, we both felt a chemistry that I wasn’t sure about at first, but it turned out to be the real deal. How often does that happen? Now, we were inseparable. That is, except when he was pursuing his career as a marine biologist and I was investigating a story for my corporate and street serial killer blog. Were our separate interests pulling us apart? I couldn’t let that happen. We needed to find a balance that would allow us to pursue our individual interests without damaging our connection.

  Tom rolled over. “Good morning, pretty girl.”

  My heart always melted when he called me pretty girl. Last night’s small tiff seemed distant now. We were in love, and we both knew we needed to nurture our relationship because what we had together was rare and precious.

  “Well, hello, handsome. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Absolutely,” Tom answered.

  I got out of bed and put the Keurig to work. Almost instantly we were drinking freshly-brewed coffee in bed.

  After a few minutes of caffeine ingestion, Tom looked at me and said, “Alexandra, I’m sorry I was inconsiderate last night. Sometimes I let my passion for protecting the environment get the better of me. Those poor dolphins don’t deserve what the oil spill is doing to them. I worry about our future. If our priorities don’t shift to protecting the earth, we may bring about our own extinction.”

  That was Tom. Extinction was first thing in the morning. But I knew he needed to explain why he’d been upset. “I know, Tom. I love that you are so passionate. I feel the same way, but my passion extends to the victims of ruthless killers and abusers as well. The women and children I want to help are like those dolphins you are protecting: innocent. If our society doesn’t reconfigure it
s priorities to protect innocent people instead of promoting wealth at any cost, I think we are headed for a different type of extinction.”

  “You are right, Alexandra,” Tom said. “We both want the same things. We can’t do everything, but we will do as much as we are able given our limited time and resources, each with our own priorities. Let’s not lose our close tie to each other pursuing our goals. I am committed to you, Alexandra.”

  “Likewise, handsome,” I said.

  We each had another cup of coffee and talked about our future plans to work together but give each other space as well. Not bad, I thought, all before the second cup of coffee. Tom and I had just crossed a bridge to a stronger relationship. I could see us going on forever.

  I got out of bed and checked my blog. Missing girls dominated the posts. I felt compelled to help the families find these lost souls, alive or not. I had a text message from Charlotte on my phone as well. Mr. Morris had agreed to help raise funds for the medical needs of the center, and Charlotte and I were set to meet with Mandy later today. My God, that’s going to be weird, I said to myself.

  Tom got out of bed, picked up his cell, and checked his voice mail. “Oh no,” Tom said. “This can’t be good.”