by G A Chase
Kendell handed her a cup of steaming coffee. “We’re not that naïve. Don’t forget, we were the ones who introduced you to Joe Cazenave. We have resources you couldn’t imagine.”
“The last two people who helped me are both dead. I won’t risk your lives.”
Kendell sat with her overweight dog while the younger black pup headed back to the bedroom. “We do have more than a little experience facing danger.”
Sere sat on the sofa and leaned in toward Kendell. “Not like this. Don’t get me wrong. What you did in containing and defeating the devil was amazing, but we’re not talking spells and attempted redemption this time. Monty has one goal, and that’s to replace his real. This killing spree he’s on is simply his way of figuring out how best to accomplish the murder without anyone being the wiser. He has no consciousness to appeal to, no soul. He would stab you both just to time how long it took for you to bleed out. I know you’ve dealt with true evil, but even evil involves logic. What I’m dealing with regarding Monty is pure instinct.”
Cheesecake’s ears perked up as Sere discussed the dangers Kendell could be facing. “We’re not suggesting picking up guns and searching for your demon,” Kendell said. “The real Montgomery Fisher is a CPA in the Quarter. Talking to him about our taxes is hardly a matter of life or death, even though it can feel that way at times.”
Sere shook her head in disbelief. “You don’t get it. Monty is a projection of Mr. Fisher. I can’t risk that this doppelgänger might receive his real’s thoughts and experiences. You two meeting the real guy could put you in Monty’s line of fire. If he figures out how important you are to me, or that you might know what he’s up to, he’ll come after you. His prime motivation is replacing Mr. Fisher, and he has no reservations about killing anyone who gets in his way.”
“But that’s impossible. His face is all over the news. Even if Monty did acquire all of Mr. Fisher’s knowledge, he’d have to realize those closest to his real would notice the change.”
Sere worked the wig onto her head. It hadn’t been much to begin with, but after a day under her helmet, stuffed in her saddlebag, and tossed around the back of a van the thing looked, smelled, and felt like a dead swamp rat. “You keep applying logic to his thought processes. For the last twenty-plus years, his brain has been merely the shadow of Mr. Fisher’s thoughts. Now that Monty has escaped hell, his thinking is closer to that of a toddler going after some candy, only in a demonic sense. So instead of throwing a tantrum at not getting what he wants, he goes on a killing spree.”
“So what is your plan? Find out how Mr. Fisher lives and intercept Monty? Then what? Based on what happened to Thomas when you decapitated his doppelgänger, you might be sacrificing one homicidal maniac in the creation of another.”
Sere rolled up the pant leg of her jeans and fastened the knife holster to her leg. The blade she’d taken off Thomas, she stashed under her belt below the cotton dress shirt. “Honestly, I don’t know what will happen. Thomas’s doppelgänger in hell worked for Professor Yates, so he wasn’t strictly a copy like Monty. I understand how Monty thinks because I’m used to the same basic thought processes. But in addition to having my own soul that separates me from this projected body, I also have the education you and your friends gave me. I’ll outwit him when the time comes, but for now, I just need to know what he’s up to. And much as I love you, I need the freedom to conduct my hunt as I see fit. Figuring out answers to your questions is only making me second-guess myself. Lie low, and don’t make a big deal of my visit. I’ll be in touch once this is over.”
“We’ll stay out of your way, but you can’t honestly believe we’re just going to sit on the sidelines.”
10
Kendell had a point about Sere walking through the Quarter, though having someone by her side wasn’t likely to help. The bombing that had taken out her father’s old bank had happened only a couple of blocks away, coating the whole area in paranormally infected marble dust. Nineteen years later, Sere’s skin itched as if it were an animal hide being tanned in some noxious chemical mixture.
“I’m imagining things.” Between the heavy rains, city cleanups after drunken festivals, and the occasional hurricane, any dust would have been washed out to the Gulf of Mexico long ago. She increased her pace to a determined walk just the same.
She had precious little to go on in terms of understanding Montgomery Fisher. Each time she’d tried wading through the folder of information, her eyes had glazed over in boredom. How people could spend their days cloistered away behind a desk, staring at numbers, was beyond her. Searching for his office while wandering through the Quarter increased her feeling of claustrophobia. The buildings were too close together, the streets too congested with traffic, the sidewalks much too narrow, and the people—either from prolonged intoxication or simply morning dullness—were completely oblivious to where they were going. In desperation, she ducked into a small bar to escape the maddening throng of people.
“This is the Swamp Strangler’s list of suspected victims.” The news never seemed to shut up. The bar’s version blared from two big screens against opposite walls. Sere felt hemmed in by the stereophonic images, both photographic and hand drawn. When she saw the pencil sketch of her face, she hunched down over the bar, hoping no one would notice. “This woman, originally thought to be an accomplice, has now been added to the list of potential victims. The people of New Orleans are encouraged to stay on guard but under no circumstances to confront the suspected perpetrator of these horrific crimes.” A drawing of Monty’s face completely filled both screens.
The woman bartender leaned against the counter, shaking her head. “Why some people feel the need to kill indiscriminately is beyond me. What can I get you?”
“Black coffee, as strong as you’ve got.”
“Rough night?” The woman turned her back to Sere and pulled the black-stained half-full glass pot from the coffeemaker.
“Something like that.” Sere scratched at her black wig, wondering how much longer she’d have to endure the dead-rat smell. It would have been nice if one of you women had taught me something about makeup and hair coloring when I was growing up, though I probably wouldn’t have listened. It wasn’t like I was trying to impress anyone in hell. She settled the wig back in position. People focused on pictures of criminals, but the faces of their victims were often forgotten by the next commercial break. However, while the general population looked the other way, the cops would still be on the lookout for the mysterious redheaded woman with the vintage motorcycle.
“Shit.” Sere took a deep swig of the bitter brew.
“Can I get you something stronger? Hair of the dog maybe?”
As tempting as it was, alcohol wasn’t going to help with her observation of Monty’s real. “No, thank you. I just realized I’m supposed to meet someone, and I’m late. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a CPA named Montgomery Fisher?”
“That’s who that guy looks like! I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure it out. Mr. Fisher might be a little older and maybe a pound or two heavier, but those two could be brothers if not twins. The only real difference is their eyes. The Swamp Strangler’s eyes are as cold and dead as a freezer-burned hamburger. Mr. Fisher’s are always smiling, even during tax season.”
“So you know him?” Sere pushed the ceramic cup and saucer to the center of the bar.
“Mostly just from seeing him pass on the street. He’s helped out a couple of service-worker friends. One of them insisted he join her for a drink. That’s the only time I met him. Trust me, though—whatever your financial woes are, he’ll get you squared away. When you see him, tell him he looks like the Swamp Strangler. He’ll get a kick of out it.”
“If you like the guy—in light of all the news attention—it might be better if you kept that as an inside joke.” Sere pulled out a five and set it next to the coffee cup. “And where might I find him?”
“Up one block and over two. Keep an eye out for a
used bookstore. His office is really easy to miss.”
During the short walk, Sere ran through every scenario she could think of for using Mr. Fisher to intercept Monty. Even if she could lie, each story she thought up sounded more outlandish than the last. “I’m just going to tell him the truth, or at least as much of it as he’s likely to accept.”
She stood in front of the used bookstore, wishing she could while away the day, thumbing through other people’s thoughts, instead of dropping a truth bomb on someone who didn’t deserve it. Still looking through the smudged window at the display of first editions, she pushed open the door to the CPA’s office.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist, with her horn-rimmed glasses and bun of gray hair, looked like she would have been more at home in the store next door. She probably came with the building.
“I need to see Mr. Fisher. I’m afraid I don’t have an appointment.”
The woman lowered her glasses and let them hang from the delicate gold chain around her neck. “Let me see if he’s busy.” She picked up an ancient push-button phone receiver. From the smile the woman failed to hide, Sere suspected Mr. Fisher spent more time snoozing behind his desk than fixing people’s economic nightmares.
The door to the back office opened to display a gentleman wearing a seersucker suit and bow tie. “I don’t get many walk-ins. Please come in and have a seat. I’m sure we can untangle whatever situation has you in its grasp.”
The bartender was right. Mr. Fisher’s eyes displayed a constant state of good humor. He looked as if he were just waiting for someone to tell him a joke so he could bust out laughing.
Sere waited until he’d closed the door and resumed his seat behind the wooden desk. From the computer displays filled with graphs and spreadsheets that occupied the table behind him, she assumed the old-time-accountant image was mostly for show. You are a sly one, aren’t you? Old-fashioned exterior to lure people in and make them comfortable, but as sharp as a tack. I see where Monty is getting his cunning.
“I’m with the Scratchy Dog night club on Frenchmen Street.”
“So this is a business situation?” He sat a little straighter as if normal folk needed a more laid-back money manager and business owners more professionalism.
“No, not really. I didn’t want you to think I was just some crazy woman off the street. Kendell Summer and Myles Garrison have helped raise me since I was a little girl.”
He sat back in his leather office chair. “I used to love going to see Polly Urethane and the Strippers at the Scratchy Dog when I was just starting out.”
“Kendell played guitar with the group.”
He looked up at the ceiling with a wistful air of remembrance. “Olympia Stain. That woman could shred a set of strings like no one’s business.”
“You really were a fan if you knew her real name along with her stage name.”
He settled back into position behind the desk and laughed. “I hate to admit it, but I’ve still got a flyer around here somewhere with all of their signatures on it: Polly, Olympia, Minerva Wax, Scraper, and Lynn Seed. I used to catch them every Friday night. I hope they’re not the ones in need of help.”
Sere put her hands in her lap, feeling like a little girl called to the principal’s office. “They’re all fine. My problem—or rather your problem—doesn’t involve money. I’m sure you’ve seen the news stories about the Swamp Strangler.”
His eyes lost the crinkles at the sides, indicating a growing seriousness. “I don’t pay much attention to the local sensationalist nonsense, but it would be impossible not to know what’s going on.”
She decided the best course was to just lay it out. “He’s coming for you.”
Mr. Fisher kept eye contact without blinking for an uncomfortably long time. “This is a joke.”
“I wish it were. You must have noticed the physical resemblance. I’m here to stop him.”
The CPA shook his head and let out a disbelieving chuckle. “Lady, if you’re running a con, you’ve picked the wrong mark. I’ve got two daughters, one at LSU and one applying to Tulane. You can see the office I work in. Other than the computers, it hasn’t been updated in a decade. And my wife is intent on remodeling every room of our house. To think that I would have money to extort is just a laugh.”
Sere scratched her wig until it came loose. Fuck it. Instead of continuing the ruse, she slid the mop of hair off the back of her head, revealing her matted red locks. Monty has probably already seen through the disguise, and if not, seeing that I’m still after him might hasten his next move. The sooner he comes after this sweet old man, the sooner he ends his killing rampage. “I’m not asking for anything, and I’m not lying to you. Tell me you haven’t noticed the resemblance.”
He turned his palms toward the ceiling. “Those crime drawings are like Rorschach tests. People see what they want to see. So sure, my wife ribbed me about being some mass-murdering CPA, but no one would take the similarities seriously. Fluff up your hair a little, and you could pass…”
She let the realization settle in for a moment. “I am the woman in the drawing, but I’m not his victim, and I’m not his accomplice. I’ve been after him from the beginning.”
“So you’re some kind of bounty hunter?”
“I suppose that’s as accurate a description as any. Though at this point, my adversary and I are more like the snake and the mongoose. If he gets the drop on me, he’ll kill me without giving it a second thought.”
“What do you want from me? And why on earth would he be after me?”
Sere struggled with how much to tell the sweet old man. “Let me ask you: have you been feeling okay lately?”
He resumed his analytical stare. “Does it show?”
“No. You look fine to me, but this guy has an ability to sap a person’s strength.” And not just any person, she thought, but she didn’t want to burden Mr. Fisher with information about the direct connection to his doppelgänger until she had to.
“I’m hardly ever sick. I’ve got the constitution of an ox. So when I collapsed yesterday morning, my wife demanded I see our doctor. He says I’m fine, and he ran enough tests to know. That didn’t do me much good last night, though, when I was flat on my back, struggling to breathe.”
Sere felt a combination of panic for Mr. Fisher and excitement that Monty was struggling enough that he had to draw that much energy from his real. Those shotgun pellets must still be raising hell inside him. “Have you had any visions you couldn’t explain, like you were someone else?”
“Nothing like that, just an exhaustion that drains every cell in my body.”
Damn it. I guess I won’t be getting a glimpse into what Monty’s up to. “He must be closer than I thought.”
Mr. Fisher leaned across his desk. “I don’t get it. You still haven’t explained why he would be after me. I thought all of the Swamp Strangler’s victims were the result of random encounters.”
“He’s learning how to kill without the death being noticed. His plan is to take up your life once you’re out of the scene.”
The middle-aged gentleman shook his head as if nothing made any sense. “Even a psychopath would see the impossibility of trying to live someone else’s life. He might look a little like me, but he’d never make the illusion stick.”
Sere stood up and spread her arms so Mr. Fisher could get a good look at her. “How old do you think I am?”
“Early twenties?”
She smiled at hearing his attempt at chivalry. “You’re sweet. Saying I was in my midtwenties would not have been an insult.” She turned her back on him and focused on Jennifer Ellen Cranston—then Jennifer Ellen Williams—as a teenaged cheerleader.
When she turned back around, she could see the shock in Mr. Fisher’s eyes. “What the hell? Can you teach me that trick? I could make you a lot of money—”
“It’s not a trick,” she blurted. Her voice was at a higher, more youthful pitch. Her clothes felt even baggier than when she’d put t
hem on. “The guy that’s after you can do the same thing. He can look exactly like you if he wants.” The sound of her own voice was beginning to bug her. She could just envision Jennifer, the popular girl, flirting with all the high school boys. She turned back toward the door and let her self-image return to that of the woman she’d worked so hard at creating.
Mr. Fisher continued talking, as if Sere had slipped behind a dressing screen to change and he didn’t want to make a big deal of her exposure. “I’ve lived my whole life in New Orleans, so I’ve seen some stuff I never could explain. But I still don’t get one thing. Why would anyone want my life? Don’t get me wrong. I love my family, and I’ve worked hard to build this business, but I’ve got college tuitions to deal with, a rapidly approaching retirement that scares the hell out of me, people who rely on my expert advice—stresses a middle-aged man would want to escape, not kill to acquire.”
She felt better at her proper size and age. “Why does anyone fixate on anything? He is a psychopath.”
“What happens if he succeeds?” From the worried look in his eyes, Sere suspected the man was more concerned with his family than his personal safety.
“You mean after he kills you and assumes your life? I don’t know. I doubt his end game is to work his remaining years as a CPA and retire to a life of ease while watching his daughters achieve lives of their own. Your history would give him a safe cover identity for whatever future crimes he has in mind.” Though I doubt this demon has planned that far ahead, Sere thought.
“What makes you think you can stop him?” Mr. Fisher asked.
Though she wanted to trust the kindly CPA, she couldn’t risk Monty listening in on everything that might be said. Unlike her disgusted avoidance of Jennifer, Monty was probably doing all he could to hear every one of Mr. Fisher’s thoughts in his attempt at intercepting and killing the man. She needed to keep the information to what Monty would figure out on his own.