by Jaycee Clark
He opened his wallet and pulled out the braided bracelet she’d woven together so many years ago. The colors used to be blue and yellow, but now they were more gray and gray.
He’d kept it. He’d always kept it.
He wondered through the years if she sensed him. He wasn’t sure, he hoped she did. He’d always wondered, but had always believed they would find their way back together. He knew. He’d always known it.
He tucked the knotted yarn back into the back of his wallet and looked towards the door. How to shoot this one?
The bellows or the digital? He loved his Nikon.
If he used one of the city’s cemeteries, he’d have to go digital. He couldn’t afford any more screw-ups like a couple of days ago. He needed to find another location though, an old abandoned cemetery. One out from town, but not too far.
More planning, but that was okay. Donaldsonville. There were plenty of backwoods country cemeteries around. He wanted the perfect backdrop though. He needed another fallen angel. Or an angel at all, he supposed, would work. He’d have to scout them out. Or find a book that plotted them out. Do some internet research. There were plenty of people into funerary art.
A beautiful art, dark, yes, but there were plenty who not only enjoyed the macabre, but craved it. He gave them that. Gave them the dark beauty. Gave them art worthy of Poe. Not everyone appreciated the dark. The art of death.
People should, they really, really should, but most didn’t. Most stayed away from the dark, from reminders of death. Fear was a strange thing in the way it drove people.
Personally, he figured people should study death more often. Learn to appreciate it. If they did, the fear would dissipate. Fear, once conquered was simply another aspect of, well, life.
Death, after all, was inevitable—had been since the dawn of time.
He glanced at all the wall.
His wall of art. The art of his creations, his dolls.
So many pretties. So many he’d tried to immortalize. He’d achieved more with the digital images, than he had with the bellows. And God knew photo manipulation with any computer wasn’t that difficult. He could distress the edges.
But it wasn’t the same.
The antique look was what he wanted. Distressed, old. Silver images that were lasting. People said digital images lasted, but take out a satellite, servers could be corrupted, hard drives crashed, images could be erased.
But these, these hard images, laced onto slides with chemicals, these called to him. Tempted him for more, for better. Teased him and his muse and there was a reason. Hundreds of years after the first ones were taken, those images were still here. Not that digital didn’t have its place. Most of the time, images could be retrieved so easily. They could be manipulated, unlike, the silver ones. One shot. He’d had one shot with the bellows.
Some of those had not worked out.
He traced his fingers along the edges of the glass. Expensive hobby. Beautiful hobby.
Next time he would not be rushed. He’d go out, find a place he liked in the middle of the damned bayou if he had to, and then, then he’d make it perfect. Make it so no one found her. At least not right away.
Because he knew they’d already found the other one.
He’d known his time was short . He’d heard the two men talking as they climbed over the wall and realized they were cops. He’d hidden and waited until he couldn’t wait any longer. They would find him and he knew more would be arriving and more people meant he’d have a hard time getting away, getting his equipment away. He’d had to hide it in the mausoleum he’d hidden it in several days ago when he’d taken his stuff there so it would be ready. It was one thing to see a man go in several days in a row. Another to see the same man make several trips into the same cemetery on the same day. The same day a woman was murdered.
He’d taken his stuff a day earlier after scouting out where he wanted to hide it. The old mausoleum with an easily picked lock wasn’t easy to locate but he had. Then he’d gone back several days later and dumped his things. Finally, he’d taken his creation, his doll, making sure everything was perfect.
But before that, he’d waited. Waited and watched until her.
Her and then he’d known.
She was exactly what his muse needed.
He took her.
He grinned.
And had fun with her.
He glanced over to the door hearing the muffled cries from within.
He was having fun with this one too.
He liked them awake and coherent enough to fight him, but not so much that they drowned out the muse. He wanted art.
The images on the wall created a collage. Eyes, eyes opened and narrowed in terror. Mouths turned down, tear tracks on pale cheeks.
All in black and white.
Color took something away. Though there were colored images as well. He just preferred the images to be black and white. He could always add color later. Just a splash. Just a dash. A blue bruise on a cheekbone. Violet in an iris, or a dash green. Red.
Red was his favorite. Gave the images life they might not otherwise have had. Red...
The rouged skin of ligature marks. The skin marred otherwise perfection.
Those were from some of his earlier works in Texas. Though they were real, adding an air of pragmatism to his pieces, well, they were not what he wanted to be known for
He wanted more.
Wanted to see the brutal violence in otherwise perfect beauty. So, he was rather fond of his last images. Granted the bellows wasn’t working as he’d planned, but he’d give it a bit more time, try some new locations where he could take his time and see how they turned out.
The digital images were fabulous though. He might tweak the edges of the background in a few, give it some variations. Soften the doll in the foreground and focus on the stone angel.
Which would look better.
He’d perfected taking and keeping them enough, there were no longer bruises. There didn’t need to be. He could take them, keep them, play with them and in the end, they wouldn’t have a mark on them.
Almost sad how easy it was.
The challenge in the girls was no longer an issue and though he might miss the rush of overpowering them, he found he enjoyed the end results of his current path more.
They were complacent, yet… the eyes.
The eyes of all cultures were purported to be windows to the soul. He knew that, everyone knew that. It wasn’t anything new. Now. Now he took them, kept them, played with them and the only evidence they were fighting him... their eyes.
His gazed scanned the images on his wall. Hopeful eyes, fearful eyes, angry eyes, broken eyes.
Perfect features. Perfect faces. But the eyes…
Fire burned in them brightly.
Fear… terror… hatred… acceptance.
There was just something about watching the progression of the strength leave a woman and yet arise in a different venue.
Some would see the acceptance as a defeat.
He saw it as more.
The greatest strength there was. Not everyone could achieve acceptance of death with such grace and beauty.
Granted, he’d only used two so far in this way. Well, three if the last one was counted. Something was different with this one. The dosage was off on the succinylcholine. She wasn’t as complacent as the other two. Not that she had enough control of her extremities to do anything, but unlike the others, she could whine, cry, whimper.
She might be beautiful, perfect for what he had envisioned, but she got on his nerves. He needed another one like the last.
Which meant, he’d have to look and find her.
Sighing, he picked up the bottle of wine and poured another glass. The sweet yet bitter scent wafted up as he twirled the glass.
Would the cops find anything of his? He rather thought not. There were so many homeless in the area, so many tourists, anyone could have killed the girl.
The problem with that, he knew wa
s that the cops were not stupid and they’d know the woman wasn’t killed where he’d left her. They’d know that much at least.
Once the investigation started, they’d realize her clothing was not merely a costume ordered online, but a vintage piece. There was no order anywhere for the clothing either.
He scrounged vintage clothing stores and thrift shops, plenty of those here in New Orleans. Vintage clothing that fit the girl, the perfect dress for the perfect girl, for the perfect last photo...
It was fucking work. It wasn’t easy.
He raked a hand through his hair as he sat and studied his wall of art and drank his wine.
The wine was almost too sweet, but it was smooth, so he kept getting it. He hadn’t found one in a while that he’d liked better than this one.
Another whimper came from the young woman in the other room.
Damn.
He hadn’t found her dress yet either. With her pale skin and coppery curls, she needed color. Lots of color. Maybe a green dress. Something green. He’d have to look. He hadn’t had time yet but he would. He’d go this afternoon to one of the vintage shops in the Quarter. Because he really needed to find the next one.
He looked at the wall again and wondered.
What of her? What of his favorite girl? Did she still see ghosts? She had before, years before, so long before. He didn’t know if she’d ever told anyone else, or just him. Most around here didn’t think twice about ghosts, voodoo, or any other occult even as they sat in mass.
But some, some he knew thought different. Some saw evil in the strangest places.
Evil was rather like death. Some saw what they wanted, how they wanted.
So if she still saw, still communicated with the dead, he rather thought that would be a strange gift, but others might not.
Whether he would continue to see it that way was unclear to him for now.
And if she did still communicate with the dead, if they hadn’t beaten or drugged it out of her, did she see his ghosts? It had been an intriguing thought since he’d had it. Right after his first foray into his art.
He’d been lying in bed one night and he’d wondered if she knew, if she’d seen what he did. If he created ghosts, then did they travel? It wasn’t like she’d ever explained it to him.
If they did travel, if he did create ghosts from his art, then did they find her? Could they talk to her? Did they tell her what he did? How he did it? Did they even know? What if they could talk to her, tell her?
He wasn’t sure what he thought about that if they did. He knew he wanted to find her, but he wanted his art perfect before he did.
Perfect.
It had to be perfect.
Chapter Six
Mike wanted Paige in his bed. He’d had her in hers several times in several ways. He grinned. It made sense they stayed at her place as it was close to the bakery. But he wanted her in his.
“What the hell are you smiling at?” St. Cyr asked him across the desk.
“What?”
“You grinned. Glad you two finally fired up the sheets again. Puts you in a better mood.” Then he leaned close. “Might want to check that though before LT finds out.”
This was probably true.
“Well, it’s not like she’s a witness or anything.”
St. Cyr just looked at him. “Not a witness no, we can’t really explain how she’s tied to the case, can we, but if it ever comes out, some might have an issue.”
Her name wasn’t listed in any of the reports, they just said a vagrant had flagged them down near the bakery and told them they saw something near the cemetery.
They, of course, checked it out.
And found the dead body of a young woman in a white dress in a freaking red scarf.
Chills danced over his skin every time he thought of how Paige knew, of how white her face became after she spoke with the others, as she called them. He’d call them ghosts or spirits.
“You believe her,” St. Cyr said.
He only looked at his partner.
“Fine. It’s a little weird though.”
“This is New Orleans, man, ‘a little weird’ covers over half the population in the Quarter alone.”
St. Cyr grunted.
“So when you going to fire up the sheets with Sammy?”
That got a quick head raise and a narrow glare.
Mike smiled.
“Might put your ass in a better mood for the rest of us.”
“St. Cyr! Killian!” their lieutenant yelled. A middle-aged man, espresso-colored skin, pale brown eyes, tall and built, Lieutenant Gilchrist had once played for the Saints. He didn’t take shit off anyone and had the respect of just about everyone under his command, and if they didn’t respect him, they didn’t last long.
“Lieutenant.”
“LT.”
“Get your asses moving. Found another body in another cemetery.” He shifted his weight, all from muscle, Mike knew. Gilchrist still worked with them on higher level cases. Hell, he’d tackled a suspect not six weeks ago and outran half the guys who were in pursuit. “Cover it and get me a report ASAP. I’ll have the captain and who knows who the fuck all breathing down my neck. This is two in three days. I don’t need this headache. You two sure as hell don’t want this headache. Get it wrapped up. Let me know if you need anything. Hurry before the vultures circle and christen the bastard with some stupid moniker.“ He turned away and then turned back. “Actually, if it’s the same guy, call me.”
Well, hell.
Mike shared a look with St. Cyr. Sometimes he wished he’d gone into teaching or something.
“Shit.”
When they were out of the building and heading to their car, St. Cyr stopped him. “She say anything else?”
He didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. “No. Not today, or this morning. Yesterday, yeah. Woke me up muttering something about him taking photos or something.”
“Great.”
They hurried to the address.
“Another Quarter Cemetery.”
“I got that,” Mike answered the pointless comment.
“We’re going to need to talk to her, you know that, right?”
“Officially?”
It was St. Cyr’s turn to level a look on him. “Oh yeah, we’ll just tell Gilchrist we have a witness that sees and speaks with ghosts and she can, we hope, help us crack this before another woman ends up with her throat cut beneath some forgotten mausoleum.”
Without another word they got out of the vehicle and hurried into the cemetery. The first on the scene were a couple of patrol officers who had been around a bit. He was damned glad he’d worked his way off of patrol and into homicide.
After introductions, they followed one of the patrolmen to his partner who was guarding the body.
“Oh, thought it might be the medical examiner.”
“Nope, just the homicide guys,” St. Cyr told them. “How’d you find her?”
“Just like she is,” the one who lead them to the scene told them.
He was a bit younger than his partner, who answered. “Cemetery tour found her.”
“Well, damn,” Mike said. “Social media will probably have photos of the body and that means the press here will be on our asses.”
The body was in a back corner down one of the labyrinthine paths. This victim appeared younger than the other, and she had bright red hair. Like the last one, she was wearing some old-looking dress, as there were stains on it. It had lapels like a man’s jacket. Her hair was curled and fixed. Make-up perfect. Her eyes were closed, and a navy scarf was tied around her neck. Unlike the previous body, she wasn’t lying down, but leaning against the column of the mausoleum.
St. Cyr carefully got closer to the body and took some photos. “Throats slashed just like the last one.”
Hell, they were still waiting on locating next of kin on the last Jane Doe.
“Perfect.” Taking a deep breath, he pulled his phone out as St. Cyr took some more
photos. Mike dialed the LT’s number.
“I really didn’t want to hear from either of you.”
“Well, I want to be in the Keyes with my woman, but life doesn’t give us what we want.”
“You have a woman? Since when?”
“Ah, know all, you don’t, master?”
Gilchrist chuckled. “Give it to me.”
“Same. Costume, hair and makeup, posed. Throat slashed.”
“On my way. What’s the bad news?”
“Cemetery tour found her.”
“Photos of that dead woman will be everywhere.”
“Probably.”
“Be there in a few. Valentine there yet?” Gilchrist asked.
“Nope”
“I want her and not one of her flunkies.”
“I don’t know if the medical examiner office hires flunkies, sir.”
“I liked it better when you called me master.”
He shut the phone and sighed. Day was hot already and it wasn’t even noon. Now they had another dead body to contend with.
He checked his phone as the text message beep.
Another one?
Guess she was speaking to the new ghost as well.
Yet, he’d been a cop for too long. He knew where she’d been that morning, and all the following day and night. Still, from a logical standpoint, he should check to see if there was any link between her and them.
Why? He texted back.
There’s another. Call me when you can.
I’ll see you as soon as I can. Might be awhile. Bringing St. Cyr.
You told him?
No, he already knew. We all already knew, babe. Just added up the numbers.
Oh.
“Someone tell me why Gilchrist assumed I wouldn’t come to this scene?” a soft voice asked with a definite edge.
“No idea,” St. Cyr answered.
“Pains in my ass, all of you,” she muttered as she got closer. “Well, someone’s been a busy boy.”
Later, he quickly typed.
* * *
Paige hurried down the counter to help the next customer. The morning had been slammed with regulars and with tourists. Then again, it was the Quarter, they always had tourists. Always tourists, always busy, but that was a good thing. She shoved a strand of hair back behind her ear and turned to the next customer.