by King, Leo
“Why, they’re here to see me, C. C.,” called out a rip-roaringly thick-accented voice, from the doorway to another room. Michael felt his heart sink and his blood pressure rise as he saw Deputy Sheriff Jean-Luc Thibodaux.
“Hey there again, Shreveport,” cawed out J. L. as he sauntered over to the two detectives. “Couldn’t get enough of me, ya?”
“My day is not complete without hearing your voice, J. L.,” came Michael’s dry reply. This was not the person he wanted to see, not ever again, but he knew it couldn’t be helped. These small towns didn’t have too many deputies, so it wasn’t like he could pick and choose.
J. L. shook Michael’s hand, much to his chagrin, and then shook Rodger’s. “Man, Rodger, you look like the shit that came out of my dog last night. What happened to you, bud?”
Rodger shrugged. “I’ve had a rough couple of days, J. L. This investigation has been pretty rough.”
Michael could tell his partner wasn’t in the mood for J. L. any more than he was.
“No shit?” said J. L. in the most insincere display of sympathy Michael had ever seen. “Well, you big-city detectives’ll figure it out. Especially since you’re back to speak to Old Man Fontenot.”
“Right, have you checked up on him?” asked Michael. “Also, where is your phone? We have to call in and let our commander know what’s going on.”
J. L. moved to the side, showing the way to a back room with a sweeping motion. “Phone’s in the break room, Shreveport. Help yourself to some good old-fashioned bayou coffee while you’re at it.”
Michael couldn’t help but feel that coffee, in his state, would just make him feel ten times worse.
Fortunately for Michael, Rodger spoke up, saying, “I’ll go make the call, Michael. I need some coffee.”
As Rodger was shown to the back by J. L., and as Michael couldn’t help but feel snubbed yet again, he turned to Carter, who had been standing there watching the whole thing, and asked, “So, is J. L. always this much of—”
“Yes, although he’s going easy on you,” interrupted Carter, as if the question had been asked a million times before. Michael found the thought disconcerting.
Half an hour later, the detectives were on their way, following J. L. and Carter, who were in a squad car ahead of them. Michael had wanted to leave early, but J. L. had been called in to help calm down Mrs. Williams, the large African-American woman who had bullied her way to the front of the line, when she got irate at the police for “not arresting that son-a-bitch to-day.”
Michael had asked if this sort of thing happened all the time, to which Carter replied that it did.
Earlier, on the ride out to the bayou, Michael had told Rodger about Robert Fontenot being the Black Bayou Boatman. Both agreed that, at this time, it was not a good idea to openly accuse Robert of that. They’d go back with Ouellette and have him and the district attorney make that decision.
“For all we know, Robert’s got an arrangement with the district attorney that we don’t know about,” Rodger had said. “Plus, even at his age, I doubt a hit man like him has lost all of his skills.”
Michael, who had not relished the idea of going toe-to-toe with a professional assassin, agreed.
Soon, the dirty roads were replaced by just plain old dirt roads, and the pair of cars pulled up to the entrance to the boathouse owned by Robert Fontenot. The Jefferson Parish car’s door opened, and J. L. came out, aviator glasses and all, and told Carter to wait. When Carter nodded in agreement, Michael, who had just stepped out of the car, got confused.
“Wait, Calvin’s a sergeant, J. L., how is that you’re telling him what to do?”
J. L. turned and pulled back his sunglasses, looking right at Michael. “Shreveport, I know Old Man Fontenot better than anyone else, and that old fucker hates men of color. I gotta look out for my superior here, so it’s best that C. C. just stay out by the car.”
“It’s cool,” Carter replied to Michael, his relaxed demeanor indicating that he actually didn’t care one way or another. “They have a lot of bigots back here, and they don’t care that I’m second in command at the police station. Fuck ’em, Detective LeBlanc. But I still ain’t getting shot at.”
Michael just shook his head slowly. Racism, in any form, was as alien to Michael as putting emotion before logic. But Michael knew it existed everywhere in this city, and on all sides. It wasn’t a problem that was going to go away. So Michael had to admit that Carter’s decision to not talk to a bigoted man with a gun was a good philosophy. Giving the sergeant a nod, Michael followed his partner and JL to the boathouse.
As they approached the house, Rodger put his arm out to stop Michael. Michael stopped, unsure what was wrong at first. Then he saw the door was open, and Robert Fontenot was nowhere to be seen.
“This could be a trap if he knew we were coming,” Michael whispered. “Maybe Rosemary tipped him off?”
A nod from Rodger told Michael that his partner suspected something similar. As he and his partner drew their weapons, Michael said quietly, “J. L.!”
J. L. turned around and, seeing the detectives with their weapons drawn, furrowed his brow. Coming over toward them, the deputy asked, “What’s going on here, Shreveport?”
“Precaution,” Rodger said. “Remember, this is a murder investigation. This area could no longer be secure.”
It took J. L. a few moments to comprehend what he was being told. “Wait, you think Old Man Fontenot is… ? Oh hell, no, not him. Really?”
“I’m being serious, J. L.,” replied Rodger. “Just have your weapon ready, just in case.”
“All right, all right,” J. L. replied, unholstering his sidearm. “But just… Don’t shoot at the guy unless you have to, all right? He’s jumpy, but he’s not a bad guy.”
Michael couldn’t think of anything more ridiculous that J. L. could have said, but he dropped the subject, as the deputy was at least going along with the idea of not entering the darkened boathouse without protection.
The three detectives crept onto the front porch of the boathouse, the area eerily quiet. There was no nutria to be found, and the shotgun rested next to the rocking chair as if it hadn’t been touched all day. The entire boathouse stank, and it looked messy as hell—dirty dishes and filthy towels everywhere.
J. L. spoke in a hushed tone. “Hell, I ain’t never seen it like this before. Think we should go inside?”
Rodger nodded to J. L., then to Michael.
Michael said in a hushed voice, “Rodger, I’ll go in with J. L. while you stake the perimeter outside.”
“All right, partner. But be careful. No unnecessary chances.”
With a nod, Michael entered the boathouse with J. L.
The boathouse seemed only a few yards across. The screen door opened into the messiest and smelliest kitchen Michael had ever had the displeasure of stepping foot into.
A door on the opposite side of the kitchen opened to the other porch on the boat, a small doorway led to a bathroom, and a third doorway led to the bedroom. The bedroom door was slightly ajar.
“Think he’s sleeping, Shreveport?” asked J. L., voice still hushed, with a notable tension to it.
Michael shook his head and motioned for J. L. to wait while he went first. The deputy nodded and waited while Michael crept toward the doorway leading to Robert’s bedroom.
His heart was pounding as he reached the door. He breathed slowly to calm his nerves. It felt like a pressure was on him, a cold and unyielding pushing on his back, his shoulders, and his spine.
Why am I so on edge? I feel like something really bad is on the other side of this door. I feel like I’m being stalked by a predator I can’t see or hear. What’s going on? This isn’t rational!
Michael slapped himself with his free hand, blinking away the sweat that was trying to run into his eyes. His heart was pounding in his chest. It was like pure coldness was pushing on him from behind to enter the room, yet every survival instinct inside of him told him not to do it.
>
Get ahold of yourself, Michael! You’re exhausted, you’re extremely stressed out. Just get through this! Finish up here, go to the Castille mansion like you and Rodger decided, and then you can take the rest of the day off.
Straightening up, gun at the ready, Michael opened the door to Robert’s room and stepped inside.
What Michael saw immediately burned itself into his memory.
Robert was lying in his bed, arms and legs tied to the four corners by thick wire. His head was strapped down with wire, and a gag was inserted in his mouth. Completely naked, Robert’s chest cavity had been opened up forcibly, and most of his internal organs had been scattered about across the walls of the room. Only his heart was recognizable, sitting on a nearby nightstand, secured to it by way of a kitchen knife. The macabre still life was surrounded by a circle of strange symbols.
Robert’s nutria hung above him, bled out over his former master’s body, the animal’s blood filling Robert’s empty chest cavity. The room smelled as bad as the two serial murder scenes had so far.
Michael’s body was momentarily paralyzed with fear.
My God. My God. My God. Richie and Sam were right. This isn’t just a murder—this is a ritual killing.
Regaining his motor functions, Michael crept to the table with Robert’s heart attached to it. Michael looked over the designs around the heart. He swore he had seen those symbols before.
Wait, are those the same symbols from Sam’s book on voodoo?
Michael detected an odd smell coming from the heart. It was a distinctive fruity odor. Looking closer, Michael saw a small brass bowl beside the heart with a pinkish substance burning inside. Small pink fumes were wafting up, and when Michael sniffed them, the scent of fruit was almost overpowering.
What is that stuff?
For a moment, Michael felt odd, like he had imbibed too much caffeine. His heart continued to race, and he started to feel cold, like the air around him had suddenly chilled.
What the… what’s happening to me?
“Oh my God! What the bloody fuck happened here?!?”
Turning around, his own body’s strange changes momentarily forgotten, Michael saw J. L. coming in the room, a pale look of horror stark on the deputy’s face. With a lurch, J. L. turned his head outside the bedroom and vomited, then stumbled out toward the kitchen.
Michael sighed and followed, the chilling sensation still rippling through him. He stepped out after J. L., who went to the back porch to finish vomiting. Michael called out, holding out his hand, “Hey, J. L., when you’ve emptied your guts, come back in and help—”
Michael cut his sentence short as a small cracking sound resonated in his ears, and with a whoosh, something moved right past his face, like a mosquito or a fly. A few strands of Michael’s bangs flitted down, falling to his hand.
For a long moment, Michael looked down at the strands of hair in his hand, his eyes widening as the cracking sound, the whooshing sound, and the cutting of his hair added up.
That was a bullet.
Turning to the side, Michael saw J. L., a hole in his head the size of a baseball, falling into the bayou.
In an instant, Michael’s weapon was ready, and he pointed it at the doorway. All he saw was Rodger rolling into the kitchen, screaming, “Get down!” Looking back up, Michael stared into the foliage ahead and saw the assassin.
A person dressed in dark indigo robes with a face mask painted to look like a skull held some kind of rifle, which looked military grade. Michael’s eyes widened as he saw the indigo-clad figure pull the trigger. The chill around him increased as his heart rate shot up even higher.
Feeling a tingle of sensation ripping down his spine, Michael threw himself to the side as three bullets ripped past him. His adrenaline was pumping like never before.
Neither the chase on the rooftop nor the run-in with Mad Monty’s friends had gotten his blood moving and his senses as on fire as this moment did.
As Michael landed, Rodger called out, “That’s the person who killed Mad Monty. Shit, he’s getting away!” Rodger’s voice seemed to come from a distance.
Looking out of the boat, following his partner’s gaze, Michael saw the assassin running up the path toward the cars.
Shit! Carter is out there!
The world seemed to be moving in slow motion for Michael as he got up and started running. He felt invincible, like he could do anything, like he could catch this assassin. He ignored the sounds of his partner calling out to him and rushed forward with everything he had.
When he reached the road, he saw Carter, weapon drawn, leveling it at the assassin. However, the assassin jumped and, sliding over the hood of the old Crown Victoria, kicked the large African-American cop in the face even as he cocked the gun.
Carter might as well have been a puppy. He flew back more than three feet from the impact, landing with a heavy thud.
Michael heard himself scream out, “No!” before leveling his gun at the assassin and pulling the trigger.
The assassin’s head cocked at the sound, and with a leap, the figure landed on the other side of Sergeant Carter, the bullet whizzing past. Securing the rifle on what looked like a harness on his back, the assassin took off down the road, moving at an uncanny speed.
Michael rushed forward, jumping onto the hood of the squad car and then leaping off, launching himself over Carter. As he landed, Michael tore off running again. His heart was pounding harder than it ever had, so loudly he could only hear the rushing of his own blood. He felt he could all but fly.
What’s happening to me?
The assassin tore into another driveway, leading toward another boathouse. Michael followed, coming across a boathouse about the size of Robert’s. A couple was out front, grilling something.
As the assassin ran past them, he stopped and kicked the grill, launching it into the air. As the grill came down, the assassin spun around and kicked it, sending sizzling hot steaks and flaming coals right at Michael.
Seeing the burning coals and meat come at him, Michael quickly ducked and performed a baseball slide. The fiery debris flew over him as if tumbling silently through space. Michael noted that the meat still looked a bit undercooked. Looking forward, he saw the assassin heading toward the railing of the boathouse. A much larger tour boat was passing by at the same time.
He’s going to jump for it!
Pushing with his free hand, Michael launched himself out of his baseball slide and back into a running position. Leveling his gun at the assassin, and barely hearing the screams of the couples on the tour boat as they dove to the ground, Michael fired off three shots. The sound of the bullets leaving his chamber sounded distant.
The assassin jumped on the railing and, head cocking toward the bullets, did a leap in the air, flipping heels overhead. The bullets whizzed underneath the figure, who had turned to face Michael, albeit upside down. From a leg holster, the figure withdrew a pistol and, pointing it at Michael, fired off three shots. Then the assassin landed on the tour boat, about a dozen tourists scattering.
Quickly, Michael threw himself into the air and twisted his body, slamming himself against one of the exterior walls of the boathouse and sliding along it toward the waterside of the boat. The bullets whizzed past, although one grazed his cheek. Michael couldn’t feel the pain.
Landing on the water side of the houseboat, Michael looked up and saw that the tour boat had nearly passed where he was standing. Gripping his gun hard and taking a few steps back, Michael rushed along the length of the houseboat until he was nearly at the opposite end.
At the last moment, he jumped up and, swinging his legs to the side, ran along the wall for a few steps before vaulting off the side of the houseboat and over the water, his body spinning as he rolled onto the deck of the tour boat.
Once he was on his feet, Michael looked around and saw the assassin racing toward the back of the ship. The tourists were running toward Michael, effectively blocking his path to the killer.
Mo
ve!
Rushing toward the panicked crowd of tourists, Michael jumped up and, landing on the railing of the tour boat, slid past the dozen or so now completely shocked tourists before landing on the stern area of the boat. The assassin had reached the railing and was looking to jump into the water.
Michael was aware of himself screaming out, “Stop!” and leveling his gun at the assassin. The assassin turned, pistol focused on Michael, and the two pulled the trigger at the same time.
Michael rolled to the side, avoiding the bullet as it whizzed past him, and the assassin did the same. The two leapt to their feet and the assassin spun around, aiming at Michael’s gut with a kick. Michael barely brought his hand up in time to deflect the blow. Holding the assassin’s foot, Michael smashed his elbow against the assassin’s knee.
As the assassin fell back, his weapon spinning to the edge of the tour boat and going over the side, Michael saw the shape of hips and the outline of a bust.
A woman? The killer is… a woman?!
Michael didn’t have time to ponder that fact, as the assassin sprang to her feet and leapt at him with a flying kick. Michael barely had a chance to bring up his hands, his right hand—the one holding the gun—taking most of the blow. His own gun went spinning off across the deck as he flew back against an exterior wall of the tour boat.
Damn! She hits hard!
Michael only had a second to re-collect himself before the assassin rushed at him, going for a series of punches. Michael deflected them. He was far more comfortable with close combat. Counting over a dozen strikes at him, and certain they came in a matter of seconds, Michael finally caught what must have been the fifteenth one. Grinning at the assassin, Michael jumped and flipped back, kicking her square in the chest.
The assassin flew back, landing on the deck and skidding back. Michael’s victory was short-lived, as he saw that the assassin had landed near his gun. Landing from his attack, Michael cursed himself for being so showy in his attacks and, with everything he had, he rushed at the assassin.
The assassin lay still as Michael neared her position. Michael rushed toward his gun, reaching where the assassin’s feet were splayed out.