The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1)

by King, Leo

  And she could only interfere with Miss Patterson, Miss Cooper, Mr. Reginald, or Mr. Mason so many times before she found herself in trouble.

  “It’s because of that horrible stuff happening in New Orleans, Miss Samantha,” blabbed on Tania, increasing the pace of her cloth rinsing and the dabbing of Samantha’s face. “Mommy don’t want Violet and me talking about it, but how can you not talk about it? Not wit’ those ladies missing!”

  “Ladies missing?” Samantha again repeated and then looked over at Tania. “What is happening in New Orleans, Tania?”

  The Patterson twin looked like someone had slapped her in the face. Flustered, she shook her head and waved her hands, saying, “Lord me, I have said too much. Don’t you mind me, Miss Samantha, I’m just talking out the side of my mouth!”

  Samantha didn’t reply. She genuinely liked Tania Patterson. She was the more simple of the two Patterson twins, but she was nice and had a good heart—unlike her sister, Violet, whom Samantha regarded as mean and moody.

  “Anyway, Miss Samantha,” Tania droned on, “I don’t know what your grandfather is up to, but I seen him talking to Mama late last night about something. All I heard was them talking in old Creole. Mama said she won’t teach me Creole.”

  Samantha looked over at Tania and blinked, the cool rag on her head making it very difficult for her to keep her eyes open. “Why not?”

  “Because she’s too stupid to learn Creole,” said a much slower-paced and sterner voice from the entrance of Samantha’s bedroom. Both Samantha and Tania turned to see Violet standing there, hands on the door frame and looking in their direction, her gray eyes staring blankly and showing the usual lack of emotion.

  “Oh Violet, why you gotta be so mean to me?” cried out Tania, her face showing genuine upset.

  “Because you are an idiot,” was Violet’s reply as she leaned against the frame of the doorway. “You shouldn’t go talking to your betters like you’re equal to them. Also, you need to watch what you say, or Mama will skin your ass.”

  Tania’s lip wobbled from Violet’s chiding. Samantha’s brow furrowed, even though that pinched her sunburned skin together. She really didn’t like Violet Patterson. Everything about her screamed “mean” and “bully.”

  “Tania can talk to me all she wants,” Samantha said, reaching out to pat the visibly upset Patterson sister on the knee. “She’s my friend, and I like her. You should apologize to your sister right now, Violet!”

  Tania looked from Samantha to Violet and back again, tears on the rims of her eyes.

  After a few seconds of silence, Violet stoically said, “I apologize, sister.”

  Tania got up and rushed over to her twin sister, hugging her tightly. “Oh sister, I knew you was just being tough,” she said. “I always knows you love me.”

  Samantha watched as Violet slowly placed a hand on her sister’s back, the insincerity of the hug more than apparent from Samantha’s angle. Violet looked over Tania’s shoulder, focusing on nothing at all. “Idiot. You make a big deal out of everything.”

  Samantha thought to herself how horrible Violet was, watching the exchange with growing contempt for her. The little girl wondered how someone could be so mean to her own twin sister. If I had a sister, she’d be my best friend.

  “Tania,” Violet finally said, still in the embrace, “Miss Cooper wants you to go and peel onions for tonight’s dinner.”

  Tania stepped back and said, “Oh, but what about Miss Samantha here? Can you tend to her?”

  Violet immediately said, “Mother has me on a task from the master. I cannot.”

  “It’s okay,” Samantha said to Tania. “I’ll be fine. I’m already feeling much better.” It was a small fib, but Samantha knew better than to distract Tania from her duties, lest the girl get her ears boxed by the cook.

  “All right then, Miss Samantha,” Tania said, giving Samantha a thumbs-up. “I will sees you at dinner!”

  With that said, Tania scampered off toward the kitchen.

  Samantha closed her eyes and relaxed her breathing. She felt the motion of the air in the room, and felt the coolness of the rag on her head. These sweet and comforting sensations were soon overshadowed by a cold feeling of unease. Her brow furrowing, Samantha opened her eyes.

  Standing directly over her was Violet Patterson. She had moved to Samantha’s side without making so much as a sound, and seemed to be staring blankly at her. Up close, Violet’s grayish eyes were like polished steel, showing no emotion.

  Samantha gasped, her little heart racing. She clutched her doll tightly, as if it were a protective blanket that would keep her safe.

  Without a word, Violet took the rag off Samantha’s head. Never shifting her blank gaze, Violet wet the rag in the basin, rinsed it out, wrung it out, folded it, and placed it back on the girl’s head. Then, taking the basin, Violet backed up and left the room, never looking away from Samantha until she was gone.

  Despite the deadness of her eyes, the look on Violet’s face was unmistakable—a cold, remorseless hatred.

  As soon as she was gone, Samantha breathed again, her little heart pounding in her chest. Tears formed in her eyes. She hadn’t been frightened like that in quite some time.

  For a long time, Samantha lay in her bed, looking up at the ceiling and trying to shake the fear. She found that she couldn’t. Violet’s odd behavior had terribly frightened her, and resting was now impossible. Samantha knew what she wanted. She wanted her grandfather. She wanted Grandpa Vincent.

  Getting up, still clutching her doll, she slowly crept through the hallways of the Castille mansion to her grandfather’s study. Soon the large oaks doors loomed before her, and Samantha knocked gingerly on them.

  No response.

  After waiting a few seconds, Samantha knocked again, this time more assertively.

  Still no response.

  The girl fretted as the memory of Violet’s creepy behavior assailed her, and finally, just wanting to be near her grandfather’s things, Sam pushed open the door and entered the study.

  All the lights were off, casting the room into eerie shadows, save for one light on her grandfather’s desk. Holding her doll to her chest, Samantha crept toward the desk and, scooting up on her toes, looked up on it.

  Nothing really caught her eye, just some boring letters written in calligraphy and a ledger of household expenses. Her grandfather, caught in what Father often referred to as the “time of antiquity,” still wrote with a quill, and Samantha had learned at an early age not to mess with the inkwell. So when Samantha saw that the inkwell’s cap was still off, lying on a nearby book, the girl slipped up onto her grandfather’s writing chair, swiped the cap, and placed it back on the inkwell.

  As she leaned back, she noticed that the book the inkwell cap was on had a funny design, something that looked like a triangle, but with flourishes coming out of the sides and the points. Above the design, written in gold leaf, was the word Vodoun.

  “Vodoun,” Samantha said out loud, pronouncing the word as voh-dune.

  It was a curiously thick book, with a bookmark jutting out in one place. Samantha, in spite of herself, found opening the book to be irresistible. The girl excitedly thought to herself that “voh-dune” was something new and different. She figured it would be best for her to learn about it, and then maybe she’d have something new to talk to her grandfather about.

  Because she was a small child, she had some difficulty opening the book. Once it was open, however, Samantha looked at the pages and immediately wished she had left well enough alone.

  On one page of the book was a whole bunch of writing in a language that reminded Samantha of French, but clearly was not. She had heard Miss Patterson and Violet speaking in a French-like language before, and knew what it was called, but had never seen the language written down. However, this is what this had to be—Creole.

  On the other page, however, was a detailed drawing of a skeletal figure, dressed elegantly in a black tuxedo, with a black top
hat and dark glasses. A cigar stuck out of his skull-faced mouth and a bottle of rum was in his bony hand.

  The caption underneath said, “Baron Samedi.”

  “Baron Samedi,” Samantha said to herself. As she started to turn the page to see if there were any more drawings, the girl heard the sounds of footsteps and voices approaching the doorway to the study.

  Quickly, Samantha closed the large book—quite a feat while kneeling on her grandfather’s chair—arranged it as best she could, and hid herself underneath the desk. She had never snuck into her grandfather’s study before, but she knew it made him very angry when someone did that. So, clinging to her doll, she held her breath and waited.

  The first voice she recognized as Miss Patterson, the housekeeper, who said, “Are you sure you want to go through with this, Master Castille? It’s still not too late to turn back, Madonna help us all.”

  “I am certain, Miss Patterson,” said Vincent’s voice as he stopped at the door. “Besides, at this point, I’m rather besieged into this arrangement. Our interested party isn’t known for patience. And while there may be some stupid enough to cross him, I am not one of those people.”

  The door to the study opened, and Vincent, dressed in his doctor’s attire, entered the study. Miss Patterson walked in behind him. From her vantage point, Samantha could only see their feet, but her grandfather’s highly polished shoes, and Miss Patterson’s thick shoes and thicker ankles, were unmistakable.

  “I do understand that, Master Castille, but what about them murders going on in Nawlins right now? You know, the Ripper murders?” There was a real caution to the housekeeper’s voice. “If you were to do anything with all that happening, wouldn’t it send the poh-lice your way?”

  Vincent, who was standing at the desk, seemed to stall out while rifling through objects on his desk. Samantha continued to hold her breath, breathing shallowly and only when she dared. She remembered that her grandfather had a keen eye for detail, and wondered if he would notice something off about his desk.

  Oh no! The inkwell cap. He’ll notice that the inkwell cap is back on! Oh dear!

  Wanting to be an honest girl, Sam thought about getting up and turning herself in now. However, she stopped any movement the moment she heard her grandfather say, “Yes, the Bourbon Street Ripper murders in New Orleans are indeed unfortunate, Miss Patterson. You are being smart and keeping your daughters indoors, yes?”

  “Oh yes,” replied Miss Patterson. “I keep them inside at night just like you said. No one is gonna butcher my girls!”

  “Good,” replied Vincent as he walked away from the desk. “Now, Miss Patterson, I believe I will be requiring the services of Blind Moses again. Can you contact her for me?”

  Samantha wondered who Blind Moses was.

  Miss Patterson’s voice grew quiet and subdued as she said, “If that’s what you wish, Master Castille. I’ll bring her to you.”

  “I’ll meet her out back, Miss Patterson,” said Vincent as he headed toward the door, the housekeeper following him. “That way I can finish my tea. When Sam wakes up, I want to go riding with her.”

  “Of course, Master Castille,” Miss Patterson said, following Vincent out of the study.

  For a long time after they left, Samantha lay there, her breathing slowly returning to normal. What she had heard didn’t mean anything to her, and the girl wondered just what the “Bourbon Street Ripper” was, what “Baron Samedi” was, and who “Blind Moses” was.

  “What is Grandfather doing, and who is he working with who’s all impatient?” Samantha asked herself out loud.

  Heading toward the hallway, Samantha pushed the door open and—

  —suddenly Samantha was standing inside the basement of her grandfather’s mansion. The room was bathed in a dim and cold blue light. All around were wooden and metal devices of torture: a rack for stretching limbs, a Saint Andrew’s cross for flogging, an iron chair for cooking flesh, and an iron maiden for puncturing bodies. But the centerpiece of this chamber was a large metal table, with thick leather straps on all four corners, and a tray covered in all sort of equipment, from scalpels to drills to soldering irons to hooks to circular saws.

  Samantha gasped and dropped her doll, which shattered like glass as the room took on a red hue, heat rising everywhere about her. In the center of the room, strapped to that table, was her father, Edward, his chest cavity opened up as if an autopsy were being performed on him. Standing next to her father’s corpse was Vincent, dressed in his doctor’s scrubs. Her grandfather was removing Edward’s heart with the forceps, while pausing to write down notes in a notebook with a bloody, but otherwise shiny, silver pen.

  Samantha eyes were wide and her lips were curling in terror. Her small frame was shaking violently, and her head hurt, bells ringing in it. Suddenly, she screamed, “Noooooooo!”

  Slowly, Vincent turned and looked over at Samantha, Edward’s heart still and unbeating held in those forceps. Putting down the pen, Vincent pulled down his mask. His expression was one of confusion. “No?”

  His voice had a tone of stern reprimand as he said, “What do you mean, ‘no,’ Sam? This is the very thing you asked for, the very thing you wanted. How can you say ‘no’ to me now, Sam?”

  As Samantha backed away, Vincent stalked toward her, holding out her father’s heart. “You wanted this, and I gave it to you. I told you, you are the most alive when you are in pain. Edward’s suffering, all of my victims’ suffering, it made them more alive than they ever were before.”

  Vincent was upon Samantha, holding her father’s dead heart right before her eyes. “Did you see it, Sam? Did you see the life leaving his body? Wasn’t it wonderful, Sam? Wasn’t it wonderful?”

  Samantha felt her tongue loosen, and she screamed, “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Why? You want to know why?” replied Vincent. “Can’t you remember why?”

  Suddenly, Samantha the child was Sam the adult, standing there in front of the table where her father’s dead body lay. In Sam’s hands, she held a scalpel and a pair of forceps—in them was her father’s lifeless heart. With a gasp, Sam dropped them both, the heart making a shploop sound as it hit the ground. Sam backed up, right into Vincent.

  Sam froze as her grandfather’s hands came to rest on her shoulders. Leaning forward, his lips parted, and Vincent Castille muttered, “It was all for you, Princess. All so that you might live… ”

  Vincent’s breath was like ice on her skin.

  “… a life without fear.”

  With a start, Sam Castille awoke from her nightmare. The sky was already starting to darken. Looking over at her alarm clock, Sam saw that it was already seven in the evening. Her stomach rumbled and her head, though still feeling full, was no longer in terrible pain.

  Getting up, Sam headed downstairs to the kitchen, and was surprised to see that the lights in her study were still lit. Wondering if she had left the downstairs light on, Sam cautiously walked into the study, wary that there might be another intruder.

  Sitting in one of her chairs was Richie Fastellos. He had a book—one of Sam’s, entitled Branston’s Bungle—in his lap, and his head was leaned back. His mouth was open and he was snoring slightly.

  Sam felt herself smile as she took in the sight, pressing herself against the frame of the doorway. Whether she had wanted to or not, Sam had grown quite fond of him. His awkwardness and cavalier attitude, although unwarranted, was very appealing. Moreover, he was nice to her, going out of his way to help her out in this difficult spot.

  Sam, remembering it had been Richie who had helped her to bed earlier, and then left her alone, also realized, when you cut away at the layers of attitude, machismo, and charm, Richie was a real gentleman.

  As Sam watched Richie sleep, she took in the shape of his face, the broadness of his shoulders, and the leanness of his form. Feeling her heart flutter a bit and a heat rise to her cheeks, Sam looked away, trying to push those thoughts out of her head. When she looked back, she fo
und her eyes sliding down to Richie’s pants. Her body began to ache with a desire she hadn’t felt in years, and with an embarrassed gasp, Sam quickly turned away.

  I cannot believe I just checked him out! What’s wrong with me?

  Still, Sam felt her gaze returning to look over Richie as he began to stir, and once again Sam found herself smiling softly.

  Well, he is nice to look at, and I’ve always been attracted to guys with a lot of intensity.

  Sam’s perusal only lasted a little bit longer before Richie woke and sat up suddenly, the book dangerously close to sliding off his lap. Sam quickly looked away, so as to not be caught staring at her guest. Clearing her throat, she said, “Hey, it’s about dinnertime. You hungry?”

  Richie, who was still waking up, looked around and presumably saw what time it was, because he muttered, “Crap, I fell asleep. Dinner? Yeah, sounds good.”

  As Richie got up, Sam’s book fell to the floor. Richie made an “ack” sound before picking it up and checking the book for damage. Sam watched the incident and chuckled, shaking her head and saying, “Goof.”

  “Sorry about that,” Richie said, dusting off the book and starting to put it away, but not before tapping the book and saying, “Good story, by the way. You’re not a bad writer, Sam. You just need to work on your narrative.”

  As Sam led Richie to the kitchen, she said, “Is that so? Is that some of the professional coaching I get as part of my end of the bargain?”

  Entering the kitchen, Sam started to search the cupboards and refrigerators for something to make a meal out of, and found she was sorely lacking in groceries. Frowning, Sam barely heard Richie’s response—that he was just giving advice because he liked her writing and wanted to see it improved.

  “That’s nice, thanks,” she said as she scanned the cupboard for food that was not there. She finally shook her head, saying, “You know, I just think we’re either doing takeout or eating out tonight, Richie. My cupboard is bare.”