by King, Leo
Sam shook her head and looked forward, saying, “Violet was twelve years old during the Bourbon Street Ripper murders, Richie. There is no way a twelve-year-old blind girl could run as a courier.”
“Then maybe Blind Moses is a title,” Richie said, his voice more aggressive. “Maybe those wacky cult people, with their voodoo and Christianity and whatever, just give the name Blind Moses to one of their most important people.”
“Good theory,” Sam said stoically, starting to feel worn down. Her head wasn’t hurting, but her heart was. She wanted to go to bed and forget about today ever happening. She wasn’t even sure what was real anymore—if she was insane or under some kind of control. Maybe I am possessed by a loa after all.
Feelings of helplessness assailed Sam, and for a brief moment, Sam had an image in her mind of a stone floor covered in blood, a visage of skull-like faces staring at her from the darkness, and a feeling of overwhelming terror.
As Richie continued to prattle on, Sam felt like she was going to cry.
“I’m not trying to theorize here, Sam,” said Richie as he continued his diatribe, his brow furrowing as he harshly turned a few corners. “But this shit is getting way out of control. Serial murders? Secret societies? Voodoo cults? Christ, Sam, this is getting serious!”
Sitting up straight, Sam looked over at Richie, feeling a sudden rush of anxiety. She was sure Richie was getting ready to abandon her like everyone else eventually did. The ache in her heart only increased as she furrowed her brow.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Richie?” Sam said, her bottom lip starting to shake. “Why can’t you be supportive of me in this? I need to follow this thing through to the end! I need to know what’s happening to me! Why are you being such an asshole?”
His voice raised to almost a scream, Richie cried out, “I don’t want you to get hurt! I care too much about you!”
Richie’s exclamation took Sam by surprise. She sat back and stared ahead, unsure what to say. Too much was happening at once. She had to pull away, get away from Richie and everyone else. She had to be alone. She was safer alone.
“You’re too sweet for someone as messed up as me,” Sam finally said.
“Sam,” Richie replied, desperation in his voice, “don’t say that. I—”
Sam interrupted by placing a hand over one of his. Looking over at him, she said, “Richie, I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve been so sweet to me, from the time we met until now. You didn’t need to be, and God knows, I don’t deserve it, but you have been. That means the world to me.”
Sighing, Sam looked away and watched as Richie pulled into the driveway of her townhome. “You should go back to Pittsburgh. I’m falling into hell. It started with my grandfather, and it’s ending with me. This is a Castille problem. Whatever is going on, this is a hell I don’t want to drag you into. Go back to Pittsburgh. Write your next book. Forget about me and all this death. Live a good life. Good-bye, Richie. Thank you for showing me a few days of happiness.”
Sam unlocked the door and got out of the car. The hot August air felt oppressive, but Sam was used to it. All her life people had hated her, and she had been alone. It wasn’t a new sensation to her. It was better she do this alone.
Sam was halfway up the steps to her front porch when she felt someone grab her hand. Spinning around, she saw Richie, a look in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. Instead of the suave novelist, or the disarming goof, she saw the eyes of a man—a strong and sincere man, looking at her with what only could be compassion.
“If you’re going to hell, Samantha Castille,” Richie said, his voice low but firm, “let me be there to pull you out. No matter what happens, I swear you won’t go through this alone. And when this is done, let me be the wings that carry you back out of hell. I love you, Sam. I always will.”
Sam’s throat tightened to the point that she couldn’t swallow. Her eyes instantly began to water. Her tough exterior, the one she had carefully built up over the past twenty years, cracked like an eggshell.
“Richie, I… ” Despite priding herself on always being strong and in control, Sam couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
Richie pulled Sam into his arms. For a moment, Sam looked up into those crystal-blue eyes, lost in their depth. Then her eyes closed, and she leaned up, her head tilting to the side, her lips parting. She felt his lips press into hers as they met in the center—each coming to the other.
Her mind slipped into autopilot. The taste of his kiss, the scent of his skin, the feel of his strong arms around her, drew her into a feeling of security she had never experienced before. Sam wasn’t sure how long the two of them kissed, or when their hands started to tug at each other’s clothes, or when they went into the townhome, or up the stairs, but by the time her mind came back to her, she was in her bed and Richie was on top of her.
Sensations overwhelmed Sam, and with them a feeling of completeness that overtook every one of her senses. She couldn’t describe it. It was unlike anything she could ever have dreamt it to be. Sam felt as if they were no longer two people, but one person, joined in a way that was more than beautiful—it was sacred.
Her arms wrapped around Richie’s neck, holding on to him as if her were her only lifeline, as if letting go would drop her into the abyss. She kept staring into his deep blue eyes, her body tensing from the overwhelming feelings as their lovemaking continued.
After what seemed like an eternity later, Sam was vaguely aware that Richie had sped up his motions, and that she was arching her back and crying out. The pleasure inside her had grown until it overtook her. Then it hit. A tidal wave of unstoppable force, like nothing ever felt before, crested again and again and carried her to a place of bliss.
Sometime later, Sam’s mind came back to her. She was lying next to Richie, resting her head on his chest, her finger delicately touching the muscles on his chest. She gave extra attention to a single scar, shaped like a slight crescent, which reached from the top of his chest down to just above his stomach. Richie held onto her tightly, a silent reminder of his vow.
Sam’s finger lightly traced Richie’s chest scar as if it were fragile. “Where did you get this scar?”
Richie mumbled something incoherent, half-asleep, and turned to fully embrace Sam. His body against hers made Sam feel, for the first time in her life, utterly secure.
Sam couldn’t do anything but smile. Never before had she known such joy.
I can’t deny it any longer.
Sam’s lips pressed over Richie’s chest, kissing it gently before resting her head against it and settling down to sleep.
I’m in love with this man.
And that night, for the first time in many years, all was well in her life. There were no nightmares, no headaches and no worries.
That night, Sam was happy.
Epilogue
Date: Sunday, August 9, 1992
Time: 3:00 a.m.
Location: Somewhere in the French Quarter
The sound of a rat scurrying across the ground of an abandoned apartment in the French Quarter caught the attention of one of the room’s two inhabitants. Wearing a black hooded robe, the man stood over a sink, washing his hands with thick soap. The sink, like the rest of the apartment, was decrepit and stained with mold and rust.
As he finished washing his hands, the man said, “I’m really disappointed in the police, you know. I thought they would be more on their game. Between those detectives following every red herring, and Commander Ouellette being convinced Samantha Castille is me, I have almost no opposition.”
Drying off his hands on a surprisingly fresh-looking white towel, the man walked over to the end of the counter where a tray lay, its contents covered with a duty towel. As he lifted the tray and carried it across the room, the man said, “I am still hoping someone will rise to the occasion and challenge me. Maybe that junior detective, LeBlanc. I have high hopes for him.”
Placing the tray down on a stand near a covered table, the man said, �
��The sad part is that LeBlanc is right. The police should really be focusing on the original crimes to figure out who I am.”
Looking at the covered table from beneath his hood, the man’s pale mouth parted into a smirk. “You’re frightened. Don’t worry, everything has purpose, even your death.”
The man looked up at the single lightbulb illuminating the otherwise dim room. “I’ve been waiting for this time, my time, for so long. With tonight, vengeance shall finally be mine.”
As he lowered his head, the man removed the duty towel from the tray, revealing the metallic shine of a myriad of surgical items—scalpels, forceps, probes, even bone saws. Touching his fingers tenderly to the steel tools, the man said, “It’s been too many years, but with Nick’s assistance, everything is coming together perfectly. He even managed to get you to me without any problems. I’m very proud of that boy.”
Turning to the side, the man turned on the monitoring equipment, which stood next to the covered table. A heart rate monitor, an intravenous machine, and an artificial respirator were all soon beeping away quietly. The man gave a nod to the equipment and turned back to the table.
With a sound of disgust in his voice, the man said, “You’ll have to forgive me for starting so late. My prior engagements kept me away later than I’d have liked. Necessary evils to keep up my facade.
“But you’ll forgive me, won’t you? Of course you will.”
Grabbing the corner of the covering over the table, the man pulled it back, revealing a girl no more than sixteen years old, dressed in a skimpy, skin-revealing outfit. Her entire body was secured with thick leather straps, and her mouth had a ball gag with holes stuffed in it. The girl’s eyes looked utterly horrified and her entire body quaked.
“So, shall we begin?”
The girl started to scream into the gag as the man picked up a scalpel.
Underneath the black hood, the man’s lips parted into a white smile.
“I won’t lie. Tonight is going to be very difficult for you.”
As the man lowered the scalpel toward the girl’s exposed midsection, her muffled screams became even shriller.
“Very difficult indeed, Cheryl Aucoin.”
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Excerpt
Following is an excerpt from the sequel to The Bourbon Street Ripper, A Life Without Fear, available now.
Prologue
Date: Saturday, August 9, 1992
Time: 12:00 a.m.
Location: Office of Kent Bourgeois
Central Business District
“I don’t care how high the property tax in that area is, just buy the damn place.” Kent spoke into the receiver, a barbed edge to his tone. He was silent for a few moments as someone spoke to him from the other end.
“I already told you, it’s for a charity that Madame Castille is investing in this autumn.” His voice was starting to sound strained. Taking out a white cotton kerchief with an embroidered “G.C.” on it, he wiped some sweat off his brow. “No, don’t use the usual account, she’ll never sign the check in time. Poor thing has been in a knot lately over the new Bourbon Street Ripper murders.”
After a moment, he said, “Yes. Use that account. It’s better for everyone that way, I think.”
After another pause, he nodded. “Yes, that’s it exactly. Very good. Corner of Bourbon and Canal. Call me—no, email me—when the transaction is complete. I’ll be busy all day today with the Castille accounts. Huge mess to clean up there.”
With that said, he hung up the phone and mopped some sweat from his brow. “Christ, the weather is muggy. Are we due for a storm soon?” He absentmindedly played with his gold wedding band, which shone with a newly polished luster. He hoped not. It was the middle of hurricane season, and a bad storm could spell big trouble for the Big Easy.
Kent’s phone rang again, jarring him from his thoughts. He nearly jumped out of his seat from the sudden noise. Grabbing the phone, he said, “Eddie, didn’t I tell you to—oh, hello, son.” His voice went from irritated to cool. “Yes, everything is fine. Please stop worrying. No, there’s no need to do anything like that. If you need more money, I’ll transfer some into your account tomorrow.”
He loosened his necktie and finished mopping the sweat off his brow as he listened. Finally, he said, “It’s not rocket science, son. You just have to follow the instructions I gave you. They were exceedingly explicit. God, if your mother saw what a disappointment you turned out to be…”
He pulled the receiver away from his ear as incoherent yelling ripped through the other end of the line.
After the noise died down, he put the phone back to his ear and said, “And you prove my point, son. Instead of using the education that I paid for to do something useful, you work for that low-class newspaper. Instead of becoming something admirable, like a police officer, you choose to just screw one. And instead of helping your father out when he needs you the most, you call him while drunk and complain about how broke you are. What a model son you are.”
Again, he lifted the receiver away from his ear as the shouting crackled out like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. When Kent finally spoke back into the phone, his tone was considerably colder. “We had a deal, son. You help get me out of this jam I’m in and I make sure you have all the money you need to booze up, shoot up, or get messed up with that little cop friend of yours. Are you trying to back out?”
After a measure of silence, the voice on the other end of the line responded. Kent smiled wryly. “Good boy. Then I’ll contact you tomorrow. For now, try to sleep off whatever you’re on. You sound like a damn moron. Good night.”
He hung up the phone.
For a few moments, he ran his fingers over a neatly folded letter on his desk. Then he placed it in his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Scotch. He poured himself a third of a glass, removed his necktie completely, and then took a long draft.
He sighed. “I swear, if my marriage doesn’t get me killed, my stupid son will.” He sat back, closed his eyes, and continued to sip his drink. “This new Bourbon Street Ripper couldn’t have come at a worse time.”
Chapter 1
Old Friends and New Leads
Date: Sunday, August 9, 1992
Time: 6:00 a.m.
Location: Esplanade Apartments
New Orleans City Park
Water. Cool, clean, comforting water. Water that washed away the dirt, the grime, and the sins of the previous day.
Junior Detective Dixie Olivier’s eyes were closed as she felt that water cascade down her back, over her buttocks, and down her legs to the shower floor below. Leaning back, she reached up and massaged her scalp, rubbing in the shampoo. Her motions were slow and deliberate. They eased her troubled mind—and she had a lot troubling her.
The copycat serial killer dubbed “the new Bourbon Street Ripper” had the city in a panic and had caused some sort of harm to almost everyone she cared about. Her best friend, Junior Detective Michael LeBlanc, was still unconscious in the hospital, having been shot in the line of duty. Her partner, Senior Detective Kyle Aucoin, was being torn in three different directions—the case, his failing marriage, and his missing daughter. And her superior, Commander Louis Ouellette, was being pressured by City Hall to do whatever it took to find and arrest the killer.
Needless to say, quiet moments like these were getting rarer for her.
Rinsing off her hair, Dixie renew
ed her resolve to keep the investigation on track. Once Aucoin arrived, she’d bring up her list of notes on the case and suggest their next move. As a detective, she was organized and well-practiced at sorting facts, not to mention she had a reputation for being damn good at interviewing.
However, she felt that her true strength lay in analyzing situations and discovering patterns. She only hoped she’d get a chance to let that side of herself shine.
Hair rinsed, she turned off the shower and dried off before throwing on her robe, slipping on her slippers, and heading out of the bathroom.
The bedroom was mostly dark, the sun still down and the drapes drawn closed. In the shadows of the room, she made out the sleeping outline of Gino, her long-term boyfriend. His muscular form lay still beneath the sheets, his chest slowly rising and falling. She felt a flush come to her cheeks and an increase in her pulse. She dearly loved him.
Dixie hurriedly got dressed in a fresh pair of slacks and a blouse. Once her socks and shoes were on, she softly and quietly kissed Gino on the cheek. “Love you, honey. Be here when I get back.” It was something they always said to each other.
Without another word, she went to the front of their apartment.
The Esplanade at City Park was way out of the price range for someone living on a detective’s salary, but fortunately for her, the apartment was in Gino’s name. Besides being independently wealthy, he made a comfortable income writing scripts for a nationally syndicated soap opera, as well as the occasional Harlequin romance novel. He preferred a life of seclusion. To most of the other residents, he was simply “that nice, quiet Greek fellow.”
As she entered the front room, the cordless phone in the kitchenette rang. She hurried over and picked it up. Her voice was low and scolding. “Whoever you are, don’t you realize it’s six in the morning? Are you out of your—”