by Jana DeLeon
After a third intake of air, she pushed herself up from the stairs, wobbling as she rose. She leaned against the stone wall that was on one side of the stairs to help stabilize herself, then shone her flashlight into the crypt. Slowly, she scanned every inch of the space as she crept down the stairs, praying that she’d find Reagan alive.
Panic coursed through her when she realized the room was empty. Had Emile shot her and removed her from the room? She stepped off the stairs and shone her light on the floor, looking for any clue as to what had happened here. In the far corner, she caught sight of a dark spot on the ground. She hurried over and crouched down, panicking all over again when she realized the spot was blood.
A couple feet away was an odd-shaped piece of stone that also had bloodstains on it. She picked up the stone and studied it, then realized it had been sharpened into a knife. This didn’t belong to Emile. He had a ceremonial knife. The crude structure of this one suggested it had been homemade, and the stone matched those that made up the floors and walls of the crypt. Reagan must have made this. She’d stabbed Emile to escape and he’d shot at her. The question was had he hit her? And more importantly, if she wasn’t dead, where was she now?
She had to find Reagan. There was still a chance the girl was alive and if she was, then she desperately needed their help, especially if she’d been drugged. She rose from the squatting position but as she turned around, a gunshot roared through the tiny room.
The bullet hit her right biceps, ripping into the flesh and causing her to drop her gun. Clutching the biceps with her left hand, she scrambled to grab the pistol when a second shot zipped right by her head.
“Don’t move again.”
The blood rushed from her face at the sound of his voice. She’d didn’t have to look up. She knew it was him. Wave after wave of panic coursed through her and she concentrated on keeping her legs from buckling. Her vision blurred and she looked at the stairs where she could barely make out the figure standing halfway down.
She blinked and her vision began to clear. Then she saw him, standing there wearing the robe and the goat mask. She cried out involuntarily, trying to control the feelings of dread, revulsion, and despair that threatened to take over her mind and deliver the final crushing blow that would break her forever.
“I told him to bring you to me,” Emile said. “I knew he wouldn’t, but you’re here anyway.”
“Were you and your sick buddies planning to kill me this time?”
“My followers weren’t as committed as I was. They had to be sacrificed to protect his work. But now I can write the final chapter—just like I saw in the vision the One sent me. Killing you will allow me to ascend to my rightful place. I’ll have power over mankind forever. I’ll never die and for all of eternity, everyone will worship me or suffer the consequences.”
“No one will ever worship you,” Shaye said. “They’ll strap you onto a bed and put a needle of death into your arm. You’ll be forever known as the delusional monster that you are.”
“I won’t be caught. I can’t be. Don’t you understand? I am the messenger of death. I am the harbinger of all that is dark. I am the end.”
Shaye scrambled to find something to keep him talking. Surely Jackson was tracking Emile and would come back here. “Then why are you using a gun? I thought you used a knife to serve the One.”
“The One will understand, especially if I give him you. You’re going to be his bride, you know? That was always your place…next to him in hell.”
He leveled the gun at her, and what little strength she had left disappeared. She leaned back against the wall, trying to remain standing, but her body began a slow slide down the wall. Emile pulled the mask off with his left hand, the gun still clenched in his right, and smiled at her. His smile was even worse than the mask.
The words Shaye wanted to share with Corrine, Jackson, Eleonore, and all the other people who loved her and whom she loved rolled through her mind. All the things she would never have a chance to say to them, but most importantly, to thank them all for making her life the incredible experience it had been for the past nine years.
She closed her eyes and waited for the darkness that was coming.
When the sound of gunfire engulfed the tiny room, she cried out, knowing that pain was certain to follow long before she faded into black and no pain at all. But as the moments ticked by and only the pain in her arm remained, she opened her eyes and looked up.
Emile was collapsed facedown at the bottom of the stairs, blood seeping from under his head. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and she looked up as a set of black slacks began to come into view.
A wave of nausea passed through her. “No!”
She knew those pants and suddenly, she knew why the plantation name sounded familiar. She watched in horror as Pierce Archer descended into the crypt.
“You were the plantation owner’s grandson,” she said. “Jonal Derameau framed your father for murder and extorted millions from him. Then he drugged you and staged you performing an occult ritual with a girl on an altar so that he could take pictures and video, guaranteeing that if he needed more money, you would have to comply like your father did.”
Pierce looked down at her, his shoulders slumped, his expression one of a man who’d reached bottom. “I’m so sorry, Shaye. I swear to you, I didn’t know how to find him. Until this moment, I didn’t even know his name. I don’t know the name of the man I killed, either.”
“Emile Samba. You might not have known his name, but you knew he was my captor. You saw the brand.”
“I recognized the brand when you were found, but I had no way of finding the man who did it. I saw the man who framed my father and I only once, after my father’s funeral. He wasn’t a young man then, so when decades passed and I never heard anything, I thought he had died. I thought I was finally free. Then this…thing contacted me today. He told me he had the brand, pictures, and video and he wanted to exchange them for you.”
“You could have told the police where to find him,” Shaye said.
“Then everyone would have known. It would have ruined my life and yours and Corrine’s. I came here tonight to kill him. To end this forever. I didn’t know that you’d be here. I didn’t know that you knew about my father and me.”
“Jonal left a journal that confessed everything he did, including rescuing me. Emile’s name and address was in the journal.”
“And now you know it all. I failed. The scandal will ruin everything my father and I worked for. Everything that you and Corrine accomplished for yourselves.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I knew my father plotted to murder my grandfather. I knew the man who held you captive was somehow related to all of that. And I never told the police. Maybe if I had, they would have been able to find him sooner. Before he could torture another child.”
Shaye looked down at the ground for several seconds before looking back up at him. She couldn’t argue with him on those points. Even though she understood his reasons, she also believed he should have told the truth all those years ago. And then something else occurred to her.
“You made sure Corrine got custody of me, didn’t you?” she asked.
He nodded. “If you ever remembered, I wanted to know. I wanted to find the man who did that to you and kill him, and being close to you was the easiest way to know if your memory returned. But my feelings for you were never a lie. You are my granddaughter. I swear that helping Corrine get custody wasn’t about me. I wanted to help you. But not telling the cops what I knew was selfish. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Fear coursed through her. “What are you saying?”
He looked down at her, completely defeated, ultimately miserable, and so very sad. “I love you, Shaye. Tell Corrine I love her more than anything in the world. You won’t have to stand by me through an investigation. I won’t do that to you. This all ends now.”
“No!” Shaye launched up from the ground but it
was too late.
Pierce Archer placed the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
29
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
Algiers Point, New Orleans, Louisiana
Harold Beaumont knocked on the front door but no one answered. He twisted the knob and the door opened. He stepped inside the living room that he’d been in a hundred times before and glanced around. Everything was in its place. Every lamp, vase, and potted plant. Just like it had been before the man’s wife died three years before.
He walked toward the back of the house, where the kitchen was located, figuring he’d find the man he sought there. He was right. The man sat at the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him. He looked up as Harold entered the room, then sighed.
“When I heard you were in the middle of this, I knew you’d figure it out,” he said.
Harold pulled out a chair and sat across from the man who’d served as his police chief for fifteen years of his career. “Jonal Derameau only told the story of a single plantation owner in his journal—Pierce Archer’s grandfather. But when I did some poking around, I found that not one but three plantation owners died within a two week period, each with a single son as an heir.”
Bernard looked out the kitchen window but didn’t respond.
“I figure,” Harold continued, “that Jonal saw the news about Corrine Archer getting custody of the girl he’d rescued, and he wrote that journal because he knew if anyone ever came looking for him, it would be about the girl. The journal was his way of protecting both Shaye and Pierce. He probably thought you were safe.”
Bernard shook his head. “Jonal was an old man who didn’t think everything through. Otherwise he would have known that people wouldn’t be able to leave this alone. Not until the entire story was told.”
“I don’t know the entire story, but I think I know enough. I remember you telling me that your father inherited a plantation when he was still a teen. That he lost everything when he had to go to war. That he came home and joined the New Orleans police force. He didn’t have money to offer Jonal Derameau, but he could do his best to keep the police from investigating the gambling and drug trafficking that went on in Jonal’s clubs.”
“My father told me he tried to find Jonal, but he was a ghost. No one knew where he lived or how to contact him.”
“Do you believe that’s the truth?”
Bernard shrugged. “I don’t know. Jonal told my father that he’d left documents with an attorney and that if he died by anything other than natural causes, those documents would become public.”
“And then later, Jonal framed you so that he ensured your cooperation once your father retired.”
“He never asked me for anything,” Bernard said. “I saw him one time only—after my father’s funeral. He reminded me of the power he had over me, but I never heard from him again. I wasn’t really surprised. I think the clubs had gone legit years before. Hell, maybe he didn’t even own them any longer. He was probably just making sure I never talked.”
“That’s a good possibility.”
“I didn’t do those awful things—in the film, those pictures. You have to believe me.”
“I believe you. Jonal drugged Pierce. He said so in his journal. Everything was staged for Pierce as I’m certain it was staged for you.”
Bernard looked at Harold, clearly miserable. “I destroyed evidence from Shaye Archer’s case file and lied to you about it. I recognized the brand and I knew what it would tie me to.”
“But you didn’t know who her captor was or how to find him.” Harold leaned on the table. “You’re not to blame for what Jonal or Emile did, but there is one thing you are responsible for. You gave Emile my home address. There is no other way he could have found me.”
Bernard’s eyes widened. “No! I never gave him your address, even when he demanded it. I lied to him and told him our records had never been updated after you moved.” Bernard frowned. “But I think someone was in my house a couple weeks ago. The back door was unlocked, but since nothing was missing, I assumed I’d forgotten to lock it myself.”
“You have my address here?”
“In a book in my desk. I didn’t remember until now.”
Harold sighed. He believed Bernard was telling the truth but that didn’t change the fact that he’d destroyed evidence and failed to report his contact with Emile. Harold understood the impossible position Bernard and Pierce had been placed in, but he still liked to think he would have handled things differently.
“What are you going to do?” Harold asked.
Harold had no doubt there would be an investigation. Jonal’s journal and Pierce’s suicide had unleashed a media storm like he’d never seen before. When the police and the media dug up the same information Harold had—that three plantation owners had died in a short time frame, not just one—their next step would be identifying those sons. It was a short jump to Bernard as one of the grandsons. His entire career would come under scrutiny. Every decision he’d ever made would be gone over with a fine-toothed comb.
“I’ll turn in my resignation tomorrow,” Bernard said. “I’ll lose my pension, my reputation, and the respect of everyone who ever served with me or under me. Ultimately, I could lose my freedom.”
“I think the mitigating circumstances and your record hold enough weight to keep your freedom.”
“Maybe.” He stared at Harold. “But do I deserve it?”
Harold rose from the table, feeling old and tired for the first time since his retirement. “Only you can answer that.” He left the house and got into his car, certain that he’d just seen Bernard for the last time.
The empty bottle of sleeping pills on his counter hadn’t gone unnoticed.
30
One week later
Jackson entered the building, his usual swagger completely gone. It had been the hardest week of his life. Pierce’s suicide, Shaye’s collapse, Chief Bernard’s suicide, and the thousands of hours of media attention had turned the police department and his personal life into a circus. Walking up to the building, he fended off two crews of reporters camped out on the sidewalk. Unfortunately, his professional life wasn’t much better, with the entire department under scrutiny and Grayson miffed at him once he’d figured out Jackson thought he had been the mole.
There were a few silver linings. Emile Samba was dead and would never harm another child. Reagan Dugas had been placed with a foster family who were helping her heal. Dr. Thompson had finally awakened and it looked like he was going to be fine. And Clara Mandeville was on the mend in the comfort of her own home, without having to worry about another attack.
Jackson knocked on the door and because he didn’t expect her to answer, he called out. “It’s Jackson Lamotte.”
He heard rustling inside, and a minute later the door swung open and Eleonore Blanchet looked out at him. She motioned him inside and he walked into her office, noting the empty bottle of wine on her desk.
“Backsliding,” she said, noticing his gaze. “The best I can say for it is at least it wasn’t a bottle of the expensive stuff.”
Jackson sat across from her and took in her appearance. The woman who always looked so put together now appeared to be falling apart. The dark circles under her eyes told of the many nights of lost sleep. The puffy eyelids and bloodshot eyes belied the tears she’d shed. The slump of her shoulders and sagging jaw were those of a woman who’d been emotionally beaten down.
“Are you okay?” he asked, even though the answer was right in front of him.
“If you have to ask, you already know the answer.”
He nodded. “I know you can’t tell me anything relayed to you as her therapist, but can you tell me as her friend if Shaye is all right?”
Eleonore shook her head.
Jackson sighed. “I guess I already knew the answer to that question, too.”
“They’re devastated,” Eleonore said. “So am I. Shaye’s past rushing back in…Pierce�
��s connection with Jonal and Emile…it’s so much to process that they don’t even know where to start. Honestly, neither do I.”
Eleonore grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk and wiped her eyes. “For the first time in my career, I don’t know how to help someone.”
Jackson nodded. “And now it feels like everything you did right up until this point no longer counts.”
Eleonore stared at him for a moment. “Yes. That’s exactly it.”
“Can you at least tell me if they’re safe?”
The last time Jackson had seen Shaye was when she’d been put into an ambulance and taken to the hospital. She’d told him about Pierce before collapsing in the crypt. Corrine had been admitted as well, but no one would tell Jackson what had happened to her and no one but Eleonore was allowed in their rooms.
This morning, Jackson had gone to the hospital, as he had every day, hoping that this would be the time he could see them. But when he arrived, the desk nurse told him both Corrine and Shaye had been discharged the night before. He’d driven to Shaye’s apartment and Corrine’s house, but both appeared empty. By the time he’d driven to Eleonore’s office, he was at wit’s end.
“I’m sure they’re safe,” Eleonore said, “but I don’t know where they are. Corrine asked me to bring their passports to the hospital. They left last night on Pierce’s jet.”
Jackson’s mind eased a tiny bit. It wasn’t the answer he wanted but it wasn’t a horrible one, either. Getting away from New Orleans was probably the best thing they could do. Until the media found something new to focus on, they wouldn’t have a moment’s peace outside of their homes. And that was no way to live. After only a week of it, Jackson was at the brink of asking for unpaid leave and going away himself.
“Will they be back?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think?”