by Jack Ketchum
***
"No respect," said Jacques, the lead workman, as he tightened the clamps that would hold Honore's crypt closed tight. He showed none of his usual calm, distant acceptance of the actions of the grieving mourners. Another day, he would have said nothing about the odd behavior of the younger Widow Laveau, nor of being personally singled out by Marie Laveau herself. Today, however, he seemed agitated, anxious even. "No respect at all. A man like him deserves a burial fit for a king," he said.
Guillaume sought to calm Jacques down. "'Tis nothing, my friend. Come the rapture, we will all be judged the same, king and pauper, and the manner of our burial will come to naught."
Jacques hopped lightly off the short ladder that allowed his diminutive stature the reach he needed to finish the job. Guillaume looked down at the much smaller man, who came up no higher than his shoulders, as Jacques scowled.
"Some will be judged more harshly than others, Guillaume! Betrayal, adultery, and murder never escape the Lord's sight." He spat on the ground, precisely where Widow Laveau and her servant had stood during the committal.
Guillaume gaped at the violence in his friend's eyes. "Perhaps you sympathize too much with Monsieur Laveau's passing. Come, it is late. I will buy you a good wine, and we will forget all about this."
Jacques scowled, then his expression softened. He looked up at Guillaume and replied, "Forgive me, old friend. I've been feeling rather oddly ever since today's interment. Perhaps a nice glass of wine will help both my headache and my disposition."
They gathered their tools and set them on the small handcart. Guillaume lifted the handles, and began pushing the heavy cart toward the outbuilding where they spent much of their time between burials. Jacques lagged behind, and Guillaume could hear snippets of the conversation Jacques held with himself, which consisted of small guttural sounds that resembled the barking of a rabid dog. Guillaume said nothing as he put away the tools in their rightful places. He took up a lantern and lit it. He locked up the outbuilding, and with lantern in hand, put his arm around Jacques's shoulder and led him toward the entrance to the cemetery.
Jacques followed distractedly, but when they were just outside the church grounds, he halted as if his feet had become rooted to the earth.
"We cannot let them get away with their crime," insisted Jacques.
"Who? What crime?"
"Who else, you fool? Desirée and that horse's ass, François. You saw them, their guilt dripping from their pores in the same way that their tears did not. Honore Laveau's ghost cries out for vengeance, and we must answer the call."
Guillaume stood before his friend, and with kindness in his heart, said, "The only call we must answer is the one that leads us to the local ale house, and then to bed. Besides, Laveau was no saint, as you well know."
Jacques's eyes snapped up to bore into Guillaume's. "Just what is meant by that?"
"Nothing, friend. Nothing." Guillaume put his hands on Jacques's shoulders and said, "What is wrong tonight? What possesses you to speak so?"
"I..." began Jacques, but he paused. Again, something of his old kindness came into his eyes, and he said, "It is nothing. I let the moment get the better of me. Here, let me buy you a glass of wine. Come, I know a place nearby."
He began walking, not toward their usual tavern, but in the opposite direction. Guillaume, in order to avoid bringing on another argument, followed a step behind.
They walked a long time in silence. Guillaume presumed that Jacques held his tongue to prevent himself from lashing out at whatever demons tormented him tonight. But when his feet, already sore from the day's work, began to protest the long walk, he ventured a comment.
"Jacques?" he said. "Might there not be a closer place for us to have a drink?"
The words had barely left Guillaume's lips when Jacques whirled around to face him, his face red, and thrusting his chin up aggressively toward Guillaume, said through gritted teeth, "We're almost there."
Yet after walking another quarter hour, with only homes in sight, Guillaume began to wonder about Jacques's powers of navigation.
Just as Guillaume had worked up his courage to question his friend again, Jacques announced, "We are here."
Guillaume looked to and fro, searching for Jacques's proposed tavern, yet none appeared. The light was failing, and home was another hour in the opposite direction. Though it was a warm night, a shiver ran up Guillaume's spine.
"Where might 'here' be?" said Guillaume.
"The place where it happened," replied Jacques.
"The place where what happened?"
Jacques looked Guillaume directly in the eye. "Laveau's murder." Guillaume could think of nothing to say, and Jacques hardly gave him a chance. "We must not let this crime go unpunished," he said.
"Jacques—" ventured Guillaume.
"Tonight," continued Jacques, "we are agents of the Holy Spirit. We are avenging angels. It is our mission to make the sinners pay for their heinous acts."
"Jacques, if I hadn't been with you this hour and more, I would swear you were drunk. We know nothing of a murder—"
"We do!" Just as quickly Jacques then lowered his voice. "The evidence of their guilt was written on their faces. Even the great lady Marie Laveau could see it." He glanced up and down the street, as if seeking those who might oppose him. "It is up to us, don't you see? We are the only ones who can affect this revenge. And we will be amply rewarded." Jacques paused. "You know as well as anyone in New Orleans that Laveau was rich. You have no idea how rich, my friend. And I promise you, Laveau's wealth is ours if we carry this out. It is our due. You heard the nearly—sainted Marie Laveau herself all but accuse them, and you saw that she gave us each a piece of gold already." He held his coin up to the light of the lantern, though surely it seemed to glow with its own light. "How can you doubt that Madame Laveau wants us to do this thing? It is so clear! So clear..."
"I don't know," said Guillaume. "I don't think this is a very good—"
Jacques snatched the glowing lantern out of Guillaume's hand, and quickly extinguished it. "The entrance is this way," said Jacques, turning toward the house, leaving Guillaume feeling there could be no room for argument. He led Guillaume down a narrow alleyway on the north side of Laveau's manse. Without hesitation, Jacques entered a small gate set into the barrier wall. He impatiently held the gate for Guillaume, who hesitated just outside. "Come on, we haven't much time," insisted Jacques.
"What about the servants?" asked Guillaume.
Jacques grunted. "Mireille is ancient, and Gaspar is usually off carousing at this time of night. I rather expect François is here, though," he sneered. "Do not concern yourself with them. Now, come!"
Guillaume took a step through the gate, and Jacques closed it behind him. "How do you know so much about the comings and goings of the servants?" Guillaume whispered.
"I told you, I am guided by Marie Laveau and the spirit of Monsieur Laveau himself. Their intent is as clear to me as the moon in the sky. Now, shh!" admonished Jacques in a whisper. He led them through the thick foliage to the back of the house. There he headed unerringly to a particular plant and thrust his hands down, rummaging around at its base. He soon produced a small, burnished brass key. He proceeded to open the servant's entrance with it, and stepped quickly inside.
This is not a good idea, thought Guillaume. Nevertheless, he followed.
The house was dark, and smelled of cooked meat and sweet spices. Jacques moved with the quiet self-assurance of a denizen of the house. Guillaume did his best not to bump into furniture and generally make himself known to the occupants. If his heart could be heard as well by the household as it could in his own ears, the alarm would have already been raised.
"Are you sure they're home?" whispered Guillaume.
"Silence!" hissed Jacques. As if on cue, footsteps sounded from the floor above. A woman's laugh. The creak of a bed. Then the rhythmic, unmistakable sound of lovers copulating.
The sounds only seemed to make Jacques
even more upset. He headed confidently for the stairs, and Guillaume strove to follow without knocking over the statuary that occupied the niches along the stairwell.
Jacques stopped at the landing at the top of the stairs, and was nearly trampled by Guillaume in the darkness. Jacques turned to his companion and whispered almost silently, "Do as you're told, and we shall be home before you know it." He clapped Guillaume on the shoulder, and ventured a smile. But it was an evil smile, a smile bent on murder, and it made Guillaume shudder.
The young widow Laveau moaned with lust and pleasure, and Jacques tightened his grip on Guillaume's shoulder. "It is time," said Jacques. He turned and went to the door, placing his hand on the knob. He gestured for Guillaume to come close. Then he threw the door open and charged in.
The room was lit by only a few candles, giving it a soft, intimate glow. The fireplace was dark, as it was a warm evening. Desirée Laveau faced the headboard on her hands and knees, her long, luxurious blonde hair covering her face in a cascade, and François, Laveau's trusted manservant, took her from behind with great energy and enthusiasm. Both turned to the sound of the door opening, and François shouted in anger.
"Who are you?" he bellowed as he disengaged himself from Desirée. He was a large man, though not as large as Guillaume, and appeared very intimidating despite his utter nakedness. "What are you doing here?" He raised his fists.
"Guillaume," said Jacques, "shut him up."
Guillaume brought his fist around, slamming it into the side of François's head, casting him across the room. He crashed into a large bureau and crumpled to the floor. He did not move.
Desirée ventured a scream. It was a piercing sound, and Guillaume was sure that someone would hear her.
Instead of ordering Guillaume to quiet her as well, Jacques crossed the room and gave her a stinging slap to the face, knocking her down onto the bed.
"Slut!" he shouted. "Your husband is hardly cold in his grave, and you defile his bed with that over-muscled jackass, François!"
"What do you want?" she whimpered. "Don't hurt me."
"You shall get what you deserve, and nothing less." He turned to Guillaume. "Come here," he ordered. Guillaume approached, still unsure of what he had gotten himself into. "Hold her," Jacques said.
Guillaume reached for Desirée's wrists. She pulled them away, covering her breasts, and cried, "No!" She kicked out at him, but Guillaume seized her by her ankle, and drew her to him. She struggled, but she was no match for the much larger man. He took her wrist, and twisted her arm painfully. She squealed and fought, but Guillaume managed to turn her over, wrenched her arms behind her and held her face down on the bed. He looked up at Jacques for instructions.
"Keep her there. I need to fetch some things." Jacques turned to go out the door, but paused to kick the unconscious François in the head on the way out.
"Please," said Desirée softly. "Please don't rape me. I have money. You could be a very rich man."
"Shut up," said Guillaume. He wondered how he found himself in Laveau's home, holding the man's terrified, naked wife captive, as his good friend went to gather Lord only knew what. Guillaume prayed that Jacques was only seeking out the money he'd mentioned, but he knew there was really no hope of that.
François began to stir. Guillaume fought off panic as he wondered how he would maintain control over both Desirée and François without Jacques's help. François groaned and tried to find his feet, but to no avail. He fell back down to the floor, and lay there, gasping.
Guillaume was about to call out to Jacques to hurry when he appeared at the doorway. Jacques held a length of rope, a knife, and a hammer. He locked the door behind him, and deposited the key in his shirt pocket. With Desirée face down on the bed, she could not see what Jacques had brought, but Guillaume could see well enough, and his blood ran cold.
"Stand her up," said Jacques. "I want her to see this."
Guillaume pulled Desirée off the bed, and turned her around. Tears ran down her face, and she struggled a little, but her exertions proved futile against Guillaume's grasp.
Jacques measured a length of rope, and cut it with the knife. He quickly and efficiently bound François's hands behind his back. He then took much of the rope, and tied it into an elaborate knot. Finally, Jacques took up a nearby chair, and dragged it over to where François lay. Guillaume could see he was struggling to regain a clear head. Jacques encouraged him by drawing the knife along the length of his thigh. Blood dribbled out where the blade touched him, and he squirmed as his eyes fluttered open.
"Stand up, betrayer!" ordered Jacques. At knifepoint, François struggled to right himself, and eventually found his feet. Jacques made him sit in the hard, wooden chair. Then Jacques threw the rope over an exposed beam near the ceiling, and put the knotted loop around François's neck.
"No!" screamed Desirée. It was a useless gesture, as Jacques pulled the free end tight, making the still groggy François stretch to preserve his breath.
"Stand on the chair, François, or I promise you, I will drive this knife through your heart."
François stood, crying and choking, and Jacques took up the slack, and ultimately tied the rope off on the leg of the bed.
"What are you going to do to me?" asked François with as much courage as he could muster. "Am I to be hanged?"
"That is up to you," sneered Jacques. "If you move, you will surely hang yourself." Jacques went to where he had placed the hammer, retrieved it, and went back to François. "This need last only as long as you choose," he said. And with that, he brought the hammer down on François's foot. Guillaume could hear the bones crush beneath the blow. François bellowed in pain, but he kept his balance.
"What do you want?" cried François.
Jacques raised the hammer, and held it poised to fall again. "Vengeance," he growled.
Without hesitating, Jacques brought the hammer down again on the same foot. Jacques tried to move it out of the way, but only succeeded in placing his toes under the path of the hammer. Blood spurted from the crushed toe, splattering Jacques.
"Mercy," begged François, his voice clogged with tears and pain.
"Mercy?" asked Jacques. "Is that what you showed your master when you poisoned him?" Jacques gestured with the hammer again, and François jumped back, almost tipping over the chair. Jacques laughed a laugh so evil that Guillaume felt the devil himself possessed Jacques's very soul.
"I know nothing of poison," offered François.
Jacques only laughed again. He brought the hammer up a third time, and held it, ready to strike. He gazed into François's eyes.
"I can take no more," cried François. "It was her! She seduced me. She promised to share everything with me and to marry me if I helped her." He was crying in earnest now, deep rasping sobs, his nose running freely down his face and onto his chest.
Desirée screamed out at her lover, "Liar!" She turned to Jacques and spat venomously, "Don't believe him. He seduced me. He convinced me that Honore was possessed by the devil and meant to steal my immortal soul." She struggled against Guillaume's grasp. "François showed me his altar to Satan, and I watched as he took part in sacrificial rites with that old witch, Marie Laveau. He told me that Honore and Marie were lovers, and convinced me that the only way to protect myself was to follow his evil plan to kill Honore."
Jacques became as wild as a wounded alligator. "Marie is no witch! She is the high voodoo priestess, and you owe her and her son veneration, not plots and murder!"
Jacques next put the hammer aside, and picked up the knife.
"What...what are you going to do with that?" asked Desirée.
Jacques turned to her and grinned. "I want to give you a gift, my dear." He turned the knife over in his hand. "It is clear that you chose François's manhood over your husband's life. It seems only fitting that you should have the object of your desire. But I am going to leave it up to François as to whether you will receive this gift." Jacques looked up at the bleeding, naked man, and
said, "The choice is yours."
"What...?" began François, his eyes wide.
Jacques approached him with the knife. He took a hold of François's flaccid penis and testicles and placed the knife next to them. "The choice is yours, François. Give your mistress this gift and live, or keep them for yourself in death. For only by kicking the chair out from under you will you keep these intact."
Jacques touched François's skin with the knife. François squealed like a young girl, then looked again at his tormenter, and his eyes grew wide. "It's you, isn't it, Honore," he whispered hoarsely, an accusation.
Guillaume couldn't believe his ears. "What's that?"
Jacques must have responded by tightening his grip on François's genitals, for the naked man shrieked in pain. Jacques repositioned the knife, ready to sever man from manhood. François made his decision. He shifted and knocked the chair out from under himself. He dangled a few inches from the floor, his face turning blue and his tongue protruding from his lips. His eyes became bloodshot just before the light went out of them. Then François's bowels loosened, and he defecated on the floor. He twitched once, twice, then moved no more.
"A shame," said Jacques simply. Then he turned to Desirée. "I suppose we know which was more important to him now."
"You sick bastard!" she shouted.
"You have no idea," replied Jacques. He approached her with the knife.
Desirée stared at the small man confronting her. "I recognize you now," she whimpered. "You're the two cemetery workers at Honore's funeral. How do you know so much about my husband? Did Marie tell you to come here? Tell you what to do and say?" She struggled against Guillaume's sweaty grip, but he held her fast. "What do you want with me? It was François! The coward admitted his guilt and took his own life. Look at him! He's the one who did evil to Honore, who poisoned him. Go to Marie and tell her that you have extracted vengeance for Honore. I had nothing to do with it, I tell you. Nothing!"