by Layton Green
Contents
Chapters
1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 • 12 • 13 • 14 • 15 • 16 • 17 • 18 • 19
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About The Author
Books by Layton Green
The Dominic Grey Series
The Summoner
The Egyptian
The Diabolist
The Shadow Cartel
The Reaper’s Game (novella)
Other Works
The Metaxy Project
Hemingway’s Ghost: A Novella
THE REAPER’S GAME
A Dominic Grey Novella
Layton Green
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Layton Green
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Lyrics from the Bloodletting album by Concrete Blonde appear by permission of the author. ℗ and © 1990 International Record Syndicate, Inc.
• • •
I got the ways and means
To New Orleans
I’m going down by the river
Where it's warm and green
I'm gonna have a drink, walk around
I got a lot to think about oh yeah
—J. Napolitano, Concrete Blonde
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
Halloween Week
– 1 –
“Would you care for a drink?” Clayton Gichaud’s sun-spotted hand trembled as he reached for the Macallan single malt. His silver hair lent an air of gravitas to fleshy jowls and a red-veined nose. “I’m afraid you might need one.”
Private investigator Dominic Grey declined the offer. His green eyes, always alert, swept the wood-paneled sitting room. Two open doorways led to the interior of the mansion, and a pair of towering sash windows overlooked St. Charles Avenue.
Grey’s employer, Professor of Religious Phenomenology Viktor Radek, was seated in an armchair next to Grey. Viktor eyed the cabinet of expensive liquor and looked away. “No thank you,” he said, with his clipped Slavic accent. “But you’ve piqued my curiosity—a difficult feat.”
Clayton grimaced and raised his glass. He was the patriarch of a condiment dynasty that included the popular Coozan Clay’s Cajun Sauce. Nearly a year before, Clayton’s twenty-five-year-old son and only heir, Sebastian Gichaud, had murdered the New Orleans district attorney by chopping her down with a scythe. Sebastian had worn a Grim Reaper costume during the crime—an apparent homage to the Halloween Killer, a notorious murderer the state had executed a week prior to the D.A.’s slaying.
“I’m sorry about your son,” Grey said.
Clayton gazed out the window, where fingers of morning fog caressed the oak-studded lawn. “I’ve tried the city’s best private investigators, and a so-called paranormal detective.” His glassy stare sharpened as it focused on Viktor. “My sources say you’re the best there is.”
Viktor didn’t respond, other than to fold his enormous hands in the lap of his somber black suit. The professor was seven feet tall and had shoulders as wide as a hearth.
Clayton took a sip of Scotch. “As I mentioned on the phone, I need an expert on reincarnation. I take it you know something about that?”
Viktor gave a thin smile. “Why don’t you start by telling us more about the situation?”
“The situation is, I want my son out of prison. Because he’s innocent.”
Grey frowned; there had been a dozen eyewitnesses to the crime, including the D.A.’s husband and teenage daughter. “You mean your son was mentally incapacitated at the time of the murder?”
Clayton’s smile was tired, enigmatic. “There are some facts I . . . managed to exclude . . . from the press reports.”
“Such as?” Viktor said.
Clayton blew out a breath. “I assume you’ve read up on the Halloween Killer?”
Viktor gave a curt nod, and Grey recalled what they knew. Nearly three years prior, on Halloween night, a plumber from St. Bernard Parish named John Cowell Samuelson had put on a skeleton costume, thrown a black cloak and hood on top of it, and hacked a dietician to death with a five-foot scythe.
A month later, dressed in a top hat, black tuxedo, dark glasses, white face paint, and cotton plugs in his nostrils—a common depiction of Baron Samedi, an important Loa in Haitian Vodou—the Halloween Killer walked into a cemetery and strangled an elderly woman visiting her son’s grave.
Thirty days after that, John Samuelson slipped the jackal mask of Anubis over his head and clubbed a waiter to death with a staff topped with an iron ankh.
Two more murders followed, each a month apart, each costume representative of a different culture or religion’s personification of death.
When he was finally caught, John Samuelson claimed he had become Death Incarnate—and that fate had ordained his victims to die.
Clayton’s face twisted in revulsion. “After Samuelson was sent up to Angola, a group of people got together and decided to put this maniac on a pedestal.”
“The Reapers,” Viktor said. “A nascent cult claiming to revere the pantheon of death. They’ve appointed John Samuelson as their spiritual leader.”
Clayton clinked the ice in his glass. “Disgusting,” he muttered.
“The Reapers were mentioned in the press reports,” Grey pressed. “What are you claiming was withheld?”
Clayton took a long drink, then pressed his lips together. “Their names. One of which was my son’s.”
Professor Radek folded his arms. While waiting for Clayton to continue, Grey noticed the room smelled faintly of wood polish and cloves.
“Why the Reapers didn’t just do their own thing instead of involving that devil, I’ll never know. I wish to God they never had. But they wrote him letters, even visited him in prison.”
“Human beings constantly seek to venerate,” Viktor said quietly. “It’s in our nature.”
Grey knew Viktor was trying to console their client, but he also knew, from Clayton’s red-rimmed and shadowed eyes, that he was past the point of solace.
“Sebastian was his mother’s child: sensitive, weak-willed, susceptible to manipulation. But he was a good boy. I taught him how to ride a bike, shuck an oyster, fix a—” His face caved with grief.
“Let me just say,” Clayton continued, swallowing to bring his emotions under control, “that I am one hundred percent certain that my son is incapable of murder. One hundred percent.”
“Forgive my bluntness,” Viktor said, “but who do you think killed the D.A.?”
“John Cowell Samuelson. The Halloween Killer.”
The rattle of an approaching streetcar grew in volume as Grey and Viktor stared at the patriarch.
Clayton scoffed. “I’m not saying I think he reached beyond the grave. Did you know my son visited Samuelson in prison three days before his execution? A week before the D.A. was murdered? I don’t know what happened up there, but when my son came back, he was . . . changed.” Grey noticed Clayton’s knuckles tightening against the tumbler. “His voice, his eyes, his posture—take a look at a video of Samuelson. For whatever reason, my son was emulating him. He became him.”
When Clayton looked down, Grey exchanged a quick glance with Viktor. The pro
fessor’s eyes were unreadable.
“What is it exactly you wish us to do?” Viktor said.
Clayton looked up, regarding each of them in turn. “My son’s trial begins in two weeks. He’s looking at the death penalty. He murdered the district attorney, for Christ’s sake. It’s not in dispute his hand swung the scythe, so that leaves us with mental incompetence.”
“Surely there are medical professionals who can assist with that?”
“My son has no history of mental illness, and the shrinks think he’s faking. So does my lawyer, and so will a judge and a jury—unless I put a renowned professor like you on the stand.” During the discussion, Clayton’s eyes had undergone a number of transformations, from welcoming socialite to grieving father and, now, to shrewd CEO who would do whatever it took to protect his interests.
A father who would descend into the darkest of underworlds to rescue his son.
“Gentlemen,” Clayton continued, raising his Scotch, “I need you to convince an Orleans Parish jury that my son, at the time of the murder, believed he was the reincarnated spirit of the Halloween Killer.”
– 2 –
Later that night, on their way to meet the new district attorney, Grey and Viktor cruised the scenic but bumpy roads of Uptown New Orleans. Poor city management, afternoon deluges, and the unchecked roots of oak trees had warped and cracked the pavement, turning the flat topography into a roller coaster ride.
Dressed in jeans and a black sweater, Grey absorbed the city from the back of a private car. Viktor hired one in every city. The scion of a wealthy Czech family, Viktor spent almost as much money on five-star hotels and fine dining as he brought in with fees.
Consulting for police agencies and private clients worldwide wasn’t about the money for Viktor; it was about having access to the bizarre, the uncanny, the crimes and mysteries others couldn’t solve.
Viktor wanted to unravel the riddles of the universe; Grey wanted to pay the rent and put bad guys behind bars.
“Regardless of the son’s mental state,” Viktor said, “reincarnation is the wrong terminology.”
“I’ll bite,” Grey said, as he took in the lacy wrought iron balconies and raised front porches, live oaks tunneling the street, stray Mardi Gras beads dangling from branches and streetlamps. Everywhere he looked, Grey noticed elaborate Halloween decorations that reminded him of Day of the Dead celebrations in Latin America—decorations that were not just for show. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Reincarnation is the concept of a permanent self or soul that relocates, after each death, to a newborn life. Sebastian Gichaud was already born when John Samuelson died.”
Grey found Viktor’s frank treatment of metaphysical questions unsettling. As if he were discussing border logistics and visa requirements, or some other mundane detail relevant to Grey’s previous job as a Diplomatic Security agent.
“So what does that leave us with?” Grey asked. “Something like spirit possession?”
Viktor shook his head. “Spirit possession, as the name implies, refers to the temporary possession of a human soul by a spiritual entity. Our client should focus on the broader concept of soul transference, which in theory can occur at any stage of existence.”
“You don’t think this defense actually has a chance?”
“The concept of transmigration of souls is far more accepted than you might realize. I can make a jury think twice—depending on what we uncover.”
The whole thing sounded absurd to Grey. Soul transference? Used as a defense in court? Whatever, he thought. I’m just the hired help.
It was eleven-thirty p.m. Viktor had spent the day writing up a report on their last case, while Grey had been tasked with contacting the D.A.’s office. They had pushed back—the killer was locked up—but after leveraging Viktor’s reputation, Grey managed to procure a meeting with the new district attorney, Jarrod Trufont. The only catch was that Jarrod wanted to meet after hours, at his local watering hole. Someplace called Snake and Jake’s Christmas Club Lounge.
Only an attorney would consider eleven-thirty p.m. to still be after hours, Grey thought. And only an attorney from New Orleans would consider someplace named Snake and Jake’s Christmas Club Lounge a proper place to conduct a business meeting.
The neighborhood had turned surprisingly scruffy for Uptown. Paint peeling off claptrap wooden houses, chain link fences smothered in vines. Their sedan slowed as it approached a faded green shack squeezed underneath the branches of a haggard oak. Vines crawled off the corrugated iron roof and onto a Christmas wreath hanging above the door. There was no entrance sign, and the place looked more like a creepy abandoned boxcar than a bar.
Just as Grey was about to recheck the map, the door opened and two coeds stumbled outside holding plastic cups, followed by a mean-eyed thug walking a Great Dane. They went in opposite directions. Grey looked at Viktor, shrugged, and led the way inside.
“Interesting choice of venue,” Viktor said, as Grey’s eyes swept the windowless, coffin-like interior. The only illumination was a string of Christmas lights and an electric candle stuck into a jack-o-lantern on the bar.
Grey grimaced as he took in the low ceiling, cracked tile floor, and string of cocktail tables sandwiched between the long bar and a wall. Smoke hung in the air like smog, and the place was so packed it was hard to move. A security nightmare.
Not that Grey expected any trouble out of the trim, square-jawed man in a bespoke power suit sitting at one of the cocktail tables. Grey recognized Jarrod Trufant, a light-skinned African American from a prominent New Orleans family, from an online photo.
Grey ordered an Abita Amber, and they made their way to Jarrod’s table. From Viktor’s glassy eyes, Grey knew he had cozied up to a bottle of absinthe in his hotel room.
“What do y’all think of Snake and Jake’s?” Jarrod asked, after they had exchanged greetings. His voice was even silkier than his suit, and a whiff of cologne cut through the odor of stale beer. “New Orleans’ best dive bar.”
“Charming,” Viktor murmured.
Jarrod’s expression soured. His thin moustache looked painted on. “I have to tell you, all the money in the world won’t save Clayton’s son. It’s an open-and-shut case.”
“Then you won’t mind if we ask a few questions?” Viktor said. “I’d appreciate the professional courtesy.”
Jarrod’s eyes narrowed. “About John Samuelson’s prosecution, sure.”
Viktor spread his hands. “Did the former D.A. argue the case herself?”
“Yeah, she took first chair. When she asked for the death penalty, Samuelson said she’d join him in hell.”
“Why such a quick execution?” Grey asked. “He was in the system less than two years.”
“He confessed to the murders and waived his appeals. He said to hurry up and kill him.”
Viktor leaned forward. “Did he say why?”
Jarrod barked a laugh. “Because someone left out the rice in his jambalaya.”
“Then why wasn’t there an insanity defense?”
“Because except for the fact he claimed Death told him what to do, he passed every mental exam. Aced ’em, in fact.”
“Did you ever find a pattern to the victims?”
Jarrod leaned back and crossed his arms. “I’m sorry, why’re we discussing a dead man?”
“Forgive us for wasting your time,” Viktor said, clasping his hands on the table. “I assume you don’t mind if we stop by your office and peruse your file on John Samuelson?”
Jarrod smirked and clinked his ice. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re going for, unless it has to do with Sebastian pretending to be that devil. Yes sir, we’ve heard about that. And we’ll pick it apart in court like vultures on a dead squirrel.”
Viktor didn’t react, and Jarrod adjusted a gold signet ring on his left hand. “I’m told you’ve helped out the city before. I agreed to meet out of courtesy. Stop by and browse the file if you want, but otherwise, gentlemen, I think we’ve
exhausted our discussion topics for the evening.”
Viktor proffered a curt goodbye. Jarrod lit a cigar and tipped his head.
Grey squeezed through the crowd with Viktor at his elbow, drawing stares. Halfway to the door, Grey felt a barely perceptible tug on the back of his jeans. He whipped around and caught the wrist of a tall, emaciated man with greasy black ringlets spilling to his shoulders. The man was holding Grey’s wallet.
Grey torqued the man’s wrist in a joint lock, causing him to stiffen in pain and double over. Grey calmly lifted the wallet out of his immobilized hand. “Bad idea,” Grey said.
The man grinned through the pain, revealing a blackened front tooth. His skin had a sickly yellow hue, and he wore an assortment of leather and metal jewelry over a threadbare brown suit. “For who?”
A half-dozen men edged in, all wearing cheap jewelry and patchwork clothing. Grey assessed the situation. He was still holding the man’s wrist, and Grey knew he could snap the joint and take out the closest underling with a side kick, then escape in the chaos.
Two problems: protecting Viktor, and concealed weapons. It was too dark and crowded to tell if these men were packing. They probably were.
“My friend in the black suit?” Grey said. “He’s with Interpol. I don’t have time to drag you to the cops, but I suggest you call off your dogs.”
Interpol didn’t have agents in the field, only liaisons. Viktor consulted on their behalf at times, but he didn’t have arrest power unless conferred by local authorities. Grey knew this thug wouldn’t know the difference.
The man eyed Grey and Viktor and then gave a charismatic grin, as if it was all a big joke. He jerked his head upward, and the men around him seemed to deflate.
“Just a misunderstanding,” the man said, in a harsh Creole accent. “No need to ruin da evening.”
“I’m glad we agree.” Grey gave the man a long stare and then led Viktor into the waiting car, feeling the eyes of the gang members follow them out the door.
Something felt off to Grey, as if the encounter had been staged for some ulterior purpose. He checked his pockets and had Viktor do the same. Their phones, keys, and wallets were intact.