The Reaper's Game: A Dominic Grey Novella (The Dominic Grey Series)

by Layton Green

  “The Druze faith is an interesting one. It began as an esoteric movement within medieval Islam that attracted both intellectuals and mystics—a strange brew from the start—who were unafraid to cherry-pick ideas from other movements. Similar to the Sufis, the Druze believe there is a store of arcane knowledge, called ‘irfan, accessible to their initiates. Turn right.”

  They entered a quiet, more residential section of the French Quarter marked by ornate streetlamps and tunnels of wrought iron balconies. Grey pulled to a stop in front of a narrow storefront with six-foot-tall shutters and a washed-out green awning. A sign read Rare and Occult Books.

  Grey glanced at the dash. Eight forty-five. “What time do they close?”

  “Nine.”

  “Did you see anything in Samuelson’s journal that might relate to this Druze religion?”

  “I did not. And I would have remembered.”

  “Then why are we looking for this guy in a bookstore?”

  Viktor paused with his hand on the door. “The Druze believe in three layers of esoteric knowledge: the zahir, accessible to any seeker of knowledge; the harder to reach batin; and finally, the concept of the anagoge, the hidden of the hidden, reserved for a few highly enlightened adepts. I’m not privy to all of their beliefs—no one outside the faith is—but I do know that reincarnation is a central tenet of the religion.”

  “Ah. That would relate.”

  “Their adepts are considered . . . experts . . . in the subject.”

  Headlights appeared in the rearview, causing Grey to flinch. A brown SUV rolled by without incident. “So we’re shaking the occult apple tree?”

  “Something like that,” Viktor murmured.

  Grey scanned the street and then followed Viktor inside the store, which was the most disorderly establishment Grey had ever laid eyes on. Stacks of books leaned in all directions, piled to the ceiling, spilling off the shelves, balanced on the edge of the counter. Grey could barely tell where the aisles started.

  The clerk was a white man in his fifties with glasses and thinning brown hair, wearing jeans and a half-untucked blue Oxford.

  “Are you the owner?” Viktor asked.

  “I am.”

  Viktor told him who they were looking for. The proprietor walked over and flipped the sign to Closed. “Haven’t I seen you in here before? A professor?”

  “That’s correct.”

  He straightened a heap of books next to the register. Grey didn’t know why he bothered. “Not many people know that name,” the man said. His voice had a clipped intelligence. “I assume he likes it that way.”

  Viktor took a half step forward. “You know him?”

  “I know of him.” He smirked. “He’s in the business, so to speak.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s just say I wouldn’t go door to door in the mosques looking for him. Or wherever it is the Druze worship. From what I understand, he’s some kind of pariah from his religion, sells his knowledge on the street. To those who can afford him, that is. I hear he’s very expensive.”

  “What exactly does he sell?”

  “Do you know anything about Druzism?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you can probably guess.”

  Viktor pursed his lips. “Where can we find him?”

  The proprietor opened his palms and shrugged. “That I don’t know. But you might try a teashop in the Marigny called Nirvana Leaf. I overheard someone saying they can get word to him.”

  “Do you know anything else about him?” Viktor asked. “His past?”

  “I think he came after Katrina. I was one of the crazy bastards who stuck it out, and I’d never heard of him before then.” He adjusted his glasses. “The rumor is he travels the world, peddling his wares in places that have lost hope.”

  “The theory being it’s easier to convince people to buy what he’s selling when death is imminent?” Viktor asked.

  “We never really believe in death until it stares us in the face, do we? Anyway, for all I know he’s moved on already.” The owner smirked. “Or maybe he’s found the perfect customer base.”

  Viktor thanked him for his time.

  Grey called; the teashop was already closed. Not wanting to rely on a single source, Grey and Viktor spent the rest of the night scraping at the city’s crust, visiting tarot and voodoo and magic shops tucked into the edges of the French Quarter, members-only Goth bars in the Warehouse District, underground rave clubs catering to the occult lifestyle.

  Grey had no idea how Viktor knew of these places, and he was too busy watching his back to ask. Scarecrow’s threat was fresh in Grey’s mind, and Viktor’s imposing frame and conservative suit soaked up stares in the New Orleans underbelly like a seven-foot sponge.

  After their initial good luck, every stop except one turned out to be a bust. The only other trace of the Druze came in the back room of a seedy bar in the Lower Garden District, a haunt of wannabe vampires who draped themselves in black velvet and drank shots of real blood out of silver teacups. Grey was repulsed by the place. The bartender claimed he had heard of the Druze but had no idea how to reach him.

  Still, it was another confirmation of his existence.

  Exhausted, Grey and Viktor returned to the Columns Hotel at four a.m. Before they parted ways, Grey remembered a thread of conversation he had wanted to finish. “I said earlier I think Scarecrow knows what’s going on. You agreed, but only partly.”

  Viktor put a hand on the ornately carved banister. “If Scarecrow and John Samuelson had been working together, Scarecrow would have known about Auntie Bayou and tried to intercept us, or warned her not to speak.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t ready to make a play,” Grey said.

  “It’s possible. But from everything I’ve heard tonight . . . I think Scarecrow has a role in this, but I don’t believe John Samuelson told him everything. Or much at all.”

  “So what do you think that means?”

  Viktor’s hands were fidgety, and Grey could tell he was longing for a drink. Viktor started up the stairs as he spoke. “I think it means John Samuelson was playing chess, and everyone else was playing checkers.”

  “What was Sebastian playing?”

  Viktor turned towards Grey, a rare look of confusion in his gaze. “I don’t know. But that’s the right question.”

  Grey woke at nine a.m., downed a cup of coffee, and took a run around Audubon Park. When Viktor finally rose, he persuaded Grey to join him for brunch at the hotel. Grey was in mild shock at the quantity and decadence of the food. His typical breakfast was coffee and then more coffee.

  As they were about to leave for Nirvana Leaf, Viktor received a phone call from Elaine. He looked thoughtful after the conversation with the former Reaper.

  “She wants to meet with us today,” Viktor said. “I agreed.”

  “Where?”

  “A place called Igor’s. It’s just down the street.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Only that it involves Sebastian.”

  Just a mile and a half down St. Charles from the Columns Hotel, Igor’s was a world away. “The House of the Rising Sun” was blaring as Grey and Viktor entered the establishment, which was a combination dive bar, pool hall, and Laundromat.

  Only in New Orleans, Grey thought.

  Garish Halloween decorations covered the walls, including a figurine of a demonic baby sucking its toe. Grey and Viktor walked between the bar and a line of video poker machines to find Elaine sitting alone at a table, finishing off a plate of cheese fries. She had dyed her blond hair black.

  “I needed to do some laundry,” she said sheepishly. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “May we sit?” Viktor asked.

  “Sure. You want to grab a beer?”

  “Why not,” Viktor said. Grey knew he was just trying to put her at ease.

  Grey went with the bartender’s advice and ordered a pair of Canebrake Parish drafts. The song switched to “Hotel Californi
a,” and a motley crew of patrons started belting out lyrics.

  Grey returned to the table, his shoes sticking on the red linoleum floor. All of the customers had a hard edge to them, though no one looked sober enough to start the kind of trouble that might worry Grey.

  Elaine’s hair was loose and spilling onto a revealing fishnet blouse. The men at the bar took turns leering in her direction.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  “I quit the Charnel House. I just couldn’t . . . anyway, I’ve been thinking about what you said. How you’re trying to help Sebastian.” She stared at the battered copper ceiling. “Something happened to him, didn’t it?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  She took her bottom lip between her teeth. “It’s taken me a long time to get over seeing that . . . I mean, my boyfriend . . .” she took a deep breath. “I want you to know I’ll talk to the court if you need. I’ll tell them he was normal before the murder.”

  “Normal?”

  She gave a self-deprecating shake of her head. “He wasn’t like the rest of us. He was more into philosophy, the meaning of existence, than all that voodoo and incarnation of death stuff. Sebastian isn’t the brightest guy, but he’s deep.”

  “Then why join the Reapers?”

  “Maybe there was nowhere else he felt accepted, you know? His mom’s death messed him up, too. I mean, don’t get me wrong. He believed in the stuff, maybe more than all of us. But it was . . . not for the same reasons.”

  The door swung open. A swarthy-skinned man walked in wearing old jeans and a blue tank top, a chain on his belt and another around his neck, and black lobe earrings. Before he sauntered to the bar, his eyes met Grey’s and then whisked away.

  Grey’s fingers curled around his beer bottle. He knew Scarecrow was somewhere in the wings, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  “Can you elaborate?” Viktor asked Elaine.

  She toyed with her hair. “The rest of us were selfish, immature. Especially our hero worship of that killer. Children playing with a monster. I get that now. But Sebastian, he had a purpose, you know? Like, he thought the Prophet—sorry, John Samuelson—could help him.”

  “Help him how?”

  She bit her lip. “Sebastian wanted to reach his mom.”

  “But why look to a killer for help?” Grey asked. “Did he actually believe in that guy?”

  “John was a surprisingly good speaker,” Elaine said, then looked away as if embarrassed. “He was really smart, read a lot of books, and was convincing in that way people are when they truly believe something. You know what I mean?”

  “I do,” Viktor murmured.

  “Anyway, yeah, Sebastian listened to him. But not because of the murders or anything. Sebastian was a pacifist.”

  “A pacifist,” Viktor repeated. “Did John Samuelson ever discuss a ritual of any sort?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

  “What about a ritual of soul transference?”

  Her face scrunched in confusion. “What’s that?”

  Viktor told her. “Please think hard.”

  She twirled a finger through her hair again. “No, there was never anything like that. I guess none of it helped him too much when the cops found him.”

  Viktor sat back, disappointed.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I suppose you never know about people, but the Sebastian I knew would never have done what he did.”

  On their way out, Grey afforded the man in the blue tank top a long stare. The man fingered his gold chain and pretended not to notice.

  The Nirvana Leaf teashop was tucked into a scruffy corner of the Faubourg-Marigny, a slowly gentrifying neighborhood just downriver of the French Quarter. Most of the people Grey saw were starry-eyed drifters or street criminals. Though the two groups often looked similar, Grey didn’t have a problem distinguishing the predators. He always noticed the dangerous step to their walk, the skittishness, the truly soiled clothes. The eyes that reflected the sad truths of life on the street.

  The teashop was disheveled but hip, full of Tiffany lamps and reclaimed wood tables. Tendrils from dozens of potted vines crept up the walls.

  Viktor waited until the line dispersed and approached the barista, a dreadlocked white guy wearing a Courtney Love T-shirt. Viktor told him who they were looking for and the barista gave him a long stare. Viktor repeated the inquiry.

  “Yeah, I heard you. If you’re serious, come here at noon on Friday. He might decide to meet you.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “No idea.”

  Viktor displayed his Interpol badge. “I’ll need you to do better.”

  The barista’s hands flew up. “Hey, man, that’s the simple truth. I don’t know who he is. The people who wait on him always leave alone. I guess he finds them later.”

  “What about a description?”

  “I don’t have one for you.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I swear.”

  “We can take this conversation elsewhere,” Grey said.

  The guy moved a hand to his forehead. “Look, okay, I know two people who’ve seen him. One of them moved to Houston a few months back. The other’s an ex-girlfriend who hates my guts.”

  “Why’d they meet with him?”

  “My ex heard that he knows things. She’s into all that New Age stuff, the mind’s eye and wandering souls and all that.”

  “What did she say about him?”

  “She wouldn’t talk about it, and I didn’t ask twice. Hey, it doesn’t take a psychic to figure out who’s trying to take your money.”

  A line was forming behind Grey and Viktor.

  “What’s his connection to the teashop?” Viktor asked.

  “The owner told me that if anyone comes around asking for the guy, to tell them what I told you. Noon on Friday. That’s all I know.”

  “Where’s the owner?”

  “On permanent vacation in Tibet.”

  Viktor didn’t respond, and the barista said, “Look, man, it’s getting busy, I can give you my ex’s name and email the owner—”

  Viktor cut him off. “We’ll come back if necessary.”

  With that, the Professor turned and strode out the door, then climbed into the Lincoln. Grey followed. He felt eyes on their back, watching from half-shuttered windows.

  As Grey started the engine, Viktor said, “I’d like you to circle the block in an expanding circle.”

  “Care to tell me why? That will attract attention.”

  “I’m not inclined to wait until Friday. I’d also prefer to meet the Druze on my terms. Do you know what yerba mate is?”

  “The South American tea,” Grey said. “I noticed it was one of their specialties.”

  “The custom was adopted by Arabs living in South America, who brought it back to the Middle East. It’s especially popular in Syria and Lebanon, including a mountainous area in southwest Syria called the Jabal al-Druze.”

  “You think our guy lives nearby, likes to walk to get his yerba leaves. Not to be ignorant, but are we looking for a guy in white robes?”

  “The Druze follow the custom of taqiyya—disguising their beliefs among the populace. The practice is not uncommon among persecuted faiths. His neighbors might believe him to be a Muslim, or even a Christian or Jew.”

  Grey did as Viktor asked, trolling the streets in an ever-expanding circle. They soon entered the Bywater, an area further east than the Marigny and bordering a long canal. At first the neighborhood appeared to be a shabbier version of the Marigny: streets full of termite-eaten wood, lost fortunes, and festering secrets. As they neared the canal, the scenery turned grimmer, devolving into a mess of low-hung power lines, graffiti, long treeless blocks, and boarded-up houses.

  Grey did not like the scenery one bit. It felt remote, as if they had entered a different city entirely. “So what are we looking for?” he asked, keeping one eye glued to the
rearview.

  They left a particularly desolate street and turned back towards the Marigny. A block later Viktor straightened as they passed a small house wedged between an abandoned fire station and a shuttered metal works shop.

  “That camelback,” Viktor said, motioning for Grey to slow down. The house he had noticed looked like a typical narrow shotgun, except for the hump-like second story plopped atop the rear half. “We’re looking for that.”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you see the stained glass window?”

  Set into the gable that topped the second story, almost like the porthole of a ship, was a circular stained glass window with a multicolored cross in the middle.

  “Those five colors,” Viktor said. “Green, red, yellow, blue, white.” He reached for the door handle without his eyes leaving the window. “That’s the symbol of the Druze.”

  – 15 –

  “The cross is the symbol?” Grey asked, as he pulled to a stop in front of the house.

  “Just the colors,” Viktor said. “They’re typically woven into a flag or a star.”

  Grey checked the rearview again. No sign of life on the street. He took the gun out of the glove box and stuck it into his jeans. “Have you ever had a case involving the Druze?”

  Viktor gave a slow nod. “Just one. In Damascus, a decade ago. A Druze boy told the police he was murdered in a past life and led them to a skeleton buried on the road to Palmyra. The boy named a local bus driver as the murderer.”

  “What happened?”

  “The police found two more bodies in the driver’s backyard.”

  Grey pursed his lips. “Why’d they hire you?”

  “To figure out how the boy knew where the first body was buried, since forensics said it had been there since about the time he was born.”

  After checking out the neighboring buildings, Grey’s eyes settled on the house with the stained glass window. The mauve paint was so faded and peeling the wooden frame had begun to look like papier-mâché. No cars parked out front. The front curtains were drawn.

  “And?” Grey said.

  “Under hypnosis, the boy revealed extensive details about the life of the twelve-year-old girl whose skeleton was uncovered. So extensive the murdered girl’s family came to believe the boy was a reincarnation of their daughter.”