The Devil Always Collects

by John Moore

  “No, you don’t,” he said.

  He rolled and in one quick move had me on all fours. He was behind me. Tom pushed my head down and pulled a pillow under my pelvis. He thrust in me deep and hard. Harder and deeper with each thrust. I didn’t want to scream. I tried not to scream. I had to scream. I let out a primal yell.

  “AAAAhhhhh!” All of the joints in my body felt like they were unhinged.

  Tom tensed, and then fell apart in a pounding, pulsing release.

  Silence filled the room. We were both out cold.

  Chapter Twelve:

  Death is Lurking

  I awoke the next morning snuggled next to Tom. He was already awake, just watching me sleep.

  “Good morning, pretty girl,” he said with a smile as bright as the sun.

  “Good morning. How did you sleep?” I asked feeling excited to see him but a little self-conscious, worrying about my bedhead.

  “Well sedated,” he joked.

  “No shit, right?” He knew how to break the awkwardness of the moment. “I’ll make coffee.”

  We sat at my kitchen table drinking our coffee, so comfortable, just like an old married couple. Kinda scary, I thought.

  He reached his hand across the table to brush a curl from my eyes. “Tell me about your life,” Tom said.

  “Not much to tell,” I responded guardedly.

  “You are from a small town in Indiana and you just lost your father. How did you end up in New Orleans?”

  Come on, Alexandra, I thought, open up. You just had amazing sex with this guy, and you don’t want to tell him about yourself? Are you crazy? DO NOT BLOW THIS!

  “Yep, that’s right,” I said. For some reason, I felt more comfortable than usual. I didn’t want him to go home, leaving me to resume my confusing, often lonely life. I wanted him to stay; I wanted him to hold me again. I wanted him to know about me, and I wanted to know about him. So, the dam broke. I told him all about my childhood and my life on the corn farm with my parents. I made him laugh as I told him about my foray into journalism. When I told him about my mother’s letter, I cried.

  He pulled me close and said, “It’s okay, I’m here with you now. May I see your mother’s letter?”

  I showed him the boxes I’d retrieved from my parents’ attic along with the wooden box containing my mother’s letter. He read it, and he cried. He cried. I was in shock. He cried!

  “Do you mind if I look through these paper in this cardboard box?” he asked.

  “Please do. I haven’t had to guts to go through them by myself. Can we look at them together?”

  Without hesitation, Tom picked the cardboard box up and placed it on the table between us. He started to read the papers inside but stopped when he came upon a letter from a bank.

  “Alexandra,” he said. “The bank with the mortgage on your family’s farm is threatening to foreclose. This is a letter to your father giving him 60 days to bring his payments current, or they will commence action. That means—” Tom paused and looks at the calendar on his phone- “you have until March 25th. That’s a little more than a month.”

  “Oh no, Tom!” I said. “How much do they want?”

  “$15,000,” he said.

  “$15,000! That’s impossible. I don’t have $15,000. I couldn’t save that much money in a year, and I have 30 days. How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”

  Tom was speechless. What could he say? Neither one of us had that kind of money.

  After a silence punctuated by my flowing tears, Tom said, “Alex, you are not alone. We’ll figure something out.”

  I am not alone? That set the water works off and I cried uncontrollably. Tom just held me until I regained some composure. He looked at the rest of the papers in that damn box until he came across a name. A name he knew. Bart Rogan’s name.

  “That no good, scum-sucking bastard!” Tom shouted in a rage. “I know this bastard. He is pure evil, Alexandra. If he was involved in your farm’s poisoning, there is definitely foul play. I’ve run across his name in several incidents of chemical pollution in rivers and oceans.”

  “You learned about him in school?” I asked, stunned.

  Tom composed himself and said, “No, I’ve just heard other marine biologists speak of him and chemicals spills around the globe. He’s no good.”

  Tom looked at me with empathy, “He’s not important now. What’s important is how we save your family farm.”

  “Don’t you have to work today?” I asked. “I don’t want to make you late. I’ll be fine. Can you come over tonight after work?”

  “Sure I can, Alexandra,” he said.

  I needed to be alone. I needed to think. How was I going to save the farm? Did I even want to save the damn thing? My life was here in New Orleans now. That cursed place killed my mother. Why should I save it?

  A week passed and Mark went to court for attacking Sarah and me. He apologized in a completely insincere way, blaming his behavior on alcohol. The judge gave him five years in prison but suspended the sentence and put him on probation for five years. He was ordered to refrain from having any contact with Sarah or me. The judge instructed him to turn and run the opposite direction if he saw Sarah or me on the street. As additional conditions of his probation, he could not drink alcohol and had to wear a leg bracelet that recorded his whereabouts at all times. It didn’t seem like enough. I remembered how scared we’d been. That bastard would have hurt Sarah for sure.

  Sarah and I went to see Jess Johnson at the Times the following day. Jess had a private office, rather large, a testament to her stature in the business, no doubt. She had awards covering her office’s entire wall space and a box in the corner with even more awards.

  “Come in, ladies, and have a seat,” Jess said. “How was the Rex Ball Alexandra? Have fun?”

  “It was nice,” I said.

  Sarah piped up, “Nice because she had a date with what may be the one.”

  “Sarah, stop. Too soon to tell,” I said. I wasn’t fooling either one of these seasoned pros. My feelings and hopes for Tom were written all over my face. My mind replayed the touch of his hands on my breasts, my panties pulled down on a balcony on Bourbon Street, in plain view of all...if anyone had been watching. Oh shit, could they read my mind? Was I that obvious? But they gave me a pass and let the subject drop.

  Jess looked at Sarah and said, “I heard that they gave that slimy ex of yours probation yesterday. They should have cut his balls off and thrown them in the Mississippi.”

  Sarah nodded but didn’t speak.

  “Alexandra, sorry to hear about your father’s passing,” Jess said.

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  “Sarah also told me about the letter your mother left you. She wrote that letter for a reason, Alexandra. I know a great deal about ACC’s activities. They represent the worst part of capitalism worldwide. They are a profit-seeking tribe of environmental marauders. One of the names Sarah said was involved in your mother’s situation is a particularly despicable character, Bart Rogan.”

  Holy shit. Jess knew this guy, too. How come I’d never heard of him? “You know about him?” I asked.

  “Sure as hell do,” Jess answered. “He has been involved in chemical poisoning around New Orleans for years. He is a dangerous man who so far has been above the law. That’s why you are here. Alexandra, you know I think you are wasting your talents in public relations even though you are very good at it. You, young lady, are a born investigative journalist if I’ve ever seen one. And I’ve seen them all in my time. I want you to work for me here at the Times. I want you to go after ACC and Bart Rogan for the crimes he has committed polluting the waters and land here in Louisiana.”

  I looked at Sarah. She wasn’t stunned. She knew why I was here. It was obvious that she and Jess had arranged this ambush.

  “Sarah, what do you think?”
I asked.

  “I think you should follow your heart. I was once in your shoes and made the choice to leave journalism and pursue a career in public relations. I felt I was better at cleaning up messes than making them. You must make your own decision.”

  Jess scolded Sarah. “We don’t make messes; we expose the ones made by the greedy, unscrupulous corporate thugs. We try to build a better world for the human race. Sarah never saw it that way. She is right, though. You must choose your own path.”

  Holy shit. What do I do now? I might lose my farm to foreclosure. I have a decent life and a new maybe relationship. This is just too much for me now.

  “Jess, can you give me some time to think about your offer?”

  She looked at me with steely eyes and said, “I’ve got a story that needs investigating now. I can give you one week.”

  The air in that room was thick. Sarah changed the subject to lighter topics like, who was playing at Jazz Fest this year. Though they disagreed about how to go about things, it was clear these two women had respect and love for each other.

  I looked above Jess’ head behind her desk at a scroll with this quote inscribed:

  The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. Edmund Burke.

  Sarah and I left.

  That night I told Tom about the meeting with Jess. He worked hard not to influence me. He agreed with the women that it was my decision. But, he wasn’t a good actor and it was clear to me that he thought Jess was right.

  “I can’t tell you what to do, Alexandra. We all must decide our own paths. I can tell you that Bart Rogan’s reign of evil must be stopped.”

  Tom’s face clenched with determination when he said Bart Rogan’s name. Shit, he really hates this guy, I thought.

  Tom told me he had to leave New Orleans for an assignment for a couple of days. Honestly, I was a little relieved to hear it. I had too much swirling in my head. I knew I would miss Tom, but the alone time would help me think, something I very much needed to do. How was I going to save my family farm? Should I even try to save it? What about going to the Times and working for Jess? Bart Rogan. Bart Fucking Rogan? Did he kill my mother?

  I went on the Internet and looked for information about Barton Rogan. He had left quite a trail. The first record of his career I could find was his role in the famous tragedy in Bhopal, India. The disaster occurred on the night of December 2nd, 1984, at the Union Carbide India Limited (UCIL) pesticide plant in Bhopal, Madhya Pradesh. Over 500,000 people were exposed to methyl isocyanate (MIC) gas and other chemicals. The toxic substance made its way in and around the shantytowns located near the plant. Thousands were poisoned and lost their lives. The official immediate death toll was 2,259. Many more suffered life-altering injuries. Bart’s role was to work with the local politicians and government officials to smooth things over, placate the powers that be, and muffle the victims’ voices. He was very good at his job, because the damage to Union Carbide was minimized.

  I looked at the clock. It was already 11:00. I was tired but felt an uneasy restlessness. I came upon me from deep inside me, a feeling of sadness and terror combined. I guess it was due to the bank deadline, Bart Rogan and Jess’ offer. It seemed like so much more though. Something else was wrong but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Eventually, I drifted off into an anguished sleep.

  When I woke the next morning, the feeling was still with me. I started my morning routine by pushing the button on my Keurig and clicking on the television. The weather babe said we were in for one of those patented New Orleans all-day rains. No problem, I thought, I planned on staying in the office and working anyway except for wanting to stop by the Cafe Du Monde to talk to Zach. I hadn’t seen him since my return from the Processed Foods Show. But I didn’t think I could take his proselytizing this morning.

  “Another body has been found in the French Quarter,” the television reporter blurted. “The body of a woman was found discarded in a dumpster somewhere in the Quarter. Police are not giving any details at this time. The identity of the victim is being withheld pending notification of next of kin.”

  Oh shit, not another one. Why can’t the police catch this guy? Maybe it isn’t a guy. Details were sketchy and the police were playing it very close to the vest. Surely he or she had left some clues by now? Maybe we were all too accustomed to how easily they solved crimes on CSI. They mixed a few chemicals or turned on a few machines and caught all of the bad people. Wouldn’t it be nice, I thought, if the world really worked like that?

  The weather was miserable, not raining bucketfuls, more of a misting rain, the kind you don’t notice until it’s soaked your collar and gotten in your shoes. I stopped at Cafe Du Monde, but Zach wasn’t working. He had quit a few days before. I purchased a coffee to go, having sworn off donuts after what I learned at the Processed Foods Show and headed to work. Zach had quit Cafe Du Monde without telling me about it. That was odd.

  I sauntered into my cube and had just settled in to finish my cafe au lait when I looked up to see Mr. Jenkins staring at me. He looked lost. His eyes were red and puffy. Holy shit, he’s been crying. What the hell happened?

  “Alexandra, would you please come to my office,” he asked. He turned and headed that way.

  Not “Alexandra, get the hell in here.”No. Please come to my office.” I had a terrible feeling about this. Had Jess told him about her offer? No. That wouldn’t have made him cry. I walked in and sat across from him. Where was Sarah?

  He looked straight into my eyes and said, “Alexandra, the body the police found in the French Quarter today is Sarah’s. Sarah has been murdered.”

  It took a second to comprehend. Once it sunk in, I completely fell apart.

  “No, no, no! It can’t be! No! There is a mistake! Please say it isn’t true! Tears flooded my face. I couldn’t feel my legs.

  “It is true, Alexandra,” Jenkins said through a veil of tears. “She’s gone.”

  A man rushed in and whispered something in Mr. Jenkins’ ear and then scurried out.

  Jenkins looked up and yelled, “That no good bastard. I’ll strangle him if I get my hands on him.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “They’ve arrested Mark Stevens for Sarah’s murder and the murders of the other women killed in the French Quarter. Mark Stevens is the Quarter Killer.”

  Chapter Thirteen:

  Mourning a Loss

  Mr. Jenkins sat with me for more than an hour. I cried till my tear ducts were completely dry. No, not Sarah. She was so good. She was my family. Everything had been taken away from me. Why? Why did this happen to her? To me? No amount of crying could bring her back. I’d learned that death is final, in this world anyway. Once someone is gone, she is gone. The livings are left to suffer and deal with the messy details. Deal with the loss for the long years ahead. I am so alone.

  What will I do? Where can I go? I can’t go home and be alone. There was no one to turn to except Tom. He didn’t tell me where he was going exactly, just out of town. Maybe I could text him? I grabbed my phone and texted, “Call me! Sarah has been murdered! I need to talk to you!”

  No reply. Where was he? An hour passed; still no reply. I couldn’t go home. Then a thought came to me. I could go to the battered women’s home in Laplace. Susan would let me stay the night. At least there I wouldn’t be alone. Surely she’d let me stay there. The shelter was the one place in this world Sarah loved most. I started to drive over the bridge and thought of sweet Sarah. She was the kindest person I’d ever known. That bastard, Mark Stevens, killed her. Sarah should have finished him off with her bat the day he attacked us. I wished I would have taken it from her and beat him to death and ended his miserable life.

  No one knew where I was going. How would they find me in an emergency? Who is “they?” I thought; there was nobody left in my life. Except of course Tom, and he’d disappeared at that moment I needed
him most. I needed to talk to someone, but who? I called Jess Johnson.

  “Jess, this is Alexandra,” I said, bawling wildly. “I just wanted someone to know that I’m going to the battered women’s shelter in LaPlace. You are the only person I could think to call.”

  “Oh, Alexandra, it’s such a terrible loss. A loss for those who knew her and for the whole city. I know how much you loved Sarah. You can call me anytime. You don’t need to go to the shelter. Why don’t you stay with me?” she asked, her voice strained.

  “No, Jess, I have to get out of the city,” I said. “The shelter feels like a sanctuary. Sarah’s left her mark on it and I need to be around her spirit. How could they let that bastard kill her? How?”

  “I don’t know, baby, I don’t know. Call me anytime you want to talk,” she said.

  I parked my car in the shelter’s parking lot and headed to the front door. Susan greeted me at the door and hugged me. We both cried, holding each other for a full minute.

  “Come in, child,” she said. “Let’s get you something to drink.” She escorted me into her office and I sat on her couch. Susan brought me a glass of water and sat next to me. As I cried, she patted my shoulder. “Why don’t you stay with us tonight? We have a bed for you if you need it.”

  “Oh, thank you, Susan, I just can’t be alone right now,” I said. “How could this happen to Sarah? Why would that bastard take her from us?”

  I sobbed and babbled till I could barely speak. Susan sat there quietly, letting me cry, murmuring little nonsense sounds to keep me company in my grief. She provided as much comfort as she could, but nothing comforted me. I had lost the last person in my life who truly loved me. Everything I loved had been taken from me. My mother, my father and now Sarah. Is this what life was about, loss?

  “You know she loved this place,” Susan said. “She always said it brought her peace. Her place of atonement.”