A Life Without Fear

by Leo King

  Tania looked away. He could see tears forming in her eyes again.

  “She died well,” he said, keeping his gaze fixed on her. “It was pretty close until the very end. The police are baffled by how a blind woman could do it. So there you have it. Sam killed her. Your sister said that one day, they’d fight, and they did. Sam won. Violet’s dead.”

  He knew he was being a total prick, but he didn’t care. He loved Sam and he hated Violet. He couldn’t hide that, not even from someone as sweet as Tania.

  “Marinette and Bwa-Chech,” she said softly.

  Richie blinked. “Mari-who-chech?”

  “Marinette and Bwa-Chech,” she repeated, her voice bitter. “They’re two twin loa. Hags, actually. Vengeful spirits who thrive on pain. But they are also enemies. No matter what is happening, the two will always find a way to be in conflict. To fight to the death.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. He wasn’t sure what she was getting at.

  Finally, Tania snorted and tossed the letter to him. “It’s just what you said, Violet and Miss Samantha being compelled to fight. Reminded me of the hag sisters’ story. I guess, in the end, it is what they wanted it to be. Like Marinette and Bwa-Chech, they both wanted to fight to the death. My sister lost, and now she’s dead.”

  Standing up, she said, “You have your letter. Now please leave. I hope it helps you save Miss Samantha. But as for me, I want to bury my sister and my past with the Castilles. So I beg you, after today, don’t come looking for me. And tell Miss Sa—Samantha to stay out of my life as well.”

  Picking up the letter, Richie gave her a nod. “All right. I’ll leave you alone, then. Thanks and take care.”

  She didn’t say anything in response even as he left.

  Once outside, he walked briskly back toward Sam’s car. Only once he was seated and had the car running did he open the letter. At first, he thought it was in some sort of cipher made of raised bumps. Then he realized that it was in Braille. “How the hell am I going to read this?”

  He decided he’d let Rodger and Michael figure that one out. He still had to stop by Jacob’s and then drive all the way to Lafayette.

  When Richie arrived at Jacob’s apartment, it was close to lunch time. He rang the doorbell. A few moments later, Guidry answered the door in shorts and a tank top. Her eyes were still red and puffy. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. “Oh, hi, Richie,” she said. “What do you want?”

  He sniffed the air, expecting to smell enough pot to give him a contact high. Instead, he smelled the most wonderful, flavorful food. “I need to speak to Jacob. It’s about Sam.”

  She looked at him for a few moments before calling back into the apartment. “Jacob, hun. Richie’s here. Wants to talk about Sam.”

  He heard a muffled reply from someone he assumed was Jacob. Then Guidry let him into the apartment.

  “Hey there, Richie,” Jacob called out from the kitchenette. “Emilie and I are making boudin. Do you want some?”

  Richie, in spite of himself, bobbed his head in a ridiculous manner. “I don’t know what boudin is, but it smells scrumptious. I’m in!”

  Jacob laughed and motioned for him to come over. “You can help me season the meat while Emilie prepares the casings.”

  Richie noted that Jacob was hunched over the stove and standing kind of strange. A few minutes later, Jacob explained that he was recovering from a weight-lifting injury.

  Richie learned that boudin was a Cajun sausage made of pork cutlets and pork rice dressing, similar to dirty rice, stuffed into a pork casing. While it was quite an involved process, he had arrived near the end of it. Jacob seemed grateful for his help. Guidry seemed completely subdued the entire time, never making eye contact with him.

  In less than ten minutes, he was eating something that tasted, to him, like a delicacy.

  “That was incredible,” he said as he popped the last link into his mouth. He honestly felt bad about how much he had enjoyed the meal while Sam was still in trouble. A part of him loved the dish as if it had been his favorite since childhood. “Sometimes, I wish I had been born in Nawlins.”

  Jacob snickered. “Ah, we’ll turn you into a Cajun yet, Richie. You’re already saying New Orleans like a native.”

  Richie chuckled. It was nice to feel like he belonged. Maybe when this mess is over, instead of moving away with Sam, I’ll move here and live with her.

  Guidry finished eating in quiet and then curled up next to Jacob, not saying or doing much of anything. She continued to avoid any eye contact with Richie. She looked like she was thoroughly depressed.

  “So, what can I do to help Sam out?” Jacob asked, as he leaned back and drank some iced tea with lemon.

  Richie, who had caught him up on Sam’s situation, said, “I need to know the names of everyone who handles Sam’s manuscripts when she brings them to the Times-Picayune.”

  Jacob looked thoughtful and nodded his head slowly. “That’s a big request, dude. Caroline would fire me faster than you can blink if she knew I gave that information out.”

  Richie nodded back. He understood and valued the protection of privacy. “I know I’m asking a lot of you, man. But Sam could die if we don’t clear her name.”

  Jacob held out his hands. “No, no, man, I get that. I’m just thinking how I can pull off not getting caught. I mean, if any of this gets back to her…”

  He didn’t have to finish his statement. Nodding, Richie said, “I’m only interested in saving Sam’s life. Same with Rodger. We don’t care about anything else.”

  He and Richie locked eyes for a bit. Finally, Jacob sighed and said, “Be right back.” Getting up, he went to the back of his apartment, holding his back the whole while.

  Richie sat in awkward silence with Guidry.

  Finally, she said, “So, Detective Bergeron isn’t suspecting anyone else, is he? I mean, no leads or anything on who might be framing Sam?”

  Richie, who had been looking at his shoes, shook his head. “No, nothing. That’s why I’m looking.”

  “Right, right. Just asking,” she said, looking over at the window.

  Finally, he asked, “Are you still working?”

  Looking over at him, she shook her head. “I’m on paid leave for a couple of months. I had a nervous breakdown after discovering Cheryl’s body. I found each of the victims. Virginia. Rebecca. Cheryl. Three bodies in a row. God, I’m never going to want to go to the French Quarter at night again.” She sighed heavily.

  Richie stared at Guidry for a long time. She glanced over only once, but otherwise refrained from making eye contact. What is she hiding?

  Finally, he asked, “Officer Guidry…”

  “Call me Emilie,” she said.

  “Emilie,” he said. “I need to use the restroom. Where is it?”

  “Use the master bathroom,” she said, obviously distracted. “My, um, unmentionables are hung up in the guest bathroom. Just go down the hallway. First door on your left is the master bedroom. It’s through there.”

  He arched his eyebrows at her mentioning her underwear, wondering if that was a New Orleans thing or a Cajun thing or what. Shrugging it off, he headed through the hall to the back. To the right was an office, where Jacob sat at a desk, scribbling on a sheet of paper.

  Quietly, Richie went left, into the master bedroom.

  He stared at Jacob’s bedroom. Between the king-size bed, the television with laser disc player, and the stereo system, it was obvious that Jacob was a regular spendthrift.

  He quickly headed into the master bathroom, where a garden bathtub continued to paint a picture of someone who loved to live well. As he relieved himself, he wondered just how much Jacob’s trust fund was worth.

  As he washed his hands, Richie eyed a set of bandages rolled up and sitting on the sink counter. Oh, yeah, Jacob burnt himself last week. That sucks. He picked up the bandages and looked them over. They were made of a hard, durable material. Crap, that must have been a hell of a burn.

  He ru
bbed his thumb over the bandage. To his surprise, it hurt. Looking more closely, he saw a small piece of metal barely sticking out of the bandage. His thumb had a small white streak on it where the skin had come up.

  That’s odd. Why have a piece of metal there? Scraped some skin right off. He found some moisturizer to rub into his thumb, put away the bandage, and then headed back up front.

  Guidry was watching television, which was showing news about the new Bourbon Street Ripper case.

  Richie looked over at the screen. “Have they mentioned Sam’s arrest yet?”

  Guidry shook her head. “Ouellette and Connick will want to sit on that until this evening. They’re talking about the shooting at the wharf, though, and saying that they do have a suspect in custody.”

  Richie gritted and ground his teeth, fighting back the rise of anxiety. Once she was named the killer, Sam would never live a normal life again. She was running out of time.

  “Here’s your list, Holmes,” Jacob said, coming out from the back and handing a folded piece of paper to him. “Just please, please, pleeeease do not let Caroline find out I gave this to you.”

  “I won’t,” Richie said, putting the paper away. “And thanks.”

  “No problem, dude,” said Jacob, clapping him hard on his back. “Anything to help Sam’s beau.”

  Richie shot him a thumbs up. “You know, I need to head to Lafayette and talk to someone. Would you like to come with me? I sure could use the company.” The alternative was driving all alone, and that sounded awful.

  “Nah, I can’t,” Jacob said. “I need to take care of some work stuff tonight. You know how it goes, a serial murderer and it doesn’t matter if I’m on vacation or not—I’m working.”

  “Sounds awful. Sorry, man,” said Richie.

  “Besides, won’t Detective Bergeron go with you?” Jacob asked.

  “I wish,” Richie replied, feeling his anxiety bubble forth. He felt compelled to just talk. “He’s going to some dude’s mansion. Some rich guy named Jonathon Russell. Supposedly a big clue to the real killer or something.”

  Jacob grinned. “You don’t say, do ya? Well, best of luck to Detective Bergeron!” He then gave Richie a playful punch on the arm. “Don’t worry, though, once Sam’s name gets cleared, the four of us will go out and really tear the town apart.”

  Guidry looked over, frowning. She didn’t seem to like the idea at all. As soon as she saw that Richie had caught her gaze, she looked away.

  Richie smiled, liking that idea. “Sounds like fun, man.” Maybe his suspicions of Jacob had been wrong. He really seemed like he cared about Sam.

  “Let’s make it a date.” He gave Jacob a hard yet playful pat square on the back.

  Jacob winced as if in terrible pain, and, for a moment, looked like he was going to take a swing at Richie. His fists tightened and his face contorted in anger.

  Richie took a step back. What the heck? It was like Jacob was holding back a ton of rage.

  Then Jacob laughed heartily and smacked him on the arm again. “Be careful, dumbass,” he said in a merry tone. “I pulled my back muscles lifting weights, remember?”

  Damn. I forgot. Wait… a hurt back and a black hooded cloak… Richie’s throat went dry. An unpleasant thought was forming. Holy shit! What if Jacob was the leader of the biker gang that had attacked him and Sam? Could all this cheer and friendliness be a ruse? Could this guy really be some kind of nut job?

  Noticing that Jacob was staring at him, his eyes narrowing, Richie quickly stammered out a response. “Shit! Sorry about that.”

  Jacob recovered quickly. “Don’t worry about it.” He laughed again. It sounded a little too forced.

  Richie had to get out of there before Jacob figured out that he was on to him. Richie pushed down the anxious feelings that kept trying to bubble upward. He couldn’t figure out where he was getting these suspicions, but they were too strong to ignore.

  Jacob showed Richie out. Once they were alone, he said, “And Richie, um, keep things quiet about Emilie, OK? Her boss thinks she’s checking into River Oaks. But I don’t want her to go to that nut house. I think what she needs is a vacation away from this city and a good therapist.” He winked. “Know any good ones?”

  Richie put on his best fake smile, winked back and said, “Not Dr. Klein.”

  Inside, however, he was far from smiling.

  Jacob had to be connected to the murders. He was sure of it. But how?

  Chapter 17

  It Had To Be You

  Date: Tuesday, August 11th, 1992

  Time: 12:00 p.m.

  Location: New Orleans Police Precinct 8th District

  The French Quarter

  After he left the Ritz-Carlton, Rodger went back to the precinct to check on the status of Sam’s arraignment. It certainly felt like everyone was in a rush to arraign, try, and convict Sam. Rodger was just amazed that no one had leaked Sam’s name to the media. Ouellette must have a heckuva gag order in place, he thought as he entered the squad room.

  It was a mess from hosting the now-dismantled task force. Detectives Rivette and Landry, along with some uniformed officers, were cleaning up. Rodger saw that, among the trash that was everywhere, several desks had vases of flowers on them. The sight made his throat tighten. It looked like the SWAT team wasn’t the only department with heavy casualties.

  “Blind Moses,” Rodger said to himself. “A woman driven by a hatred that ran so deep, she lost sight of her goal. If any one of us had ever seen so much as a glimpse into Violet Patterson’s heart, what would we have seen? Would we have seen the shadow of the real monster that hides in the dark? Or would we have seen a reflection of the monster in our own hearts?” He found himself wishing Michael was around. His partner loved his occasional poetic moments.

  “You should write that down, Bergeron,” said Ouellette’s voice from behind him. “Maybe after you retire, you can become a writer, too.”

  As Ouellette walked past him, Rodger chuckled. “Nah, this story has enough writers.” Seeing that Ouellette looked tired, if not withdrawn, he followed him to his office.

  “What do you want, Bergeron?” Ouellette asked.

  Rodger closed the door and leaned against the frame. “Actually, I was about to ask you that same question, Commander,” he said, folding his arms. “You seem less antagonistic and more contemplative than usual. And you’re not busting my chops for once.”

  “Yeah, I don’t much feel like busting any chops right now,” Ouellette said, motioning for Rodger to sit down. Ouellette pulled out a bottle with a black label and two glasses. “Was about to have some Jack Daniels. Join me?”

  “Um, sure,” Rodger said as he took a seat. Ouellette hadn’t shared a glass of whiskey with him since Douglas was still on the force. “Thanks.”

  “No thanks needed. I figure it’s time that I start sharing a glass with you like I did with Dugas,” Ouellette said, pouring a quarter glass for each of them. He slid one glass over to Rodger, then raised the other. “To old times.”

  “To old times,” Rodger said. He took a sip of the whiskey. He would have preferred it with ice. How does Ouellette drink this stuff room temperature?

  Ouellette sipped his whiskey, closing his eyes for a few moments, and breathing in the scent of the whiskey from the glass. “So the mayor’s going to do a formal inquiry of the entire department, as well as assess my ability to lead.”

  Rodger sat there, blinking. He didn’t know what to say.

  Ouellette leaned back and shook his head. “Over two dozen cops lost their lives last night, Bergeron. Un-fucking-believable. I’ll be lucky if I’m just allowed to resign.”

  Rodger’s brow knitted. “There’s no way you can be held respons—”

  “Bullshit, Bergeron,” Ouellette said firmly, almost raising his voice. “Bullshit. The buck stops with me, and you know it. Even if you and Dixie and Aucoin and everyone else who’s still alive testify on my behalf, do you think City Hall’s going to let this go? Every single of
ficer in Arsenault’s Arsenal was killed. Several of my detectives and uniformed officers were killed. There’s no way, short of a miracle, that I’m not going to lose my job.”

  Rodger felt sick to his stomach. Despite Ouellette always being up his ass about something, he had a great deal of respect for his commander. Ouellette had been in this position since Rodger was a rookie over thirty years ago, and there was very little Ouellette loved more than his precinct.

  Ouellette looked away, as if he couldn’t look Rodger in the eyes. “The damnable part, Bergeron, is that I don’t believe we have the right person in custody.”

  For a brief moment, what Ouellette had said skipped past Rodger’s mind. Then it hit him. “What a minute! You don’t believe that Sam is guilty?”

  Ouellette snorted and shook his head. “Not for a moment. Call it an instinct, Bergeron. I was sure of her guilt until I saw her fighting Blind Moses. Now I know she’s innocent.”

  He paused for a long, long moment, as if he were reliving a memory. Then he sighed. “Anyway, here are the thoughts I’m sharing. For a supposedly sociopathic murderer, Samantha Castille—Sam, as you like to call her—went out of her way to not hurt anyone. That fight was about those two and those two alone. It was a duel. But a sociopath wouldn’t care if there was collateral damage. Sam kept the fight away from everyone else. Not to mention, she risked her life to save Dixie’s. And in the end, she surrendered. We both know she could have gone on, killing Aucoin and everyone else who stood in her way.” He smirked. “Well, except me.” He clinked the side of his glass.

  Rodger hadn’t thought about it, but Ouellette’s points made sense.

  Ouellette took another sip of his whiskey. “Besides, if Sam is the killer, and the killer contacted each of Vincent’s old accomplices, why did Blind Moses try to kill her?”