A Life Without Fear

by Leo King

  Nodding slowly, Dixie shuddered a few more times, then lay back on her pillow.

  “I’ll go get you some water,” he said, getting up.

  She barely heard her boyfriend. Nibbling on her thumb, she went deep into thought.

  I cannot do enough for Sam to make up for how I treated her. She tried to reach out to anyone who would listen, but we all shunned and hated her. I effectively treated her like how my father treated my sister and mother.

  Gino returned with her water.

  If it takes me the rest of my life, I’ll make it up to Sam. I’ll make sure people forget the bad and only remember the good about her.

  An hour later, Dixie had gotten cleaned up and was ready for bed. It was then that she remembered Dr. Lazarus’s warning. God, I’ve never forgotten something like that. These pain meds must really have me out of it.

  She went up to the front room. Gino was watching a stand-up comedian and drinking a glass of wine. The phone receiver was on the coffee table in front of him. She slid behind him and kissed the back of his head. “I need to call my boss, OK?”

  He tousled her hair. “Of course, Dixie. Then you go to bed. I’ll join you soon.”

  Dixie took the phone and went back to the bedroom. She dialed Ouellette’s office at the precinct.

  “You should be asleep, Olivier,” he answered.

  She blushed. She had forgotten that her commander’s phone had Caller ID. “Hey, um, sorry,” she said, taking a moment to recover. “I’m calling because Dr. Lazarus asked me to tell you something.”

  Dixie expected her commander to ask who the heck Dr. Lazarus was, or demand a complete and full explanation. Instead, Ouellette just said, “All right, tell me what’s going on.”

  Odd. He must know Dr. Lazarus, she thought. “It’s about Dr. Klein. I haven’t said anything, but he’s been trying to recruit me as a manhunter for him. And I’m not interested. And he’s been threatening me because of it.”

  The line went silent.

  His tone was cold when he finally said, “I see. Thank you so much for telling me, Olivier.”

  Dixie was expecting more of a response. “So that’s it? Nothing else?”

  “What else do you want?” His voice raised a little. “I’ve worked with Dr. Klein before, as distasteful a man as he is. We’ve built up a trust. He shattered that trust like goddamn glass by overstepping his bounds. I told him you weren’t going to be interested, but he practically begged me to permit him to contact you. I knew he’d try some sort of bribery, but to threaten you? Hell, no!” His voice had gotten deeper and louder. The receiver of her phone was starting to vibrate, and she held it away from her ear.

  He knew that Dr. Klein was going to ask me to work for him? She couldn’t imagine that being the case. She couldn’t imagine Ouellette knowing Dr. Klein or Dr. Lazarus, or any of those people, on a professional or personal level.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she asked. “What’s going on here? How do you know all these people?”

  His voice had started to reverberate unnaturally. “It’s my damn job, and I’ll thank you to stay out of my damn business, Olivier.”

  She gasped at the roughness of her commander’s voice.

  Ouellette immediately apologized, his voice returning to normal. “That was out of line for me. I’m sorry, Olivier. I’m waiting to hear back from Bergeron, and sitting here on my hands is more painful than any torture, let me assure you.”

  Despite the apology, Dixie felt a little freaked out. Did that just happen?

  She didn’t ask about Rodger’s investigation. Before Michael’s funeral, it was decided that Rodger would have to work this alone. Anything more and they risked the mayor’s office coming down on everyone. But she was confident he could solve the mystery.

  “You know, Olivier, I’m going to break protocol.”

  His words pulled her out of her thoughts. “What do you mean, Commander?”

  “I was going to wait until you came back to the office, but you need some good news.” He cleared his throat. “You’re going to be promoted to lieutenant when you return to duty. Top brass have decided on it. You’re going to help me run homicide. Congrats, Detective.”

  She sat there, stunned.

  He harrumphed. “Your jaw is probably on the floor. Typical. Well, go celebrate with Gino, Lieutenant. Get plenty of rest. And don’t worry about Dr. Klein. I have a few phone calls to make. See you soon.”

  Dixie was still in shock when she heard the dial tone. She hung up the phone as Gino came into the bedroom.

  He looked at her with concern. “Is everything all right, Dixie?”

  “I just made Lieutenant.” The words felt surreal coming out.

  With a laugh, he swept her up into his arms, swinging her around. That shook off the shock and she started to laugh as well. As the two of them settled into each other’s arms, he kissed her lovingly. He then held her close and started a slow dance, humming to her.

  She pressed herself against him. She couldn’t help but smile. Despite all the ugliness and darkness in the world, despite everything vile that had happened recently, there was something to cherish.

  Maybe, just maybe, we all have a chance at happiness.

  Those happy thoughts carried Dixie into the night.

  Chapter 27

  The Knight Priory

  Date: Monday, August 17th, 1992

  Time: 8:00 p.m.

  Location: Sam Castille’s Townhome

  Uptown New Orleans

  After he hung up the phone with Rodger, Richie looked over at Sam, who was lying on her bed making gentle whimpers. She smelled awful. Man, you never know how much you love someone until you’ve changed their diaper. Kneeling down by her head, he smoothed back her blond hair and looked into her eyes. Somewhere within those blue depths, he could see what she was feeling: shame, regret, anguish—but, most importantly, love.

  He smiled softly as he gave her a gentle kiss.

  “Come on, beautiful. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  The same night Michael was murdered, she had started to respond to the outside world again. At first, the doctors feared that she was brain damaged and that her eye movements and occasional grunts were just instinctual. However, after additional testing, they concluded that she was indeed mentally cognizant, even though she was locked in to her body.

  Most of the doctors were amazed that she was even alive. The consensus was that the damage to her nervous system, the loss of blood, and the physical trauma sustained from fighting Violet Patterson were so severe that she should have died. Her survival was being called a medical miracle.

  Despite Sam’s condition, the state of Louisiana was still prosecuting her for the several dozen assaults committed by Sam of Spades. Everyone, including Dr. Klein, was treating it as a multiple personality disorder. As soon as she was declared mentally competent, she was arraigned in her hospital room, grunting once for yes and twice for no. Soon after that, Dr. Klein made a move to have her committed to his private facility somewhere in Louisiana.

  She had responded to that news with something akin to a throat-trapped screech.

  Fortunately, the parts of her fortune that could be easily accessed paid for her bail bond and her legal representation. So, despite facing either commitment or jail time, she was allowed to go home under Richie’s care. To make sure she was cared for, protected, and certain to make her court date, a nurse and two police officers were stationed at her townhome.

  The nurse helped in all things except for changing Sam’s diaper and cleaning her. Richie said that as her lover, he’d do that.

  “Rodger seems to think he’s on the verge of solving this case,” Richie said as he scrubbed her back. Seated in her bathtub in a mere two inches of water, she just grunted briefly, which he took as an affirmation.

  He had become really good at reading her grunts the past week.

  “So you know what that means, right?” he asked as he flipped Sam’s hair over her shoulder and washed the
back of her neck.

  When she grunted in a higher pitch, which he took as a question, he said, “That means we’ll finally be safe soon. No more worries about the Knight Priory or the new Bourbon Street Ripper coming for us. We can move on with our lives.”

  She didn’t reply. He fought back against his anxiety. Even though he had gotten his prescription filled, the pills no longer worked. It was like something had bubbled up inside him during those days without the medication that wouldn’t go away. He just dealt with it, no longer bothering to take the pills.

  “When all this is over,” Richie said, washing down just below the small of her back, “I’m going to move here to New Orleans—in with you, if you’ll still have me.”

  Sam grunted a few short grunts. They sounded happy. Richie smiled and pushed his anxiety away. Even though Gordon Rockway, his publicist, had abandoned him when he had failed to go to the next round of interviews, and even though sales of The Pale Lantern were plummeting as he broke his commitments, Richie was happy. Despite it all, he had succeeded in the one thing he truly cared about—being with Sam. To him, this was his happy ending.

  “At this point, I’m convinced that Julius Boucher is the killer. Everything adds up to it, ya know?” Richie chuckled to himself as he finished rinsing Sam. “At least, that’s how I’d write the big reveal of this story.”

  The bath over, he drained the water and carefully dried her off. Then he picked her up and called for the nurse, an older African American woman who had been assigned by the state, to help him carry Sam to her bed. The nurse dressed her in a fresh diaper and then in her nightgown. Once Sam was in bed, Richie pulled the sheets up to the middle of her chest and kissed her softly.

  “I’ll be back in a little bit, hun,” he said before leaving with the nurse.

  “Do you need me to stay with her while you go downstairs?” she asked.

  Richie shook his head and said, “I think she wants to be alone for a while. She’s been a recluse most of her life. You can wait out here, though, in case she needs something.”

  When the nurse nodded, he headed downstairs. The two police officers who were on duty were sitting in the kitchen. He had invited them inside because he figured Sam would be that hospitable.

  “Can I get you officers any more coffee?” he asked, going to pour himself a cup. Despite being from the North, he’d learned to love the taste of coffee and chicory. It had a taste that almost felt like home to him.

  When the two policemen accepted, he poured the water, measured the grinds, and set a new pot to boil. He was just setting out the cream and sugar when there was a knock at the door.

  Everyone in the kitchen jumped a little. Richie froze, and the two policeman got up, hands on their sidearms.

  “Stay here,” one of the policemen said before heading toward the front door. Richie nodded and waited in the kitchen, fighting back worry about who it might be. He feared the Lady in Red and the Knight Priory. Technically, to save Sam, he had betrayed them to the police.

  “Mr. Fastellos, it’s the Castille butler,” said the policeman from the front door.

  Richie breathed a sigh of relief. He had all but forgotten that Mason was coming over tonight. He went to the front door, wondering if Rodger would show up soon as well, like he had promised.

  Mason stood at the doorway. In the driveway was a beautiful black Mercedes-Benz, parked right behind Sam’s car.

  “Master Fastellos,” Mason said from the front porch. “Is Lady Samantha Castille awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need to deliver this box to her,” Mason said, his old voice somewhat hoarse. “As specified by the late Master Vincent Castille.”

  “Right,” said Richie. “I don’t want to be rude, Mason, but Sam is in something like a coma and cannot respond to anyone.”

  Mason sniffed and said, “My instructions gave no indication that a response was needed. Just that the box be laid before her and a message be read.”

  “You can refuse him entry,” the policeman said.

  Richie nodded and was about to do just that when a random thought appeared in his head. He felt that this could give Sam the closure she needed from the nightmare of her grandfather. The thought was overpowering. He needed to let Mason inside to see Sam.

  It was weird to get a thought, a feeling, that powerful, but he didn’t want to question it. For once, it felt less like the anxiety talking and more like a deeper, more aware part of him.

  “Nah, let him in,” Richie said, motioning for the old butler to come inside. “But after you give her the box and deliver the message, you’re gone, OK?”

  “As you wish, Mr. Fastellos,” Mason said.

  “Come this way, then,” replied Richie as he led Mason upstairs.

  As they approached Sam’s bedroom, Richie saw the nurse still waiting patiently outside. Crap, I forgot about her.

  “Hey, there’s some fresh coffee downstairs if you want some,” he said.

  The nurse muttered her thanks as she headed downstairs.

  Once inside the bedroom, Richie went quietly to Sam’s side. Her eyes were still open. “Sam, honey,” he said, putting his hands on hers. She looked at him.

  He cleared his throat. “Your old butler, Mason, is here with a gift from Vincent.”

  She started to make whimpering noises.

  He rubbed her hands and said, “I know. I know you hate him, honey. But he’s dead, remember? Mason is just going to giv e the gift, relay a message, and then leave.”

  She made another whimpering noise and then moaned. Richie frowned and wished Rodger were here to offer her even more reassurance.

  “Go ahead and get it over with,” he said to Mason. “She obviously wants nothing to do with her grandfather.”

  “I understand,” Mason said, approaching Sam. “Lady Castille, I apologize if this causes you any distress, but the late master was very specific about my performing this task on the twentieth anniversary of his arrest. And as you know, I have always served the Castille family without question.”

  The noise she made was as close to a mocking “nya, nya, nya” as someone in her condition could make. Richie didn’t suppress his grin.

  Mason appeared to ignore both and said, “Lady Castille, on this day, the twentieth anniversary of Vincent Castille’s arrest, he bequeaths to you this box.” He laid a black lacquered box on the bed at Sam’s feet.

  She followed the box with her gaze as best as she could. The box was about the size of a videocassette tape, only twice as thick.

  “Master Castille also asked me to read you this message,” Mason said, taking out a sheet of what looked like very old paper. Clearing his throat, he began to read.

  Dear Princess, If you are hearing this, then it is August 17, 1992, and I am dead. Twenty years ago tonight, Rodger Bergeron arrested me after I murdered my only son, Edward.

  I don’t apologize for the actions I have taken, but I am sorry for the pain I have caused you. I want you to know that in the end, it was worth it.

  Sam had made a whimpering sound a couple of times already. Now she rolled her eyes away from Mason and looked at Richie. A strained whine came from her throat.

  “Can you wrap it up?” Richie asked, starting to get angry.

  “I am reading as quickly as I can,” said Mason.

  I don’t know how events will reveal themselves to you, but if my calculations are correct, you and those closest to you will be in mortal danger soon. The person after you is a seed of incredible evil that I planted by my own actions. It’s possible that others have already suffered his uncontrollable rage. I apologize, Princess, for being unable to directly protect you, but his acts of evil will be necessary for me to keep my promise.

  Richie grabbed Sam’s hand and squeezed. Had Vincent known that there was going to be a copycat murderer?

  Mason read on.

  Therefore, Princess, I leave you with something to protect you. Should my experiment have been in vain, should all my calculation
s and work been for naught, the contents of this box may be the only thing that can save your life. Forgive me, Sam. You are the only one I ever loved. And I still love you, even in death.

  Vincent Gilles Castille

  Richie looked over at Sam. Although she was incapable of any facial expressions, her eyes were wide in terror. God, what is going on here? What “evil” did Vincent create?

  “I should go, then,” Mason said, backing up. He looked shaken.

  “Hold on,” Richie said, going to the foot of the bed. “Don’t go anywhere just yet.”

  Opening the box, he saw that the interior was lined in satin with an embroidered “C” on the inside cover. On a satin cushion was a small envelope with the name “Samantha” on it in calligraphy. The envelope was sealed shut.

  OK, now I’m even more confused. Holding up the envelope for Sam to see, he asked, “May I open this?”

  Sam grunted. He took it as a yes.

  As he opened the envelope, he felt his heart start to beat more rapidly. He honestly didn’t know what to expect, and his anxiety was bubbling forth once more.

  My heart hasn’t beat like this since the Knight Priory attacked. I’m already starting to sweat. What’s going on?

  Feeling a chill in the air and a tingling sensation in his spine, Richie shivered. It was a wholly unpleasant sensation. Taking a deep breath, he quickly opened the envelope.

  Inside were three capsules of pink powder. Just like the kind Sam and Blind Moses had used that fateful night at the wharf.

  “What the hell?” Richie asked. Some of the excess powder had smudged onto his fingers. He sniffed it. It had the scent of fruit to it. He sniffed again, harder, trying to identify it. The powder flew right up his nose, bringing on a sudden and powerful headache.

  Richie put the capsules and envelope back into the box and closed it. Carrying the box with him, he approached Mason, who looked upset.

  “You know anything about this stuff?” he asked, pushing the box under Mason’s nose.