by Leo King
Mason tried to keep his dignified composure but shuffled back. “No, sir, nothing! The master had a name for it that I never could pronounce. He got it from one of the Priory members who stayed in Africa during the—”
“Do you have any idea how much damage this stuff has caused Sam?” Richie asked, getting angrier. His heart palpitations were increasing, the anxiety constricting his throat. His head was already pounding. “This stuff nearly killed her, you twit!”
“I am sorry, sir,” Mason said, his voice cracking with fear. “Please, I’m just a servant. I just—”
“Shut up,” Richie said, glaring at him. “Just get out of here and never bother Sam again. She’s through with her fucked-up family.”
Mason hurried downstairs as quickly as he could.
Richie started to feel sick, like he was going to pass out. The pounding of his heart, combined with the sudden headache, made standing next to impossible. Leaning against the banister, he thought, Fuck, I inhaled some of that shit. Am I going to start tripping or running up walls or something?
He headed downstairs to the kitchen. Water. I need water.
In the kitchen, he put the box by the phone and the knife set and quickly got himself a glass of water. It felt good going down but did nothing to alleviate the pounding in his chest or the aching in his head. He was just about to go looking for aspirin when he slipped on some liquid and fell onto the kitchen floor.
He lay there for a moment until the nausea passed. Once it was gone, he got up and looked at the liquid he had slipped on.
Blood.
Richie turned pale. What the fuck?
Turning, almost against his will, he looked at the two policemen sitting in the kitchen. Both were slumped forward in their chairs, their heads resting on the breakfast table, their throats slit. The blood was still pouring out.
He screamed and backed up, struggling to get to his feet.
Not again! Not them again!
The door to the back porch opened, and in came the nurse with a cup of coffee. As soon as she saw the bloody mess, she let out a tremendous shriek. He squealed in unison with the nurse. She didn’t appear to hear him as she backed away from the scene.
A moment later, a figure appeared behind her and, grabbing her tightly, slit her throat with a butcher knife. Her coffee cup fell to the floor and broke, the contents spilling. She struggled in the figure’s arms, gurgling helplessly until she went limp. The figure let the nurse go. Her body fell to the floor in a heap.
Looking up, Richie saw the same hooded figure who had taken Officer Guidry—the one Richie believed to be the real killer.
He grinned at Richie. It was that same wide, condescending sneer as before.
Richie screamed and ran from the room.
Silently, the figure ran after Richie, staying close behind him.
Richie’s heart was pounding, his head throbbing. Once again, he was covered in blood. All he could think about was getting to Sam. He had to get to Sam. Lock the door. Call Rodger. Call the cops. Call anyone.
Richie scrambled up the stairs so fast he was almost crawling, whimpering the entire time. Each time he looked back, he saw the killer just coming around the corner, that sadistic, murderous grin underneath the hood.
When Richie reached Sam’s room, he quickly shut the door and locked it. He heard Sam grunt.
“It’s the killer. The real killer,” Richie cried out. Running to the nightstand, he picked up the phone.
No dial tone.
“The line’s dead—oh, God, Sam, we’re in trouble,” Richie cried, slamming the receiver down.
Sam grunted again, her tone questioning.
The door to Sam’s bedroom started to shake as someone pounded on it. Richie ran to it as Sam grunted questioningly again. “He’s trying to break in!” Richie exclaimed, holding the door shut.
Richie felt another slam against the door. It was harder than the first one. “I can’t hold it.”
Sam let out a whine of concern.
Richie felt a third slam against the door. This time, the door shook in his hands. “Oh, shit! Sam! We need to get out of here.”
Sam’s whine started to rise in panic.
There was a final slam against the door, and this time, Richie flew back as it crashed open. He slid across the bedroom floor as Sam cried out in confusion, the sound trapped in her throat. Looking up, Richie saw the killer enter. His hands were covered in blood.
The killer looked over at Sam. His mouth opened, his teeth bared like fangs. “Samantha…”
“Sam!” Richie jumped to his feet. Both he and the killer got to Sam at the same time. Richie grappled with the killer, trying to force him away from Sam. “I won’t let you have her. You won’t hurt a hair on Sam’s head!”
Sam continued the confused and terrified cries in her throat, eyeing Richie fearfully.
The killer just laughed. The sound dripped with venom.
With blurring speed, the killer kicked Richie in both shins. He wailed, and as he felt his knees buckle, the killer picked him up and threw him onto the bed. The impact pushed Sam right off, her throat-clenched yelp of confusion turning into a grunt of pain as she hit the ground. Richie tried to get up only to have the killer punch him right in the groin.
Richie felt his entire world reel, his vision blurring, and curled up into a ball. The pain was unbearable. As he doubled over on Sam’s bed, he saw that the killer suddenly had a scalpel in his hand.
“Time to die,” said the killer in a hushed voice. As before, his mouth didn’t move from that awful sneer.
Oh, God, no. Richie was unable to move from the pain.
The killer grinned sadistically at him.
I’m gonna die. Oh, God help me, I’m gonna die.
Then Richie saw a figure behind the killer, stealthily moving toward them both.
It was the Lady in Red.
Oh, thank God.
As the Lady in Red crept forward behind the killer, she drew out a butterfly knife and flicked it open. Even as the killer moved toward him, Richie felt that salvation was in reach. She’s here to help. The Knight Priory is here to help.
From below, Sam groaned in pain.
Just as the killer reached the foot of the bed, the Lady in Red grabbed him from behind, placing her knife at his neck. “Julius,” she said to the killer.
Richie felt the relief of triumph. I was right.
“It’s you,” said the killer.
The two turned and embraced each other before pressing their lips together in a chaste but lingering kiss.
Richie cried out in despair. From the ground, Sam started sobbing.
“Thank you, little boy,” said the Lady in Red to Richie, resting her head against the killer’s chest. “We couldn’t have pulled all this off without you.”
What the fuck?! Richie mentally cried out, still reeling from the killer’s blows. They’re on the same side?! That doesn’t make any sense!
“He doesn’t understand,” said the killer with a smirk, stroking the Lady in Red’s hair.
“Of course he doesn’t get it. He’s stupid. He needs it spelled out to him,” she said, running her finger up and down the killer’s chest. She sneered cruelly at Richie. “We used you. We wanted to kill one person. It’s always been about killing just one person.”
Sam continued sobbing.
Richie was finally able to move. He wiggled, one inch at a time, to the edge of the bed. “What? Who the fuck do you—?”
He stopped as the revelation dawned on him. “It’s Sam? This whole thing has been about killing Sam?!”
From below, Sam cried out in confusion, her throaty screams sounding choked and tight.
As the Lady in Red untangled herself from the killer, and as Richie tried to slip off the bed, she grabbed him and pushed him onto his back. He saw a flash of metal and then felt a hard pinch as she stuck a needle in his neck.
“Congratulations, little boy, you figured it out,” she said as she drained a syringe
into him. Instantly, he felt his muscles seize and lock up. “The ritual Vincent performed on her made her damn near invincible. You saw her at the wharf. Even with the tkeeus, we could never hope to match her strength.”
Richie couldn’t move. He could feel every sensation as the Lady in Red laid him on his back and secured him to the posts of the bed with leather straps.
“Julius came up with the brilliant idea of using Samantha to kill Blind Moses. Why not? Violet Patterson hated Sam. It was like a powder keg waiting to explode. They just needed a little spark to set them off.”
They used Sam to kill Violet, Richie thought in a mixture of frustration and fear.
Now that he was strapped in, the Lady in Red leaned over him, face-to-face, saying, “We just needed someone to keep Samantha busy until we were done getting rid of everyone else. So we used you. And even though you have been a pain in the ass, you did exactly what we wanted, little boy.” She leaned down and kissed his lips, passionless and without feeling. “Thank you.”
Richie glared. Fuck you, you bitch!
“Did Mason escape?” asked the killer. Richie could see only the pale glint of his sadistic smile.
Looking up at the killer, the Lady in Red said, “My boys got him, Julius. We’ve already killed him.”
“Good,” said the killer. He pointed down at Richie. “I’m going to get rid of him now. He’s baggage.”
Richie’s heart started to pound in his chest. He had never been so frightened. All he could think about was Sam. Holding her. Kissing her. Feeling her warmth against him.
“As you wish. But don’t take too long,” the Lady in Red said, looking at a pocket watch. “Rodger Bergeron will be here soon. We need to get Samantha out of here before then.”
Richie felt sick to his stomach. He heard Sam weeping on the floor below. She sounded so confused and frightened. He felt utterly helpless. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t make a sound. All he could think was that he’d never get to hold her in his arms again.
“When you’re done with Richie, bring Sam downstairs,” the Lady in Red said, before leaning down with a sneer. “Goodbye, little boy.”
As the Lady in Red left, Richie tried to distance his mind from what was happening. He couldn’t move. He was stuck as the killer opened a case, producing a series of sharp, dangerous-looking tools—scalpels, pliers, miniature drills, a bone saw, and a pair of forceps.
“I won’t lie,” said the killer, as he checked a scalpel’s blade. “This is going to be hard for you.” Grinning evilly, he opened Richie’s shirt.
The world started to become a haze as Richie felt like he was watching the killer prepare to cut into him. The sensation of detachment was overwhelming.
Struggling to keep his thoughts his own, he focused on the taste of Sam’s kiss, the soft texture of her skin, the sweet smell of her hair, the gentle hum of her voice as she sleepily muttered his name, the si—
“Very hard indeed,” said the killer as he cut into Richie’s chest.
Inside his mind, Richie screamed in anguish, and gave in.
Chapter 28
Everything Made Sense
Date: Monday, August 17th, 1992
Time: 10:00 p.m.
Location: Sam Castille’s Townhome
Uptown New Orleans
When the receptionist at the Acadia Vermillion Hospital picked up, Rodger said, “Hello. This is Detective Rodger Bergeron. I’m…” Rodger paused and sucked back a sigh. “I was Michael LeBlanc’s partner. May I speak to Dr. Lazarus?” It was hard to think about Michael being gone.
“Of course, Detective,” replied the receptionist. “One moment.”
Rodger didn’t have to wait long, as Dr. Lazarus soon picked up. “This is Dr. Lazarus. Is this Detective LeBlanc’s partner?”
“Yes,” said Rodger. “I was hoping to ask some follow-up questions from Michael’s visit.”
“Of course,” replied Dr. Lazarus. He sounded tired. “Also, I heard about what happened a few days ago. My condolences for your loss. Detective LeBlanc was a truly remarkable person. His death is a terrible loss to many people.”
Rodger, who felt that Dr. Lazarus was laying it on a little thick, said, “Well, that’s all well and good there. You know his funeral was today, correct?”
“Yes, yes,” said Dr. Lazarus. “Again, my deepest sympathies. I wasn’t able to make it. I had to take care of something here in the hospital that is vital to my research. I did send flowers. Did the family get them?”
Rodger felt like he was getting side-tracked. He cleared his throat. “Dr. Lazarus, you spoke with Michael about Dallas Christofer. But what can you tell me about Julius Boucher?”
There was a pause before Dr. Lazarus said, “Funny you should ask that, Detective. I was cleaning up old files and happen to have Julius’s with me right now.”
Rodger blinked in surprise. Could luck be on his side? “Please tell me everything about him.”
“Of course. Here we go,” replied Dr. Lazarus. Rodger heard the sound of papers moving.
“Julius Boucher. A gifted but troubled boy. He was what I referred to as a cast-away child. His mother worked at the Jean-Lafitte Theater under the stage name Rose. His father was an oil dredger. He was born of their affair and given up for adoption at the age of five.”
Rodger nodded. Everything Dr. Lazarus was saying fit with Michael’s notes on Julius. “Continue, please.”
“At age six, Julius was fostered out to a family in Donaldsonville. Julius’s foster parents were very abusive. They kept him locked up in a storage shed and made him clean their house. They fed him scraps and physically abused him whenever the mood struck them. Monstrous people.”
Rodger shook his head, feeling ill. Despite being on a roll with the investigation, he couldn’t help but feel sympathy for an abused six-year-old boy. “So what happened? Obviously, someone rescued Julius and placed him in your care?”
“That would be the state of Louisiana,” replied Dr. Lazarus, his tone unmistakably sympathetic. “At age ten, Julius broke free and murdered his foster parents. He was taken into custody by a state trooper. Given the nature and sheer brutality of the murders, he was committed very quickly and remanded to my care.”
Murdered his foster parents! Rodger felt he was on the right track. This boy had already killed someone. “So, what kind of patient was Julius? Did his violent streak continue?”
“Very much so,” replied Dr. Lazarus. “He was personable to other children—charismatic, even. But to adults, he was very violent. Nothing worked. No type of therapy or treatment had any effect. As I told your partner, he was being considered for a lobotomy.”
Rodger shook his head. That thought disturbed him greatly. “So did Julius get along with Dallas and Samantha?”
“They were close friends, as far as patients go,” Dr. Lazarus replied. “Although Samantha and Dallas had an almost familial bond, Julius was adopted into their group. They used to play word games, especially Dallas and Julius. If you recall the term ‘Nite Priory,’ spelled N-I-T-E? That was the result of Samantha telling them about the Knight Priory of Saint Madonna. If I recall, Julius came up with ‘Nite Priory’ at Dallas’s request.”
Rodger hummed. “So, then, I take it that Dallas and Julius were particularly close?”
“Yes. All three were close, although I would say that Samantha was more removed than the two boys. They weren’t with me terribly long, but they formed a very quick bond and then created a social pecking order. It was the topic of a paper of mine. Samantha was the leader, Julius was the charismatic one, and Dallas was the quiet, thoughtful one.”
Rodger whistled to himself. Despite this being a bit of a side conversation, he was amazed to hear how these three troubled children had come together and formed a group so quickly. It must have been because all three had been so badly abused. How awful!
Rodger moved to get the conversation back on track. “Was Julius impressionable at all?”
“By adults, not so much.
Definitely impressionable by other children,” Dr. Lazarus said, “especially by Dallas. They were inseparable at times. Dallas would even visit Julius alone whenever they got the chance. It was refreshing to see the two boys becoming such good friends.”
A light bulb went off in Rodger’s head. “What was the positioning of the rooms? Who was next to who?”
He heard the sound of paper shuffling for a few seconds. Then Dr. Lazarus said, “Samantha, then Dallas, and then Julius.”
Rodger grinned to himself in triumph. His hunch had been right. “Did Dallas and Sam tell Julius about what they had gone through?” Maybe Julius had taken on their anger as well.
“Dallas did, yes,” Dr. Lazarus said. “Samantha did not. Samantha did not want to talk about her experiences with anyone. That’s why I have always been worried about her.”
Rodger ignored the comment about Sam. All he heard was that Dallas had told Julius about his experience with Vincent. So then, Julius would hate Aucoin and Ouellette for not “fixing” Dallas’s problems faster. Julius could have associated himself with Dallas and taken on Dallas’s feelings of hate.
Seeing a light burn through the darkness, he asked, “So then, Dr. Lazarus, did Julius actually die the night of the fire?”
“Of course,” replied Dr. Lazarus. “Well, he was one of the boys who were burnt to ash. Dallas did go in and try to save Julius and…” He cleared his throat. “I get it. You think that Julius survived and ran away, don’t you?”
Rodger gave himself a check mark. “I do. If Julius took on Dallas’s experiences himself, he may have wanted to do something about it. It looks like this boy could very well be our killer.”
Again, there was silence. Then Dr. Lazarus said, “It’s entirely plausible. A lot of life was lost that night. Your theory is a stretch, though, since it would require Julius to have hidden amongst the general populace all these years. This is a person who has uncontrollable rage.”
There was another long pause before he said, “However, my only way of confirming this is to question Dallas about the night of the fire. He gets very upset when I bring it up. However, if it’s vitally important, I will try to talk to him about it again.”