What Lies Within

by Clare de Lune

  She loosened her hold on the gun.

  She lived so much inside her own head with her own cast of characters and she supposed it drove her mad, that was, if she was lucky. Sometimes they didn’t speak to her at all, not for a long time. And that made her feel lonely, as if she was lying in a cold cemetery, voices long lost and far away. She liked the humid subtle heat tonight, the sweat coating her like a wet second skin. She liked its constant reminder of the harshness of nature. Heat could speed up decay, making a body burst and rot and turn a deep shade of eggplant. But the cold preserved it, turned it icy blue. The breeze blew a little and she shivered despite the humid air. Now she felt like one of her corpses, cold and still, waiting to be ripped open and examined.

  Claude stared at the barrel of the gun as if hypnotized by it. With a slow calmness, he reached out and pointed it away from his head. Dazed, Sophia let go of the gun.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He didn’t answer. “Do you love me like I love you?” He smiled again now, had her in his control now that he’d gotten the gun away from her. He continued lyrics from Nick Cave:

  My lady of the various sorrows

  Some begged, some borrowed, some stolen

  Some kept safe for tomorrow…

  Her facial expression made no move to change.

  “I’d be surprised if any of this fazed you, Sophia. Don’t act so shocked. You have a sister, too. Seems you’ve met her. Celestine. Ti.” Now her face did change. Her eyes widened just a little. So Claude continued, his voice slow and practiced.

  “I met her mother after yours. I almost reached out to her to tempt her to join us, but she’s not like us. No one is like us.”

  He continued to talk as he removed the gun away from her shaking hand, but Sophia didn’t really hear him. It made so much sense now, that longing lost feeling of family, the urge to know where her instincts came from. All here, staring up at her, the same vicious stare and dark features.

  She thought about the doll, this strange hand-made creature that didn’t talk or move, its only function was to be held. Claude was saying something about her being such a demented little girl. Don’t you remember, and yadda yadda yadda. The sky was turning from neon pink to a darker, steely grey, so it was time to get on with this.

  The razor blade still pressed against her skin, probably making an angry indent and nipping her with its edge. But she had wriggled the thing out far enough to reach it now. She wasted no time and sliced the air in front of Claude. It whizzed across his eyebrow, not too far from his other scar from her cat. He dropped the gun and held his hands up in front of his face. Such satisfaction to see the blood well and trickle down! His face was frozen (yes, oh yes you fucker!) and she sliced again and again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Leonide’s Lead

  Kenner police were alerted when local residents saw a “huge motherfuckin’ bonfire” near the warehouses out by the Mississippi River. It wasn’t long afterwards that they also got a call from San Francisco about Claude Moreau and all three surrounding parishes-- Orleans, Jefferson and St. Charles-- put out an all-points bulletin on his 1973 white Pontiac Bonneville. Folks had been complaining about this weird fuck for as long as Mark Leonide had been working with the State Police, so he was ready to take him down. Oh, the brownie points I’ll get, he thought as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the police cruiser. He was in a good mood, excited.

  Leonide remembered picking him up twice: once for dealing drugs and once for beating the ever living shit out of a prostitute. Drugs and prostitution never really went together. Anyone involved in both is destined to fuck up on an epic scale at some point. At least, that was Leonide’s experience. Plus, Leonide just flat out didn’t like the Moreau guy, no matter how much he chummed around with other officers. Bribes, Leonide thought. He was glad he was finally sheriff. Time to show those young guys how it was done.

  He felt hounded by the whole city lately—crime was up and people were pissed. Leonide was worried about how everything would play out this summer. Crime had always been rampant in New Orleans over the summers. The heat clearly agitated people, and angry people got even angrier. Road rage incidents spiked, bizarre crimes ensued, and the vibe was just flat out shitty. Leonide thought that if he had a hand in cracking Moreau, he’d get a nice little dose of self-satisfaction.

  Leonide headed down Decatur Street. Keeping tabs on Moreau wasn’t always so easy, but Leonide always made it a point to keep an eye out for Moreau’s car whenever he made his rounds in the Quarter. The guy was a fucking creep. Leonide had recently busted some crazy motherfucker who had been dumping women in the River at the end of Chartres Street, and he and Moreau were one in the same. Charming when you first met them. Savvy. Smart. And always up to something.

  Leonide steered the cruiser down Dumaine Street. If Moreau’s Pontiac was parked anywhere in the Quarter, he’d come home to roost. Or to take care of a few things before he tried to bolt. He had to know police were on to him by now. The murders in San Fran, all those boys…had to be connected to him somehow, even if the fucker was here in New Orleans most of the time. Leonide hated to think of Moreau slinking back and forth between the two places and killing in another state, but given his mannerisms and his record…

  To many people, especially in the South, homosexuality was taboo. Moreau pimped women down here—or tried to—so Leonide wouldn’t be shocked if he tried to sate his forbidden desires for young men elsewhere. Leonide certainly didn’t want to dismiss the possibility.

  Leonide maneuvered the police unit down Dumaine, craning his neck to look for the Pontiac. Should be pretty easy to find, but Moreau never parked in the same spot. And he always tipped some busker or shady homeless person to keep an eye on it for him and whistle when a cruiser came by. He never stayed at the Dumaine apartment long. Only long enough to drop in and get out. Leonide suspected he kept drugs or money here, or probably both.

  He saw the distinct side view mirror of the Pontiac and used the radio for an update. He wanted to run up to the apartment right away to see if there was anything interesting going on, but he held off for backup.

  He parked by some occult shop that had been there for years and watched the balcony in the rear-view mirror.

  What he saw next made him ax his decision to wait for backup. He had probable cause to just go in: as soon as he saw Moreau fall over and clutch his neck, Leonide made his move.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Ti: A Blanket of Protection

  Ti had wrapped herself in a blanket from Sophia’s couch while she waited for Black and the other cops to arrive. The green disc had helped her accomplish an important little task: eradicating every shred of business evidence from Sophia’s computer. She knew they’d probably take the computer and scour the rest of the apartment for anything they could get their hands on when they found out Sophia kept a large hunting knife in a sewing machine right by the door. She was definitely paranoid about something—or someone—and definitely somehow involved in Claude’s shenanigans.

  Black’s forehead was a landscape of worry wrinkles when he arrived. He sat with her while Wong asked her questions. She’d need to be looked over and couldn’t shower until they did a rape kit.

  “So you say he told you his name was Thomas?”

  “Yes. He came into Daily Grind a few times.”

  “He’s one of the owners of Everlasting, right?” Black looked like he couldn’t contain himself anymore. Wong nodded.

  Black pulled out his briefcase and shuffled through some paperwork. It will work, it will work, Ti told herself over and over. Tamara was blond-haired, blue-eyed and had an angular face, very much like that sick perverted rapist who had bled out on Sophia’s living room floor. If they mistake this guy for Thomas Fink, at least for a little while, Tamara’s off the hook. Jesus, she thought. Tamara, you better be long gone.

  She held her breath until the next question, but she could already read Black’s mind: Yo
u’re lying to me.

  “I know what you’re going to ask. If you’re thinking Tamara is Thomas Fink, you’re wrong. Paul, or whoever the fuck this really is, used it as an alias.”

  “So this guy—“ Black gestured to the dead guy in the living room. “He told you all of this, huh?” Black looked at her with narrowed eyes.

  “I know all of this because my Dad is Claude Moreau. He told me.”

  Ti could have almost fallen over from the relief of finally saying it. If they make the connection that Tamara was part owner, I’m fucked, Ti thought. Black and Wong both looked like they had been stripped of their souls.

  Then Black stood up: “You knew I was looking for information—“

  Wong put her hand on his arm. “Let’s simmer down here,” she said through her teeth.

  Black’s agonized look pestered her, but Ti continued. “I know a lot about that business. I didn’t share because my father would have come after me, too. Tamara is probably dead somewhere. Don’t you understand? He’s crazy.” Ti turned to Detective Wong. “Aren’t you going to help me?”

  She could feel Black’s resistance pushing at her like a hardy gust of wind, but she didn’t look at him. She had used him enough for now and would come back to him later.

  Wong went with Ti into the bedroom while she scoured the room for some of Sophia’s clothes to wear.

  “Are you going to tell us what you were doing here at Sophia’s apartment?” Wong was using a gentle tone of voice with her.

  “Yes. I came here to tie up some loose ends. I was watching her cat and her place while she was away.”

  “Celestine, if you know where she is—“

  “I’m sorry, I don’t. But I can guarantee you she was trying to hide from either Claude or Paul…Thomas. She told me they both scared her.”

  “Did she say anything to you about how she was involved in the business?”

  “As far as I know, she wasn’t involved in anything but the ownership of the company. I know her well enough to assure you, she wasn’t involved in any kind of murder. Tamara told me she doesn’t even really know her. Tamara just managed Daily Grind and she told me she didn’t really want to get involved with the owners. If you want my opinion, she saw or heard something and my dad kidnapped or killed her.”

  Wong’s face remained stoic. “How well did you know Sophia?”

  “Well enough,” Ti said without missing a beat. If she really thought about it too much, she would begin thinking about how mysterious and strange Sophia seemed. She knew Wong would press.

  “I confided in her a few times after Tamara disappeared. She let me in and I felt comfortable talking to her about things. I wouldn’t say we were best friends, but she came into the coffee shop a few times.” All true, she told herself to keep calm.

  “We’re going to need you to come in and make a statement. We’ll need DNA swabs from you and we’ll have to take your clothes.”

  “Do you believe Sophia killed all those people?”

  Wong took a moment to respond. “It doesn’t matter what I think. All that matters are the facts and we’re going to go off of what we have. I can tell you this, though: we’ve been looking for your father for some time now. He’s a suspect in a very serious case here, so if you hear from him—“

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Wong nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Good.”

  Wong turned her back to let Ti take care of herself, but she left the door ajar. Ti peered out and strained her ears to listen for any information. The coroner and several other people had shown up, making the place a total madhouse: the knife was being bagged. Ti’s clothes were being stuffed into a bag. Someone was taping off the area and Ti heard someone take a picture. Black swerved around several people to talk to Wong.

  “Thoughts?”

  “I keep thinking about what Camlin said, you know?” Wong’s voice was just above a whisper. “Sophia’s not even here. She left. Gone. She’s probably hiding out somewhere. We ought to get a warrant for this place to see what we can come up with.”

  The camera snapped again and Ti saw Wong crane her neck towards the small, rectangular and black object obscured by one of the pillows on the couch. She pointed. “What’s that?”

  Black turned to look, but Wong stalked over to the couch and picked it up. She flipped to the first page. “Sophia Varga. Her number is written in here,” she mumbled as she flashed the inside of the little book for Black to see.

  “It looks like her journal.”

  “He was holding that when I walked in,” Ti called out.

  “Bag it,” Black said sharply. “Ms. Grace, you didn’t mention this when we questioned you.”

  Ti barely contained her huff. Ms. Grace? Fuck him, she thought as Wong (who looked as though she was thinking the same thing) motioned to a chair in the kitchen. He’s all butt hurt because I went in there and talked to his partner. That’s just the way it has to be, Robert. Then she caught his glance as he was walking out the door. Sorry, she tried to plead with her eyes, but she could see he was taking this too personally.

  She’d deal with that later.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Sophia: Falling Apart

  It felt strange to watch the fading light outside. The sky faded to pink like a faint scratch. She could hear dry leaves tinkling as wind tickled them.

  “It’s going to rain again,” Sophia said absently.

  “Pardon? Ms. Varga, are you going to be all right? Do you want to go to the hospital?”

  Oh Sheriff Leonide, what a fool you are. “No, thank you.” She forced a tight smile.

  She was inside now, next to the French doors. Sheriff Leonide sat across from her. There was a trail of blood that started in a rosette outside and thinned out into a great slash that led indoors. People milled around inside the house and one person stood outside, photographing the bloody rosette. Sophia’s hands were coated with thick, sticky blood and she wanted badly to clean it off. Claude’s blood was not like any other blood she’d felt: it was wrong, too thick, and she imagined a thousand diseases swimming around it in. Father, she thought.

  “All right,” Leonide said evenly, “Please continue to tell me what happened next. You said you came here in a friend’s car because you were worried about the warehouse. You checked on the warehouse, found it on fire, and saw Claude on the side of the road just outside Kenner. Then?”

  “He made me take him to the airport. His car was there and he made me come here with him. He had that gun. Once we got in his car, he started going crazy. We drove here, had an argument on the balcony because I told him I heard the cops were looking for him, and I slashed him with a razor.”

  Leonide stared at her, waiting for more. She could tell his palms were sweating and he kept rubbing them repeatedly on his knees, but the friction was just making them sweat more. Leonide licked his lips.

  “I didn’t have a choice. I attacked him because he was clearly going to kill me.”

  “Anything else you want to tell me, Ms. Varga?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Fine. So if I check with the airport, they’ll be able to find this car in the long-term parking garage?”

  “Black Toyota something-or-other. I don’t know much about cars. Is it even relevant?”

  Leonide just looked at her.

  “Is he going to die?”

  “They took him over to the new charity hospital, I think. Blood loss, but he’ll probably make it and spend the rest of his days in jail. You’ll be fine, Ms. Varga.” Leonide seemed disappointed she didn’t go into more detail. Doesn’t matter, she thought. I’ll keep telling you that same story, no matter how many times you ask me.

  Leonide’s phone buzzed. “Leonide.” He looked at Sophia as a male voice on the other line buzzed away. “Uh huh. She’s here.” Sophia raised her eyebrows. “I’ll let you know.”

  Leonide ended the call and looked at her. “Looks like San Francisco PD got wind we got Mr. Moreau. They w
ant to get a warrant for your place. The, um, man you’ve been hanging around with, who I suppose you know as Paul, is dead.” Sophia said nothing, but tried her best to keep her jaw from dropping. Dead? Search warrant?

  “Come with me, Ms. Varga.”

  “Can I just go to the bathroom to wash this blood off?”

  Leonide hesitated. “A female officer will go in with you. Then you’re coming down to the station with me.”

  Sophia inhaled sharply. Great.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Ti: Covering Tracks

  Ti called John from Wong’s cell phone to tell him she missed the plane and probably wasn’t going to make it to New Orleans.

  “I’m coming up there,” he snapped.

  “No, John,” she sniffed, “I’ll come down there in a couple of days.”

  “Bullshit. I talked to that detective guy, Robert Black—“

  “Oh, fuck. Wonderful.”

  “Celestine, he’s concerned for your well-being. He told me you were attacked, for Christ’s sake. I’m leaving on the next plane out of New Orleans and you and I can come back here once things are squared away. I told Black I would answer a few questions about your father.”

  “What questions?”

  “They have him in custody. Your friend Sophia went after him after he tried to kill her. I’m not clear on the details.”

  “What? Where is Sophia?”

  “I don’t know. I’m leaving here in an hour. I’ll call once I land, okay?”

  “Fine. John—I love you.” Tears rolled freely down her face now and she squinted through the blinding fluorescent lights in the police station.

  “I love you too, sweetheart.”

  Ti handed the phone back to Wong.

  “Detective Black has a warrant signed. He’s going to go through Sophia’s place. As I’m sure you heard, your father is in custody.” Wong’s tone was flat.

  Ti heard her, but now everything sounded like a jumble of words. Ever since Tamara had reappeared on her doorstep, everything that had happened seemed like it was happening to someone else.