A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Pull on it. Go ahead—pull!”

  Hesitantly, Liath grabbed hold of the strip and pulled. Out came a small leather pouch. He pulled it open and found his uncut stones safe within. Sighing with relief, he looked from the pouch to Katrina’s knickers, to Rasheeda.

  “ ‘Where no man shall go . . .’ ?”

  She dropped Katrina’s skirt. “It’s complicated.”

  “Well, thanks for waiting,” he said, tucking the pouch away. “I was afraid you’d be leaving without me.”

  She stared ahead, smiling crookedly. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that—not after all the trouble it took to save you.”

  “Save me? You suggested coating me with tar and setting me ablaze to use as a lantern!”

  She laughed. “Oh, that. I knew they’d never survive long enough.”

  “Really . . . why did you come back?”

  “For Katrina, of course.”

  “Of course. As you said before, why let a perfectly good revenant go to waste?”

  “Exactly.”

  He leaned across the docile maid. “Are you sure that’s all?”

  “Well, if you want to know the real truth . . .”

  He leaned closer. “Yes?”

  She pushed him away . . . gently. “I’ve decided it might prove useful to have a revenant with a penny-dreadful sense of honor indebted to me.”

  Was that the reason—the real reason? With this woman, yes, it could be that and nothing more. But he sensed it might be only half the story.

  Liath leaned back and crossed his arms.

  Maybe he’d put off his final dying a wee bit. Just long enough to find out. No worry about running out of time. As long as she kept anointing him with that sustaining oil, he had all the time in the world.

  Jack wandered the room as they spoke.

  Okay, so Jules, the last surviving member of the Chastain family, was rich. If the private Gulfstream V that had flown him down here from LaGuardia and the Maybach with the liveried driver that had picked him up at the airport weren’t enough, the sprawling New Orleans mansion provided sufficient backup.

  Moss-draped oaks had swayed in the breeze on either side of the house as the driver had let him out in front. “The Garden District,” he’d said. Jack had no idea what that meant, but the neighborhood spoke of genteel wealth, of a time forgotten, of slow grace, and a distant era. For all Jack knew, the manor house itself might have been a plantation once. With those massive pillars lining the front porch, it reminded him a little of Tara from Gone with the Wind.

  He’d done a little research before agreeing to come south. Jules Chastain had acquired his wealth the old-fashioned way: he’d inherited it.

  And the guy knew people. Famous people. Newspaper clippings and original photos of Chastain with George W., with Obama, with Streisand, with Little Richard—now that was cool—lined the walls between artifacts from all over the world. Jack had lots of artifacts around his apartment, too, but mostly from the 1930s and ’40s. These were from, like, pre-pyramid days.

  I could be impressed, he thought.

  He’d probably be definitely impressed if this guy was talking sense.

  He stopped his wandering to face Chastain where he sat in some kind of throne-of-swords chair—only this wasn’t a movie prop. With his thin moustache, thick glasses, and ridiculous silk smoking jacket, he looked like Percy Dovetonsils on crack instead of martinis.

  “Let me get this straight: you flew me all the way down here from New York to steal something you own from your family crypt.”

  “Yes,” Chastain said in a quavery voice. “Exactly.”

  “Okay. Now, since you’re not crippled in any way I can see, go over again why you can’t do this yourself.”

  “As I explained, the artifact I seek was obtained from another collector who wants it back.”

  “Because you stole it.”

  “Mister, I never got your last name.”

  Jack had had dozens over the years.

  “Just Jack’ll do.”

  “Very well, Jack, I assure you I can pay for anything I desire. Anything.”

  “Not if the other guy doesn’t want to sell.”

  He glanced away. “Well, occasionally one runs into bull-headed stubbornness—”

  “Which obliges one to steal.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, very well. Yes. I appropriated it without the owner’s knowledge.”

  “And the owner wants it back.”

  “Yes, she discovered the appropriation.”

  He seemed incapable of saying “theft.”

  “Oh, a she. You never mentioned that.”

  “Madame de Medici. You’ve heard of her?”

  “I hadn’t heard of you until you called me, so why should I have heard of her?”

  “Just wondering. You’re familiar with the expression ‘Hell hath no fury’?”

  “It’s ‘Heav’n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn’d,/Nor Hell a Fury like a Woman scorn’d.’ ”

  Chastain’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, a poetry fan.”

  “Not necessarily. Just like to get things right. I had the misfortune of being an English major once.”

  “Really? What school?”

  “The name doesn’t matter once you’ve dropped out. You were saying?”

  “Well, if the true quote is ‘Nor Hell a Fury like a Woman scorn’d,’ then in this case we’ve got ‘Nor Hell a Fury like a de Medici missing a piece from her collection.’ When I told her I didn’t have her absent artifact, she went out and hired a hit man to kill me on sight.”

  Jack had to laugh. “What is she? A mob wife?”

  “Despite the name, she appears to be a Middle Easterner. The point is, she wants me dead.”

  Over the years, during the course of business, Jack had ended more than a few lives, but never on contract.

  “Well, I hope you don’t think I’m going to hit her, because that’s not in my job description.”

  “No no! As I said, I just need someone to retrieve the artifact from the family mausoleum.”

  “And you need a guy from New York for this? Why not somebody local?”

  “I was told you are—what did he call you?—an urban mercenary. Yes, an urban mercenary with a reputation for getting the job done and being a man of his word.”

  “Where’d you hear all this?”

  “I’m not sure the individual would like me talking about him. Let’s just say you’ve had the benefit of an enthusiastic referral and leave it at that.”

  Jack wondered who it might be. He didn’t know anyone in New Orleans. He shrugged it off. With the Internet, the source could be anywhere.

  “Still, there must be a local guy who can—”

  “You also have a reputation for not being afraid of violence. That is, if attacked, you will counterattack rather than run.”

  “Oh, don’t go there. I’ve done my share of running. What else have you heard about me?”

  Chastain frowned. “Very little. I made numerous queries. You don’t seem to have an official existence. Some sources even said you don’t exist at all. That Repairman Jack is just some urban legend.” The frown morphed into a smile. “Interesting nickname, that.”

  Jack had never liked it himself but things had progressed far past the point where he could do anything about it.

  “Not my idea. Someone laid it on me and it stuck.”

  As for the urban legend angle, that was fine with Jack. His favorite method was to play someone and leave them with no clue they’d been played. Those people never talked about Repairman Jack, just a terrible run of bad luck. But fixes didn’t always go as planned, of course, and sometimes things got dicey. Sometimes people got violent. Sometimes people died. Those people never talked about Repairman Jack, either.

  Chastain rose and stepped to a window that had to be a dozen feet high.

  “Well, whatever,” he said, as he stared out at the night. “The thing is, with a hit man after me, I need someone who can ove
rcome any resistance, retrieve the artifact in question, and bring it back. Too many locals would forget about that last part.”

  “With a hit man after you, you shouldn’t be standing at a window.”

  Chastain stiffened, then ducked to the side.

  “I am so stupid at times,” he said, drawing the curtains across the panes. “I’m not geared for this kind of situation. That’s why I need you.”

  Jack still wasn’t buying.

  “But the simple solution is to call this Medici lady and say it’s in the mausoleum and tell her to go get it herself.”

  Chastain’s hands flew into the air. “I would if I could! I’ve tried but she’s gone off the radar! Incommunicado! And I fear the longer I wait, the shorter I’ll live. If I can just get the artifact back in my hands, I can eventually negotiate a settlement. But I’m afraid to set foot outside the door.”

  Something not right here.

  Customers had tried to run games on him before. Was this another?

  “How do I know you’re not setting me up to steal this from her?”

  Jules laughed. “It is in the Chastain mausoleum! It’s got my family name on it! I’ll show you a back way in—”

  “Why do I need a back way in if it’s yours?”

  “Take the front way if you wish. It’s just that I fear Madame de Medici’s hit man might suspect I’ll show up there and be lying in wait.”

  Jack pulled his Glock from the small of his back—traveling armed was a sweet perk of a private jet—and aimed it at Chastain’s face. “No need to lie in wait when you had him driven in from the airport.”

  Chastain’s eyes were fixed on the pistol as he backed away. “What? No!”

  “Madame de Medici offered me twice your fee.” Jack shrugged. “You got played.”

  “This is impossible!”

  “Quite possible.” Jack returned the pistol to its nylon holster. “But not true this time.”

  Chastain sagged against the desk. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Had my reasons.”

  He’d wanted to see Chastain’s reaction, and it hadn’t been what he’d expected.

  “That was cruel!” he said, dropping back into his desk chair.

  “Naw. Just serving up a dose of reality. So, just what is this artifact?” Jack pointed to a huge Olmec stone head in a corner. “Not something like that, is it?”

  Hysteria tinged Chastain’s twittering laugh. “Oh, goodness no! It’s a ring—an ancient ring. I’ve drawn a diagram of the interior of the mausoleum so you can find the hiding place.”

  Jack didn’t like this, any of it. But Chastain had called while Gia and Vicky were back in Iowa visiting her folks and he felt the need for a brief change of scenery. A fat fee, round-trip transportation to New Orleans in a private jet. It had all sounded too good to be true.

  And naturally that was how it was turning out.

  Hit man. Sheesh. He hadn’t bargained for that. But if he could sneak in and sneak back out of this mausoleum with no one the wiser, everything would be cool. He’d stop by the French Quarter for a fried-oyster po’ boy and then be on his way.

  “All right, let’s get this over with. And money up-front—all of it.”

  “Certainly.” Chastain reached for an envelope on a nearby table in the shape of an elephant. “Cash in hundreds, as agreed.” Another one of those Percy Dovetonsils smiles. “I take it Uncle Sam won’t be seeing any of that.”

  Jack said nothing as he pocketed the envelope. He wouldn’t know a 1040 if it poked him in the eye.

  Chastain said, “I was concerned you might not be armed, but no longer. I’ll have my man drive you over to the plantation and—”

  “You’ll show me how to get there, then have your man drive me to where I can hail a cab.”

  Arrive in a silver Maybach Landaulet. Yeah, that would work.

  “Very well. But be prepared for deadly force.”

  “Uh-huh. Got a map?”

  After watching Chastain trace a path along the Mississippi to the location of the old Chastain plantation on River Road, Jack let himself out onto the front porch to wait for the car. He stood between two of the massive columns, staring out at the misty night and listening to his forebrain playing “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” by The Clash while his hindbrain blasted “Go Now.”

  Something definitely rotten in New Orleans. A guy with a contract out on him didn’t stand at a window. He’d have all the curtains drawn and all the doors barricaded. So Jack had pulled his pistol to see how he’d react. In the context of having your name on a contract, “This is impossible!” was not a response that made any sense when looking down the muzzle of a gun.

  But it made plenty of sense if the contract didn’t exist.

  Chastain was lying—probably about many things. The smart thing to do was walk away. But Jack’s interest was piqued. What was the game here? He’d come a long way, the money was good, and he felt a need to see this through.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The air was different here. Heavier than New York’s. Manhattan was old, and he’d found ancient secrets in its hidden corners. But this place—the atmosphere was laden with the rot of dark mysteries with maybe even a touch of magic hovering on the edges. Jack had seen magic. He hated magic.

  Be prepared for deadly force.

  Jack was hoping to avoid that, but he’d be ready.

  Michael Quinn stood flat against the side of the Boudreaux vault in the family cemetery of the Chastain plantation, listening. His ears were attuned to hear the faintest rustle of movement. A sliver of moon cast meager light, but that didn’t stand against him. He had learned the art of seeing by night.

  The vault was filled top to bottom with decaying coffins or the sun-cremated dead, so he couldn’t hide inside. Besides, the door was sealed. The Boudreaux family had long ago left the area and it was doubtful that the vault would ever be unsealed. But he had no interest in the Boudreaux family tonight.

  Still, he hadn’t been desperate enough to forget all sense and wait inside the Chastain mausoleum. The crumbling old Boudreaux vault was adorned with gargoyles and angels, strange mix that it might be, and a good place to wait. In the darkness, if a piece of his head showed as he watched the night, he might appear to be simply part of a gargoyle.

  The Chastain mausoleum had a gate and a door and a chapel inside filled with an altar and chairs. The walls themselves were lined with coffins; two sarcophagi stood to each side of the chairs that allowed seating. While the old Chastain plantation had burned to the ground during the Civil War, the family had merely moved on into the city of New Orleans—and every decade or so, a new Chastain joined his or her ancestors.

  He knew the mausoleum well; he’d come out here often enough in his misspent youth with friends. Adolescents loved to sneak out to the ruins of the Chastain plantation and into the old cemetery to tell ghost stories and try to scare themselves—and dare one another to sleep in the mausoleum. They were somewhat outside the French Quarter and the old section of the city where the timeworn buildings and Spanish and French architecture ruled in the unique and beautiful aura of faded elegance that created the atmosphere of New Orleans. Far from the jazz bands and commercial pop that emanated from the clubs on Bourbon.

  Yet, here, out in the bayou area, Michael felt even more a part of the essence of Orleans Parish. Here, the cicadas were rubbing their wings; he heard the rustle of the wind through skeletal trees that scattered the graveyard. And beneath the meager glow of the moon, he felt the pervasion of death and history and something lonely and sad as well.

  The cemetery was not the size of St. Louis, but was built in the true style of the “cities of the dead” that were so much a part of the South Louisiana landscape. Eerie by night, the small and large tombs did seem to make up their own city and it was easy to imagine that ghostly denizens might emerge from the wrought iron gates and different archways and openings at any minute, ready to dance beneath the sliver of moonlight
.

  The vigil seemed long. The tomb he leaned against seemed cold despite the sultry weather of the night. His muscles began to tighten.

  There. Movement.

  Quinn saw someone in dark clothing—almost invisible in the night—moving like a wraith. He appeared to slip through the iron gate and the giant wooden doors of the structure. They must have been left ajar. How? By whom?

  Quinn waited, damning the fact that his own heartbeat seemed loud in the night. He watched; he’d seen only one person. He’d begun his vigil almost two hours early to see who would come.

  He didn’t head across the overgrown path to the front of the vault. He knew it well. Hell, he’d slept in the damned thing. The Chastain dead were apparently not vengeful; nothing had happened to him. And, oddly enough, he could be grateful now that he did know the vault so well.

  He knew of a small entrance at the back, behind the altar. Apparently, one of the Chastain founding family members had liked to enter unobserved and mourn his dead.

  Quinn hurried around as quickly as he could, ever watchful of the front.

  Nothing.

  Coming to the rear, he took his time, barely breathing as he carefully pried open the rear iron door, praying it wouldn’t screech. No one had used it in some time but the vines and weeds that should have nearly choked it had been pulled away.

  Something was off here. But still, he was sure he could use this passage to get the jump on whoever was inside.

  He eased the door open just wide enough to get his body through. He dropped and rolled behind the altar as quickly as he could. The rear wall offered broken stained glass windows and the weak illumination of the moon came through what remained of the colored glass in a strange purple color. The air smelled musty, but no surprise there.

  A tile tilted under his left shoe. Had the intruder hidden back here? If so, where was he now? Something within Quinn wanted to investigate that tile, pry it up—

  Later.

  He held his breath and listened. No sound. Not even the other’s breathing. Was he holding his breath, too?

  No. The mausoleum felt empty. But how could that be? Quinn had seen him go in.

  Pulling his revolver, he moved out from behind the altar and crept around, searching. The place was empty. But that was imposs—