There’s one more thing the spirits want before the final act.
I tuck myself back into my slacks, then pick up her head. I walk to the front of the house, where he defiled my queen earlier, and place the sacrifice’s dismembered head in front of the door, marking it with ceremony, wiping away the sins they committed. Next to the sacrifice, the head, I write the message in her blood. Then I go back to the building.
Time to finish with the consecration of the sacrifice for the sin of Envy.
I grab the can of lighter fluid and squirt it over her body, and just enough of a trail to lead to it. I pick up my whip and my knife, then light the fire.
“May the fires of your powers grow stronger.” When I turn and leave the building, with the body now covered in flames, I mumble, “Praise be.”
As I walk back toward the tree line, across Ignatius Beauchamp’s lawn, to the boat waiting in the swamp for me, discontent grows in my belly, dark and angry. It seeps through my body and leaves a foul taste in my mouth.
This time, I don’t smile. Satisfaction does not come.
As I climb into the boat and push from the water’s edge, images of the punishment and revenge that are coming fill my head.
This time, I smile.
Sixteen
Was It All Just A Dream?
When I was a little girl, I used to dream about Marie Laveau. She’d come and whisper to me, it seemed so real. She said I was meant for a purpose, that I would be the bridge that would join the past and the present. Initially, I used to look forward to the nights she’d come. She was kind and she made me feel special. It was when the others came, I hated going to sleep. Nights filled with screaming and terror, of agony and torture. Spirits caught in a loop of eternal damnation. Some of the faces looked just like Edvard Munch’s The Scream. The visions lessened when I finally left New Orleans. It’s not surprising as the ground itself in the Louisiana bayou is saturated with blood and spells. Putting some distance between me and the land helped, but not entirely.
The Beauchamp plantation house has its own energy, its own life force. You can feel it humming in the air like a current that wraps around you and sinks deep into your skin. It’s hungry, it wants life, blood, and tears. It wants it all, everything that had been ripped from it centuries ago on that fateful night when Vodu was called upon to take everything from this home. It wants it all back.
Last night on the front steps was its way of reclaiming some of what once belonged to it. We were two souls pulled in by the ancient power, centuries of hunger and want consumed us. It was one of the most powerful moments of my life.
Afterwards, Marie Laveau came back to me for the first time in a long time. She felt real, she always had. She wore a turban around her hair, piled atop her head, with a shawl draped over her shoulders, and a full skirt that I distinctly heard swishing when she entered the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and she wore a sly grin, the kind that said she knows all the secrets, and she wasn’t telling any of them, much like Hattie often does. She glanced at Ignatius asleep next to me.
“The Beauchamp plantation heir,” she said in a thick Creole accent.
“Yes, but he’s a good man,” I replied, somehow feeling I had to defend him.
“There be something dark inside him, Dominique.”
I know, I’ve felt it, many times. It both enthralls and frightens me in the most mesmerizing ways. These were only thoughts, feelings I kept to myself, afraid if I spoke them, admitted them, they’d become real, a thing all on its own, like the darkness I’ve felt inside Ignatius. My ancestor turned her head to peer at me, that sly grin stretched wider, as if she’d heard every unspoken word I thought, all my secrets, that everything about me belonged to her.
She lightly skimmed a long fingernail down his bare arm. “But he is pretty.”
A hot flash of jealousy sprang up inside me. He’s mine, you can’t have him.
Marie Laveau turned to face me again, an amused expression arching one of her brows, daring me to stop her if she felt so inclined to take him. Then her expression turned serious. “He’s coming. For you both, Dominique.”
Every single possessive instinct within me reared up, ready to fight for Ignatius, to protect him and keep the sick bastard from harming him.
“You must get up. Fight him. You have the power. Use it, girl. Get up!” Marie’s expression now hard and angry. She grips my arm, but I don’t feel her touch. She’s already beginning to slip away. I can still hear her rich voice growing fainter and fainter. “Get up, Dominique!”
My head turns to the side and my eyes flutter open as the dream floats away and clarity replaces it. Ignatius’ body is entangled with mine, his body heat making me too warm. Outside the window overlooking the backyard, I see a glow. Something strikes me as strange; something doesn’t appear right. The glow’s coming from below the window, not above it where the sun rises over the trees. My heart rate skyrockets as I separate my limbs from his and get out of bed. I pad barefoot to the window, my body aching in all the places Ignatius had laid his claim on me.
“Oh, my God, Ignatius!”
“What is it?!” Instantly, he’s out of bed and beside me at the window.
I don’t have to say anything, it’s right there in front of us. The small building in the back is on fire. I press a palm against the glass, maybe willing it to stop.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Ignatius is already across the room and shoving his feet into pant legs as he runs out. “Call 911!” he yells as he barrels down the stairs.
Grabbing my phone, my trembling hands try to dial correctly. It takes a couple of times before I get the right three digits. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I murmur, my nerves in overdrive.
The dispatcher picks up on the first ring. “911, what is your emergency?”
“There’s a fire at the Beauchamp plantation!” I’m back at the window watching the scene in the backyard. I see Ignatius shoot from the house and run for the hose.
“Is it a building?” she asks.
“Yes!”
“Is there anyone in it?”
“No!”
“Can you confirm the address please? We’ve already alerted the fire department.”
“Yes,” I suck in a lungful of air. “It’s 9805 Old Jeanerette Road.” My heart is pounding a hole through my ribs as I watch Ignatius drag the hose to the building.
It doesn’t reach.
“I’ve got to go! Hurry!”
“Ma’am, do not get close to the fire, the fire department is coming…”
Click.
I throw the phone on the bed as I dart to the door, snatching clothes on the way out. I yank the shirt over my head as I run down the stairs and shove my feet into the pants at the bottom as I storm out the door. As the screen door slams behind me on the back porch, I hear Ignatius yell as he looks into the outbuilding from the door. “Holy mother of God!”
Something’s in there, something absolutely horrifying.
“What is it?!” I yell. I can feel the heat of the flames from here.
“Do not come over here, Dominique! Get some things to carry water with!”
I turn and run back into the house and into the kitchen. I fling everything out of my way to get to the largest pots in the back of the cabinet, large enough to boil crab legs in. I dash back outside with three pots and head directly to the running hose. Ignatius is throwing dirt on the flames trying to douse them. “Here!” I yell to him after I get one of the pots filled and start on the others.
That’s how we work for a few minutes, me filling the pots and him coming back to switch them out. The flames are already lessening when the official vehicles arrive. Police cars, fire trucks, and a couple of ambulances.
Firemen come charging past us with the hose and blast the fire. Fortunately, it was contained to only the outbuilding and goes out quickly.
The sun hasn’t even come up, and yet the property is full of people and vehicles and lights and commotion.
An offi
cer approaches us. “Mr. Beauchamp?”
I think we’re both crashing from the initial adrenaline rush from discovering the fire. Ignatius is covered in dirt and soot.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“This is your house?” the officer questions.
“It is, and I know where you’re going with this. This is Detective Chavelle, she’s working on the Voodoo Burning crimes.”
“So, you know what was found in there?” The officer steadies an accusatory glare at Ignatius as he motions to the building.
Oh, dear God no! I avert my attention to the building as my knees quake and my stomach churns while images of the last crime rushing through my mind.
“Yes, I saw it, for Christ sake, but the detective hasn’t, we were in the house.” His arm slips around me, instantly soothing the rush of emotions the incident has evoked. I turn my face to him. His gaze is fixed on me. There’s another victim in that building, and by the expression on Ignatius’ face, I’m sure it’s the worst one yet.
“He was here.” I say. It’s a statement, a confirmation because the evidence is the fire.
“Yes,” Ignatius responds, his gaze not faltering.
“Have you been to the front of the house?” the officer asks, his tone level.
We both turn our attention to him. Ignatius replies cautiously, “No, we both came back here to take care of the fire.”
The officer’s eyes slide warily to me, then back to Ignatius. “The rest of her is up there.”
My eyes widen as every imaginable horror flashes through my mind of what he could be referring to. “What are you talking about?”
“Shit,” Ignatius grumbles as he shakes his head. To the officer, he asks, “Could you give us a minute?”
“Sure,” he responds, then walks away after sparing me another glance.
I step out of Ignatius’ hold and face him. “What did he mean, ‘the rest of her’?”
“Dominique,” he pauses, then scrubs a hand across his forehead, smearing another black line across it. “Shit,” he grumbles, apparently searching for the right words to tell me what exactly is going on. Finally, he breathes deeply as his eyes meet mine. “He was here. There’s another victim in there. The sick fuck cut her head off. And apparently left it at the front of the house.”
Where we had sex like savages just a few hours ago. He was here. He probably watched!
My hand flies to my mouth. “Dear God.” So many things are going on inside me. Shock. Fear. Rage. “He was here. He saw us.”
“No, Dominique, you don’t know that…”
“Of course, he did! Why do you think he left that poor woman’s head there? It’s probably exactly where we…” my God! “He watched everything!” Nausea curls thick and hot at the pit of my belly at the thought of the psycho seeing Ignatius take me like he did. The begging for more. Then beheading this woman and leaving her for us to find in the same spot.
“Dominique, we can’t know that for sure.” He says the words, but he doesn’t mean them. He’s only saying them to placate me, they’re flimsy and without emotion.
Steeling myself, I start to walk to the front of the house. “I need to see it. I have a job to do,” and I have to see his message. The one I know he left for me.
Ignatius is already in front of me as we make our way to the front of the house. “You’re lucky I’d be thrown in jail for obstructing justice if I dragged you away from this horror show,” he growls.
There’s a very big part of me that wishes he would.
When we turn the corner at the front, and are about halfway to the door, Ignatius’ steps slow. “Who does shit like this? How could anyone be so sick?”
Thankfully, I can’t see anything but his broad, bare back in front of me. Not yet anyway. It gives me a few extra seconds to prepare myself. I already know what’s there, however, I’m sure nothing can prepare me for the visual.
“Fuck,” Ignatius snarls when we’re just about there.
I can’t stand it.
I make my way around his large, formidable frame, because he can’t keep me from this.
Instantly, I get sick. I fall to my knees on the ground before my feet can take me away. On hands and knees, I regurgitate, heaving until my body is spasming in reaction, my internal muscles locked so it’s one constant heave. When the contractions finally slacken, and once my head clears, I realize Ignatius has my hair pulled back and is rubbing my back in gentle circles.
I close my eyes, steel myself and prepare to stand. I push to my feet. Then face the porch.
Right in front of the door sits the dismembered head of the victim in the outbuilding.
Please give me the strength to do this.
The perimeter is already sectioned off with yellow police tape. An officer is taking preliminary photos as I slip on the protective booties, then climb the few steps onto the landing. I step under the tape barricade and approach the evidence. That’s how I have to think of it, because at this moment I’m Detective Chavelle working the Voodoo Burning homicides. I tell the uniform with the camera, “Make sure Sergeant Harris gets those photos.”
He gives me a once over before replying, “Sure thing.”
I take cautious steps, making sure not to disturb anything. When I’m close enough to read the words I knew would be here, I almost pass out.
Mine! is smeared in the victim’s blood on the porch floor.
This just got personal.
Seventeen
6 Days Until Mardi Gras
Life as we know it has irrevocably changed.
The city as a whole is living through the most gruesome serial killings any community has ever experienced. I’m sure every single person has been affected in some way. It’s like there’s a dark, heavy cloud blanketing New Orleans, and everyone is entrapped by it. There is no escaping it, it’s at every corner you turn, and in every face you see. The city was hit hard and is reeling because the most recent crime came immediately on the tail-end of the one before it.
I feel like I’ve been sucked into the hellish void of the center because I was targeted again last night. The message scrawled on the porch in the victim’s blood said it all. The location the severed head was placed was a pretty clear indicator the perp had been watching us. He couldn’t have been any more precise as to where Ignatius and I had been intimate than if we’d put a big X on the spot to guide him.
“Are you okay, Dominique?” Ignatius asks from the spot he’s been pacing since the emergency workers left. I’ve been glued to the sofa in the main parlor, my eyes scanning the window, searching, constantly looking.
I’m fantastic. A serial killer was here – most likely watched us having sex – and he seems to have some kind of fascination with me. I’m fucking great.
“I’m fine.” I have to be. “I need to get to the precinct.” I stand and start to shove my things into my satchel.
Ignatius is beside me instantly. With a grip on my arm, he spins me to face him and has me locked against his front. “You’re not fine. I’m not fine, nothing about this whole fucking thing is fine. But we’re going to get through this, you’re going to figure out whatever the fuck you’re supposed to. You’re going to stop this sick son-of-a-bitch.” He gently lifts my chin with a finger beneath it. My eyes are screwed shut, trying to hold back all the emotions that want to burst from me through the tears pushing their way forward. “Look at me,” his voice is firm but tender. I open my eyes and meet his. They’re a turbulent storm of fury and concern. And strength. That’s the place I want to drown in. “I’m not going to pretend there isn’t something happening with you, me, this house, and the killer.” My stomach drops. He’s just voiced the very same concerns I’ve been harboring. “I’m not leaving you alone, Dominique. We’ll get him.”
That’s the problem, that’s the very thing I’m afraid of.
I believe the only way we can catch the perp is if Ignatius and I lure him. That’s a situation that would leave a lot of room for error, so many o
pportunities for things to go wrong. Look at what’s happened so far.
“She was number five,” I whisper as I stare into his eyes, barely containing all that I’m feeling. With my hands on his chest, my fingers curl, bunching the fabric of his shirt in my grip.
It was horrible. I had to go inside the building. After seeing her head, I didn’t want to have anything to do with it, but I have a job to do. I didn’t stay, I couldn’t. Basically, I just stuck my head in, barely glimpsing the mutilated corpse. I’ll review the photos and the sketches the crime scene investigators recorded. However, I think the most pertinent piece of information was sitting on the front porch.
“I know,” Ignatius murmurs as he slides his arms around me and pulls me close.
“We’re not even sure it’s The Seven Deadly Sins,” I mutter with my cheek and palms pressed against his chest.
“I’m pretty certain it is, but the killer is the only one who can confirm it.”
“Which one do you think it was?”
Ignatius’ hold tightens around me. It’s both comforting and disturbing. Disturbing because it shows he’s rattled by this, and that scares me.
“Envy.” His tone is dark and menacing.
He’s right. God, it’s so obvious. The killer’s statement written in her blood. Mine! The way in which he killed her. “He was angry, Ignatius. So much so he deviated from his usual pattern.” Then a thought occurs to me. I push away from him and peer up into his face. “We’re affecting him too. He’s getting sloppy, he’s breaking with tradition and that might cause him to make mistakes. It might give us the one break we need.” A new rush of adrenaline courses through me, laced with excitement and topped off with hope.
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