The Unforgiven

by Heather Graham

  “She said it was coming again. It... Something supernatural, a demon, a spirit. And it liked jazz. So tomorrow, I should dress up as a famous jazz musician from New Orleans.”

  “Satchmo. Louis Armstrong,” Katie said.

  “Yes!” Lorna agreed. Satchmo, Louis Armstrong, born in New Orleans on August 4, 1901, and probably one of the greatest jazz musicians to ever live. He was still revered and honored in his city. The airport was named in his honor.

  Satchmo would have been in the city at the time the Axeman had been striking.

  He might well have been playing on the jazz night demanded by the killer.

  “I’m doing it.” Benny said. “Hell, I’m going to be Satchmo. I’m not taking any chances! Of course, the man was amazing with the many instruments he could play, but I can play a sax. I’m not the best, but I’m not the worst. If there’s any chance the killer is a crazy guy reenacting the Axeman and he wants jazz, I’m going to give him jazz.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Well, hello, handsome.”

  Mabel stopped and waited, grinning when she saw Dan coming.

  “So,” she added, “it seems you now want my help.”

  They were in the middle of a sidewalk, and while Bourbon wasn’t as busy as it might be at night, people were walking around.

  He smiled as he took his phone out of his pocket and pretended to speak on it.

  “Mabel, forgive me. Yes, I have come for your help, and I’m praying you can give me something.”

  The superior amusement she had shown when she’d seen him approaching her seemed to fade. “I wish I had more,” she said quietly.

  “I’m grateful for anything,” he said.

  She studied him for a minute. “I suppose you are a decent sort, and perhaps you were a bit thrown when I approached you at Lafayette Cemetery. I saw you there, and I knew who you were, and I thought that... Well, I suppose I expected you knew you might see me or, rather, that you might have even been hoping for a chat with a relative.”

  “Could I have a chat with one of my relatives?”

  “I’m so sorry; I haven’t met any of the Oliver family. Not from before.” She smiled again. “Let’s wander a bit. You’re welcome to still pretend you’re on the phone. Better yet, there’s a lovely place on Royal that makes the best shrimp and grits ever.”

  “You can...you can eat shrimp and grits?” he asked.

  “No, but I believe I can smell them and enjoy them vicariously through you.”

  “All right,” he said. “Lead the way.”

  “They play nice soft jazz, too,” she murmured, heading down the block to Royal Street and the restaurant she’d referred to.

  He was a single person, but he was led to a table for two. Mabel sat across from him.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, please tell me what you know and what you’re seeking. Just set your phone down and speak softly. People will believe you’re conducting business on Speaker.”

  She’d really been pretty in life, he thought.

  She set her chin in her hand, leaning forward on the table, attention on him as he told her about the crime scene Ryder had called him to. He told her about the crimes in Florida. He told her about the strange recurrence of the number six, and how Katie had believed she’d seen Jennie and they’d found a long dark wig.

  He also told her about the axe left at Katie’s house.

  “You must take serious care for that young woman!” Mabel said.

  He nodded. “Yes. Mabel, please—”

  “Back to the number six,” she said. “A few years back, they found six goats with their throats slit, drained of blood.”

  “I know that,” he said, a little disappointed.

  “Everyone cried out it had to be a voodoo thing, but it wasn’t. The city is host to many Latin Americans, so they cried Santeria. Then they blamed it on the city’s Wiccans, and then the so-called vampires.”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  She shook her head. “Here’s where I may be able to help you.” She took a deep breath. “I didn’t really think this meant anything at the time, but...in my day, there was more of a...well, a bigger difference between the rich and the poor. The city was filled with immigrants, but we had the old guard, too. There were still older people living who remembered the Civil War, and some hated the North for the invasion of the South, and most hated the South for slavery and the death toll of the war. And we were involved in another war, World War I. But there was a man named Allan Pierce who was, to the best of my knowledge, born and raised here. He...he was fascinated by the legends of Marie Laveau, the famous voodoo priestess. You know about her, of course.”

  “Yes, of course. People still perform little rites at her tomb, even those who do it just for fun. They leave her coins and do three circles and the like,” Dan said. He was growing a little impatient—he was so desperate for help, and she was telling him NOLA tales.

  He’d ordered the shrimp and grits. When they arrived, she leaned back, smiling and closing her eyes for a minute, as if she could inhale the aroma of the dish he’d ordered.

  “Mabel, you know my dad was from here, his family... I’ve known NOLA since I was a kid,” he reminded her.

  “Pay attention. Yes, it’s a long story, but it may help you. Okay, so... Allan Pierce had delusions of grandeur. His family had lived in the city during the Civil War but owned a plantation down the river, and they had been very rich. Then they’d lost it and been all but penniless. I met him because he used to play checkers with some of the oldsters I knew. He used to talk about Marie Laveau, saying how she had powers of second sight and the ability to tell the future because she was the world’s best listener. Also, she was excellent at making a prediction that was more of an instruction—if you’re expecting something, it just might happen because you make it. Are you following me?”

  “I think so,” he said. “Not sure where you’re going, but I’m following so far.”

  “Pierce had a bet with one of the old men he played checkers with. He said he could make something happen by saying so. As it happened, I stopped by the old fellows on the stoop one day when he predicted that people could be made to do just about anything. He said, ‘Take the number six. If I just tell people the number six matters, that it’s important, they’ll believe it. I can even convince them I’m some kind of an angel or demon, and six is the number of days a man must work, must wait, must do everything, because man was created on the sixth day.’”

  “Did you think he was the Axeman?” Dan asked her.

  “I didn’t think anything of it at the time. And no, I don’t think Allan Pierce was the Axeman. But I later found out he had convinced a lot of people—mainly poor immigrants—that he was something preternatural, maybe a demon, and they all did his bidding, down to stealing, striking others and starting fights.” She paused, drumming her fingers on the table. “The man did love jazz, too. I don’t know if he could have been the Axeman. I know the people arrested for being the Axeman were not. I don’t know...it might have been the fellow Mrs. Pepitone supposedly killed in Los Angeles, but how did they both just wind up in LA? I just don’t have the answers to all that.” She watched him eat for a couple bites, then continued. “But back to the number six. I know Pierce had a young apprentice, you might say. And the kid went on to say he could do all the same things... Convince people about the number, and you’d get them awed or scared enough to believe they were doing the right thing by doing the wrong thing. I’ve been all around the city, and I do believe someone is running around getting the rumor going that there is something in that number. I heard a lady down by the square recently claiming the Time of Six was coming again and that people needed to repent. There was a book written in the thirties, I believe. They might be able to help at the library. Anyway, it has chapters on the various strange beliefs embraced by people in this city at times. There i
s a chapter about Allan Pierce in it. You might find it interesting. Because, when I heard about the slain goats, I wondered if someone wasn’t taking Pierce’s concept to a new level. Then again, remember, Allan was doing it just for fun. He was a bitter man and liked to manipulate others.”

  “I’ll look for the book,” he told her.

  She smiled. “I’ll keep cruising different areas of the city by day. I may hang out at your friend’s place at night. Though... Well, you were rather dense when we met. I hope you’d hear me if I were to give you warning.”

  He smiled, inclining his head. “Dense. Thanks.”

  “But you’re handsome, darling. So cute.”

  “Thank you for that, too, but you needn’t worry. Katie can see...um...”

  “The dead, honey. Spit it out. I’ve been accustomed to it for a very long time. But you say she’d see me, too? Of course, like that charming friend of yours, the Native American boy.”

  Dan didn’t think Axel Tiger often thought of himself as a boy.

  “Yes, like him, too,” he said.

  “Charming. Well, I’m delighted about Miss Delaney.” She paused. “Worried, as well. You are staying with her, and you’re taking care that she’s safe? I mean, this is a maniac or psychopath who has an agenda and doesn’t care who he hurts.”

  “I’m staying at the house, and I don’t believe he wants to take chances with anyone who might hurt him instead. Like the old Axeman, he found vulnerable people.”

  “Even you have to sleep, darling.”

  “I wake easily. And cameras are being installed that send video straight to the police station. There will always be a cruiser within close range.”

  “Isn’t she scared? Doesn’t she want to leave?”

  He sighed. “If she wanted to leave, I’d encourage her. Except I don’t think she wants to live her life in fear. Mabel, her parents were killed twelve years ago. Now, a bloodied axe was left at her back door. She could leave—and if this guy wasn’t caught, a year from now, six years from now, twelve years from now—and the whole thing could start again. It has to end here.” He paused, frowning. “I wonder if it could have begun here?”

  “You said it began in Florida.”

  “Yes, but the infamous Axeman of New Orleans struck here first.”

  “You think someone planned to go to Florida and kill people and then kill here twelve years later?” she asked, a frown creasing her forehead.

  “I don’t know what I think. We must look at every angle. Our only clue so far is a strange woman named Jennie. Katie met her in Florida, and she’s finally seen her again on the streets here, in New Orleans.” He shook his head. “And while he may be imitating a killer from a hundred years ago, he’s learned modern forensic techniques. He wears gloves and leaves no fingerprints. The ground hasn’t been wet, but so far, no footprints. Not a hair, not a fiber.”

  “But eventually he’ll leave something,” Mabel said. “It’s impossible... Someone had a theory on that.”

  “Locard’s exchange principle,” Dan said. “At a crime scene, a perpetrator will take something and leave something behind.”

  “Eventually he will. Anyway, my dense, handsome friend, you need to get on it. And to watch over Miss Delaney like a hawk. You shouldn’t be sitting here with me.”

  “I needed you.”

  “I hope so! I hope I can help. And as for Miss Delaney, well, I look forward to meeting her.”

  Dan glanced at the time on his phone. He needed to get back to Jackson Square. He didn’t believe anything would happen to anyone by day, but he was still worried Katie was alone.

  Well, she wasn’t on her own, but she wasn’t with him.

  “Go!” Mabel told him. “Somehow, the answers lie with her. And thank you. I believe I could almost taste that delicious meal.”

  She drifted to her feet. He watched as she left the restaurant, passing close by a man in a business suit.

  The man shivered. But he didn’t see Mabel.

  Dan paid the bill and hurried out, anxious then to get back to Katie. As he walked, he called Axel and quickly filled him in on his meeting with Mabel.

  “Allan Pierce?” Axel said. “Well, he didn’t come down the line in legend like Marie Laveau or Madame Delphine LaLaurie. But we have people who can dig to the bottom of anything. I’ll get on it.”

  “If possible, I’ll head to the library later,” Dan told him. “I’m not with Katie right now, and I’m anxious to get back to her.”

  “This guy strikes in darkness,” Axel said. “And away from the public eye.”

  “I know. That’s why I dared chase down my ghost. Anyway, get back to me. Anything yet on the blood on the axe or anything else?”

  “Not yet,” Axel told him.

  “Thanks.” He hesitated. “Axel, what are the possibilities this whole thing started in New Orleans? What if the murderer is from here, if something about the legend brought him down to Florida? Maybe to Lou Delaney’s boat, and Lou Delaney?”

  “That’s a stretch.”

  “Anything on this is a stretch.”

  “Did Delaney have any ties to New Orleans?” Axel asked.

  “Well, his cousin lives here. That’s why Katie moved here. I’ll have to find out more.”

  “Back at my headquarters, Jackson Crow’s wife, Angela Hawkins, is researching anything she can find on Allan Pierce, his so-called power of six and anyone who followed in his footsteps. I’ll also have her search out anything she can find on an association with Louis Delaney.”

  Dan and Axel ended their call, and Dan strode urgently down the street. He’d been on Royal Street just a few blocks from the square, but it seemed a great distance to him suddenly.

  He hurried along the park and came out on Decatur Street, annoyed at the sense of fear he was feeling, that his heart was racing, and he could hear his own breathing almost as if he was scuba diving.

  He burst around the corner.

  And it was all right.

  Katie was there, on the sidewalk, chatting with a passerby.

  He smiled, striding over to her.

  “Hey!” she said cheerfully, seeing him. “You’re just in time.”

  “For?”

  “Well, this lovely young woman and her friends want to head over to the Irish Channel. It’s not a big tourist destination, but the ruins of an old mansion and the family cemetery are there. I was explaining that, as far as I know, it’s private property and there’s a big fence up around it all, but they’d like to just go by.” She grimaced, indicating the one cheerful-looking girl with dark curls and rosy cheeks. “Brenda is a medium. She just wants to get to the old place and see if she can feel anything.”

  “Oh, okay,” Dan said.

  A medium? The way Katie had said the word, he didn’t think she believed this woman had any special abilities at all.

  She was far too polite to say so.

  “Are you game?” Katie asked.

  “Sure.”

  The Irish Channel was a fine-enough area in which to live.

  It wasn’t a tourist area, and the streets weren’t thronged with people as they tended to be in the French Quarter. It seemed Katie wasn’t against taking her carriage there, but Dan figured she hadn’t wanted to go alone.

  “Let’s head on out,” he said.

  Curly-haired Brenda was with a group of five, all explaining they were mediums, and yes, they had a small conference here where there were so many interesting places to be explored.

  Where so many spirits cried out, unheard, seeking help.

  He glanced at Katie and just nodded and smiled.

  They hadn’t been in the carriage long before one of the men in the group—a thin, sandy and shaggy-haired man around twenty-five years old, leaned forward.

  “Um, excuse me? You’re the cop, right? From the pr
ess conference? Do you think you could get us into the morgue? If one of us could touch the victim, we might be able to help. I mean, the spirits of the dead might be able to give us information.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not a cop,” Dan said. “I can’t get anyone in anywhere. Sorry.”

  “But we saw you on the news,” Brenda said.

  He shook his head, glancing at Katie. “I was voted the spokesperson in the group,” he said. “But I’m sorry, I’m a consultant on this and nothing more.”

  “Damn!” Brenda said. “It’s so frustrating. I mean, we could help. Oh, well. I have really wanted to see the ruins of this mansion. It comes with all kinds of rumors, scandals and ghosts.”

  Dan arched a brow to Katie. She shrugged and rolled her eyes.

  Still, she gamely launched into her best tour-guide voice. “What I know about the Medford Mansion is this. Jonathan Medford was in the Confederate military. The Union took the city in 1862. Jonathan had a beautiful young wife. She fell in love with one of the Union soldiers occupying the city. Maybe. Or maybe she felt she had no other choice than to give in to him, the man they called Beast Butler, a General Benjamin Butler who was running the city under his Union military. And for Southern women, it was bleak. If they mocked Union soldiers in any way, they could face punishments, be labeled as prostitutes and so on. Butler was reviled in the South, but he was an interesting man. He claimed he was for Southern rights and against Southern wrong. He was Union army all the way, but I doubt President Lincoln would have approved of some of his tactics. Anyway, Jonathan Medford’s brother, Isiah, heard about it. He was older, and he had made his fortune in real estate and cotton, neither of which was doing well then, but he lived—seething with indignation, I imagine—just a few blocks away from Jonathan’s home. One night he went to the house. There was an argument. The wife, the lover and the brother were all killed, and when he heard about it, Jonathan Medford walked straight into the enemy lines and a bullet went through his heart. The family is supposed to still lie in the little cemetery, but the vaults there are falling apart. There was no more family, there was a fire...and, of course, they were interred in a vault. And in time here, bodies are cremated in the intense heat. So the place just went to ruin, but people kept buying the land, I guess everyone planning to either restore and clean up or demolish the place. I’m not sure who owns it now. A holding company, I believe. But it is fenced off because...” She broke off, looking at Dan.