by John Moore
“Excuse me,” I said. “Are you Claire Rogan?”
She turned to me and said, “I am. And who might you be?”
“My name is Alexandra Lee,” I said. “I live in New Orleans, and I’ve traveled here to ask you about your nephew, Bart Rogan.”
She took a step back and her eyes surveyed me from head to toe before she said another word. She bowed her chin and shook her head from side to side. “What has he done now?” she asked.
“Can we sit somewhere a little more private?” I asked. “I want to talk to you for a while.”
She led me to a small room large enough for a table and two chairs. I imagined it was a room reserved for providing the rare caring family members updates on their relative’s condition. The chairs lookednew, as if they’d been infrequently sat upon. Claire sat across from me with her sharp green eyes glued to mine and hands on the table folded neatly in a praying position, trembling ever so slightly. She was a small but solidly built woman, the rough condition of her hands suggesting she had worked all of her life.
“If you are with the police, I don’t think I’ll be able to help much because I haven’t seen Bartholomew since his mother’s funeral in 1970.”
“No, Ms. Rogan, I’m not with the police,” I said. “I’m a journalist, and I am here to learn more about your nephew’s early years.”
Her hands relaxed, and the tension left her shoulders. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place, honey? I can tell you everything you want to know about Bartholomew and the rest of our family. My legs may not be what they used to be, but my memory is just fine.”
It was plain to see her mental faculties were all intact. “Tell me how your family settled in Baltimore.”
“My great-grandparents left Ireland in the great emigration in 1850 after the Irish potato famine. Many of the Irish went to Europe, but my family wanted a fresh start in the new world so they came to the United States. Most settled in cities, like New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and Baltimore where they thought they could find jobs.”
“That must have been a rough trip for them. It was a turbulent time in this country as well with the run-up to the Civil War,” I said. “We were defining our values as a nation preparing to shake off the scourge of slavery.”
Claire nodded in agreement, “Yes, it was. My great-grandfather found a job working for the railroad and had to leave the family in Baltimore. He sent his wages to the family, and my great-grandmother took in laundry to help make ends meet. My grandparents grew up poor but proud, as did my parents. My brother, Bartholomew’s father, like all of us, struggled to find work, but he loved this country. He joined the army when he was old enough and was killed in the Korean War. Bartholomew was only seven years old when the military men came to his house to tell his mother that her husband had been killed. She was only a child herself, twenty-two when he died, and it took the wind right out of her sails. She tried to do her best for her child, but she didn’t really have any business skills, so she cleaned houses. It was hard work but honest work. We were Irish, and that’s what we did . . . hard work.”
I could see the warmth in her eyes as she reminisced about her family’s difficult lives. She was proud of her family and proud of her Irish heritage. I turned the conversation to Bart’s childhood. “What type of child was Bart?” I asked.
A frown took over her face. “He was different than most of our family. I’m not going to say he was a bad child, but he was certainly unusual. He was smarter than his classmates and the victim of bullying. He wore glasses, and his mom was so poor he wore the same clothes to school almost every day. He didn’t play any sports. He just kept to himself, reading all the time, and if you asked him what he wanted for Christmas or his birthday, it was always something to educate himself. His favorite gift was a chemistry set we all chipped in to buy.”
“He was bullied?” I asked.
Claire’s face had contorted. She blurted, “He was for a while, but all of that stopped sometime during his high school years.”
I was sitting on the edge of my seat. “The bullying stopped? Why?”
“Nobody really knew for sure,” she said. “Bartholomew was a very smart child, making great grades in schools. He did homework and tutored some of the other students. He gained their respect, and after a time he started charging them for writing papers, tutoring, and doing homework. Rumor was that he saved some money and hired some of the local neighborhood badasses to beat the crap out of the bullies. Everyone said that’s what stopped the bullying. He didn’t have much to do with his family after his mother died.”
“Why do you think he created distance from the family?” I asked.
“We all knew what he thought was important. Money was all he cared about. He’d learned that he didn’t have to be physically big to be powerful. Money made him powerful. We all felt like, being poor people, reminded him of his weakness. He wanted money and he wanted power.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Claire, but I have to ask this question. Why has he left you here? He has more money than he’ll ever be able to spend. Why isn’t he taking care of you?”
For the first time, she squared her shoulders and straightened up a bit, her pride exploding from her chest. “I don’t need that little bastard’s help. I’m doing just fine by myself. He can stay right where he is, and one day he’ll have to face his creator for his dirty deeds. If you see him, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him you talked to me.”
“I won’t, Ms. Claire, but I do have a favor to ask you. Do you mind if I call and check on you from time to time?”
A broad, toothy smile lit her face. “Anytime you want, honey, anytime you want.”
I left with a hug and a new understanding about what motivated Bart Rogan. He, like all of us, was born with good in him. Maybe because he was poor and lost his parents at an early age, or maybe because he was bullied, he’d embraced his evil side. He’d become a ruthless predator, caring only for money and the thrill of power in his hands. That meant that there was not going to be any reasoning with him. He had to be stopped dead in his tracks because he wasn’t going to change.
I took a flight back to New Orleans later that same day. I’d gotten what I’d come for, and that was an understanding of what made Bart Rogan tick. He was a coward unable to fight his own battles, but he didn’t hesitate to use others to do his dirty work. There were rumors that he’d killed people himself, but I’d wager that he only killed the helpless who couldn’t fight back. I had suspected that I was in a fight to the death, and now I was sure.
Piper and Tom were at the condo talking to Maddy and Zach. “Alexandra, we’ve had a great day,” Piper screamed. “We took Maddy and Zach to the cabin on the LaPlace farm. They have some excellent ideas.”
Tom chimed in, “Just as we thought, the cabin is made of 100 percent cypress. It is in great structural shape.”
Zach almost couldn’t contain himself enough to wait his turn to speak. “I can do most of the work myself. Our father was a carpenter, and I was a shop impresario in high school. I can’t wait to get started.”
“It’s the perfect size for us, too,” Maddy said. “We can refinish the cypress and bring it back to its natural beauty. We’ll need to find some appliances, but I love garage sales and flea markets. Living right there on the farm will be convenient too.”
“Wow, so I guess it’s settled then. We’ll get to work right away on the cabin,” I said. “When do you want to start, Tom?”
Tom looked around the room at the excited faces staring at him and said, “How about tomorrow?”
A huge group “Yeah!” lifted the ceiling. And so it was decided that we were once again on our way to getting our organic farming operation underway. We had high hopes and an ace in the hole with Jason Crawford coming to help us learn to farm organically.
It was late in the evening, and Zach and Maddy headed to bed. I was
tired, but the doorbell rang. I glanced at Piper, who had a guilty look on her face, so I walked to the security monitor to see who was at our door. Just as I suspected, it was Mandy Morris. She was dressed in her black lacy get-up with some spiked short boots. I cut my eyes to Piper before I opened the door.
“Anything I need to know, Piper?” I asked.
“Yeah, I said I’d go on the cemetery tour with her,” she said.
“Damn, Piper, I warned you to be careful. You can’t take these kinds of chances,” I said. “I guess we can’t leave her outside if you’ve promised to go with her. I’m letting her in, but you aren’t going anywhere by yourself. We’ll both go.”
As I opened the door, Mandy took a step back. “Alexandra, I thought you were out of town,” she said.
“I was, but I’m back now. Is that a problem?” I said. The tone of my voice was a little harsh, but I couldn’t help being annoyed with Piper and Mandy. Didn’t Mandy know the danger she was placing Piper in, or did she just not care?
Mandy regained her composure and said, “No, it’s not a problem at all. I’m happy to see you. Is Piper ready to go with me? It’s a beautiful night.”
“It’s nice tonight,” Piper said. “But have you been watching the weather in the Tropics? There is a hurricane in the Atlantic and a new tropical depression behind it. The National Weather Center is saying this is the most active hurricane season of the past century.”
Piper knew I was pissed at her, and this was her way of shifting my attention to the weather to get herself out of the hot seat. Cagey little wench, I thought, because it worked. I’d completely ignored this hurricane season. Normally I watch the weather religiously this time of the year, because Katrina taught New Orleans a huge lesson about hurricane preparation. Pre-Katrina everyone took hurricanes lightly, having hurricane parties and swilling massive amounts of booze while the storms raged, but not anymore. There was a great deal more respect for Mother Nature’s wrath, but some people were born recklessand continued to have raucous hurricane parties during the storms.
“Really?” I said. “Are they predicting either storm will come our way?”
“Too soon to tell,” Piper said. “The first storm looks as though it will hit the East Coast and leave us alone. The National Weather Service is asking everyone to stay vigilant and check the progress of the storms regularly. They don’t have to tell me twice. I was too young to understand all of the effects of Katrina, but I watched it on television. I had nightmares for weeks, my mom said.”
“Don’t feel bad, Dhampir, even those of us who were born here had nightmares for a long time after Katrina,” Mandy said. “We need to get started, because it’ll be dark soon. There’s a full moon tonight, so this will be a great time to visit the cemeteries. Maybe we’ll see a spirit.”
“Wow, you think so?” Piper said. “That would be so cool. I want to go to Marie Laveau’s grave again. Can we?”
Mandy nodded. “Piper,” I said, “the last time we went to Marie’s grave you disappeared. No tricks this time, OK?”
She agreed and Mandy led the way to her SUV. Piper sat in the front seat, and I sat in the back. Mandy took a phone call on her cell and told whoever was on the other end that we were on our way. I looked in the cargo area and noticed two shovels, a large flashlight, and a shoe box. What the hell were those for? I wondered.
Chapter Twenty-One:
Serial Killer Encounter
I don’t know if it was my journalistic instinct or self- preservation, but I had to ask before we went any further. “Mandy, what are those shovels and the shoe box doing in the back of your SUV? Will we be using them tonight?”
She hesitated for just enough time for her eyes to connect with mine in the rearview mirror. She knew I wasn’t in a playful mood. “Um . . . I’m going to dig up some graveyard dirt to take back to the altar,” she said. “I promise we won’t disturb anything or get in any trouble. It is just a ritual we believe in.”
“Mandy, what the hell kind of ritual involves graveyard dirt?” I asked.
Mandy stammered and couldn’t find the words to explain herself. Piper spoke up, “Some who practice voodoo believe that if you dig dirt from the grave of a deceased person and use it in a ritual, you can conjure that person’s powers for yourself.”
“Oh my God. You’ve got to be kidding me,” I moaned. “Marie Laveau’s grave is above ground and is surrounded by concrete. Please tell me you two don’t plan on breaking through the cement and disturbing those graves, because you’re not as long as I am with you. You can turn this car around right now if that’s your plan.”
Mandy jumped in before my temperature rose to the boiling point. “No, Alexandra, we aren’t doing anything drastic like that. We are going to dig the dirt right inside the cemetery fence. We aren’t disturbing anyone’s grave.”
“Well, you’d better be telling the truth,” I said. “Who else is involved in this fiasco?”
Piper sat in the front seat quiet as a mouse. I don’t think she’d ever seen me upset like this. “You’ve seen most of them before,” Mandy said. “The people from my group who practice voodoo with me, and Amanda is bringing Uncle Garrett with her.”
Holy shit, I thought, it was bad enough that I was trapped in this folly with Mandy. Now Garrett the Weird was coming. This night couldn’t possibly end well, but before I had much time to protest we pulled up to the cemetery. The darkness of the night was broken by the rising full moon. As we approached Marie Laveau’s tomb, I spotted the black-hooded group waiting for us. The tomb had been freshly whitewashed since I’d last been there. I think the cemetery groundskeepers do that regularly since visitors place XXX on the tomb to get Marie Laveau to grant them a wish.
Piper looked at Marie’s internment tomb in a trance-like state. She was interested in the occult like most girls her age, but I didn’t think there was any danger of her joining Mandy’s group. She was much too smart to be sucked into their demented world. I think it was just clean—if dark—fun for her. I stepped back and allowed them to circle the tomb as they knelt in a circle around the grave. I spotted Amanda, wide-eyed and glued to Garrett’s side. She was pale and looked like a zombie in the whiteness of the moonlight. She knelt and chanted as though she was in a world far away from the rest of us. Garrett stood behind with a hand on each of her shoulders, lifting them only to stroke her hair. They all stared at Marie’s tomb as they chanted.
I had taken several steps back, a bit repulsed by the scene, when I felt a hand cover my mouth and pull me backward. I stumbled, and the figure pulling me trapped both my arms with his. He whispered quietly but forcefully in my left ear. “Don’t fight and don’t make a sound. I will not hurt you.”
Wait, I knew that voice. It took a minute to register, but it was the voice that called me before we moved to the Quarter. It was Bob Broussard’s voice. I was in the clutches of a maniac who’d escaped from a mental institution, and I didn’t have my .38. I was at his mercy, andfighting him might get me killed. If he wanted to kill me he could have slit my throat just as easily as he put his hand on my mouth. No, he wanted something else, so I relaxed and let him pull me to a dark corner of the cemetery.
He whispered a little louder, “Don’t scream and I’ll take my hand from your mouth. I just want to talk to you for a minute.” I nodded, and he slowly eased his hand away. I spun around to face him. He was dressed in a black hooded robe just like the rest of Mandy’s crew, my eyes never moving away from his.
“OK, you’ve got your minute,” I said. “Now what do you want?”
“You always were a feisty one,” he said. “Calm down and we’ll get this over with quickly. What if I am not the one killing the people in the Quarter and I don’t know who is? What if it’s one of those people kneeling over there at Marie Laveau’s grave or one of your new admirers from California?”
I thought about Piper being in danger and considered ru
nning back to her, thinking that she could be kneeling next to a killer. “Wait,” he said. “She’s not in any danger now. I came to warn you about something else. Mandy told me that her Uncle Garrett has struck some sort of deal with Bart Rogan. Some way or another Garrett and Rogan are involved in Victor’s plan to stop you from interfering in his efforts to control the dark side of New Orleans. I don’t know any more details than what I just told you. I normally wouldn’t care who’s killing who, but I’ve always thought you were different than most of the worthless people in my world, so I wanted to warn you. Be careful.”
He turned and disappeared into the moonlit night. I stood for a second to collect my thoughts. For some reason, I believed him. Why else would he risk being caught just to warn me? But what the hell was Garrett Morris planning to do to me? I decided to rush back to Piper to make sure abducting her wasn’t a part of his plan. She was still right where I’d seen her last, kneeling next to Mandy at the tomb of the voodoo queen of New Orleans.
I grabbed Piper with my right hand and Mandy with my left. I stood up and said, “We’re getting out of here right now.”
“What about the dirt? You are making me leave my flashlight and shovels,” Mandy said.
“That’s just too damn bad. Maybe your demented Uncle Garrett will bring them to you.”
I pulled them both to Mandy’s car and threw them in the front seat. “OK, Mandy,” I said. “Take us home now, and on the way tell me why you set me up tonight—and don’t bother to play dumb. You knew your boyfriend was going to be at the cemetery. He’s a murderer, and he could have killed me because you brought me here thinking it was just a cemetery tour. You knew all along he was going to be here. Now talk and talk fast.”
“I was only trying to help,” Mandy said in a tearful voice. “Bob wasn’t here to hurt you or Piper. He wanted to tell you himself that he wasn’t responsible for the recent deaths in the Quarter, and he thought you needed to know about Uncle Garrett and Victor also.”
