by John Moore
When I made it to the hospital, the skies were starting to cloud. Two security guards were escorting Mandy Morris out of the hospital. Holy shit, I thought. What has she done now?
Chapter Twenty-Nine:
Killers
Mandy wasn’t in handcuffs so she must not have hurt anyone. Her black hooded cowl flowed behind her in the breeze, anchored to her by her purse strap slung around her shoulder. She carried a candle in her left hand and a partially burnt sage stick in her right. As I walked closer, I heard the security guard instructing her not to come back to the hospital, as he turned to walk away, his voice stern.
“Mandy, what the hell was that about?” I asked.
She sniffled as tears trickled down her face. “I tried to perform a voodoo exorcism to chase the dark demons away from Dhampir,” she said. “They stopped me before I finished. I hope I did enough to help her.”
In her own way, Mandy was trying to help Piper. Judging by the look on the security guards’ faces, I don’t think the hospital saw it that way. Open flames and burning sage in a hospital waiting room must violate hospital policy and several laws as well, yet the thought was nice.
“Mandy, nice of you to try, but maybe you could do the ceremony somewhere else,” I said. “Somewhere off of the hospital grounds.”
Mandy gazed up at the sky with a placid expression that turned to a frown. “Dark days are on their way to New Orleans,” she said. “Evil is in the air. You must be careful, Alexandra. You are in danger.”
Wow, that just came from nowhere and freaked me out. After Mandy’s ominous prediction, she got in her car and left, the smell of the sage lingering in the air. I didn’t bother to question her. She seemed to be traveling in a different dimension, and I suspected her trip was sponsored by some mind-altering drugs. I wanted to see Piper, so I quickened my pace till I got to the reception area. I asked the receptionist if I could see Piper, and she called the ICU and told me a doctor would be down in a minute to speak with me, telling me to have a seat on one of the plastic chairs in the lobby.
A doctor would be down to speak with me. What did that mean? My mind went wild imagining all of the possibilities. Had Piper’s condition gotten worse? Did they transfer her to another location? Or did something more terrible than that happen? As I paced back and forth, my hands became cold and clammy. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest, and my mouth turned as dry as the desert. Those moments pacing the waiting room floor were some of the most agonizing of my life. I tried to block the most terrible thought from flooding my mind, but I lost the battle. Was Piper dead?
An authoritative woman’s voice broke me from my self- imposed trance. “Are you Alexandra?”
“Yes, yes, I’m Alexandra. Is Piper OK? I mean Constance Rawlins. Is she OK?”
The doctor reached out and took my hand, “She’s not OK, but she is awake and her fever has lessened by a degree. She is a strong young lady, but she’s still very sick. We need to know the exact type of bacterial infection she has. There are normally three types, but hers is not reacting to the medication combinations we are giving her. I have been on the phone with the CDC in Atlanta, and they are trying to isolate the genetic makeup of the microbe that infected her.”
“Can I see her?” I asked. “I really need to see her.”
“Yes, you can. As a matter of fact, she’s asking for you. Follow me.”
We took the circuitous path to the ICU as the doctor tried to keep up with me. I wanted to sprint, but she held me to something between a fast walk and a trot. Finally, we arrived at the ICU and I was able to lay eyes on Piper. She was still covered from head to toe with snow-white sheets, but was awake. She turned toward me, flashing a muted version of her smile, making my heart nearly leap out of my body. Never in my life had I seen anything that magnificent. I lifted my right hand and waved it, allowing my fingers to dance as if I were playing the piano. Her smile broadened ever so slightly as she waved back at me then stroked her carnival-colored hair. Though she was awake, her brilliant blue eyes were sunken, surrounded by dark circles evidencing her weight loss. I stared at Piper till my heart grew as heavy as her eyes and she sunk back into sleep.
I turned to the doctor. “I don’t understand. Why do you need to know the exact bacterial strain that has infected her?”
The doctor stepped back to use her hands to answer my question. “Bacteria have DNA just like we do. All bacteria have different makeups. We believe the DNA of the bacteria that invaded Constance’s body is a mutated version of one of the three types of bacteria that cause bubonic plague. We are testing different combinations of antibiotics. The problem with antibiotics is that they kill the good bacteria that inhabit our bodies along with the bad. The result sometimes is an altered microbiome.”
“An altered what?” I asked.
“Our bodies have seven times more microbes living on it and in it than human cells. There is a delicate balance among these microbes because some of them lead to disease, while others fight it. When the balance is compromised by antibiotics, illness often follows. We in America are experiencing health complications due to the overuse of antibiotics. We have to be careful not to permanently alter Constance’s microbiome by overusing antibiotics. If we know the exact bacterium that has infected her, we can choose the correct antibiotic combination to kill the bacteria without causing damage to her overall health. If we use the wrong combination or give her too much, we could make her condition worse and give the plague a better opportunity to spread inside her.”
“I see,” I said. “But you can save her even if we can’t find the genetic makeup of the bacteria, right?”
The doctor turned her head slightly to the side and widened her eyes.“ We are optimistic,” she said. “But you must understand, she is a very sick young lady.”
I wanted to scream. I knew she was very sick. I could see that with my own two eyes. Why did they keep telling me that? The doctor walked away to deal with other patients. The nurses at the nearby station were talking about Hurricane Miguela and its deadly path toward New Orleans. I walked over to their station and eavesdropped on their conversation for a few minutes.
“What is the hospital going to do with the patients if the storm hits New Orleans?” I asked.
The nurse in charge said, “We have made arrangements to transfer many of the patients to hospitals in North Louisiana. The most ill, like Constance, will stay here along with the other patients who have chosen to stay at their own risk. Several of the doctors, nurses, and other hospital staff have volunteered to stay as well. Don’t worry, we all love Constance and will give her the best care possible.”
Tom joined me as she spoke. I must admit, her all-professional tone mixed with compassion made me feel much better about what we were facing. Tom put his arm around me and drew me close to him. Time had passed quickly, and the skies were dark, the hurricane upon us. The nurses broke all of the hospital’s rules and agreed to allow Tom and me to sleep on the couch in one of the evacuated rooms. We could be close to Piper as we rode out the hurricane. A warmth filled me knowing our entire family would be together through the storm. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Piper alone while the largest storm to hit the United States battered the city. We knew the electricity would go out, but the hospital had a generator that would keep the lights and all medical equipment operating.
“Hey, pretty girl,” Tom said as he stroked my hair. “I know you haven’t eaten all day. Let’s go down to the cafeteria and eat before they quit serving.”
Now that I knew Piper was in good hands and I could stay with her during the storm, food sounded good. We made our way to the cafeteria as the hospital was emptying in anticipation of the storm hitting. People quickened their pace as fear took hold. The cafeteria was nearly empty, but the faithful workers who’d stayed had prepared a gourmet meal of veggies and fish. We enjoyed a few minutes of quiet time as we ate and chilled in a cor
ner away from the few remaining customers.
“Don’t worry, Alexandra,” Tom said. “Everything will work out.”
“I can’t help but worry,” I said. “She looks so pitiful lying there in that hospital bed. Then, this hurricane bearing down on us. How long before it hits?”
“They are predicting that we will begin getting some of the winds in the next twelve hours,” Tom said. “The weather service has cautioned everyone to stay off of the streets. The mayor has been on every media outlet possible saying that the police and other emergency workers will not respond once the storm’s outer bands hit the city.”
Tom and I finished eating and went back up to see Piper. She was still asleep, so we found the room the nurses provided for us. They had moved a second couch into the room and pushed the two together so Tom and I could sleep next to each other. They were so kind to us, even providing sheets, pillows, and blankets so we’d be comfortable. I love the South and the people of New Orleans. They were always loving, caring, and considerate. What a wonderful place to live, I thought. I just hoped the city survived this storm. Tom and I fell asleep in each other’s arms.
I was awakened by the ringing of my cell phone. I looked at the caller ID and saw the name was unavailable. Normally I wouldn’t have answered a call like that, but nothing was normal anymore. When I answered, Bob Broussard was on the other end of the call.
“Alexandra, you must come to your Bourbon Street condo right away. I have what you’ve been looking for, andyou must follow my instructions completely. Come alone. You can’t bring your boyfriend or anyone else. You cannot call the police. Drive into your garage, and I will call you from this same cell phone to tell you what to do next. If you are not alone or if the police are anywhere in the vicinity, I’ll know and the deal is off, and you will not get what you need for the little girl. Do you understand?”
He spoke in a chilling tone, and I was shaking as I listened. “Yes, I understand. I will do as you say. Please help me find the cure for Piper.” I’m not sure he heard my last words because he’d disconnected the call. I woke Tom up and explained the call to him. He begged me to bring him with me, saying he’d hide in the trunk, but I couldn’t take the risk. No, I needed to see this through by myself.
“Bob won’t hurt me. He’s had plenty of chances to if that’s what he wanted.”
“I know, but he is insane and doesn’t think like a normal person. I don’t want to lose you, Alexandra. I couldn’t stand that.”
“I’ll be fine. I promise. You need to stay with Piper. Please, I have to know she has you near her.”
I knew I was manipulating Tom asking him to stay with Piper and let me go alone, but I felt I had no choice. I reminded him once again how Bob had looked out for me, and convinced him I’d be safe. Now I needed to convince myself.
As I passed a clock by the nurses’ station, I noticed Tom and I had slept for ten hours. One of the nurses said the first winds from the storm were hitting the coast. I stopped by the window in the ICU and gazed at Piper sleeping peacefully, her skin still pale, but she seemed to be resting. I maneuvered the halls to the parking lot and felt the winds picking up in small gusts. As I made my way to the French Quarter, the deserted streets of the city created an eerie yet peaceful scene, the neon sign still flashing and the traffic signals swaying in the wind. I’d never imagined New Orleans could look so serene. There was no traffic on the road, not even a random police car. The skies were dark and the city was battened down for a beating.
When I pulled into my garage, the door closing behind me, my phone rang again. Bob spoke in the same eerie voice, “Walk into the dining room. You must maintain your composure and do exactly as I say or the deal is off. Do you understand?”
I was getting annoyed.“OK, I get it. I’ve got to do exactly what you tell me to do. Now let’s get on with this so I can get back to Piper.”
Bob didn’t react to my attitude. He maintained the same tone and pace. “When you get into the dining room, you will see two figures seated at the table with hoods over their heads. They will be struggling to get free and making noises. Ignore them and sit at the table in the chair I’ve pulled out for you. Do not say a word till I get there.”
I did as he said, and when I entered the dining room the lights went out. I didn’t know if Bob had cut the power or the hurricane had. I saw the two dimly lit figures sitting at the table struggling against the zip ties holding them in their chairs. I took my place at the table and waited. Bob had walked behind me without making a sound.
“You have to trust me now,” he said. “I have to tie you to the chair too so you don’t interfere in what I have to do. Don’t struggle. Cooperate and you will soon get what you need for the girl.”
Was I going to let a serial killer tie me to a chair without a fight? I was willing to do anything to help Piper, so I did, my pulse pounding at a furious pace. I looked across the table and recognized one of the hooded figures. It was Burak. Maybe that’s why Bob tied me to the chair, so I didn’t choke Burak to death. But I couldn’t tell who the other figure was in the dark. I imagined it was Garrett Morris and Bob was going to dispatch him for what he’d done to Mandy. I always thought that killing Garrett was Bob’s unfinished business.
Once I was zip-tied to the chair, Bob walked over to the first figure and pulled the hood from his head, exposing his face. It was Burak, his mouth gagged with duct tape. I sneered across the table at him as I felt the anger churn in my body. Our eyes met and he quickly looked away, his eyes shifting from side to side. I’d seen hopeless fear like that before in the Scorpion’s eyes before I shot him a second time. We both felt like Bob was going to kill him.
Bob walked over to the second man and lifted the hood from his head. It was Bart Rogan. He was gagged like Burak. Bob circled the table, looking at both men, the wind picking up outside. An occasional gust rattled the glass panes in the condo windows slightly. As each of the gusts passed there was a deadly silence in the room broken only by the futile attempts of Rogan and Burak to speak through the duct tape.
Bob stood behind me, putting his hands on my shoulders and addressing both men. “The devil will reclaim his own today.” The lights flickered on briefly and then went back off. I suspected the power wouldn’t be back on for quite some time. A horrible calamity was threatening New Orleans, but these two men were facing something even worse. I knew I was about to witness murder.
Chapter Thirty:
The Devil’s Call
Rogan and Burak stopped trying to talk for a minute, their eyes widening at the prospect of Bob Broussard’s next move. I wanted to scream, but I didn’t dare since I too was at Bob’s mercy. I had to go along with Bob’s demented game, to find out the exact type of microbe infecting Piper. The only way I was going to get it was with Bob’s help. My mother’s words rang in my ears. “Don’t make any deals with the devil, because the devil always collects.”Had I made a deal with the devil? I asked myself, looking at the two doomed men across the table from me. While we were lashed to our chairs, the wind picked up outside and the distant claps of thunder rumbled through the darkened sky as the relentless rains battered the streets.
Bob resumed, “Alexandra, you know Mr. Rogan. He is one of the devil’s most evil spawn. He earned his reputation as a demon, one death at a time. He duped the poor, uneducated victims of the Bhopal chemical spill disaster into signing away their right to sue, forcing them to accept torturous suffering and death with no medical care and no recompense for their families. That endeared him to one of the devil’s favorite tools in this world, ACC. They used Rogan to corrupt people into doing their bidding so they could line their pockets with impunity. Right, Mr. Rogan?”
I looked at Bart Rogan as Bob spoke, furiously trying to break the zip ties that bound him to the chair, but there was no way he could get free. His fate was sealed. His deal with the devil was due, and collection was only minutes away. Bob contin
ued, “You see, Alexandra, Bart Rogan has cut a path of death, disease, and destruction through almost every continent on this earth. He has gotten quite wealthy as a result of his efforts too.” Bob turned to address Rogan. “That dirty money won’t do you any good here, will it, Bart? Of course, you can’t answer because you are gagged so I can recite your crimes. I suspect you’d say you were just playing the games according to the rules. You didn’t invent capitalism. You were just very good at it. I’m afraid that rationale won’t save you, but I’ll give you a chance to talk your way out of this when I’m done.”
I nearly jumped out of my chair when a bolt of lightning slashed across the darkened sky followed by a loud clap of thunder. The storm was steadily approaching the shores of the Gulf. I threw my head back to look up at Bob, who was still standing behind me, ignoring my gaze. I wanted to talk him out of whatever evil deed he was contemplating, but I dared not speak, his eyes a morass of hate.
“Don’t worry about the storm, Alexandra,” Bob said. “We won’t be here much longer. Mr. Bart Rogan killed your mother with his poisons just like he has done to thousands around the world. But it’s what he did to me that he has to deal with today. He corrupted my father with money and power as other devils like him have done for centuries. When my father got my mother pregnant with me, Rogan convinced dear old Dad to send her back to Haiti to give birth. She did as he wished and went back to Haiti, where she died in abject poverty. But that was OK with Mr. Rogan because it gave him the leverage he needed to make a puppet out of my father. You see, Alexandra, Rogan and I have a great deal in common. My hatred for my stepmother, which grew out of her cruel treatment, created a bloodlust in me that I must satisfy. I know it may seem warped to you, but I kill women like her to satisfy that lust. Mr. Rogan, on the other hand, kills for a different reason. He kills for money and power. He calls his victims ‘collateral damage,’ and I call mine ‘bitches.’ Today he is one of my bitches. Well, Mr. Rogan, first I took care of the stepmother who tortured me. Now it’s your turn to pay for your crimes. What do you have to say for yourself?”Bob walked around the table and pulled the tape from Bart Rogan’s mouth.
