by Hunter, Neil
‘Gonna beat the life out of you …’ Durant rasped, his words coming through the blood that was streaming across his mouth.
His hand swung again and Brand felt the numbing slam of it. Even in his pained moment he knew he needed to do something quickly, decisively, before Durant rendered him unconscious. He concentrated his efforts on Durant’s lower body, his feet first. Brand slammed his boot heel down on Durant’s right foot, putting his full force into the blow, repeating two, three times. The blows had the desired result, Durant’s toes crushed to bloody pulp inside his leather boot and the big man gave a strangled cry. His attack on Brand briefly interrupted by the sudden pain, Durant’s grip on his shirt slackened and Brand wrenched himself free, setting himself and drove the toe of his boot into the other’s groin. He put all of his energy into the blow and it wrenched a howl of agony from the big man as he began to double over, clutching at his body. Brand caught hold of Durant’s collar, pulling him forward and down. Brand’s rising knee smashed into Durant’s face and he felt the crunch of bone as it collapsed beneath the brutal force. As Durant began to slump forward, Brand stepped in close and encircled his thick neck in a tight embrace. The image of Kelso dangling from Durant’s hands blurred his vision and he didn’t hesitate as he applied a sudden twist. Felt Durant’s neck flex. There was a soft crunch and Durant went totally limp. Brand held the lifeless bulk as Durant became, literally, a dead weight. He let the man slide from his grasp, stepped back to draw in a harsh breath.
The side of his head was becoming numb and Brand could feel fingers of blood running down his cheek where rings on Durant’s fingers had scraped the skin. He took a moment to steady himself before he bent over Durant’s body and retrieved the revolver from his belt. There was a short-barreled Colt jammed behind his broad leather belt. Brand checked the load. Five in the cylinder. He felt through the pockets of Durant’s coat and found loose cartridges. He filled the empty chamber, dropped the other cartridges into a pocket.
Brand crouched beside Kelso’s still form, shaking his head at the pointless loss of life. Another death on Lacroix’s tally. It was time the list was closed, Brand decided.
He moved to the door and eased it open, checking the casino beyond. Two of Durant’s crew were hunched over a baize covered table, concentrating on the hand of poker they were playing, too busy to be concerned over Durant’s business. An opened bottle stood between them and a haze of tobacco smoke hung above their heads.
‘Hey,’ Brand called out and as they swiveled their heads, seeing him standing in the doorframe, they went for the pistols they wore.
The Colt in Brand’s hand snapped into position and he put slugs into them before they had their weapons clear. The precision he displayed was tempered by the killing urge that rose in him. One man toppled from his chair, clutching his unused revolver, two .45 slugs in his chest. His partner caught a shot to the chest, a second slug slamming between his eyes and taking away a chunk of skull as it exited. He toppled over from his half-risen stance and crashed face down on the floor.
Brand remained where he was as he shucked out the spent casings and reloaded. He crossed the room and picked up one of the discarded revolvers. A longer barreled weapon, fully loaded. He tucked it behind his belt as he headed for the outer door. He spotted a .44-40 Henry repeater leaning against the wall and took that as well. A quick check under the barrel showed him the tubular magazine was full. That offered him sixteen shots. Brand worked the lever and as the rifle cocked it ejected a single load – at least fifteen shots, he corrected. He placed the revolver he was carrying behind his belt as well. A fully loaded rifle and a pair of ready handguns. If he couldn’t handle whoever might stand against him with such an arsenal…
He went to the main door and opened it, checking the street. The Mardi Gras procession had moved on, leaving only a few stragglers. McCord had sent Brand to New Orleans to get to the bottom of the murder of Netta Delacort and the two other missing girls and that was what he was going to do. Any kind of diplomacy had already been pushed aside, so Brand figured it was time he meted out an undiplomatic solution. If that meant bringing some hellfire to the Crescent City, then that was how it was going to be.
~*~
Lacroix realized something was wrong when Julienne Dubois came into the study, his face pale. The Frenchman looked almost guilty, so Lacroix knew he was the bearer of bad news. Lacroix glanced across at his sister, a flick of a finger telling her to stay silent. As Dubois stepped through the door it closed behind him and Lacroix saw the man flinch.
‘Julienne? Has someone broken the bank and we are out of money?’
‘I wish it was something as simple,’ Dubois said. ‘Clemente just rode in from the city. The man, Brand, has escaped. He has killed three of our men.’
‘I suspect there is more.’
‘One of them was Durant.’
Lacroix met Seraphina’s unflinching stare. She didn’t have to speak. Her eyes spoke volumes and he knew she was angry.
‘He snapped Durant’s neck,’ Dubois added. ‘From what Clement found they fought. Durant lost. He killed the young police officer but failed to do the same with Brand.’
‘Then we must make certain he does not kill any more of us,’ Lacroix said.
Seraphina broke her silence. ‘You believe it will be that easy?’
‘He is only a man. He is not protected.’
‘Then give him to me,’ Seraphina said. ‘My power will defeat him and I will bring him to his knees for you, brother. It will be my vengeance for Durant.’
‘Let her do this, Victor,’ Dubois said. ‘Let her deal with this outsider while we proceed with the others. Buckman is wavering. We are so close now. To fail at this point would be a crime …’
Lacroix considered the point. He glanced at Seraphina. She returned his gaze, standing and crossing to his desk and resting her hands on the polished surface.
‘Let me use my people. They can move around the city easily and with Mardi Gras in full swing they will not be noticed.’
‘Ahh, your followers,’ Dubois said, a suggestion of mockery in his voice.
Seraphina maintained her aloof expression. ‘Still an unbeliever, Julienne. All the time you have spent here and you refuse to accept.’
‘It is that I have my doubts, ma chéri.’
‘Seraphina,’ Lacroix said, ‘our friend here is only driven by his quest for material gain. If he can see it and touch it then he is happy. Especially if what he seeks is in the form of gold and banknotes. Allow him his need for the material world. ‘
‘Does that make me a bad person?’ Dubois said. ‘After all, Victor, it is why you employ me. To add to your own wealth. Am I wrong?’
Lacroix smiled because the Frenchman was correct. He had hired Dubois based on his ruthless and efficient managerial skills. With the first couple of months he had turned around the overall take of Lacroix’s gambling enterprises. Dubois ran the games without fear or favor and anyone who tried to fleece the tables was dealt with severely.
Lacroix was more than satisfied with the way Dubois operated. The Creole Queen had a solid reputation in the gambling community of New Orleans, with Dubois garnering the bulk of the praise. He sat back, content to watch the size of his bank balance rise on a regular basis. He understood Dubois’ meticulous attention to the financial success of The Creole Queen. Lacroix had offered him a percentage of the take on top of his salary, so the more the casino made, the larger was his remuneration. It was an arrangement that benefitted them both. And as well as the money Lacroix received he was able to indulge his private interests.
As Dubois had stated, he was not interested in that side of Lacroix’s dealings. His world revolved around the gaming tables, while Lacroix indulged himself, along with his sister, in an altogether separate life. Dubois knew little about it apart from it having something to do with local superstition. He had heard vague murmurings concerning voodoo and Creole traditions of witchcraft. Dubois had no interest in that.
He viewed it as something out of the dark ages. Had heard it described as mumbo-jumbo nonsense. Knowing Lacroix’s involvement in the cult and the serious intent he displayed where it was concerned Dubois refrained from anything controversial in the presence of the man and his sister. Of the two it was Seraphina the Frenchman was wary of. There was an aura around her that actually made him uneasy. The penetrating expression in her cold, dark eyes and the way she focused her gaze on him. Dubois had a genuine distrust of Seraphina. If there was any truth in the suggestion she was involved in unearthly pursuits Dubois wanted as little contact with her as he could. He distanced himself from her as much as possible, preferring the real world of the casino and the gambling. That was enough to hold Dubois’ interest. What Lacroix and Seraphina got up to outside The Creole Queen was their affair. He wanted none of it.
With her brother’s apparent say so the young woman took control.
‘You can return to your gaming tables and your dice, Julienne’ she said soothingly. ‘I will handle this man Brand. And he will soon vanish from our lives.’
‘In a puff of colored smoke I presume,’ Dubois said, unable to resist a parting quip.
The thin smile on Seraphina’s lips faded as Dubois left, quietly closing the door behind him.
‘One day,’ she said. ‘One day I will take his head. Victor, I do not like that damned cochon.’
‘My dear, it is not entirely required to like someone because they are in your employ. I must admit there are times his manner irritates, but that has to be weighed against the benefits of his skills. Julienne is most adept at his job and I cannot fault him. He runs the casino and brings in considerable amounts. Which you must accept is worth putting up with the man’s presence.’
‘You have a forgiving nature, brother. Far in excess than I.’
Lacroix was not going to argue that. His sister had a volatile temper and was capable of lashing out with little regard to the outcome. That included the violence she used to maintain order if necessary. Seraphina had no hesitation in ordering her people to maim and kill if it would bring her the results she wanted.
Lacroix, to a lesser degree, fed off the age-old rituals and wielded the power it gave him. He admitted his influence was not as great as his sister’s. He depended on more traditional means to get what he wanted. Not that he had experienced as much success lately. His own attempt to have the man, Brand, disposed of had failed and it had been Lacroix who had lost his own men when they had taken Brand to the bayou. He had turned the tables on them.
Rene.
Lupe
Grande – the coach driver.
Three of them had taken Brand out to the bayou to feed him to the alligators. But only Brand had come back to the city.
As good as his people had been they proved to be no match for the man. Seraphina had said little but Lacroix knew she was not impressed. He was secretly pleased she had stepped in to take control of the situation, leaving Lacroix to deal with more mundane affairs.
Like maintaining his hold over the three men in the group who were now so afraid of being exposed they were offering him anything he demanded.
Except for Cyrus Buckman who was close to breaking down. If he did he might do something reckless and expose Lacroix and his operation. The man needed to be silenced before he did. This would be something Lacroix could take care of himself, leaving Seraphina to handle Brand. Now that Jake Durant was dead, Lacroix would have to have one of his other men deal with Buckman. He would call on a colleague who would handle the matter and remove Buckman. This time there would be no mistake. The man he had in mind would complete the task with his usual efficiency.
~*~
Doc Marcellus tended to Brand’s cuts and bruises before he made his way back to the police station and Noonan’s office. The Inspector’s face paled when Brand informed him about Lyle Kelso’s death.
‘Damn,’ he said. ‘That’s going to be on my conscience.’
‘Don, you can’t carry the blame for every police officer who dies doing his job.’
Noonan pressed his hand to his shoulder. The wound was still giving him pain.
‘I do have some news that might be of interest. One of the officers looking out for Kelso saw Cyrus Buckman. The man was on foot and heading for his house. My man followed him and when he went inside he returned here to let me know. I’d given orders that if any of the missing people were seen I was to be informed immediately.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Couple of hours now. I sent the officer back to stand watch. Name of Brenner.’
‘It’s time I had a little talk with our banker.’
‘Brenner said when he saw Buckman he was in a terrible state. Unshaven, clothes in a mess. Don’t be too hard on the man.’
Brand managed a mirthless smile. ‘I promise not to be too hard on him.’
‘Don, you should be at home resting.’
‘I was shot. One of my men has been killed and you have been pursued and generally knocked about, Jason. Do you think I’m about to sit by with my feet up?’
‘Way you look I’d say it was the best thing you can do.’
‘I feel so damned useless.’
‘If you put it like that, Inspector Noonan, I already know the answer. Just promise me you’ve got a loaded revolver in your desk.’
‘Two if truth be told. And they’re both loaded.’
Brand pushed to his feet.
‘Jason, be careful. We may have Lacroix on the defensive. If that’s true he isn’t about to give up easily.’
‘Well that’s going to make for an interesting time because the same thing has been said about me.’
As the office door closed behind Brand the New Orleans policeman considered the situation and decided Brand was ready to start turning the city on its head and to hell with whoever he upset doing it.
~*~
Earlier…
Cyrus Buckman’s days as President of the bank were long and seemed to comprise of seemingly endless meetings with clients. When he had first established the bank, his importance excited him. He thrived on the challenge. The cut and thrust of his chosen profession. He was an important figure. He held power in his hands. People looked to him for advice, trusted him with their money, held him in great esteem.
And Buckman loved it. Loved every minute. He moved in the highest levels of New Orleans society. Without becoming fully aware as the years passed, his affinity to his life style began to wane. It came down on him on his forty-fifth birthday. The day he looked in his mirror and saw the aging face staring back at him. Only now did he realized how his life was passing him by. Oh, he had the power. The wealth. A fine house and possessions. With a shock he looked at himself and saw the middle-aged figure reflected in the glass. The distant eyes and the pale complexion. The image of a man who was lonely, with little in his life apart from …
In truth he had nothing. His work had dominated his life, leaving him little time to enjoy anything beyond the bank. No wife. No female companion. Middle-aged he lived with his sister Eleanor, who he had cared for since their parents had passed away many years ago. She was happy in her role as his companion, as she called herself. Never one for looking beyond the four walls of the house. She arranged his domestic needs. Kept the big house in order. Cooked his meals and when he entertained, to maintain contacts, it was Eleanor who arranged the dinner parties for his guests. She was never more content than when she was doing these things and he let her look after him because it was convenient.
Now he took a long look at himself and the way his life was slipping by, and suddenly he found he saw nothing but emptiness. He did not enjoy what he saw and made a decision to change things.
Once a week Cyrus Buckman met two of his friends at the club they all belonged to. It was a gentlemen’s club. Here they were able to gather to sample fine drinks and smoke expensive cigars while they talked. Mostly they talked business because, like Buckman, Coleman and Dalton, had similarly dull lives outsid
e their business dealings. In truth they had little else to talk about. It was, they decided, fortuitous when Victor Lacroix came into their lives. He had become a member of the club, buying his way in with a generous donation, and ingratiating himself with his favors. He quickly became a welcome figure in the club society and it was by no means a help that he owned and ran one of the most successful establishments on Bourbon Street that catered to the gamblers and womanizers of New Orleans.
Lacroix welcomed Buckman and his friends to The Creole Queen where the three men were able to indulge themselves in card games, roulette, and drink the chilled champagne served by the attractive hostesses. In the exclusive back room the gambling was select and the stakes were high. Only special guests were invited there, under the close supervision of Julienne Dubois. The Frenchman oversaw the proceedings, offering whatever the clientele wanted and it was on his say so that Lacroix was able to pick out players who held promise of bigger and better pickings.
Cyrus Buckman and his companions were ideal for special treatment. There was no denying their wealth. Buckman was the banker. Coleman a man of business with holdings in a number of prestigious New Orleans companies, and Dalton was President of a powerful land company. Between them they controlled immense wealth and had influence in the city.
