The Forbidden

by Heather Graham

  Fin nodded. “I know you will.”

  He’d been hunkered down at a guest house toward Canal and Rampart for the last several months; he hurried there and, without returning to his room, slid his car from one of the four parking spaces allotted visitors and headed out for I-10, calling retired detective Tom Drayton as he did.

  Drayton answered immediately.

  “I think it is the same son of a bitch,” Drayton said. “And, trust me—I will do anything humanly possible to bring that monster down!”

  * * *

  That night, Avalon and her friends ordered dinner from a delivery service; none of them had the heart to go out. They ate together in the courtyard, and then split to different areas of the house.

  Boris and Brad were going to work on the film, rewatching the dailies to see where they were, and if they could finish the film with what they had.

  Luckily, filming scenes wasn’t necessarily done in order, and therefore the final scene—when Kevin’s character, the king of the vampires, had lost his beloved, Avalon’s character—had been filmed several days earlier. It had called for only the two of them—an easy scene to film as far as set and direction went, harder for the actors portraying a mix of emotions.

  Kevin and Leo had wanted to relax and watch a movie. A comedy, Kevin assured Avalon, when he asked her if she wanted to join them.

  She was too restless for a movie.

  Lauren and Avalon wound up in Avalon’s room and talked for a while, but no matter where they started a conversation, it came back to their present circumstances.

  “So, what’s your plan for the immediate future?” Lauren asked her. “I can ask my friends. You know, there’s always something filming here. I know you can get more work quickly. There’s another horror movie starting up next week and—”

  “No. Thank you. I’m fine for now. I’m going to work on a few websites. Have you heard of Samara Stella?”

  “I have,” Lauren said. “The famous—or infamous—dominatrix. She’s very popular here, from what I understand. A few of the extras I worked on were talking about a visit to her place. They assured me that there was nothing too... I’m not sure that kinky would be the right word—she’s definitely on the kinky side. But nothing illegal. They’re performance artists—but they’ll perform sometimes for an audience, drawing volunteers from it, and sometimes one on one. I find it a bit strange myself, but I understand there are high-powered men out there who feel the need to be dominated. Maybe that allows them to be cutthroat in business or something, I don’t know. Or maybe a guy with a little meek and mild-mannered wife needs a little excitement without really cheating on his wife. Anyway, I’ve heard of her, and her place. You’re...working with her?”

  Avalon laughed. “No, I’m building her a website. She’s seen some of the work I’ve done for friends—for actors, artists and some heavy-metal rock bands who may make Samara Stella look tame. Anyway, she offered a nice fee. Enough so I don’t have to worry about the next month or so, at any rate.”

  “Oh, well, that’s great,” Lauren said. “But don’t go getting involved with...”

  “I’m not going to turn into a dominatrix. Or a pole dancer...though, wow. I have seen a few who have the best bodies known to man.”

  “Pole dancing is damned good exercise,” Lauren said.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going into the sex business.”

  “No nudity!” Lauren said firmly. “Unless it’s HBO or a Spielberg movie and they’re paying you the big bucks and you could wind up with a major award.”

  Avalon laughed again, glad for her friend. In Lauren’s business, she was behind the scenes, and she was often able to hear a lot of the talk that was going around, for whatever any of it might be worth.

  “Anyway, immediate future—I’m going to go see Samara Stella tomorrow. Want to come?”

  Lauren yawned. “Maybe. For now, I’m going to bed. I didn’t sleep much last night. I’m hoping I sleep more tonight. This whole situation is so upsetting. I didn’t know Cindy that well, but we’ve worked together before. She was a really, really, good kid... It’s hard to believe. So we all lie awake, needing sleep, wondering and being afraid. Avalon, do you realize, it might have been one of us? And she was laid out just like...”

  Lauren’s eyes went wide and her hand flew to cover her mouth.

  “She was laid out just as I was, in the scene we’d just filmed,” Avalon said, finishing for her. “I know.”

  “I’m sorry.” Lauren sighed. “It wasn’t us. And I feel bad, but also relieved. And we can’t help trying to figure out what we’re going to do about the movie, thinking about our own lives when Cindy doesn’t have a life anymore, but—”

  “It’s what we have to do,” Avalon said, determined. “And we have to do anything we can to find out who did this to Cindy.”

  “Well, thank you. I’m glad you’re the one who went out with that detective today.”

  Avalon grinned. “He’s not a detective. He’s a special agent.”

  “Right. Well,” Lauren said, smirking, “I’d say he’s special. The other guy... Ryder. Nice, solid and I believe he knows what he’s doing, and he’s serious and has that bulldog look—I know he’ll do what he can. But Stirling...well, I’d liked to have met him when we were just wandering around Bourbon Street.”

  Avalon gave her a dry smile. “Sure.”

  “You don’t think he’s attractive?” Lauren asked her. “Well, I mean, I suppose that’s not something you think about at a time like this.”

  Avalon shrugged. “He has his qualities. I guess.”

  “A vampire,” Lauren said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Well, you did find what you were looking for, right? They’ve been showing a sketch on the news, showing the last person she was seen with—a man in a cloak. They must be getting calls. I mean, we’re not in the middle of Mardi Gras, and there may always be someone in costume on the street for theatrical reasons, or just for performances at Jackson Square or the like, but surely, someone noticed her with a vampire.”

  “I imagine the tip line is being bombarded,” Avalon said. “We can only hope.”

  “I can’t help wondering about it. Seems to me like someone who wanted to, I don’t know... Maybe someone who really wanted to be in the movie.”

  “Or who wants to be a vampire.”

  Lauren shrugged. “Okay. I’m going to bed for real. Oh, um, just something I was thinking about—be careful with the dominatrix, yeah?”

  “Be careful? She may be into stuff that doesn’t particularly appeal to me, but that doesn’t make her dangerous.”

  “No. But when I was working a few days ago, on the scene with all the extras, a couple of the young men—college boys, taking the gig for fun and to meet girls, and get out of a few days of math or whatever—were talking about Samara Stella.”

  “I think you mentioned that,” Avalon said.

  “Yeah, well, I forgot to say they were also talking about the dark web.”

  “I’m not doing a website for the dark web.”

  “No, of course not. But if she does have something on the dark web, she could be into some things you don’t want any part of.”

  “People talk—that doesn’t make things true.”

  “I know. Just...maybe I will go with you. Keep an eye on you.”

  “Sure! And there are a lot of great places on Magazine. We’ll have lunch, maybe there will be some live music... Don’t let me forget to bring my good camera.”

  “Kinky photos?”

  “I think they’re posing—dressed, more or less. She told me on the phone that bits of clothing were more tantalizing than total nudity. And they aren’t sexual therapists or surrogates, they just liked to play at the edge and give the ‘average’ guy a bit of excitement.”

  “Okay, then...sounds cool. A walk
on the wild side,” Lauren said, heading to the door. “Really, really going to bed.”

  She blew a kiss from the doorway and went out, and then came back in quickly. “It’s just us in this house, but lock your door!” she warned.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Avalon said, rising to do so.

  She closed the door and locked it, glad that it was just their group staying in the house. The owner often rented out the rooms individually, but, as it had happened, despite the fantastic location and decent pricing, their group got the whole building because the owner had just had some of the plumbing overhauled.

  She sat down and opened up her laptop, planning to work on possibilities for Samara Stella’s website.

  She paused, and then keyed in “dark web.”

  To her surprise, all manner of information popped up. There were sites, she quickly discovered, that needed special software to access. There were sites that had warning signs on them, and where she encountered login pop-ups needing passwords.

  After signing in to her VPN and opening a new browser, she keyed in Samara Stella’s name.

  Nothing came up under her name at first.

  She read down the page. She found herself fascinated.

  Sex seemed to be the big seller on the web, and not just by women. She arched her eyebrows at the number of men who were selling “pictures and encounters” by displaying what they considered to be their very special “packages.”

  She was chuckling as she decided to add more key words to her search.

  New Orleans Murder... New Orleans Vampires...

  And things began to pop up.

  Scanning the page, her eyes stopped, and for a moment she forgot to keep breathing.

  There was a site called “My Fantasy Murder.”

  She was almost afraid to open the page, but was drawn to do it.

  It couldn’t be real; people couldn’t think that way, and if they did, would they really share it?

  Avalon read.

  First, I’d stalk my prey. She’d be unknown, a goddess, but I would see her, and I would know. I would watch the way she moved, the way she breathed, the way her eyes would light when she laughed. I would be close enough at times to smell the sweetness that emanated from her supple flesh. I might brush by her.

  Beauty knows no bounds. I have seen these goddesses in every ethnicity. Beauty covers the continents. True beauties are rare, but they come from every continent—they are Asian, African, Australian, South and North American, European...a little laugh here, okay, I’ve yet to encounter a goddess from Antarctica.

  But I am good. I am a hunter, a stalker, and I know how to smile and laugh and charm. And I find my beauties...

  Fantasy. So... I find my goddess. I am a gentleman, a rugged, charming gentleman. We play and we tease, and we drink, and it’s divine. That’s just it—it’s all divine. I did say goddess.

  I wait until we are so relaxed. She’s at ease with me. I make it clear I don’t expect intercourse...yet.

  And when she is laughing, playing, enjoying me, looking at me with that divine sparkle in her eyes, I strike...

  It’s so beautiful. Watching her. Because she cannot fight—she knows and knows she cannot fight. And I hold her and assure her and watch the light slowly fade. She’s in my arms—she’s still warm. There’s a perfect temperature and I wait for that...and then, I give her the divine ecstasy of my love. There is no greater high. When we are done, I take her so tenderly. I care for her. I lay her out in beauty. Eternal beauty. And it’s all as it should be, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, with all that is beautiful and divine in between.

  Avalon felt as if ice water had been thrown over her to seep into her bones.

  She sat back, as if the computer itself was as heinous as the words she read.

  She stood, fumbling in her purse for her cell phone, and then for the card that Fin Stirling had given her. She stared at the screen as she looked at the card for his number.

  She never dialed.

  There was suddenly an explosion of color in the display on the screen, like fireworks going off; along with it came the sound of laughter.

  The site was gone. She was looking at nothing but a blank page.

  Five

  Detective Tom Drayton was tall, bald and as grizzled as an old oak. But he was still a spry man, who, even in retirement, had made certain to keep physically fit.

  He lived just outside Biloxi in a comfortable little ranch house. Pictures of what Fin assumed were Tom’s children and grandchildren were abundant on the walls, the mantel and on the grand piano that sat in the living room. He greeted Fin grimly but with warmth, asking him in and indicating the dining room table, where he’d spread out the contents of several files—those he had retained, perhaps, because they were probably copies of those he had on a case that haunted him still, a case that had gotten away.

  “Great family,” Fin said, noting the pictures.

  “Thanks. Four girls. All married, all with kids, and the oldest daughter’s oldest son just gave me a great-grand.” He was silent a minute. “Lost my wife three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Drayton nodded his thanks. “Well, you know, I’d always figured we’d spend our retirement traveling around, following the kids, you know? I have places to stay in Boston, New York, St. Augustine, Denver... I can go all over the country. Anyway...” He paused for a minute, studying Fin. “That’s not why you’re here. This damned murder. I gave it everything. Probably tortured the poor girl’s parents, grilled her friends, grilled every employee at the casino, looked at the security footage over and over again...and I came up with nothing. She’d been flirting with a croupier—brought him in, but he had at least ten witnesses swear he was off with them for a bachelor party when he left work. Went so far as to follow any security tape I could find, and yes, they were at a bar at another casino, all through the night. The kid was telling the truth—and he was devastated. Thought they’d be hooking up the night after.” He shook his head. “Out where she was found...well, I don’t know how well you know Mississippi, but you can go a lot of miles with just earth, trees and dirt paths. People come to Biloxi to see Beauvoir—you know, the last home of Jefferson Davis. It’s just historic, you know. It’s a beautiful old place. Me, I’m a mind that we don’t forget history—that thing about repeating it, if you don’t remember it, you know? Sorry...anyway, Biloxi is filled with casinos. So, a little history, a lot of gambling and spas. But it’s a good city, too, you know—businesses, kids, families, schools. But, yeah, lots of casinos. And people everywhere... Who knows how she met the creep who killed her? Oh, and there are theaters and other places, so it looks like there are lots of weirdos running around, too.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing the security tapes you’re talking about,” Fin said.

  “It’s getting late.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Drayton nodded and then said, “Well, when did late ever stop a cop? There are folks on down at my old precinct. I probably have a friend who will give us a hand—stayed tight with day and night captains,” Drayton said. He shrugged. “I was a good detective—dogged. I found most people I was after. This one...still bugs the damned hell out of me. And I can tell you...well, I’d just lost my wife, so I worked the hell out of it.”

  “I’m sure you did,” Fin said.

  “Have a seat. Everything is there, on the table. Look through it all to your heart’s content.”

  Fin sat at the table, surveying the display before him. One folder contained witness reports. One contained the initial police report taken when Mr. Robert Fryer, the caretaker and tour guide at the General Amos Grimsby estate, had called it in. There was a report on the house itself; it was a Victorian mansion, built circa 1840, and lovingly tended through the years. An absentee owner—Kyle Howard, a descendant of General Grimsby—owned the house, but
lived in Tacoma, Washington, and kept a room upstairs for himself and his wife when they visited. Robert Fryer lived in the old guard house and gave folks a tour when they came to visit. The house held period clothing and other memorabilia from the 1800s, including weapons, dinnerware and more. While the house was listed with the state as an official tourist destination, there weren’t many die-hard Victorian or Civil War buffs who came through to call for more security for the place.

  No cameras. Well, according to the police report, there were cameras, but they were just for show.

  “Of course,” Fin said to himself.

  Another file had information on the victim, Ellen Frampton, a college senior—she was excited to be graduating soon and planned to teach. Her subject: history.

  She might have been happy to head out to see the house, except that according to her friends, she hadn’t even known about it. They’d all gone to tour Beauvoir, but the rest of the trip had been a spa day and Ellen had loved cheap, silly slot machines with bonuses that held great graphics.

  Detective Drayton had been thorough. So thorough. Every casino employee, it seemed, had been questioned. Her friends at college, friends from home.

  There were more pictures of her as she had been found on the porch. There was no blood. But she hadn’t died by puncture marks: she’d been stabbed through the heart with a pointed object.

  Then he discovered the answer to the question he had not yet broached.

  No defensive wounds, no sign of rape, but apparent intercourse after death.

  “It’s the same sick bastard!” he exploded.

  “Pardon—I... You’re sure?” Drayton asked, coming back over to the table.

  Fin tapped at the report. “Cindy West was killed by two puncture wounds at the throat—this young woman was pierced through the heart. No blood at either crime scene, both women dressed up and displayed. Ellen loved history—she was found at a historic location. Cindy West was a makeup artist—she was found on a tomb in a cemetery where a movie was being filmed. She was laid out exactly as an actress had been earlier, working on a scene.”