Blood on the Bayou: A Cafferty & Quinn Novella

by Heather Graham

  “White male between the age of twenty-eight and thirty-four. Five-feet-ten-inches tall. One-hundred and seventy-five pounds. Last meal—crawfish etouffee, grits, and asparagus. He’d eaten somewhere in the hour and a half before his death, and Doc Melloni has been around a while. He knew right away, which is good. Thing is, most places out here do serve crawfish etouffee.”

  “We’re still checking out local restaurants and cafes, and at least they’re a little sparser out in this area than they are in the city. Of course, he could have been in the city and made it out here just in time to have his head bashed in and throat ripped out.” Deerfield shook his head. “Anyway, as you can see, the man was in excellent health, fit and sound before his demise.”

  “He might have lived to a hundred,” Beauchamp said sadly.

  Twenty minutes later, the four of them headed out with a young officer in a police boat, straight to the spot where the body had been found.

  Deerfield did the talking, pointing to the shore.

  “Body was there, right at the edge of the water, mostly head first, or what was left of the head. Feet were caught up on the high grasses. As you can see, the trees are pretty heavy around here. You’ve got a fair distance to the road. Course, you’ve got a few businesses dotting the shoreline, not too close. And you’re a football field from here out to the highway. Locals come around, as do the tour boats. But it’s pretty isolated. That’s what’s hard to figure. What was a guy in a business suit and Gucci loafers doing out in this part of the swamp?”

  “We’re expecting to get an ID on him soon,” Beauchamp said. “No wallet on him, but pretty damned weird for a robbery. I mean, it was overkill.”

  “Can you get me in a little closer?” Quinn asked the captain.

  The man nodded and eased the boat toward the muddy shoreline.

  Quinn jumped out.

  The grasses and mud were heavy right where the corpse had been found. Thick trees sprouted from the more solid ground further in. As Deerfield had pointed out, they weren’t that far from the highway. He could hear the traffic in the distance.

  “The victim was killed right here, right on the shoreline. The blow to the back of his head was first?” Quinn asked.

  “That’s what the medical examiner concluded,” Deerfield said. “The victim had to have been standing near the water. He was then twisted around for the attack on the throat.”

  “And human teeth could have done the damage?” Quinn asked skeptically.

  Deerfield shrugged. “Enhanced human teeth, maybe? People do all kinds of crazy things. We got one of those whacky vampire cults out here, you know. Heaven help us. They use pig’s blood in their rituals, keeping it legal and all, but I’ve seen some of them with their teeth all filed to points. But was there some other kind of creature involved? We don’t know, as yet. And I’m not so sure testing will get us the answers.”

  “Okay, so the killer could have parked up on the road. Possibly came in from the city. I know I go into the French Quarter often. Easy enough,” Beauchamp said.

  “Ah, easy when you’re young and good-looking,” Deerfield said lightly. “But, sure, simple enough to get into the city and out.”

  “Maybe he went into the city and lured the guy out here somehow,” Beauchamp said. “The victim trusted him, thinking they were coming out here for something else.”

  “It’s possible,” Deerfield said, smiling at his young protégé.

  “Could have arrived via some kind of boat?” Quinn asked. “Anyone on the tour report seeing any other boats in the area?”

  “No,” Deerfield said, “but, yeah, they could have come by boat. Thing is, we haven’t found any unknown cars parked in the area.”

  “The car could be down in Honey Swamp somewhere,” Quinn said, pointing to the road. “Easy enough for someone to escape that way. The young women this morning reported that something was moving through the trees. The killer, I’d say. So he went back to the road, jumped in a car, and drove away.”

  “Unless it was a rougarou,” Beauchamp suggested, shrugging. “In which case, it’s still hiding out there in the woods. Waiting.”

  Or it ran back to New Orleans to watch young women in their hotel rooms, Quinn thought.

  “I have to apologize,” Deerfield said. “Hayden has really studied the old case.”

  “It’s kind of like Jack the Ripper. You can’t help coming up with theories. And a lot of the locals do believe in the rougarou,” Beauchamp said.

  Deerfield shook his head. “I don’t believe in the rougarou or in witches, good or bad. I do believe that there was a killer before who was clever. And now we have a new one. Anyway, we’re glad for your help. We don’t want to fail again. Ready to head back in?”

  Quinn nodded and climbed back in the boat.

  They drifted away from the shoreline and the engine roared to life.

  “Stop,” Quinn shouted.

  “What?” Larue demanded, startled. “Quinn—”

  “You see something?” Deerfield asked, perplexed. “We looked all over last night and into the morning. They didn’t find—”

  “Over there. Bring the boat closer to shore again.” Quinn pointed. “There.”

  The others stared for a moment and he understood why. He wasn’t sure how he’d seen the body floating himself. The victim’s hair was as dark as the water beneath the shade of the trees, her clothing a mottled green.

  “Oh, no,” Beauchamp breathed.

  “Another victim,” Larue said, reaching over the hull of the police cruiser and turning the body.

  The left portion of her head and face were obliterated, her throat slashed to the bone.

  “Oh, my God,” Beauchamp whispered.

  * * * *

  Danni and David reached the tour company’s booking office on Chartres Street. David introduced their reservationist, a grave young woman with beautiful golden mahogany skin, big hazel eyes, and dark hair. Her name was Sandy Richardson. She attempted a smile for Danni.

  “I can guarantee you that whatever tour you take with us, you’ll be informed and entertained. We’re truly one of the best companies you’ll ever find.”

  “Danni is an old friend, Sandy,” David said.

  “Oh,” Sandy said. “In that case, I should tell you that people are furious. They don’t want you canceling the bayou night tour. One guy told me that he’d be out there with his shotgun, and no rougarou or swamp thing or any other creature would get his hands on anyone.”

  “Unfortunately, this kind of thing draws all the weekend warriors out,” David said wearily. “Did you say that we were closing the tour only temporarily?”

  “I did. Your weekend warrior wants to head out with a boat anyway,” Sandy said.

  “Best of luck to him,” David murmured. “Is Julian back in the office?”

  She followed David down a narrow hallway to a half open door. Julian Henri, a slim young man with a shock of dark hair and serious eyes, was seated at a desk, shoulders slumped as he stared at his computer.

  He looked up as they entered the room, his eyes flickering with recognition. “Danni Cafferty? You look great. How are you?”

  She smiled. “Good. Thanks, Julian. Glad to see you. Sorry about the circumstances.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Then he frowned, looking at David. “Oh, no. You went to Danni’s because of the rumors when we were young? That her father collected things that were haunted or evil. Danni, I’m so sorry.”

  “No problem, Julian, really,” she said. “I’m not sure what we can do, but—”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I’ve heard. You’re with Michael Quinn.”

  “You know Quinn?” Danni asked.

  “I know of him,” Julian said. “And it sounds good. I’m happy for you both. This thing with the tour is horrible and scary. There could be more. And you can’t believe the e-mails we’re getting. I’ll read you one of my favorites.” He tapped the keyboard on his desk. “‘You irresponsible asses. A few years up north and
you forget who you are and what you came from. Money hungry asses. You’ve awakened the rougarou. Death is on your hands. You’re murderers.’ Here’s another one, really concise. ‘Fuck you, monster men.’” He shook his head and looked up. “Do you believe this crap?”

  “Why not?” David asked wearily. “There are television shows dedicated to chasing the yeti or abominable snowman. People love legends more than the truth.”

  “And,” Danni said, “some people are just superstitious, and really stupid, cruel, rude, and horrible. It’ll go away when the police find the killer.”

  Julian looked up at her. He was about her age, still not thirty, but looked younger with thin dark hair and wide eyes. Usually quick to smile, today he looked as if he was simply beaten down.

  “They didn’t catch the guy when we were kids,” he said. “Could that same murderer have waited for twenty years to start over again? Or did we somehow really awaken the soul of Count D’Oro and let him run around as a rougarou again?”

  “Someone is obviously playing on legend,” Danni said. “Julian, did you see anything?”

  He shook his head with disgust. “I was just maneuvering through the swamp, like I’ve done most of my life. We had a good group on board. They listened, joked around, laughing. It was good. Then I heard the scream and saw the body.”

  “What about the young man you didn’t hire? David said that you don’t have any enemies, but that you didn’t hire a guy who was being a jerk.”

  “That guy? He didn’t seem smart enough to kill anyone. Maybe you don’t have to be smart. His name was—” He paused and hit a few keys on his computer again. “Jim Novak. Thirty-three. No college. But somehow graduated high school. He claimed that he’d been a tour guide in Savannah. I never tried to verify his résumé since I knew we weren’t hiring him.”

  “Address?” Danni asked.

  Julian drew a notepad toward him, checked the computer screen, and scribbled down the address. He handed the paper to her.

  “Can you think of anyone else who might not want you guys to make a success of this tour? Or anyone who might want to somehow use the two of you as scapegoats?”

  Julian looked at David. “What’s her face? The woman who owns that other tour company. Victoria—”

  “Miller,” David added.

  “She was ticked-off about us doing this tour,” Julian said.

  “I think she was madder because her boyfriend, that Gene Andre guy, thought it was a great idea. And then there’s the realtor, your dad’s old friend, Julian,” David said.

  “He wanted to buy the property with the docks,” Julian said. “Guess they’re pretty worthless now.”

  “What’s the guy’s name?” she asked. “There are lots of realtors around.”

  “Byron Grayson. Old, smart-looking dude,” Julian said. “Always in a gray suit.”

  “To be honest,” David said. “I can’t even imagine him in the swamp.”

  Danni nodded. “I’m going to head back and start doing some research. Here’s the thing, whoever killed that man knew the legends. I’ll see what I can find.”

  “I’ll walk back with you,” David said. “Julian, I’ll be back—”

  “I’m going home to my apartment, not out to any of the shacks by Honey Swamp,” Julian said. “I’m going to duck and cover for a while.”

  “We will figure this out,” Danni said,

  But what if they couldn’t? They were talking about the swamp.

  A great place to hide a million sins.

  She said good-bye to Julian and Sandy, then she and David walked the few blocks from the Legends office back to the Cheshire Cat. They came through the shop and spoke briefly with Billie and Bo Ray. They’d both seen the news and knew what was going on.

  Back in the kitchen with David, she drew out her laptop and began searching for all the information she could find about the rougarou, Honey Swamp, and the murders that had taken place there.

  “Julian’s family owns that property,” David said. “They’ve owned it since before the Civil War. If I understand it, they bought it from the parish after Count D’Oro met with vigilante justice. That’s why Julian is afraid people will blame this on him.”

  “David, the legend of the rougarou was around long before Count D’Oro,” Danni reminded him. “Julian can’t really believe that this is his fault in any way.”

  “But he does.”

  “He blames himself because you two are doing tours? Come on. Many companies do bayou tours.”

  She heard a key twist in the courtyard door that led straight into the kitchen and looked up to see Quinn enter. He walked in looking weary, his dark hair tousled, eyes grave. And he immediately noted David in the chair.

  Quinn had grown up in the Garden District. He was older than Danni and David by several years. He glanced at David, then at Danni, and she realized that they’d never met.

  “Quinn, this is David Fagin,” she said, rising.

  David rose to shake hands. “So you’re the ‘Mighty Quinn.’”

  “I am Quinn. Not sure about mighty.” He visibly relaxed with the handshake. “Does you being here have anything to do with the bodies in the bayou?”

  “Yes. Wait. Bodies? I only knew about the one,” David said.

  “Count is up to two,” Quinn replied. “We found a second victim, a young woman, this afternoon.”

  He was quiet a minute and then looked over at Danni.

  “Actually, I found her.”

  Chapter 3

  The basement wasn’t really a basement. The rest of the house was built up, allowing for a basement in an area that could flood. The first French fur trappers had chosen wisely when they had settled in the French Quarter. It was the highest ground around. Which wasn’t saying much since most of New Orleans was below sea level. The Cheshire Cat’s basement had been Danni’s father’s office, the place where he’d housed his private collection and The Book of Truth. Quinn knew that Danni had not known of the existence of the book until the day her father died. Angus had talked about the book, but Quinn himself hadn’t seen it until he and Danni had been forced to seek its guidance.

  Called The Book of Truth, it might have been better labeled The Book of Fantasy and Legend. It noted creatures from every culture and society, from vampires and werewolves to “fairy folk” and beyond. When, exactly, it had been written they didn’t know. It appeared to be medieval, coming from a time when the world was filled with superstition and feared darkness and the devil. But the book was also filled with curious bits of history that often helped. Like how to kill vampire, which they’d not as yet studied, though they had made use of other parts in curious ways.

  Quinn perched on Angus’s desk, glancing at the various objects that were piled here and there. Some Greek, Egyptian, medieval, and Victorian era pieces. Crates and boxes littered the room, some labeled DO NOT OPEN.

  Danni sat reading.

  David had gone, headed to his own apartment in the city to hide out. Danni had told Quinn everything David and Julian had said. Many people in New Orleans were transient, most had come to the city, fallen in love with it, and stayed. Others had been there forever and would never leave. It was possible that all the hate e-mails were just superstitious locals.

  “‘Rougarou,’” Danni read from one of the books. “‘French, cultural, regional, similar to other creatures born of evil, caught in the web of sin, sometimes, the sins of others. Eater of men’s souls. Silver does not slayeth this beast, only the cleansing of fire will lay it to rest.’”

  “That’s it?” Quinn asked.

  “That I can find,” she said. “Quinn, what about the murders twenty years ago? You probably remember more than I do.”

  “I remember that my parents wouldn’t let me anywhere near Honey Swamp. It was only young women who were killed, but it was as if a monster suddenly arose out of the earth. They never found a single clue as to who had murdered those women. The thing is, when you find a body in a swamp, even now, i
t’s hard to find any kind of evidence.”

  He paused, thinking.

  “David said that his name was written in the mud and the police didn’t see it. What if David imagined what was written? Maybe this has nothing to do with them. Then again, maybe it does. I say we check out the guy who applied for the job. Then, the realtor and the tour group lady.”

  “Jim Novak, Byron Grayson, and Victoria Miller. They mentioned her boyfriend or partner, too, a guy named Gene Andre. Andre apparently approved of their tour, which pissed off Victoria Miller. Quinn,” she asked, blue eyes wide and somber, “shouldn’t we be looking into the past? Or calling on Natasha, maybe.”

  “You want to suggest this has to do with voodoo?”

  “Certainly not. But Natasha has connections on the street, and she’ll remember the past better than we do.” She winced, looking at him sadly. “We could definitely get together with her and Father Ryan. At the very least, they’re older and both have excellent memories.”

  Quinn nodded. Father Ryan was a most unusual priest. Excellent at what was expected of him in his calling, capable of much more. He’d been there with Quinn’s parents when he’d flatlined. He’d been there when stranger things had happened and hadn’t even blinked. Maybe his faith allowed him to see beyond what others were willing to accept.

  Natasha Laroche—Mistress LaBelle—owned a voodoo shop just down the street. She was one of the most regal women Quinn had ever known. She sold the usual, gris-gris, statues, herbs, and all the customary voodoo paraphernalia, and read tealeaves, palms, tarot cards and more. But she was also a priestess with a devout following. She and Father Ryan, despite their passions to their own religions, seemed to have everything in common and worked exceptionally well together. Part of an odd assembly of strange crime fighters, and also great friends.

  “You go and see Natasha,” Quinn said. “I’ll check out this address and pick up Father Ryan.”

  He stood. Wolf, who had been sleeping at his feet, hopped up too.

  “You stay and watch over Danni,” Quinn told the dog.