I await with much anticipation to witnessing your attempts to stop me.
Yours, from the Pit.
* * *
The letter felt greasy in Miles's fingers. He set it down on the end table where he'd found it and wiped his fingers on his trousers.
Violet sat on the sofa opposite him, hands crossed on her lap. Tears brimmed in her eyes and her lower lip trembled. She said, "He knows who you are."
"Yes."
"How?"
"I don't know. But it doesn't matter. I know who he is as well. And I know who he intends to go after."
"Fine," Violet said. "Then call the police. Tell them. Let them stop him."
Miles shook his head. "I made a deal with Matranga to leave the police out of it."
Violet said, with some bitterness, "You're making deals with gangsters now? There was a time, Gideon, when you never would have done something like that."
Miles clenched his jaw. "The world has changed, Violet. I play it the way I promised, and Matranga stays out of Storyville."
"Then call your gangster friends and let them deal with it!"
Miles stood up, his anger flaring. "Damnit, Violet, you're not being reasonable!"
Violet stood up as well to face him, her nose inches from his. "No, Gideon, you're not being reasonable. This man almost killed you! I know you're a strong and capable man, but you're 67 years old! You can't get around that. In your heart you're as strong as ever, but ... you're human, Gideon. You're the best man I've ever known, but you're a man. Just a man. And you don't have the sense to be scared."
Tears rolled down her face, and Miles felt a deep stab of guilt for causing her pain. She deserved better.
In a softer voice, he said, "Vi, baby ... you're wrong. I am scared. If I wasn't before, I am now. I promise you, I have no interest in dying just yet, and earlier tonight ... I thought for sure I was a goner. Yes, it scared me. It terrified me, but mostly because I never felt that ... helpless before."
"Gideon—"
"And that's why I have to finish this. I wish there was some way I could make you understand."
He gave her his handkerchief and she dabbed at her eyes. "I do understand, Gideon. I always have. But, you know, that never made it any easier."
He took her chin in his hand, looked her in the eyes, and thought that, after all these long, long years, she was still the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.
"I'm sorry, Vi."
She said, "This isn't the Wild West, Gideon. And you don't have anything to prove anymore."
"I know that. I'm not trying to prove anything."
"Yes, you are. You're trying to prove something to yourself."
He started to deny the accusation, but stopped. It was uncomfortably close to the truth.
"Listen," he said. "I'll have Little Cat with me. And I'll be armed. I may not be as agile as I used to be, but I'm still damn good with a revolver."
She cocked an eyebrow at him. "When, exactly, was the last time you fired that Colt?"
He cleared his throat. "Not that long ago."
"I think it's been years."
"No, he said. "Not that long."
"Did you even shoot a gun when we were in France?"
He said, "Woman, you really are a big, old pain in my neck."
She smiled feebly. "Until the day we both die, husband."
He took her in his arms and held her for a long time.
-Twelve-
Violet stayed close to him all day Saturday. They went out for a walk after lunch, but otherwise stayed in their living quarters, reading and talking. They didn't discuss what Miles would do that evening.
Mid-morning, he placed a telephone call to New York, and by early afternoon the operator rang back with the call. He talked with the party for a few minutes, asking some very specific questions, then rang off.
When it started getting dark, Miles put on a good suit, strapped on his old holster, slid the Colt into it. He put on a light overcoat that hid the rig from casual sight. Violet didn't cry or get angry. She kissed him and said, "Be safe."
Miles and Little Cat hired an auto and drove down to the District.
* * *
The clientele at Miss Tilly's place was exclusively white and didn't respond well to seeing two Negroes walk in. Miles found that the older he got, the more perverse pleasure he took from upsetting bigots. He wasn't proud of that, but he wasn't particularly ashamed, either.
Miss Tilly greeted them hurriedly, looking nervous. "Mr. Miles, Mr. Borre ... what on Earth brings you here this time of night?"
Miles said, "Is Celissa working?"
"Well, no," Miss Tilly said. "After all, you advised ... that is to say ..." Her wide face ran through a variety of shades of red. She looked over her shoulder at the clients lounging in the parlor, drinking whiskey, playing billiards, chatting up the scantily-clad whores. More than a few of them were distracted now, glaring at the colored interlopers on their debauchery.
"Is she in her room?"
"Yes. But, as I say, she's not working until ... I mean ..." She lowered her voice to an embarrassed whisper. "The doctor said it would take a couple of days until he knows if—"
"That's fine," Miles said. "Take us up there."
"But—"
Little Cat said, "Don't argue with the man, lady."
It was uncharacteristically rough for Cat, and Miss Tilly and Miles both looked at him. "What?" Cat said. "It's what you call an urgent situation, right?"
Miss Tilly laughed a shrill, false laugh and said, very loudly, "The problem is right upstairs, gentlemen, thank you for coming by so quickly," and proceeded to lead them to the second floor.
The upstairs was less ornate than downstairs, just a dim floor lamp placed at the long hall's halfway point. All the doors were closed. Behind some of them, jazz played, or waltzes, or old European ballads. And behind almost all of them, bedsprings creaked and men grunted and bottles clinked against glasses.
Miles found it all horribly depressing.
He took Miss Tilly by her upper arm and spoke in a low, urgent tone as they walked. "You need to listen to me very closely, and keep your head. Our Axeman intends to strike tonight. Here. And his target is Celissa."
"Celissa? But, why—"
"Why is of no import right now. What matters is that you follow my instructions without fail. When he shows tonight, he'll ask for her, and you'll take him to her."
Miss Tilly tried to stop walking, but Miles dragged her along. She stuttered, "My Lord, Mr. Miles, I can't just—"
"You can and you will. Little Cat and I will be waiting for him. This ends tonight."
"But what—"
"You'll bring him right to Celissa's room, and then you'll telephone Matranga and tell him to come right away. You do know how to contact him, yes?"
Miss Tilly nodded dumbly. She said, "This ... this is madness."
Cat said, "Ma'am, you don't know the half of it. This fella is big."
Miles patted the Colt in its holster. "Nothing to worry about," he said. "I have an equalizer."
He only wished he felt as confident as he sounded.
* * *
Celissa was not pleased at being disturbed from her sleep. She lifted her head from the pillow, scowling, and snapped, "Why are you here? You promised I'd be left alone! Go away!"
Miss Tilly said, "Celissa, we—"
"Don't talk! Please, don't speak, I can't stand the noise, it's killing me!"
She broke off into sobs, burying her face in the pillow.
Miles said, "Miss Tilly. Get her to another room."
Miss Tilly tried to ease the girl up. "Don't touch me!" Celissa wailed into the pillow, swatting blindly at the madam.
Miles frowned. "Fine," he said. "Little Cat and I will do it."
The girl started screaming, clutching her skull and rolling back and forth on the bed. Cat said, "Oh, Lordy. I haven't had to wrassle a screaming woman in ... well, days."
It took ten minutes for the th
ree of them to get Celissa to Miss Tilly's room. Celissa kicked and screamed and wailed the whole way, and Miles realized the girl was much farther gone than he would have guessed. Her condition had deteriorated dramatically in only a few days. Even with treatment, he suspected Celissa wasn't long for this world.
They dumped her on Miss Tilly's bed, where she went limp and sobbed pitiably. Cat wiped his brow and Miss Tilly wrung her hands, "She's gotten worse, just since this afternoon," she said. "Oh, the poor thing."
Coldly, Miles said, "It's a shame you weren't more diligent. And who knows how many she's infected?"
"I'll have you know—"
"Save it. You see yourself as the protector of these girls, don't you? Well, I reckon you've done a poor job of it."
Miss Tilly looked at Miles, and then Celissa, before casting her gaze to the floor. There were tears in her eyes.
"If I'd known," she said.
"If you'd known, you'd have taken her off the line and replaced her with someone else, right? That's how commerce works, doesn't it? But you didn't. I'll tell you something, Miss Tilly. From a certain perspective, you're the one responsible for the Axeman."
She shook her head. "I don't see how that's possible."
"You don't yet, but you will. Now head back downstairs. Cat and I will be in Celissa's room. Do I need to instruct you again on what to do?"
Miss Tilly wiped her eyes and shook her head.
"Good. Now go."
* * *
Miles sat in the ragged armchair and Cat paced back and forth, twirling Miles's cane. Miles watched him, admiring the kid's energy but also worried that he was too high-strung for the job ahead.
"Cat," he said. "Calm yourself. Sit down."
"Sit down? I'm sorry, Mr. Miles, but I don't think I can do that. I have a little nervous energy on account of us being about to face a crazy, axe-wielding killer and all."
"We'll be fine."
"That's easy for you to say, sir. Not all of us are big, bad U.S. Marshals from the wild, wooly West. Us normal folks get a trifle bit anxious in situations like this."
"We'll have the drop on him, Cat, and I am armed."
"I tell you what, then. Why don't you let me have the gun? That would make me feel a lot better, sir."
Miles said, "You ever fired a gun before? Have you even had one in your hand?"
"Well ... no. But how hard could it be?"
"Cat, if I gave you the Colt, you'd be more likely to accidentally shoot me than Manta. And besides, I'm a feeble old man, right? I need protection."
"I don't know about all that 'feeble' business. You got a few good licks in on that beast. And I'm pretty sure you could still whup most any fella you aimed to. Why—"
"Cat. You aren't getting the gun."
Cat pouted, jammed his hands in his pockets, and paced some more.
* * *
The minutes stretched, the uneasy humor had disappeared. Miles sat stoically in the armchair and Cat had perched on the edge of the bed. They hadn't spoken for several minutes, only sat listening to the muted noise from outside and the less-muted noise from the adjoining rooms.
Gideon Miles knew how to wait with a focused mind. He'd lost count of how many rooms he'd waited in over the years, waited for fugitives from the law. He didn't daydream or get sleepy. All of his senses were tuned to his environment; he catalogued them all, noted small shifts in them, and waited.
Little Cat, on the other hand, wasn't used to waiting. He tapped his foot on the floor, tapped his fingers on his thigh, dreaded the coming encounter. He grew sleepy, then not sleepy. He thought about how fine some of Miss Tilly's whores looked. Then a sudden surge of terror would grip him as he remembered again why they were there.
When they heard Miss Tilly in the hallway, Little Cat jumped to his feet and Miles stood up slowly, pulling the Colt. Miss Tilly was talking, loudly, saying, "I'm sure Celissa is going to be happy you asked for her. You are a big, strapping lad, aren't you?"
There was an edge to her voice, and Miles hoped the killer didn't notice. He motioned for Cat to move behind the big pine bureau before positioning himself behind the door.
The knob rattled and Miss Tilly said, "Go right on in, handsome."
In the limited confines of Celissa's room, Jimmy Manta seemed even larger than he'd been at the VioMiles. About six-four, Miles put him, and somewhere around 270 pounds. He wore a coat too heavy for the weather and a battered slouch hat. He strode right into the middle of the room before noticing the bed was empty and stopped.
Miles slammed the door shut with his boot and said, "Jimmy Manta. Put your hands up."
-Thirteen-
Jimmy stared at the bed and smiled. Very slowly, he lifted his arms. Miles could see the outline of the axe under Jimmy's coat, nestled at his spine. It would be impossible for the killer to reach his weapon before catching a bullet in the gut.
Cat came out from behind the bureau, brandishing Miles's sturdy cane. To his credit, Miles thought he gave the appearance of fearlessness. And appearance was half the game.
Hands raised, Jimmy turned around to face Miles. "I didn't think you had it in you," he said. "I honestly thought you'd never be here."
"Sit down on the bed, Jimmy."
"Will you shoot me if I don't, Mr. Miles?"
"Yes."
Jimmy nodded. "I believe you would, sir. I really do. But it doesn't matter. I can't be killed. I am a Dark Spirit, Mr. Miles."
Miles said, "You're just a kid whose brain is rotting from syphilis."
"That's wrong. Did Mr. Carletti tell you that lie? He doesn't really know me. I am immortal. I am the Axeman."
Miles sighed. "No, Jimmy. You're a sick boy who killed a handful of defenseless girls. That doesn't make you the Axeman."
Jimmy snarled, "Those whores felt the kiss of steel from my axe. They had it coming. And only I could destroy them. You don't know any more than Mr. Carletti."
"You weren't even in New Orleans for almost half of the Axeman's murders. You'd lit out for New York by then, trying to find a daddy who'd abandoned you. But you were always fascinated by the Axeman, weren't you?"
Jimmy started to lower his hands. "I am a demon from your worst nightmares! I—"
"You're a killer, but you're not the same Axeman who terrorized this city before. You're a footnote. I don't know. Maybe you admired the real Axeman. Maybe you wished you had the freedom he had, or something. Or maybe it was just because he liked jazz music as much as you do."
"Shut up!"
"But you ain't him."
"I am! I am Darkness!"
"No. You slept with the wrong girl, got a dose, and went mad. You killed those poor girls because they looked like Celissa. You were rehearsing her murder."
"To Hell with you!"
Jimmy started to tear his coat off.
Miles thumbed back the hammer on the Colt. "I will shoot you, Jimmy."
Jimmy Manta threw the coat on the floor, started to reach for the axe tucked at the small of his back.
"Last chance, Jimmy," Miles said.
"You can't kill me!"
The axe was in his hands and he whirled on Cat, roaring. Cat looked startled that he'd become the center of attention.
Miles fired his gun, nailing Jimmy in the back.
The killer staggered forward a step, his roar stunted to a grunt. Cat brought the cane down hard on Jimmy's head, which the killer barely seemed to notice.
Still clutching the axe, Jimmy pivoted on stiffened legs, stunned eyes looking for Miles.
"Put it down," Miles said. It's not too—"
Jimmy's mouth twisted and he hoisted up the axe and lunged toward Miles faster than the former lawman would have thought possible. With the axe arcing toward his skull, Miles squeezed the Peacemaker's trigger again before pitching his head and shoulders to the right. The bullet grazed Jimmy's left shoulder and Miles felt the cold breath of steel sing past his cheek as the axe burrowed into the door.
Jimmy wailed in pain and frus
tration. Miles brought the Colt around for another shot but the killer was too close, looming huge in front of him.
"I'll kill you!" Jimmy screeched. He slammed his body into Miles, pinning the older man to the door. Miles felt his lungs expel air and tiny spots began to dance in his field of vision. While the killer tugged and pulled on the axe, trying to dislodge it from the door, Miles passed the Colt into his left hand and then flicked his right wrist, discharging the thin-bladed knife that had been sheathed along his forearm.
Jimmy freed the axe, stumbling back from the sudden release.
Miles slashed with the knife almost blindly. A deep, red furrow appeared just above Jimmy's eyes, and the killer screeched again, and his free hand clutched his face.
From behind, Cat swooped in and smashed a table lamp on Jimmy's head. Jimmy dropped to one knee but he immediately started to push himself back up using the axe for support, blood streaming down his face.
"Jimmy! Stop, Goddamn it!" Miles said.
"I'll kill you all," Jimmy slurred. "I'll kill ... I'll kill every human on earth ..."
Cursing again, Miles aimed the Colt center of mass and fired just as Jimmy surged to his feet.
Time ground to a standstill: Cat holding the lamp at the ready, Miles with the still-smoking Colt leveled, and Jimmy motionless and struck dumb. In the wake of the gunshots that had echoed through the small room, Miles couldn't hear anything except his own pounding heart.
Jimmy looked down at the blood spreading across his torso. The axe slipped out of his grasp and thudded on the floor. He looked back up at Miles with a question in his bloody eyes.
"I can't ... I can't die," he said.
Miles said nothing, but kept the Colt pointed at him.
Jimmy fell to his knees, then his hands. His breathing was rasping and harsh. He coughed up a gob of bright blood.
"I'm the Axeman," he moaned.
Miles holstered the gun, and Jimmy Manta fell on his face and didn't move.
* * *
Matranga showed up ten minutes later, with Antonio and two fresh goons in tow. Miles had checked Jimmy, found the killer was still alive—his breathing was shallow and his pulse weak, but the diseased boy clung to life.
The Axeman of Storyville Page 6
