by Jana DeLeon
“You. Lady.”
Shaye looked in the direction of the voice and saw the other woman from the shop beckoning to her from an alley in between two buildings. She unlocked her vehicle, just in case she needed to get into it quickly, and headed up the sidewalk to where the woman had disappeared. The space between the buildings was maybe five feet wide, and the woman stood several feet back from the sidewalk.
“Get in here,” the woman said. “She goes outside to smoke. I don’t want her to see me talking to you.”
The last thing Shaye wanted to do was enter the narrow, dim space but what if the woman had information for her? She glanced up and down the street but didn’t see anyone lurking around who could help corner her in the space, so she stepped into the alley.
“I heard what you told Mama—that a lady was attacked.”
Shaye nodded. “A nurse. A good woman. I’m trying to help her by finding the man who did it.”
“You showed Mama two pictures. Can I see them?”
Shaye pulled out her phone and showed the woman the pentagram. She leaned forward, concentrating on the image, her brow screwed up in concentration. “What about the other?” she asked.
Shaye slid the image over to the goat mask and turned the phone back around. The woman gasped and her hand flew over her mouth. Her eyes were wide as she stared at the image.
“Do you know this?” Shaye asked.
The woman nodded. “My grandfather made it. When he passed, my grandmother locked it away.”
“Then how did this man get it?”
“Mama took everything out of the attic when my grandmother died. She sold it all, including the mask. I tried to talk her out of it, but grandmother’s hospital bills were high and the house wasn’t worth enough to cover them.”
The woman looked behind her, then back at Shaye. “Mama don’t believe in things, even though she claims to for the customers.”
“But you do?”
The woman nodded. “I seen things—things that you can’t explain—and I’ve felt the presence of evil.” She pointed at the phone. “That mask is strong evil. Ain’t nothing good ever come from wearing it and nothing ever will.”
Despite the heat and humidity, Shaye felt a chill run through her. The woman’s fear was so apparent that it seemed to fill the air surrounding them.
“Do you know who bought the mask?”
The woman nodded. “One of them Derameau bastards.”
Shaye’s excitement grew. “His last name was Derameau?”
“No. He was one of Derameau’s bastard kids. There’s a whole lot of them that claim it. Never heard of him to have a wife, but if you believed the stories, he had women with babies all over the French Quarter. The man who bought the mask claimed he was one of those babies. Said his father had given up the old ways, but he was going to do things right.”
“Do you know Derameau’s first name?”
“No one did.” The woman shook her head. “You don’t understand. I never believed he was a real person. I thought it was a story unwed women gave their children when they got old enough to ask about their fathers. I ain’t ever heard of anyone who’s seen Derameau. He’s a folk tale.”
Shaye’s excitement waned. “You don’t know anything else about the man who bought the mask? Anything that might help me find him?”
“Only saw him the one time.”
“I have a friend, an artist. Could you describe him well enough for my friend to draw him?”
The woman took a step back. “I don’t want to be involved. That was sixteen years ago and my memory ain’t what it used to be. I did my best to forget the man, and the mask. I suggest you and your friend do the same.”
Shaye struggled to control her disappointment, reminding herself that she couldn’t be certain that the man who bought the mask was her captor. He might have sold the mask later on or died or given it away. Still, if she could locate him, it would be a starting point.
“Wait, at least tell me what he looked like,” Shaye said.
“He was black, accent was Creole. Around twenty years old. Over six feet tall and fit. He was an average-looking guy, except for the eyes.” She crossed her arms across her chest. “Had dead eyes. Like a doll. I don’t ever want to see something like that again. You and your friend take care.” The woman whirled around and hurried off.
The breath Shaye hadn’t even realized she was holding came out in a whoosh. It was him. Her abuser. The man with the dead eyes.
She left the alley and hurried back to her car, taking a second to text Jackson that she was leaving. As she pulled away from the curb, the name Derameau kept running through her mind. What if he wasn’t a folk tale? If this Derameau existed then she might be able to find the man through someone who knew him, maybe one of his other kids.
If the stories were true.
If Derameau wasn’t a folk tale.
If the man who bought the goat mask wasn’t lying about his parentage.
She clutched the steering wheel and headed for her apartment. That was a whole bunch of ifs, but she had a feeling about it—dread coupled with excitement. Something told her she was on the right trail. And she planned on hiking it until the bitter end.
Jackson’s computer signaled that it had finished running the search he’d requested on the pentagram and he accessed the results. No matches found. He wasn’t really surprised. If there was another case involving the brand, the traitor inside the police force would have removed it from evidence as well.
His cell phone buzzed and he grabbed it and checked the display, then let out a breath of relief when he saw Shaye’s message. If there had been any way he could have prevented her from going out on her own, he would have, but he knew better than to even suggest it. She was being careful and following all the protocols they’d agreed on. Short of being with her, there wasn’t anything else he could do to protect her. And he had no ability to pursue an alternate investigative angle without telling Grayson what he was doing. Until he figured out who the mole was, then Grayson had to be kept in the dark just like everyone else.
Jackson looked down at the list he’d compiled. Sixteen people currently working in the department who were also employed when Shaye was found, or hired the year following. Only sixteen people who would have had access to the files in the time frame the information would have been removed. Of the sixteen, only Grayson, Elliot, and Bernard were employed in the right time frame and also had access to all information on the Clancy files. One of them or Frank had fed information to Bob, the desk sergeant, who’d fed it to Harold. Was that it? Those four men?
And Vincent.
Jackson rubbed his chin, trying to figure out where and how Vincent figured into things. He was there when Shaye was found and would have had access to the files. He was working the Clancy files now, but his access was supposed to be limited. Still, if he got wind that something on the case involved Shaye, Jackson wouldn’t put it past him to do some digging. Even if he wasn’t the mole, he hated Shaye so much he’d probably seize any opportunity to get back at her for taking him down with Bernard.
But if Vincent had found something out and wasn’t the mole, Jackson had no doubt Shaye would be headline news again. So either he was as lazy and uninterested as everyone thought or he was the mole and he was keeping quiet. Jackson added Vincent’s name to the list. He couldn’t afford to dismiss the man simply because he was unmotivated. It didn’t take much energy to pick up a phone and make a call.
Five names.
Assuming no one else working the Clancy files had shared information with someone other than Bob. And assuming Bob hadn’t shared the information with anyone but Harold.
Don’t overcomplicate things.
He picked up the paper and folded it in half. These five were a good start. A start of what, he had no idea. How in the world was he supposed to figure out if one of them was the mole? These weren’t ordinary men. They were men with decades of experience in how to cover their tracks. Any one o
f them was capable of hiding something for a decade.
The question was, which one was capable of this level of evil?
“You make all your calls?” Grayson’s voice sounded behind him and Jackson shoved the folded paper under his keyboard before turning around.
“Yeah,” Jackson said. “The two other nurses assigned to Shaye in the ER both moved away years ago. One married and the other divorced, so both names changed. I don’t think it would be easy to find either one, but I made them aware of the situation and suggested they be extra cautious. I told them I’d call when I had more information.”
“What about the paramedics?”
“One died two years ago of a heart attack. The other guy dropped off the map. The best I could run down was from an old coworker who said he had a sex change and left town for LA several years ago.”
Grayson stared. “Seriously?”
“That’s what he said. Anyway, I ran the guy through every database we’ve got. He’s a ghost. No driver’s license, no tax returns, no income on his Social. If I can’t find him, I don’t know how anyone else would. What about you?”
“The X-ray tech is still local, but she was at the airport, leaving for a two-week vacation in Italy. I filled her in but I figure she’s pretty safe, at least for two weeks. The admitting nurse retired right after Shaye’s stay and is in an assisted living center in Idaho, where her daughter lives. According to the daughter, her memory is completely gone and she’s not much longer for this world.”
“So no threat.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
“What about the cops?”
Grayson’s expression shifted from normal to slightly disgusted. “I ran down Peters in Mexico. He was three sheets to the wind even though it’s not even noon. I told him what we had going on, but he blew me off. Said he was done with police work and don’t call him again with bullshit. If goat man finds Peters, he might be doing Mexico a favor.”
Jackson nodded. Harold’s opinion of Peters had ranked right up there with Grayson’s assessment. “What about Beaumont?”
Jackson knew Harold was safely ensconced in the Ritz-Carlton, but he had to pretend Harold was no different from any other person on the list.
“Couldn’t get a hold of him,” Grayson said. “HR has him at an address in Florida. No phone number listed and directory assistance doesn’t have one for that address. I called the local PD and asked someone to do a drive-by for me and give Beaumont a message to call, but he wasn’t home. They said newspapers were in his yard, the oldest Sunday’s.”
Jackson straightened in his chair, feigning concern. “Did they check the house?”
Grayson nodded. “I gave them a scaled-down explanation of the problem and they forced a window open, but the house is clear. No sign of a struggle. Kitchen light and a radio on, but that was it.”
“Maybe he’s out of town. Left the light and radio on to fool potential thieves but forgot to stop the newspaper.”
“Maybe. Anyway, the locals promised to check back periodically and get Beaumont in touch with us as soon as they located him.”
“So that’s it,” Jackson said. “Everyone is either dead, in the hospital, out of reach, or warned.”
“Looks like. I talked to Reynolds a couple minutes ago. He sent a sketch artist to work with Ms. Mandeville.” Grayson opened a folder he’d had tucked under his arm, pulled out a sheet of paper, and passed it to Jackson. “Check that shit out.”
Jackson had seen the mask in 3-D and full color, but the sketch was just as disturbing. Clara had done an excellent job describing it and the artist had captured the malevolent feel of it perfectly, especially the eyes.
Jackson shook his head. “I can’t imagine keeping my cool long enough to get away if I was staring at that. Ms. Mandeville is one tough broad.”
Grayson took the sketch back and grimaced as he looked down at it. “What have we stepped in the middle of, Lamotte?”
“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out.”
20
French Quarter, 1985
He sat in his office, waiting for the clock to strike midnight, as he’d done so many times before. Every time the Haitian had come, he’d been forced to pay. And he’d paid dearly. Over two million dollars in almost three decades. He’d been young and foolish when he’d made that first payment. If he’d been older and wiser, he would have refused and told the Haitian to try his theory with the police. But his wife was the one thing that still made him think twice.
He had no doubt that the Haitian would have killed her, if for no other reason than to make him suffer for not living up to his word. But that first payment had been his undoing. That payment gave the Haitian proof that he was hiding something. If something would have happened to his wife after that first payment, then the Haitian could have gone to the police and shown them withdrawals from his bank account and deposits to the Haitian’s that matched up.
Then they might have listened.
After all, why pay someone an enormous sum of money for no reason? So he’d paid and he’d kept paying, year after year. It had crossed his mind once before to track the Haitian down where he lived and kill him. End this for good. But the Haitian was a step ahead of him—the Haitian informed him that if he was murdered, he’d left documents with his attorneys that would be turned over to the police.
So instead of an end, he got yet another worry—that the Haitian would do something that prompted his murder and he would be caught in the cross fire. But months passed, then years, then decades, and the Haitian still turned up a couple times a year for payment. If the Haitian had invested wisely, he should be very well off. His clothes, watch, and car suggested that he didn’t need the money. But money had never been about need. Not for certain types of people.
Unfortunately, money was getting to be a scarce commodity even for him. Orders had been decreasing steadily, longtime customers favoring cheaper Chinese-made goods over a proven product. He’d already sold some of his real estate holdings to help with cash flow until he could figure out what direction to take the operation. Clearly, the old business model was no longer a viable one. If the Haitian demanded too much, he might have to sell off more real estate in order to make the payment.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside his office just as the clock was about to strike midnight. Seconds later, the door opened and the Haitian stepped in.
The Haitian stared at him until he looked away. He couldn’t take the cold gaze of those blue eyes—his father’s eyes. He’d guessed the truth when he was fifteen, but even if he hadn’t, the Haitian made sure he knew. Made sure he understood that the Haitian wasn’t extorting money from him. He was only taking what he was due. His inheritance. The Haitian always laughed when he used the word.
“How much?” he asked as the Haitian sat down. He didn’t want to spend any more time in the man’s presence than necessary. The Haitian took far too much pleasure in his discomfort.
“I’ve not come for money this time,” the Haitian said. “I’ve come to insure my future.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve paid everything you’ve asked.”
“Yes, but my people live long lives. Much longer than a stressed white man with a guilty conscience. I had to ensure that my lifestyle wouldn’t change if you were to meet with unfortunate circumstances.”
The Haitian pulled some photos out of his pocket and slid them across the desk. He hesitated before reaching for them, already knowing that whatever they contained was going to be bad. He lifted the photos, looked at the first one, and gasped.
“No!” He flipped through the pictures, each one more devastating than the next.
“I believe,” the Haitian said, “that your son has embarked on his own career path. I wonder what his employer would think if they knew he was a devil worshipper. So much talk. So much fear of such things these days.”
He threw the photos back at the Haitian. “Photos can be manipulated. This proves nothing.”
The Haitian smiled. “Of course, but video…so much harder to alter. Your son was such an easy target, celebrating his birthday in the French Quarter, drinking until he no longer remembered who he was or what he was doing. I thought I would have to drug him, but he did all the work for me.”
He felt the blood drain from his face and his stomach rolled. “The girl on the altar?”
“A poor confused soul,” the Haitian said, “who believed the ceremony would give her special powers.”
“What did you make him do?”
“He was too drunk to do anything but exist there, but the footage of him holding a knife above her would be enough to convince the police that he was responsible for the cuts on her body. And if that isn’t enough, there’s the brand. Oh, your son didn’t administer it, but he was holding the poker. His fingerprints are on both.”
The man’s stomach rolled. “So the girl is…?”
“Dead? Yes. The same poison used to kill your father. The police will find her body in the next day or so. As long as your son understands his responsibility, the police will never see the footage or the photos.”
He clutched the armrests of his chair, desperate for a solution that didn’t involve telling his son this horrible story. That didn’t involve obligating him to this life of constant fear. “I’ll give you anything. Name your price. Just don’t involve him.”
“My price is your son’s acceptance of your promise. There is no other option.” The Haitian rose. “I’ll be back in a week to ensure you’ve done what you needed to do. Unless you’d prefer to wait until your death and let me tell your son what you did.”
He managed to control his rage only long enough for the Haitian to leave the building, then he launched from his chair, yelling and throwing anything he could get his hands on. When his energy was finally spent, he sank onto his knees in the middle of the floor and began to weep.
“What have I done?”
