The Reaper's Game: A Dominic Grey Novella (The Dominic Grey Series)

by Layton Green

  This is the place.

  Oak roots had warped the sidewalk like a reflection in a funhouse mirror. Grey pushed through the open gate, catching stares from a host of residents who looked even scruffier than the building. A stringy-haired woman in a tank top nursed her baby on the front stoop, another woman tried to corral a mangy dog and two toddlers, flinty-eyed men drank malt liquor in doorways and ashed cigarettes out of open windows. Grey could almost smell the meth cooking in the bathtubs.

  Moments after he walked through the gate, two men bounded down a central staircase and strode towards Grey with baseball bats pressed to their sides. One was built like a Viking and had a braided blond goatee. The other was bald and looked Hawaiian, with arms bigger than Grey’s thighs. Both men were heavily tattooed.

  Grey didn’t protest as they patted him down and hustled him up the staircase. They marched him down the left side of the sagging balcony and through the last door on the end. Each man held one of Grey’s arms as they stood him in front of their leader.

  “What dis,” Scarecrow said, “early trick or treat?”

  The crime boss was lounging on a sectional cloth sofa, one arm draped across a topless blond, the other holding an electric-green bong. Beside the blond was a russet-skinned woman with toned curves, long purple hair, and a black-widow tattoo on the back of her right hand. She was fully clothed and eying Grey like prey.

  Grey stared right back at her. “Nice seeing you again. How’s your friend—didn’t he hurt his throat?”

  The woman jerked to her feet, but Scarecrow eased her down. “You crazy, boy?” he said to Grey. “Or just stupid?”

  “No one’s ever accused me of being stupid.”

  On a coffee table in front of the sofa was a revolver, a cell phone, rolling papers, a bottle of Schlitz, and an overflowing ashtray. Scarecrow picked up the gun and spun the cylinder. “Problem with crazy, it get you killed.”

  “You might want to check the balcony before you shoot me.”

  “What the hell you say?”

  Grey cocked his head towards the door. Scarecrow rose, squinting as he walked outside. The next block over, just visible over a grove of sickly banana palms, was a sno-ball shop with a police cruiser parked out front. Next to the car, Detective Boudreaux waved a Styrofoam cup in greeting.

  Scarecrow stamped inside and shut the door. “Yeah, you right. Not stupid. Just unwise.”

  As Scarecrow returned to the couch, the two men holding Grey seemed unsure whether they should let him go. Grey helped them decide by back-heeling the squat Hawaiian in the groin, then twisting to snatch the hand of the man with the blond goatee. When the man pulled his hand back, Grey went with the momentum, turning the wrist over and then inverting it, flipping the man to the ground.

  The man howled in pain while Grey stood above him, cranking the wrist. Grey shoved his foot in his face, remembering that the thug who had tried to take Viktor was tall and had a blond goatee.

  “What, Boudreaux send you up here for his dirty work?” Scarecrow said. The gun was in his lap. “Do some Tai Chi and think you scare me?”

  “I came with a message of my own,” Grey said. “That coming after my partner again would be very unwise.”

  Scarecrow grinned. “Don’t know what you talking about, boy.”

  Grey knew he wouldn’t scare these people away. But he wanted to let them know he and Viktor were connected to the cops, make them think twice about coming after Viktor again. How far they were willing to go, he knew, depended on what they were after.

  There was another reason for Grey’s visit, and it was sitting on the coffee table right in front of him. A cockroach scuttled across the ashtray as Grey’s eyes swept the rest of the room. A wall AC unit buzzed in the corner, next to a moldy lace curtain covering the rear window. The filthy kitchen was behind the sofa, and to Grey’s right was a hallway.

  “Nice place you have here,” Grey said. “Cozy.”

  “You run across a warrant somewhere? If not you got five seconds to say your piece.”

  “Why would I have a warrant? I’m not a cop.” Grey made sure the statement was not an admission of weakness, but full of implication.

  “Then why make this your business?”

  “Why is it yours?” Grey asked.

  “You best worry about yourself. We done here.” Scarecrow whistled, and a moment later, another pair of men burst through the door, both of them tall and rangy and with sallow white skin. “Throw this pretty-face clown outside.”

  The men came for Grey. He released the goateed Viking and took a step back, straight into the Hawaiian. Grey turned and shoved him in the chest. A silly maneuver with an ulterior purpose. When the thick man rushed to grab him, Grey feigned as if he was falling, when in reality he was executing a version of a sacrifice throw, tugging on the bigger man just enough to bring him crashing down with Grey atop the coffee table.

  Scarecrow and the two women jumped away as the cheap wooden table splintered. The Hawaiian lurched to his feet, and all four thugs started kicking Grey on the ground. Grey curled into a ball to protect his vitals.

  Scarecrow whistled to stop the beating. Huffing as if he had run a marathon, the Hawaiian stood Grey up and punched him in the stomach. Grey grimaced but didn’t bend.

  Scarecrow flew to his feet and got in Grey’s face, nose to nose. His breath reeked of Menthol cigarettes. “Cop or no cop, I’m a kill you, boy. I’m a find you alone one night and flay you alive and feed you to dem gators.”

  As his men dragged Grey out the door, Grey turned and winked at the girl with purple hair. Her face went rigid.

  They shoved Grey out the front gate, and he walked rapidly to the sergeant’s car, relieved not to hear any shouting from behind.

  Detective Boudreaux took in Grey’s appearance with raised eyebrows. “They work you over?”

  “Not really.”

  The detective pursed his lips as he nodded. “You get it?”

  Grey slid into the passenger seat, took out the cell phone he had snatched off the coffee table, pulled out the memory card, and tossed it into the detective’s lap. A little payback for a swiped business card.

  Detective Boudreaux grinned and pulled away. Grey lowered the window and tossed the stripped phone into the street.

  – 13 –

  Later that evening, after a shrimp po’boy at Domilise’s and a long shower, Grey met Viktor at their hotel. They were staying at the Columns, a stately white mansion on St. Charles with a front porch big enough to throw a wedding on.

  He found Viktor in the lounge, surrounded by dark wood and soft leather chairs. Well-dressed patrons sipped amber cocktails while a jazz pianist played softly across the hall.

  “Rough day?” Viktor asked, taking in Grey’s bruised arms and black eye.

  Grey plopped into a chair facing the arched entryway and gave Viktor a rundown of his visit to Scarecrow’s place. “We found a few interesting numbers on his phone,” Grey said. “One was a call from West Feliciana Parish, a few hours after we left Angola.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Scarecrow also placed a call to the D.A.’s office, right after the call from Angola.”

  Viktor’s eyebrows lifted.

  “That was the detective’s reaction, too. He’s looking into it.”

  “Yet another party who had something to gain from the death of the former D.A.” Viktor said. “Does our detective have any theories?”

  “Not yet. But there’s something else: guess who was the only other person to visit Samuelson in prison, besides his mother and Sebastian Gichaud?”

  “Scarecrow Redbone.”

  “That’s right. He went at least twice in the month before the execution.”

  “Was he there during Sebastian’s visit?” Viktor asked sharply.

  “If so, there’s no record of it.”

  Viktor sank into his chair, absorbing the information. “And Genevieve? Did she inform Scarecrow of our visit?”

  “There were
no incoming calls last night.”

  “I don’t suppose we can request phone records from a stolen memory card?”

  “No.”

  Viktor’s hand absently stroked an untouched glass of Scotch. Grey realized he had ordered it to be polite. The code of old money. “There is clearly a conspiracy of some sort,” the professor said finally. “Everyone’s motive is clear—except for Sebastian’s. Why would he agree to take the fall? Hero worship? That is the vital question.”

  “Scarecrow knows what happened,” Grey said. “Bet on it.”

  “I think you’re right,” Viktor said mysteriously, “but only partly so.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We’ll know more after tonight. Come,” he said, rising to his feet. As they left the hotel, walking between eponymous white columns as thick as oak trunks, Viktor said, “Be warned that it could be another eventful night.”

  Grey felt the heft of a handgun in the back of his jeans, a nine-millimeter Beretta that Detective Boudreaux had authorized him to carry. “Understood.”

  Grey felt adrift in time as he drove down St. Charles with the windows cracked. He inhaled the sweet miasmic air, a canopy of branches hovering overhead like an arboreal cathedral, glimpses of spires and stone citadels in the golden glow of gas lamps. Ancient castles in modern repose.

  Viktor had rented a black Lincoln Navigator for Grey to drive. He wasn’t taking any more chances. They crossed the streetcar tracks and delved deeper into Uptown, towards the river. Turning left onto Magazine Street, Grey saw a mixture of swanky boutiques, seedy pubs, and double-gallery homes painted a variety of colors. The city green, shaggy, vibrant. Full of misfits and doe-eyed tourists and world-weary locals anchored to the fertile earth. The ubiquitous Halloween décor that added an eerie accent to it all.

  Remembering Viktor’s warning to be prepared, Grey’s eyes were in constant movement, especially as they turned off Magazine near Jackson. They were drawing closer to the river and entering a more dangerous part of the city.

  “It should be somewhere around here,” Grey said, remembering the description Genevieve had given. Behind the barbecue shack near Jackson and Annunciation.

  “Indeed,” Viktor said.

  “What’s Hoodoo, anyway?” Grey asked. “A form of Voodoo?”

  “There are similarities. Both are a stew of Christian, African, and Native American traditions. Unlike Voodoo, which originated in Haiti, Hoodoo arose in the Mississippi Delta.”

  “A religion of the South.”

  “Yes,” Viktor murmured distractedly, his focus elsewhere.

  “People take it seriously here?”

  “Very.”

  No barbecue restaurant had come up in Grey’s online search. He was beginning to think Genevieve had lied when he spotted a spiral of smoke drifting skyward. He swung right at the corner, right again, then trolled down a street that was literally a concrete jungle—vines and tropical foliage snaked out of every crack in the pavement, clung to each and every working-class cottage. Tired palms and banana trees dotted the yards, bougainvillea climbed the fences, the cloying smell of decaying vegetation saturated the air.

  Halfway down the street, next to a Catholic church with rose windows and a stippled brick façade, Grey noticed a parking lot with an old cast-iron smoker pumping gray fumes into the air. The parking lot belonged to a flat-roofed red shack with boarded up windows. A wooden sign on the door read Open.

  There was nothing but trees and undergrowth behind the shack. Grey circled the block. Opposite the shack was an abandoned, graffiti-covered housing project.

  Grey swung around again and parked next to the barbecue joint. When he left the car, he noticed a dirt footpath snaking through a thicket of foliage. He pointed it out to Viktor. “Wait here while I check it out?”

  “Better if I come.”

  Grey led the way with his hand on the nine-millimeter. The pathway spilled into a large yard illuminated by Tiki torches spaced along a high wooden fence enclosing the property. The late-season husks of fruit trees dotted the yard, along with potted herbs and small piles of carefully arranged sticks. Feathered Mardi Gras masks were nestled in the branches of the trees, as if watching for intruders. The stick piles and the vacant eye sockets of the masks unnerved Grey.

  Another shack, this one made of cement blocks topped by a corrugated iron roof, filled a corner of the yard. Sitting on the porch was an elderly black man wearing work pants rolled to his knees and a faded brown shirt, halfway unbuttoned. He was holding a walking stick and didn’t acknowledge their presence.

  A heavyset older woman wrapped in an ivory-white shawl stepped out of the house. Her brown skin was much lighter than the man’s. She had a somber round face, and her gray hair was cut close to the scalp. Could be anywhere between fifty and seventy-five, Grey thought.

  The woman looked right at them, but it was the man who spoke. “Who are you?”

  Both Grey and Viktor turned to the old man. He was still staring into the garden, seemingly oblivious to their presence.

  “I’m Viktor Radek, and this is my associate, Dominic Grey.” Viktor hesitated, then addressed the woman. “Auntie Bayou?”

  The old man spoke again. Grey noticed he was toothless. “Yes.”

  “We’re investigating a private matter in conjunction with the NOPD—nothing to do with you. Could we ask you a few questions?”

  Keeping her eyes on Viktor, the woman stepped forward and laid her hands on the old man’s shoulders. He spoke again, but the woman’s facial expressions changed as if she were the one having the conversation. “About working the root?”

  “About John Samuelson,” Viktor replied. “The Halloween Killer.”

  The old man remained expressionless. The woman frowned and shifted from foot to foot. Through the doorway, Grey glimpsed a cluttered interior lit by dozens of candles. He got a strong whiff of sandalwood.

  The woman fingered a wooden necklace draping her chest. A horseshoe token dangled at the end of it. The old man said, “What about him?”

  “Did he visit you?” Viktor asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Was he seeking help with the root? A ritual?”

  “He was.”

  Viktor’s voice simmered with intensity. “Did you give him one?”

  The woman flicked a wrist. Again the old man’s voice. “What he wanted, I don’t have to give.”

  “Soul transference isn’t something you’re familiar with?”

  The woman shrugged, and the old man said, “Inviting a spirit to possess you is one thing. A common thing. Putting your soul into another is . . . something else.” She tipped her head and shook it. “A bad thing.”

  A note of interest, almost eagerness, crept into the Professor’s voice. “Can it be done, in your opinion?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps. I will tell you what I told him—there is a man who deals in such matters.”

  Viktor started. “Who?”

  “The Druze.”

  “You don’t know his name?”

  “That is his name.”

  Viktor frowned. “I see. He’s here, in New Orleans?”

  “He was. Maybe still is.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  The old man put a seed into his mouth and began chewing, then shook his head.

  “Anything you can give me would be helpful,” Viktor said. “It might save a life.”

  The woman frowned again and closed her eyes. Grey’s gaze roved the yard and then the top of the wall, scouting for trouble. The only thing visible was the smoke from the barbecue joint, the cross atop the church, and the rear of the abandoned housing project. From this angle, the partly-demolished ghetto looked eaten from within.

  As soon as the woman’s eyes opened, the man spoke again. “He still lives in New Orleans. Alone. That is all I can hear.”

  Hear, Grey thought?

  “Thank you,” Viktor murmured, with a hint of irritation. “Can I pay you for your time?”


  “No.”

  As the professor turned to leave, the old man said, “You should be careful.”

  “Sorry?” Viktor said.

  Auntie Bayou fingered the horseshoe talisman as her companion mouthed the words. “He’s still in this world. John Samuelson. I don’t know where, but I can feel it. The dirty energy.”

  Viktor motioned to Grey to start walking.

  “He’s powerful. And he’s not finished.”

  Grey followed behind Viktor, keeping an eye on the shack and the pockets of darkness behind the trees. Out of the corner of his eye, Grey saw the woman watching them leave.

  “Just because you’re not a believer,” the old man called out in the same dispassionate voice, “doesn’t make it less real.”

  Grey raised his gun as they traversed the narrow footpath, wary of a surprise at the other end, forcing himself to concentrate on his job and forget about the eerie Hoodoo couple.

  Holding Viktor back with his free hand, Grey stepped into the parking lot of the barbecue shack, swiveling with the raised gun as he scanned the street.

  There was no one in sight.

  “What now?” Grey asked, relieved but still cautious.

  Viktor strode towards the Lincoln, his face unreadable. “We find the Druze.”

  – 14 –

  Grey and Viktor left the vegetation-clogged warrens of Uptown and delved into the French Quarter. Legions of revelers swarmed the streets, dressed to the nines for Halloween, buzzing with nocturnal energy.

  “When she mentioned the Druze,” Grey said, navigating the Lincoln through the crowded streets as Viktor guided him towards their destination, “you looked as if you knew him.”

  “Druze isn’t a name, it’s a religion. One with which I’m familiar.”

  “Are there any you’re not familiar with?”

  Viktor pointed left, down Conti Street. “Granted.”

  “What kind of religion? A creepy one?”

  Viktor chuckled. “Druzism is an Abrahamic religion, just like Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Granted, very few communities of Druze remain, and they’re quite secretive.”

  “So what’s the connection to our killer?”