The Axeman’s Jazz

by Ray Celestin

  Thirty seconds later, rain, wind and noise rushed into the room as the table smashed its way through the window, arced through the interior and landed on the bed, before bouncing into the air again and crashing against the far wall. The younger man swung his Colt towards the backyard and began letting off shots. As he fired he approached the window, and when he was almost level with it, a shot from the darkness outside exploded into the side of his face. He stumbled, tried to right himself, then fell forwards, collapsing onto the shards of glass pointing upwards from the bottom of the broken pane, skewering himself through his gut.

  As the man lay dying, Carolla turned and scrabbled to get the bedroom door open. Michael stepped in front of the window.

  ‘Freeze!’ he shouted over the sound of the storm. Carolla stopped, and turned back around, raising his arms slowly into the air. The two men stared at each other through the jagged, broken windowpane. Carolla looked pale in the room’s electric light. The bulb hanging from the ceiling was directly above him, shining straight onto his face, casting the hollows of his eyes into cave-like shadows, giving his face the appearance of a death mask. Michael saw something in the man’s expression that he’d never noticed before, a longing after something, a ravenousness. He wanted to ask Carolla if he thought all the death and misery was worth it. But then he heard a noise and looked down.

  The man impaled on the glass was still breathing, making a gurgling sound as his throat filled with blood. Carolla, seeing that Michael was distracted, spun about and made to run out of the room. Michael jerked his gaze back towards him and time seemed to slow. His hand shook as he aimed his gun. For some reason he thought of the graveyard on Robertson Street, and with visions in his eyes of ancient tombs, stone angels and saints, he breathed deeply, and let off a shot.

  57

  After the men had dragged Lewis out into the corridor, Morval had turned and left through the door on the opposite side of the room. Ida guessed he would only be gone a few seconds. She twisted her hands, knowing her only hope was to grab at the knife in her pocket. Her fingertips could just about reach the edge of the handle, but she couldn’t get enough purchase on it with her thumb. She shifted her body to the side, and her pocket turned a little, the knife sliding out of it towards the floor, but still she couldn’t catch a hold of it. Her only chance was to turn her body so that the knife slid all the way out of her pocket, and to grab it as it fell to the floor. If she timed it wrong the knife would fall past her hand and she’d be lost. She thought again of Leeta, and of Lewis outside. She took a deep breath, and jerked her body. She felt the knife slip out of her pocket and she stretched out her hand.

  She grabbed at air. She heard the knife thud against the floor and a panic-stricken sickness washed over her. She had missed. Her last hope had vanished.

  She began to sob, waves of despair raking up and down her torso. But as her body convulsed, she felt something brush by her knuckles. Sniffing back her tears she opened her hand. She caught something between her thumb and forefinger. The very edge of the handle. The knife must have embedded itself by its point into the floorboard beneath her chair. She leaned her body down and pulled the knife out of the floorboard, then she crawled her fingers up the handle till she had it firmly in her grip. She turned it around, pressed it against the ropes, and began to shimmy the blade back and forth as quickly as she could. The rope was old and tough, and it would take her a while to get through it. She prayed Morval wouldn’t return anytime soon, but a few seconds later she heard footsteps, and the door opened and he strode into the room, holding a black leather case in one hand, and a gun in the other.

  Ida froze as he approached, too scared to continue cutting the ropes in case he realized what she was doing. He sat on a chair in front of her and put the gun on the table, pointing it her way. He smiled and opened the case. Inside was a collection of gleaming trapper’s knives, complete except for an empty space about the size of the knife she had in her hands.

  ‘If you harm me everything I know goes straight to the cops,’ Ida whispered, feeling foolish even as she said it.

  Morval jutted out his lower lip and thought for a moment. He picked up the whiskey glass on the table and took a sip.

  ‘Well, that’s not a threat unless I know what it is that you know.’ Ida stared at him, and got the same feeling she had before – that he didn’t really care what she knew, that the whole question-and-answer session was just a game, a preamble to the terror he had in mind. She thought that maybe she could work the game to her advantage, keep him talking long enough to set herself free.

  ‘I know you arranged the Axeman killings on behalf of the mayor. Because the mayor wanted rid of Carlo Matranga. I got evidence at my lawyer’s. Anything happens to me, it goes straight to the police.’

  Morval thought for a moment, his small brown eyes gleaming and still. Then he shook his head and took a puff on his cigar.

  ‘I’m just not believing you,’ he said. He leaned over the table and took one of the knives from the case. ‘If you had evidence you wouldn’t be rooting around one o’ my houses trying to get evidence, now would you? Seems to me all you got is theory.’

  ‘I swear to God,’ Ida said. ‘I wrote a statement at a lawyer’s, left it in his keeping. If anything bad happens to me, he’s gonna send it to the police and the papers.’

  Morval ignored her and stared down at the knife in his hand as if he had only just noticed it. Ida followed his gaze. The serrated blade sparkled, the pearl-effect handle bouncing the light in rainbow refractions. Morval smiled as he inspected it, a fondness to his look, as if it was a newborn in his hands.

  ‘How you come by your theory, girl?’ he asked suddenly, his tone flat, looking up at her, the smile no longer on his lips. ‘Who put it in that pretty little head o’ yours? Your boyfriend out there?’

  ‘I figured it out on my own.’

  ‘Well, ain’t you a clever girl.’ Morval smiled. ‘I like clever girls. It’s such a rarity to meet them in my line of work. Now if you telling the truth and you did dream this all up inside that pretty little head o’ yours, then there ain’t no reason in me keeping you alive, is there?’

  He smiled, tossed the knife into the air, and grabbed it by the handle. Then he stood and stared at her, his eyes two pools of ice. He took a puff on his cigar and moved towards Ida’s trembling figure. She waited till he was close, then she kicked out at him, using all the force in her legs to hit his ankles, hoping to sending him tumbling, to buy herself a bit more time. But she was weaker than she imagined herself to be, or Morval was stronger, and his feet stayed firmly locked in place. He stared at her and for the first time he showed some emotion, a glimmer of rage. His eyes narrowed, and he lashed out at her with the knife.

  She was quick enough to see it bearing down and she shifted her body to the side. The knife missed its mark but she was not quick enough: it plunged into her torso just above her hip, and a pain tore through her so complete and consuming it felt as if time had frozen and all that existed was the agony coursing through her body. She gasped, the breath knocked out of her, and her heart began to beat at double speed.

  Morval grabbed her by the neck and pulled her upwards, bringing her face close to his. He stared at her with his granite eyes, his breath warm and tinged with whiskey, his fingers like a vice around her throat. The tension of his grip was causing the ropes around her wrists – already frayed where she had sawn through them with the knife – to fray even more, and she prayed that the pressure would be enough for her to break free.

  Morval placed his knife on the inside of her knee and dug its point into her flesh. Then he slowly dragged it upwards across her inner thigh, all the while holding her face in front of his. She took a deep breath and yanked her hands backwards and the ropes around her wrists tightened. She yanked once more.

  And the ropes broke.

  She swung her arm round in an arc, and with all her might buried the hunting knife in Morval’s ribs. He wheezed and his eyes gre
w round, and he staggered back, and in a moment of instinct, he swung his own knife back towards her and caught her across her cheek.

  But it was a death swing, a reflex. He stumbled back another step and collapsed onto the floor, rolling onto his back and choking, as the blood poured from the wound. Ida stared down at him, hyperventilating, shocked that she might have killed him, and scared that he might survive. But gradually his breathing became shallow, and his chest stopped moving, and the entire room became still, silent except for the muffled noise of the storm.

  Ida wasn’t sure how long she spent staring at his body, frozen with shock, as the blood pooled around him. Her mind was in some distant place, detached and withdrawn from the here and now. She heard a noise and looked up to see Lewis standing in the corridor. Her heart wrenched and she burst into tears and Lewis ran over and hugged her.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘It’s over.’

  She didn’t say anything, too shocked at what had happened, too disorientated by the pain coursing through her cheek, her torso and the inside of her leg. Lewis looked her up and down and his eyes rested on the spot above her hip where Morval had stabbed her. Ida saw the shock and concern on Lewis’s face and she followed his gaze to see blood flowing freely from the wound, running down the length of her dress to the hem, from where it dripped to the floor.

  ‘We need to get you out of here,’ he said. Then he knelt, pulled the knife from Morval’s chest, wiped it free of fingerprints on Morval’s shirt and laid it on the floor next to the body.

  ‘C’mon,’ he said, and Ida suddenly felt a rush of shame.

  ‘I can’t walk,’ she said, and she looked at him, panicked and afraid. He put his arm around her shoulders and, with half her weight on him, they limped out of the warehouse and into the yard, wondering how they could get her to a hospital in the middle of a storm.

  58

  Luca followed Baudet as he ran north into Marigny-Faubourg, somehow managing to move against the deluge of water pouring through the streets. The storm was dismantling the city, ripping loose fences, hoardings, roofs and trees. Smaller pieces of debris were being hurled along by the current, smacking into Luca’s legs as he ran, making him stumble and drop to his knees every few seconds. He tried not to fall into the water completely, he had to keep the gun as dry as possible.

  Baudet turned into a larger road and bounded all the way to the top of it, stopping abruptly in the middle of the carriageway, where the water-level was lower and a railroad crossed his path. Luca wondered what he was waiting for, and then he realized. He heard a roaring noise, then shuttering lights began to illuminate the dark, flashing off the water’s surface. In an instant, the train was in front of them, roaring past. The Smokey Mary, the train that ran down Elysian Fields Avenue from the center of New Orleans, out to the pleasure district at Milneburg. Baudet had a ride all the way home.

  Luca saw him jump, slipping on the wet metal, then getting purchase and swinging himself into the space between two cars. By the time Luca got to the tracks there was only one car left to pass. He put the gun in his pocket, jumped, and fell hard into the side of the train. He caught a grip on something, his momentum bouncing him outwards then smashing him back into the racing metal wall. He slipped a little and slid downwards, towards the hundred-ton wheels spinning noisily below. He swung his legs left and right, hoping to find some purchase, and after a few seconds, his feet came to rest on one of the running-boards protruding from the side of the car just a few inches above the wheels.

  He took a deep breath, looked about him and realized he was two windows away from the end of the car. He levered himself up and grappled his way along the ledge he was holding on to, eventually reaching the pole that ran down the corner of the car. He grabbed hold of it and swung himself into the space at the end of the train. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, and he noticed how fast his heart was beating, how the stress was pumping through him. He checked his pocket for the gun, took a few more deep breaths, unlatched the door, and stepped inside.

  The car was empty, the lights switched off, and Luca guessed the line was sending its stock out of the city to avoid the flood. Beams from streetlights arced and rolled through the interior, shadows flying wraithlike in their wake. Luca made his way slowly up the aisle, holding onto headrests against the rocking of the train. He reached the front, opened the connecting door and stepped into the next compartment. It was just as empty, and as he reached its end, the last of the Elysian Fields lights flashed past and the car was plunged into even greater darkness.

  He moved on to the next compartment, trying to remember how many cars had gone past him on the road. Five? Six? He checked each one, slowly, methodically, and finally, in the last car, he saw him. A shadow at the far end, barely discernible in the inky gloom.

  ‘Baudet!’ he shouted.

  Baudet turned and stared at him, eyes glinting in the dark, the train clattering noisily over the tracks. He regarded Luca for a moment, then turned to look out of the window, fixing his stare on the swampland beyond. Luca paused, then stalked slowly up the aisle, the gun shaking in his hand.

  When Luca was halfway up the car, Baudet opened the door in front of him and in a single, fluid movement, leapt into the darkness, his coat unfurling in the gale like a huge set of wings. The sound of the storm roared into the car and Luca let off a shot that buried itself in the wood paneling by the open door. Heart racing, he opened the door nearest to him, and following Baudet’s lead, jumped into the nothingness outside the car.

  The freezing wind bit into his wet clothes for a moment before he crashed into the water. And then everything was silent, muffled and peaceful, no more storm or rain, just a beautiful stillness.

  He felt he was floating upwards, then he came to the surface, and the world roared back to life. He looked around him and saw the train steaming off into the distance, taking with it the last of its light. There was no moon in the sky, just the storm passing overhead. He’d been plunged into absolute, terrifying, darkness. Slowly his eyes adjusted and he could make out where he was; a black water pool and, a little further away, a tree trunk. He swam over to it, leaned against it and hauled himself out of the water, taking a moment to get his breath back.

  He cursed himself for getting caught up in the moment and jumping from the train. What did he think he could achieve, in a dark swamp, in the middle of a storm? A helpless dread crept over him, and the same mystifying emotion he’d felt when the man had attacked him in the bayou – an unexplainable impulse towards self-annihilation. He listened to the sound of the flood rushing through the blackness, the howl of the wind, the drumming of a million raindrops. He was alone in the watery half-world of the bayou.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, lying against the tree trunk, letting the rain and wind batter him. Time passed, and he turned his head and saw a tiny shimmering dot of yellow in the distance, a lamp swimming in its own light. He pushed himself off the trunk and headed towards the light, falling into pools, tripping over roots, picking up ever more cuts and bruises as he went. Slowly the light grew large, broke into segments, began illuminating his way, and he realized it was an oil-lamp, its light emanating from the window of a hut.

  He came to within a few feet of it and stopped a moment to catch his breath. The hut was hidden in the midst of a dense thicket and it was built of branches and reeds that rested on stilts a few feet above the rushing floodwater. The eaves had been decorated with animal skulls, shining dully in the lamplight, and on the trees all around the hut, hung up by twine, were the rotting, skinned bodies of animals, swinging violently in the storm, smashing against the trunks and branches. Despite the wind and rain, he could smell the stench of the carcasses, putrid and decaying. And then he saw the dolls, tied to the trunks of the trees that surrounded the hut. Strange foot-high things made of reeds and covered in rags to look like people, with slanted eyes and screaming mouths painted onto their faces.

  Luca took the gun from his pocket
, praying it would still fire. He took a few steps forward, holding the gun in front of him, and then he saw Baudet. He’d been there all the time, crouching in the shadows thrown out by the lamp. Luca stopped and Baudet stared at him, a smile on his lips. He stood and approached and Luca saw he had a thick, heavy branch in his hand, sawn off at either end to make a club. If the gun didn’t work, Luca was already dead.

  Baudet stopped a few feet in front of him and tightened his grip on the branch. They stared at each other through the rain, both of them weather-beaten and sapped of energy. Luca compared the man standing in front of him to the photograph he had seen at Simone’s. Baudet was still upright and broad-shouldered, well-built and imposing. But now there were scars and lines across his face and his hair had half turned to gray. Yet the biggest difference of all was in his look, in the set of his jaw and his narrow eyes. There was a focus in his expression, a determination so strong it made him look inhuman. Luca realized he was in the presence of a man who could be both meticulous and mad, a war hero and a murderer, a man who had coolly misdirected a whole police force, and had turned himself into a demon to avenge his parents.

  Before Luca knew it, Baudet moved forward and swung the club through the air, catching Luca on the cheek, sending him into a spiral. Luca thumped onto the ground and the gun flew from his grip, disappearing into the darkness. His vision blurred, the earth beneath him rolled away, and as blood streamed into his eyes, he could just make out the tall shape above him swinging down. Then he sank into the soft, cool mud of the bayou, and as the rainwater washed over him, the music of the storm left the world.

  PART SIX

  The Times–Picayune