by Leo King
“Oh, the usual,” he said casually, as if he were teaching a class. “Blood sacrifices of barnyard animals, maddened dancing as if possessed, and sexual rituals. What you’d expect from a Haitian religion.”
She felt yet another degree more disturbed.
Rodger seemed unfazed by that. Instead, he asked, “So what happened with Sam? You said ‘we’ practiced voodoo, so, obviously, you were a member.” The concern and urgency in his voice was apparent.
Dixie flashed Rodger a look and shook her head. Don’t get too worked up about Sam, Rodger. Sam was a suspect and Rodger was already on the edge with Ouellette. One more screw-up like he’d had with Dr. Klein and he would get suspended.
Jonathon pursed his lips in obvious pain and continued. “Indeed, I was. What happed with Sam was truly a mistake. Vincent was concerned over her health when she was younger. I don’t remember the details, but she had medical problems. Vincent had been searching for a way to help her when he learned about an African compound called the tkeeus.” The foreign word had an African-style click at the beginning. Taking another breath from his oxygen mask, he added, “Vincent was convinced that doing a ritual with the tkeeus would help Samantha’s condition.”
Dixie furrowed her brow. He was talking about a voodoo ritual with Sam when she was only a child, in a group that practiced blood and sex rituals. What in God’s name did they do to her?
She found her mind going dark places, postulating the horrible things that could have happened. Quickly pulling herself back before she could succumb to those thoughts, she said, “Well, it sounds like Vincent was doing some crazy stuff with his granddaughter. What happened?”
“Well, if you had asked Vincent, he would have told you that the ritual worked. If you had asked anyone else, they would have told you it was a disastrous failure.” He chortled morbidly.
“The ritual started just fine. But halfway through, Samantha went into a convulsion. According to Vincent, she suffered a massive seizure. Now, I’m no doctor, but I’ve never seen a seizure that would make a five-year-old girl strong enough to knock back grown men. Samantha, for a few moments, had strength no human being could possess.”
Dixie stared, completely transfixed by Jonathon’s story.
“After that night, the Knight Priory only met two more times. They met once to try the ritual with a different girl, and then they met so that the older members, such as myself, could announce retirement. After that, the younger generation took over, turning the Knight Priory into more of an underground political group and less of an occult secret brotherhood.” He coughed a few loud, hacking coughs.
“Everything I know about voodoo says that rituals are only as malevolent as the will of the people performing them, but something evil happened that night with young Samantha. Ever since then, most of the old guard like myself have been dying off from some disease or another. It’s like we’re cursed.” He took a few deep breaths from the mask. “Or maybe that’s exactly what happened. Maybe we all cursed ourselves that night.”
A light went off in Dixie’s head. An exotic incense had been mentioned in Michael’s report. He had said that soon after inhaling it, he had started doing things that would be considered superhuman. One look at Rodger, and she knew he was wondering the same thing—could Michael have inhaled the tkeeus?
She didn’t believe in voodoo or demons, either, but a drug that enhanced people’s strength wasn’t completely impossible.
“So where did Vincent find this tah-keese?” she asked, stumbling over the word.
Jonathon rubbed his chin for a long time, a contemplative look on his face. “You know, I actually don’t remember. I know he learned about the tkeeus from someone. But that was so many years ago. I’m going to have to think on that one, Detectives.”
She nodded. “We’ll follow up with you on that, Mr. Russell. I’m sure it’s important.”
“So two more questions, Mr. Russell, and then we’ll get going,” said Rodger. “First off, who was the other person this ritual was performed on? Second, the copycat killer is spelling ‘Knight Priory’ as ‘N-I-T-E’ Priory. Any idea what that means?”
Jonathon took a long breath from his oxygen mask. “The other person was one of the daughters of the housekeeper, Josephine Patterson. Don’t ask me which one, because I don’t remember.”
Dixie looked over at Rodger. She had no idea who the Pattersons were. However, when he nodded thoughtfully, she was sure he had to know.
She could grill him for what he knew about the tkeeus, the Pattersons, and everything else on the ride back.
Leaning forward, she asked, “And the other question, Mr. Russell? About someone spelling ‘Knight Priory’ incorrectly?”
To her surprise, Jonathon laughed again. “My dear Detective Olivier,” he finally said after more than a few hacking coughs, “I do believe the killer is playing the police for fools.”
Chapter 2
A Condition of The Heart
Date: Sunday, August 9, 1992
Time: 11:00 a.m.
Location: Sam Castille’s Townhome
Uptown New Orleans
Sam’s eyes were closed as the water from the shower poured over her. She braced herself as she leaned forward. The rhythmic pounding of the water was in perfect sync with Richie as he moved in and out of her, his hands tightly gripping her hips. The water added beautifully to the sinful carnality of their love-making.
She tensed as another wave of pleasure seized her, making her entire body shake, and he grasped her tightly as he cried out. She wanted him to stay inside of her as long as he could. The feeling of being that close to another human being, someone she loved, was the absolute zenith of fulfillment.
Only when she felt him soften did she slide forward and dislodge herself. She turned, embraced him, and kissed him passionately, holding him close. They stayed that way for a long time, and when she pulled back, she rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes.
Today was the first time in years that she’d felt that genuinely happy. As soon as they had woken up, they had started making love again and had kept it up until well past morning. Even once they were in the shower, it had only been a matter of time before the cleaning had stopped and the playing around had commenced.
Despite all those feelings of mirth and desire, a part of Sam felt genuinely disgusted with herself. It was like that part of her felt that she was not only wasting time with Richie but was also doing something gross. She kept pushing those thoughts out of her mind, figuring it was just her laundry list of psychological problems. She was sure that Dr. Klein, her psychiatrist, would say that she wasn’t ready for a relationship, but she didn’t care. For the first time in her life, Sam felt safe and comfortable.
She had never believed in true love until now.
She looked at Richie’s face for a long time. His eyes were still closed. At rest, he looked less like the goofball he normally was and more like someone with an amazing inner strength. She was certain that if it came down to it, he could show a force of will far beyond the human norm. Also, the sense of familiarity was overwhelming. She felt like she had known him her entire life.
“I love you,” she finally whispered.
He opened his eyes and grinned cheekily. “I love you, too. But staring up at me, Sam? Kinda creepy.” He winked and kissed the tip of her nose.
Sam said nothing at his silly behavior. She just smiled, leaned up, kissed his lips softly, and then proceeded to wash him off. In a matter of minutes, they were both out of the shower and drying off.
“When do you have to go back to Philadelphia?” she asked, combing through her long, blond, wet hair to get out the tangles.
Richie was perched on the toilet lid, wrapped in a towel. “Two days,” he said, sounding less than pleased. “Then I’m booked solid for almost two weeks, possibly more if Gordon feels vindictive about missing his flight here.”
She smirked and put down her comb, remembering him saying that his publicist was
extremely sore about losing his ticket to New Orleans.
“Why don’t you come with me, Sam?” he asked, touching her arm gently.
Sam frowned and covered his hand with her own. “I can’t, and you know that, Richie. I’m a suspect. If I go out of town, I’m sure that Ouellette and everyone else will see it as an admission of guilt.” She couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice.
She also failed to hide her contempt as she said Ouellette’s name. She really hated that man. He had threatened her father, Edward, when he was implicated in being complicit with a serial rapist, Giorgio “Blue-Eyed” Marcello. Something about Ouellette set her teeth on edge, and she was convinced he’d frame her for the serial murders if given the chance. She just didn’t trust him.
“Ow! Ow! Sam, your nails!” Richie tried to pull his hand away.
She suddenly realized that as she had allowed those dark thoughts to enter her mind, she had dug her fingernails into his hand. With a gasp, she let go.
He pulled his hand back and gritted his teeth. The nail marks were an angry-looking red.
“Oh, crap, Richie, I’m so sorry,” said Sam, hurriedly opening the medicine cabinet. A few moments later, she was applying peroxide to the wound. He look-ed away the entire time, like a little kid with a skinned knee. “I don’t know what came over me. I really—”
“It’s OK,” he interrupted. “I shouldn’t have brought any of that up. I know you can’t stand Ouellette. I should be the one apologizing.”
“That’s no excuse,” she said, wrapping the hand in gauze. “I let my mind into dark places, and I ended up hurting someone I love. I need to take control of that if I want to get through this situation with my sanity and relationships intact.”
Richie snickered with amusement. “So long as you don’t go thinking that negative thoughts invite problems into your life.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. Can you imagine how messed up the world would be if people really believed that?” Leaning down, she gently kissed his hand. “There, all better.”
As she started to get up, he pulled her back onto his lap. With only the towel between them, he looked into her eyes and said, “We may not be able to investigate the murders without Ouellette following through on his threat and throwing us in jail, but we can still find a way to prove your innocence.”
Sam blinked and looked at him. “How’s that?”
Richie waggled his eyebrows. “We keep you busy and in front of other people besides me. Ya know, witnesses. It’s called an alibi, Miss Mystery Writer. We keep you busy and in public, and when the next victim shows up, you’ll have an airtight alibi. You can’t be killing someone if you’re drinking daiquiris on Bourbon Street.”
She smiled again. Touching his face, she said, “Clever boy. I like that. There’s just one problem. Neither of us is very sociable. And there’s only one person I know who is, and that’s my best friend, Jacob. Even though he’s been pretty worried about me, I’m not completely sure if he’ll do this, considering that he’s an editor at the Times-Picayune and could lose his job if he helps me.”
Her hands drifted down Richie’s body toward the crescent-shaped scar on his chest. She wanted to ask him about it, but no time seemed appropriate.
“Let’s give Jacob a visit, then,” he said. “If he’s your best friend, he’ll find a way to help us. Besides, I want to meet him, and I’m sure he wants to meet me. How does that sound?”
Sam didn’t answer him verbally. Instead, she leaned down and deeply kissed him. As he returned the kiss, she felt him swell underneath the towel. She felt a rush of desire. It felt almost unnatural. Every time they started to make love, she’d feel this intense internal craving, like a part of her wanted the sexual contact the same way one wants food.
As soon as they finished, she’d feel disgust.
But for now, she didn’t care. With a sultry look, she removed the towel from between them and said, “One more time before we get dressed.”
Two hours later, they arrived at the apartment of Jacob Hueber.
Richie had driven them. On the way there, Sam had worked on the notes to her story. Using her notebook and the silver pen she had found after Rodger and Michael had first visited her, she had come up with some pretty gritty storylines. Despite the published story being similar to the actual copycat killings, she was having fun. Working on the story felt as therapeutic as it did compulsory.
They parked at Jacob’s apartment. She was dressed in a short-sleeve button-down blouse with blue jeans, and he was in his freshly laundered clothes from the day before, blue jeans and a polo shirt.
In one hand, she held a red plastic shoe charm. It was a keepsake of her mother, Mary Castille, whom she had been told had died shortly after her birth. Just holding it and squeezing it gave her a sense of security. Her other hand held Richie’s, which was just as nice.
He whistled as they headed into the apartment building. “I’m impressed. Jacob lives well for a guy in the newspaper business.”
Sam hadn’t thought much of it before, but she agreed with Richie. Jacob lived in the St. Phillips Apartments on St. Phillips Street in the French Quarter. Being from a wealthy family herself, she hadn’t given much thought to the cost of living in such a place.
“I guess,” she said as they passed through the lobby and into the elevator. “His parents died and left him a trust fund. I think he just invested it and is living off the interest.”
“Must be nice. If I had that kind of money, I’d really live it up,” he remarked.
She giggled as the elevator stopped and the two made their way toward Jacob’s apartment. “Oh, yeah. Normally, he’s pretty relaxed and reserved. But when you get him partying, he’s a real nut. It’s like he leads a second life when he’s not working. Did you see that black and purple motorcycle out front?”
“You mean the one that looks like it belongs in an action film?” asked Richie.
As Sam rang the doorbell, she said, “Yeah, that’s his. He also parasails, bungee jumps, and sky-dives. Not to mention rock climbing and the occasional ski trip. Like I said, though, you wouldn’t know it from looking at him.”
“A real thrill-seeker, then, eh?” he asked.
“You could say that, but only when I need to blow off stress,” came a voice from behind them both.
They both turned. For a moment, Richie tensed up like he was ready to punch someone, one of his hands curling into a fist.
Jacob was standing there in riding leathers, holding a paper grocery bag and stepping back. “Whoa, whoa there, guy. Calm down. Didn’t mean to make you jump like that.”
Sam quickly squeezed Richie’s hand reassuringly. His ears turned red and he unclenched his fist, muttering, “Sorry. Old habits. Don’t like getting snuck up on.”
Jacob looked over at Sam. “Let me guess. This is Richie Fastellos, right?”
She nodded.
He looked Richie over and shrugged. “Well, other than being a bit jumpy, he looks like a pretty decent guy.” He unlocked the door to his apartment and headed inside, leaving it open. “Well, pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fastellos. Why don’t the two of you come inside? Just don’t punch me, OK?”
Sam followed with Richie behind her.
“Crap, Sam, I’m already messing things up. Sorry.” He squeezed her hand.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Jacob is not one to beat around the bush. He’s a straight shooter. If he didn’t like you, he’d say so.”
He mumbled another apology and followed along.
A few minutes later, they were all sitting in Jacob’s front room, drinking iced tea. Jacob reclined on a big comfy chair, while Sam and Richie sat on a couch. The first few minutes of conversation had been spent bringing Jacob up to speed. They had made certain to detail the recent acts of harassment she had suffered—people leaving threatening messages, phone calls, and notes at her townhome—some even inside the townhome.
Not surprisingly, Jacob was angry over the entire s
ituation, and he and Richie went back and forth over how much ass they’d kick if they ever caught anyone threatening Sam. Before the testosterone in the room could rise to choking levels, however, Sam steered the conversation elsewhere. “I love the new furniture and artwork you’ve gotten, Jacob,” she said. “Is this a new couch?”
Both men took the cue and settled down.
“Agreed. Quite a place you’ve got,” said Richie, looking around the apartment and apparently noting the leather couches, giant projection TV, and full bar.
For the first time, Sam noticed that his fingers weren’t covered in bandages anymore. Last time she had seen him, they had been covered in gauze so rough it had actually scratched her when he had rubbed her hand.
“Your fingers,” she said. “Your burns are already healed?”
He looked down and wiggled his fingers, chuckling. “Yeah. Ended up only being first degree. Still, stove burns are not the kind of thrill I go for.” He then got a look of recollection. “Oh, while I’m thinking about it—Caroline called me this morning and told me about you and Richie visiting her yesterday. She was furious that the both of you stood up to her like you did.”
Sam had forgotten about Caroline Saucier, the editor-in-chief of the Times-Picayune. Shrugging, she said, “I don’t care if that rich bitch and every member of her rich, old family hates my guts, Jacob. I just want her to treat me fairly.” She squeezed her plastic charm a few times to keep the anxiety at bay.
Jacob smirked and leaned forward. “Yeah, but here’s the thing. You actually impressed her with how you stood up for yourself. That’s how those elite types think, ya know? She’ll never admit it, but she thinks you’ve got moxy, and she likes that.” He then jerked his head at Richie. “She hates your boyfriend’s guts, though.”
“The feeling is mutual,” replied Richie, his voice a bit darkened. He looked tense again.
“That reminds me, Jacob, I need to ask you something,” said Sam, patting Richie on the thigh. She wasn’t offended by him bowing up every time someone opposed her. She figured that was just how guys acted toward their girlfriends. “Caroline mentioned you were taking a vacation to help me prove my innocence or something. Is that so?” she asked.
