by Leo King
“What would I do?” Dixie asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“Why, you’d hunt down serial killers like Samantha for me, so I can treat them. You see, I am working on some very important research, und I need more people like Sam of Spades to complete it.”
Looking back up at the ceiling, she ground her teeth. The utter gall of this prick.
“Well, sleep on it, then,” he said, patting his knees and standing up. His voice suddenly lowered, becoming menacing. “Just remember that I know a lot of powerful people. Don’t think for a moment that you can refuse me und walk away like nothing ever happened.”
Her eyes were once again wide as he left the room. If her one arm wasn’t so weak, she’d have started biting her fingernails. Instead, she just sucked on her bottom lip, staring up at the ceiling and reviewing both the proposition and the threat.
Dixie was like that for a while. When she finally heard someone else enter the room and saw who it was, she instantly felt herself relax and her smile return.
It was Gino.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said. He looked tired and his eyes were red, like he had been crying most of the day.
“Hey, handsome,” she replied, feebly trying to lift her one good arm to him. She still lacked the strength.
He put down an overnight bag before coming to her side. He stroked her face, holding her remaining hand protectively.
She looked up at him, searching for any sign of revulsion. She couldn’t find anything but love. Then she was repulsed at herself for even thinking otherwise.
For the first year of their relationship, Dixie had kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. She kept expecting Gino to get impatient with her for being on call, or for him to get frustrated as the sexual aspect of their relationship progressed at a snail’s pace. She didn’t even let him kiss her until they had been dating for a month. But he patiently waited and accepted things on her terms.
On the eve of their one-year anniversary, she finally gave herself to him. It was a night she would never forget. Not only was he gorgeous, but he was more gentle and loving than she ever could have hoped for. He seemed to know she was a virgin, and carefully guided her with unyielding patience. As the days progressed, and as she became more confident, they traded caution and temperance in their lovemaking for passion and sensuality.
But throughout all that, he always did things on her terms, when she wanted it.
So when he offered her a chance to move in with him, she took it. Despite her hectic schedule, from being on call at all hours to leaving their Cancun vacation early to help with the new Bourbon Street Ripper case, he always accepted the relationship on her terms.
“What’s wrong?” Gino asked.
Dixie realized that she was weeping.
“Sorry,” she said as he wiped away her tears. “I am so stupid. For a moment, I really thought you’d leave me now that I am not a complete woman.”
To her surprise, he laughed. He then brushed away the last of her tears. “Yes, if you think that, you are very stupid. But you are not stupid, are you?”
Dixie felt like such a heel for even thinking it. “I am so sorry, Gino. I am—”
Gino silenced her with a gentle kiss.
A while later, after the doctor had examined her, Dixie was lying back while Gino sat beside her. He was reading and she was trying to think. The pain medication was really muddling her thoughts, and she lacked the strength to nibble her thumb.
I can’t really do much anymore, can I? She wanted to help Michael, help Rodger, and even help Sam. But what could she do?
She didn’t realize she was scowling until her boyfriend cleared his throat.
“You seem frustrated, Dixie,” he said, looking at her from behind his reading glasses. “Do you want to talk?”
“Yeah,” she replied, trying to keep her spirits up. “I’m depressed. I wanna help Michael and Rodger. I wanna help Sam.”
Gino continued to gaze at Dixie from behind his glasses. “Why don’t you?”
She huffed and scowled. “I can’t concentrate. My mind’s a jumble. I don’t know where to start.”
Removing his glasses, he looked into her eyes and said, “Dixie, honey, you just survived losing your arm. Maybe you are over-doing it? Get some rest. The others will figure it out. Sam will be fine. She’s no killer.”
He said that with such conviction that she found herself starting to really believe it.
“You just rest, Dixie. Get better,” he said in a very serious tone. “I love you, but you always push yourself too hard. Stress and exhaustion. Not a good marriage.”
Dixie blinked at what Gino had said. “Not a good what?”
“Not a good… marriage?” he replied hesitantly. “That is the American expression when two things don’t match well together, correct?”
She didn’t reply. She was dumbstruck that, once again, her boyfriend had turned the investigation on its head with one simple statement.
Marriage. Oh, God, of course! Gladys was trying to tell us about a wedding!
They had suspected that it had to be someone in the family they didn’t know about, but what if Gladys herself had gotten married? How would that affect the Castille estate? Could someone stand to inherit the entire fortune if they married Sam’s great-aunt?
Gino cleared his throat, bringing her out of her thoughts. He was still looking at her, his expression still serious.
Dixie smiled once more and said, “You’re right, Gino, that is the correct term. And I do need to get some rest. Sorry.”
He smiled back at her, put his glasses on, and returned to reading.
She sat there for a few minutes more, mulling over her revelation. She was certain that it was important. She had to get a note to Michael and Rodger.
Leaning up, she called out for one of the officers in the hallway. As Gino gave her a suspicious look, she grinned back apologetically and shrugged. “What can I say, Gino? I’m never off duty. I’m always a detective.”
He rolled his eyes and returned to reading.
Chapter 20
Rodger’s Really Bad Day
Date: Tuesday, August 11th, 1992
Time: 8:00 p.m.
Location: Russell Family Mansion
Lake Pontchartrain in Slidell
The spikes from the ceiling lowered slowly enough that Rodger had a moment to contemplate his fate. It was as unbelievable as the stuff he had seen with the tkeeus. Recalling that he was nearly killed by a different machine only a few days ago, he could only think of one thing to say: “How many times is this going to happen to me?”
His ponderings did nothing to slow the descent of those rows upon rows of spikes. He hurried to the locked door. Peering through the keyhole, he saw the hallway outside, also bathed in red light. If I can just jimmy the lock open!
As a last resort, he could shoot the lock, but that had as much of a chance of jamming it as it did of breaking it open.
Rodger hurried through the room, looking for something like a letter opener or a paper clip. As the spikes continued to lower, he realized to his dismay that those things would likely have been on the desk—which was now in the safe room.
Just as he was about to go try his luck with shooting the lock, he saw something that gave him an idea. A pair of pliers. Grabbing them, he looked for something hard and heavy. His eyes fell upon a poker near the fireplace.
Looking up, he saw that the spikes were more than halfway down. He had to hurry.
Returning to the door, he got to work. Quickly, he took all the bullets out of his clip. Next, he used the pliers to yank the slugs out, discarding them across the floor. Then, he poured the propellant from all of the bullet casings into one, packing it down as much as possible. He wasn’t sure if this would be enough to have the effect he hoped for.
Rodger heard a cracking sound and saw the spikes penetrating the furnishings of the room with no sign of stopping. He didn’t have time to second-guess himself. Taking the improvised ex
plosive, he pressed it into the keyhole against the lock. He could already feel the spikes scratching the top of his head. He was running out of time.
Grabbing the poker, he said a quick prayer. Then he swung it at the bullet as hard as he could. Instead, he hit the door, scratching it.
“Shit,” he shouted and swung again. This time he hit the doorknob.
“Come on! Dammit!”
Rodger started to feel the spikes poke at his head again. Getting on one knee, he focused on the bullet’s primer, took three deep breaths, and swung, letting out a guttural yell.
With a loud bang, the casing exploded, taking the lock with it.
Just as he felt the spikes poking him again, he kicked the door opened and slid out into the hallway.
For a few moments, he laid there on the wooden floor, the red glow of the warning lights all around him. Taking in great gulps of air, he wondered just what kind of nutcase booby-traps his study with a spiked ceiling.
“At least that’s over. Now to get out of here!” Rodger went down the hallway toward the landing on the left. He was almost there when he felt a sudden motion beneath his feet. With a grunt, he fell right on his face. Jesus! Did the floor just move on me?
He scowled. “I am done with this stupid shit.” He got up and was about to keep going when bars shot up from the ground, separating the landing from the hallway. He could see Reggie’s corpse on the other side of the bars, and he was cut off from the stairs.
What the—? He couldn’t believe it.
Then he heard another clicking sound. The floor underneath him jerked again, and he fell to his ass with a yelp. In moments, the entire hallway had turned into a fast-moving conveyor belt trying to take him past the stairs and further down the hallway.
Rodger grabbed the bars next to him, stopping himself from flying down the hallway. Looking toward the end of the hallway, he saw that the wall had opened up, revealing an eerily familiar vicious-looking shredding machine.
“Oh, what the fuck? Again?!” He couldn’t believe it. It was like Jonathon Russell and Mad Monty had teamed up to get him. The flashback of being chained down on that conveyor belt, heading feet-first into Monty’s machine, was overwhelming. He frantically looked around for a way to get through the bars, but it seemed hopeless. He was too big. And there were no other doorways nearby that he could get through.
As his grip weakened, he felt that he had once again failed. He had failed to save Edward from Vincent. He had failed to be there for Sam as she had grown up. He had failed to stop Michael from getting shot. He had failed to keep Sam from getting hurt. This was just another failure for an old loser well past his prime.
Maybe the world will be better off if I die.
Rodger’s hands slipped and he slid down, grasping the corner of the landing with his fingers. With nothing left for him to grab onto, it was just a matter of time before he was flung down the hallway into the shredder. Morbidly, he wondered if it would be a quick death.
Then he remembered something Douglas had said just the other night, something that meant everything to him: “You’ll be the one who saves that little girl.”
He remembered breaking down the door into the torture chamber underneath the Castille mansion. He remembered seeing what was left of Edward, with Vincent proudly holding up his son’s heart and grinning madly. He remembered seeing little Samantha sitting there like a doll, with her hands on her lap, staring blankly ahead. Even though she didn’t remember witnessing the death, her eyes forever reflected her loss of innocence—eyes devoid of life.
I have to save that little girl. She needs me!
Rodger looked up at his tired, old hands, gritted his teeth, and cried out, “I can’t die now! Until I save Sam, I will not die!”
With a primordial roar, Rodger pulled himself up and linked his arms around the last bar on the landing. The moving wooden floor shredded his pants and then tore at his skin. He ignored the pain. Grabbing his pistol, he started to hit the wood molding of the landing next to the last bar, cracking it off bit by bit. Soon he had a gap large enough to pull himself through.
He got caught by his belt—not unexpected, considering his weight. He quick-ly undid it and threw it aside. The belt hit the shredder with an awful clank as he squirmed through the gap. As he did so, the jagged wood caught on his already damaged pants and shredded them. With the remaining fragments falling right off his legs, Rodger ran down the stairs.
Unsurprisingly, they flattened into a slide. As he slid down, a trap door at the bottom opened into a pit. It was lined with jagged spikes.
“Of course it is…”
Grabbing onto the railing, he stopped himself from falling into the pit by just a few inches. His shoulders yanked in their sockets. He cried out in pain. “Son of a bitch!”
With great effort, Rodger pulled himself up and rolled over the railing, falling down to the foyer floor a few feet below. He lay there for a few moments, catching his breath. He was wheezing. If I survive this, I’m going to cut down on the cigarettes and pick up exercising.
The front door had been broken off its hinges, likely by the attacker who had killed Russell.
It was time to get out of there before another trap sprang.
He rushed forward. His legs ached terribly, and every part of him burned with effort. As he approached the front doorway, he roared one more guttural yell and leaped.
He felt the hot August air rush over his face. He heard another click as he flew out of the house and rolled down the front stairs.
A guillotine blade dropped down the front doorway, missing him by mere inches.
Rodger landed on the front lawn and lay there motionless. It felt like every muscle, every tendon, and every bone ached. He waited for another click to sound, for another machine to turn on, for some additional signal that he was still in danger.
All he heard was the guillotine blade retracting.
He closed his eyes and lay there for a long time. In the background, the sounds of the Russell mansion death traps quieted down. He was finally roused by the blinking red and blue lights of the backup he had called for earlier.
Sitting up, he felt like he had been through a war.
I think I’ve been through enough bullshit to last me a lifetime, he thought as he lit up a cigarette and sat there, in his overcoat and boxers, smoking on the front lawn. As God is my witness, I will never be frightened by anything again.
When the police finally arrived, led by Rivette and Landry, Rodger gave them a brief rundown of what had happened and a warning about the death traps in the mansion. Rivette and Landry, despite being grateful that Rodger was alive, couldn’t help but make cracks about him wearing only his boxers. Jokes about him being a flasher helped cut down on the tension of the evening.
Luckily, he had clothes in his car—the dirty ones from when he and Sam had gone to Angola.
“So you’ve got everything?” Rodger asked after finishing his initial report. He figured the real report would probably read like a horror movie.
“Yeah, I got it all,” Rivette said as he finished jotting the notes down. “Likely the entire house is trapped. If we’re unlucky, the only way to disarm the traps is in that safe room you mentioned in the old man’s study. Fun times all around.”
“Probably should cut the power to the whole house,” Landry added, making his way to the front door.
Rodger nodded in agreement. “That’s probably a good idea, guys. Just cut the power and make sure there’s no backups running. That house will eat you.”
Rivette started giving orders to some of the uniformed officers. They had already sectioned off the entire mansion as a hazard zone. Rodger figured that the two detectives would be busy with this all night long. This house of traps would likely cause quite a stir throughout the city.
“Hey, guys,” said Landry from right outside the front door. He was peering into the dark house. “I think it’s calmed down inside. I think—”
His words were cut short a
s the guillotine blade came down again, slicing the buttons right off his shirt and barely missing his flesh.
Rivette stared in horror.
Landry fell back on his butt and started screaming.
Rodger put out his cigarette. “Dumbass.”
It was 9:30 when Rodger got back to the precinct. His everything still hurt, and he was still shell-shocked over the whole incident. All around, the floor was quiet, none of the detectives were at their desks, and Ouellette’s office was dim. Rodger sat at his desk with a heavy thud.
He had almost gotten himself killed and was no closer to solving the case. Furthermore, the identity of the person who had given Vincent the tkeeus had died with Jonathon.
“What a fucking night,” he said, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. He could just go to sleep right there at his desk. I should. I should just lean back, put my feet up, and—
His phone rang.
His eyes shot open. Nearly falling back, he picked up the phone. “Detective Bergeron. Richie?” He had told Richie to call as soon as he was done in Lafayette.
“No. It’s me,” said Michael.
Rodger sat up more. His partner’s voice didn’t sound weak or even tired. Instead, it sounded all business, like the Michael he knew. “Michael, I—hey, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Rodger,” Michael said. His voice then dropped. “Look, can you come pick me up?”
Rodger knotted his brow. The last thing he wanted to do was go anywhere. “Michael, not to be rude, but I almost died a little while ago. Again. So I’m not too enthused about getting up again. I really just want to sit here for a while and, you know, be grateful I’m alive.”
Michael exhaled quickly and said, “Look, I’m sorry you almost died again. But this is important.”
That got Rodger’s attention. “What’s going on? What happened?”
Michael’s voice sounded strained, as if he were trying hard to contain his excitement. “I did it, Rodger. I solved the case. I know who framed Sam!”
Chapter 21
A Break in the Case
