by Leo King
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony started playing from somewhere in the room.
As Richie stared, Guidry let out a blood-curdling scream. Struggling against his grip, she slammed her head back, right into his jaw. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as he fell backward while she stumbled into the room and collapsed at the base of the “killing table.” As he reeled from the pain, she struggled to her feet, her eyes wide with terror. His head throbbed. He was aware of every sensation, every breath, every taste, and every sound—same as when the Knight Priory had saved him from Marcello’s men. It was as surreal as it was distressing.
Guidry ran toward the open doorway. She was heading back outside. Still unable to move, he watched as someone entered the doorway and knocked her out with one punch.
Richie’s eyes widened. It was a person in a black hooded coat, not like the motorcycle gang, but like the Knight Priory that worked for the Lady in Red.
Picking up Guidry, the hooded man carried her into the room. Richie struggled to get to his feet, but the pain was still making his vision blur. However, as the hooded man walked over to him, Richie glimpsed part of his face.
He was a Caucasian male, the same age as Sam or him, with a cocky sneer. At that moment, Richie realized that he was looking at the “traitor,” the real copycat killer, the new Bourbon Street Ripper.
And like a dolt, he had delivered his next victim.
Once Guidry was laid out and strapped onto the table, the killer reached into his coat and took out a syringe filled with a clear liquid. He popped off the cap and advanced on Richie.
Richie tried to get to his feet, but it was no use. He couldn’t move. His heart was pounding and his throat was tight. It’s like he’s overpowering me with fear!
“I’ll let you live for now,” the killer said. Richie swore he never saw the killer’s mouth move when he spoke. The voice reminded Richie of how his own voice had sounded when he had showed up Olivier and Aucoin during the interview—arrogant and condescending.
“But tell that blond bitch I’m coming for her next.” Again, Richie never saw the killer’s mouth move. It was unnerving.
As the killer injected Richie with the syringe, his grin spread into a wide leer. Richie wasn’t sure if he meant the Lady in Red or Sam, but the intent was clear—the nightmare wasn’t over.
As Richie felt his consciousness fade, the killer said, “See you around, Richie…”
Chapter 23
The Blink of an Eye
Date: Wednesday, August 12th, 1992
Time: 12:00 a.m.
Location: The Inn on Bourbon Street
The French Quarter
Tightening his tie, Michael looked at himself in the mirror in his hospital room. “Time to catch a killer.”
First, he went upstairs to Dixie’s room. The guard there let him in without a problem, letting him know that both she and Gino were asleep. As he entered, he saw Gino reclined in a chair near Dixie’s bed. He was snoring softly.
Michael crept over to Dixie. The stump of her left arm, amputated above the elbow, was wrapped very tightly, tubes going in and out of the wrappings to keep the wound drained. She had a worried wrinkle to her brow, and her sleep looked labored. He took a moment to smooth back her hair. He had just tucked her hair behind her ears when she woke up.
“Hey there, Dixie,” he said softly, offering her a small smile.
She smiled back. “Hey there, Michael. You look better.” Her voice was weak, most likely from the sedatives.
He rested his hands on her abdomen and said, “Yeah. You look… like you’ve been better.”
She laughed softly and coughed a few times. Gino stirred but didn’t wake. She put her one hand over Michael’s and said, “Sam… she’s innocent.”
Michael squeezed her hand. “I know, hun, I know. I’ve figured it all out. I’m going to go meet Rodger and put an end to it.”
She furrowed her brow and nodded weakly, squeezing his hand. “Just be careful. Come back in one piece. Uh, I mean—”
Despite the somberness of the situation, he started to giggle, with her joining him. Both struggled not to wake Gino.
Dixie stopped giggling and looked up at Michael. Her expression was serious as she said, “Michael… if things had been different… if I had been… or if you had been… ?”
Michael felt himself flinch at the question. He cared for her very deeply, but while he had always known that she had feelings for him, he couldn’t return them. All they could ever be was friends. Besides, there was Gino to consider. He knew that Gino could give her the life she deserved.
He said, “Dixie, about that.” He cleared his throat and leaned down. His lips touched her forehead in a gentle kiss. “You’re my best friend, and I will always love you. I couldn’t have lived in this city without your friendship. Please understand how much that means to me. When this is over, we’ll go shopping. I need a new suit. I’ll even treat you to cheesecake. Won’t that be fun?”
Dixie’s eyes showed understanding. She nodded. “Yeah, that would be fun. You take care, OK, friend?”
Michael kissed her hand gently and said, “Of course. Get some rest.” He left without another word.
Thirty minutes later, he was in the lobby of the Inn on Bourbon Street, waiting for Rodger to show up. In his hands, he held the key to Room 205, given to him by the front desk clerk, Viviane. She had confirmed that Irving Jennings was indeed in the room, alone, and had just received room service.
Irving Jennings. No. Kent Bourgeois. It’s almost over.
Michael came out of his thoughts, noticing that Rodger was standing next to him.
“Hey there, partner,” Rodger said. He was wearing one safety vest and holding another. He looked like hell.
“Hey yourself, buddy,” Michael said, looking him over. “Wow, you got worked over something awful. Do I get to hear the gory details?”
Rodger just exhaled. “Yeah. Gory details. When this is over, I’ll treat you to a pitcher of beer and tell you a story about a special house. One you will never believe.”
Michael chuckled. That was the Rodger he knew. Smacking his partner on the arm, he said, “Yeah, I’m going to have to pass on the beer. Still recovering. But I’d love to hear the story.”
Rodger motioned his head toward the elevator. “So, we gonna arrest Bourgeois or what?”
Michael nodded. “How long until Ouellette arrives?”
“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes,” Rodger said as they got on the elevator.
Michael hit the button for the second floor and then put on the other safety vest. “So, the way I see it is this: if Nick is there, he’s going to ambush us as we confront his father.” It was a hunch given what he knew of the suspects.
“Yup, I agree,” said Rodger, taking out his gun and making sure the clip was secured. He chambered a bullet, cocking the gun so that it could fire with just a pull of the trigger. Then he latched the safety on.
Michael had seen this look on Rodger’s face before. Every time they went in to apprehend a dangerous suspect, he got very business-like. Michael was glad for it.
“So, here’s my idea,” he said, checking his own gun and preparing it as Rodger had. “I go in and confront Kent. I’ll just knock and go in. Talk to him. Get him to confess if I can.” I may not be as good as Dixie at getting inside a suspect’s head, but I’ve got to do this.
Rodger rubbed his eyes. “You’re sure you’ve thought this one out, right, buddy?”
“Yes, I have,” Michael said. “Kent’s a lawyer. He’s going to lawyer up the moment it’s obvious he’s being arrested. If we can get a confession out of him before that, we can make it stick. “Besides, I told you before. We deserve to be the ones to get this guy.”
“You’re sure that Ouellette is OK with this plan?” Rodger asked.
“He’s completely behind our plan,” Michael replied. “He’ll be here with backup soon, though. So we need to hurry if we’re going to make the arrest.”
&nb
sp; Rodger eyed him for a moment, and then nodded. “All right. So what do I do?”
“You stay hidden, and if Nick shows, you apprehend him,” said Michael.
“And if the whole gang is there?”
Michael grinned nervously. “Then we delay them until the backup arrives. But I think it’ll just be Kent, with possibly Nick. No one else.”
“Oh?” asked Rodger, arching an eyebrow. “Why do you think that?”
“Just a hunch,” Michael said, winking at his partner. It was true. A week ago, he would have over-analyzed the situation with no regard to his gut instinct. Now, after all he’d been through, he was ready to believe in hunches.
Rodger must have picked up on this, as he winked back. “All right, partner. We’ll follow your plan. Let’s do this.”
The doors to the elevator opened. Michael and Rodger, side by side and weapons drawn, headed down the hall toward Room 205.
Michael heard music coming from inside. It was the sweet symphony of “Serenade” by Schubert. He handed Rodger the key to the room and said, “Go ahead and hide.”
Rodger took the key and moved to the alcove with the ice machine. Once Rodger was hidden from view, Michael went back to the door.
Taking a moment to enjoy the music, and hiding his gun in his coat holster, he took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock on the door. He stopped when he saw that his hand was shaking. Frowning, he closed his eyes and focused.
I can’t think how there’s a killer on the other side of this door. I have to focus on doing my job.
Taking a few more breaths to settle his nerves, he knocked on the door.
A minute later, a man in his mid-fifties with gray hair and reading glasses opened the door.
Michael politely flashed his badge. “Kent Bourgeois? Junior Detective Michael LeBlanc. May I come inside?”
Kent blinked in surprise. He then smiled a bit too cordially. Opening the door all the way, he said, “Come in. I was just about to have a very late dinner.”
“Ah. Worked late tonight?” Michael looked for signs of trouble. None so far.
Kent led him into the room. “Sadly, yes. Work has been hell lately, Detective.”
Stepping into Room 205, Michael saw that it was an executive suite. From the entrance foyer, the room spread back into a living area, complete with a sofa, a breakfast table, and a media center. A large set of glass windows, all curtained, faced Bourbon Street.
Kent sat at the breakfast table, where a covered dinner tray lay. He motioned toward the chair opposite him. “You’re Rodger Bergeron’s partner, aren’t you? Will you have a seat?”
“I’d rather stand,” replied Michael, looking around the room. So far, it was just him and Kent. Nick has to show up at some point. If I’m lucky, it will be after the arrest.
Shrugging, Kent lifted the cover of the tray, revealing a filet mignon steak covered with a sautéed mushroom and onion sauce and topped with caviar. Inhaling the dinner’s aroma, he said, “I hope you don’t mind me eating, then, Detective.”
As Kent began to eat, Michael noticed the wedding band on his left ring finger. Remembering that Kent had married a woman in her eighties, he shook his head and leaned against the nearest wall.
“So you like to eat exquisite foods, Mr. Bourgeois?”
Kent placed a piece of the filet mignon into his mouth and chewed slowly, as if savoring the flavor in a spiritual way. After a few chews, he swallowed, patted his mouth and took a sip from a nearby glass of wine.
“Did you know, Detective, that there is a type of cow in Japan that is given a special diet of sake-soaked grain and is massaged to keep the meat soft? It is said to be the tastiest and most tender in the world.”
“Kobe beef,” Michael replied with a nod. “Sells for something like fifty dollars a pound. Pretty expensive.”
Kent gestured toward his dinner. “With the wine, this dinner here is almost one hundred dollars. How often do you eat hundred-dollar meals, Detective?”
Michael could see where this was going. “Not often, why do you ask?”
“Well, you seem like a man of culture,” Kent said, motioning again for him to have a seat. “If you sit, I’m sure we can work out a way to where you can have such lovely dinners every night.”
In a way, Michael felt insulted, like his character was under attack. And this was after taking a bullet while chasing Blind Moses back in the bayou.
“Really, bribery is the best you can do?” he asked. “Honestly, Mr. Bourgeois, I am unpleasantly surprised.”
Kent just shrugged, then resumed cutting his steak. “Why shouldn’t we all benefit from Vincent Castille’s generosity?”
Michael narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t hide the disdain in his voice as he said, “Because innocent people have died for this fortune."
Kent sighed. “A lot more people have died for a lot less money, Detective. Now is not the time to get all self-righteous.” He popped the food into his mouth.
“Perhaps, Mr. Bourgeois,” replied Michael. He still didn’t see any signs of trouble. “But I’d rather be known as self-righteous than as a serial killer.”
Kent’s cutting slowed down. “I’m not sure I have any idea what you’re talking about, Detective.”
Michael shook his head, not in the mood for games. “I just want to know why, Mr. Bourgeois. Why do this to Sam? She trusted you.”
Kent chewed more slowly. “Sam is not the victim here.” He drank some of his wine and finished the last of his meal.
Michael’s brow furrowed. He needed Kent to open up more, to admit more. “I don’t understand. Exactly what are you trying to say?”
Kent took his wine glass and headed toward the media center. Michael eyed him carefully, his hand inching up to his gun in case things went bad.
At the media center, Kent asked, “Do you like Schubert, Detective?”
“Yes,” Michael replied, trying not to get bored. “Why do you ask? Did Schubert tell you to do it?”
Kent opened the media center and put the CD player on auto-repeat. “No, I just wanted to know if I needed to change CDs. That’s all, Detective. No need to get insulting.”
The sound of the Austrian composer’s music started up again. Kent waved his finger in the air as if conducting. “You were too young to remember, but the Bourbon Street Ripper murders involved so much more than death. Take Vincent Castille, for instance. He sabotaged his own defense so that he’d get executed. He wanted to die. Now that is crazy.”
“Maybe he felt remorse,” Michael said. He knew that wasn’t the case, though. Vincent Castille was a text-book sociopath. There was no remorse.
Kent, still waving his finger to the music, said, “You know that’s not true. But there was more to Vincent than just remorseless killing. On the day of his execution, I had a personal meeting with him. He told me a few things that I have not told another living soul.”
He stopped waving his finger in the air and looked into Michael’s eyes. “Do you want to hear?” He gently sloshed his wine around.
“Sure,” Michael replied, making sure his gun was close by. He wasn’t sure how the conversation would go, but he didn’t want to be caught unawares.
“He told me,” said Kent as he finished his wine, “that he had loved only one person in his entire life. His first marriage was arranged, and they hardly spent time together. So, obviously, the person he loved the most was Sam. Oh, how he loved that girl! She was his princess, his reason for living. He loved Sam more than anything else in the world, and that’s the most important thing anyone can know about Vincent.”
Michael, who had heard this before, said, “I kind of sorted that part out for myself by now, Mr. Bourgeois. Why is that important?”
“Because Vincent confided in me that he committed all those murders for Sam,” said Kent with a smirk.
Michael narrowed his eyes and looked at him. This was the first time he’d ever heard something like this. “He killed all those people for Sam?”
&nb
sp; “Indeed,” Kent said. “Every single one of them, including his own son. Vincent said that he killed them all just for Sam.”
Shaking his head, Michael said, “I know that Vincent was crazy, but that doesn’t make any sense. Why murder so many people for a little girl, even if you do love her?”
Kent shrugged. “Detective, I asked him the same thing. Do you know what he said?”
Michael shook his head again.
“He said that it was to protect Sam from harm. He said it was so she could live a life without fear. I’ve since given up trying to decipher Vincent’s madness.” Kent flicked the rim of his wine glass. A crystal clear tone rang out.
Michael sighed and wondered if he should give that up, too.
“You know what else he told me,” Kent said, almost as an aside.
“What?” asked Michael. I need to get him to trust me more, to open up so he’ll confess.
Pouring another glass of wine, Kent said, “Vincent told me that if I took good care of Sam, he’d make sure that I would be taken care of. He promised that I’d never want for material needs.”
He raised his glass and observed the red color. “Like he’d be able to help from the grave. What a crock of shit.”
Michael shook his head. The motivation was basic greed, and all the sad stories in the world wouldn’t change the fact that Kent was facilitating murder to get at Sam’s money. That’s pathetic.
Shrugging, he said, “But you got screwed. You couldn’t put yourself on a nice, fat retainer because Sam refused to run the household. She chopped up all the Castille family assets. You haven’t been able to consolidate that fortune and do anything with that money. So for the past twenty years, you’ve floundered.”
“I’ve more than floundered,” Kent snapped so viciously that Michael jumped. “I’ve all but failed! Vincent Castille paid me more than I could ever dream. And as soon as he died? Nothing! Do you know how hard it is to get new clients when you’re the family lawyer of the Bourbon Street Ripper? Even the Marcello family wouldn’t touch me. I’ve been making do with Sam’s minuscule retainer and the small pittance I get for managing her estate. Hell, I’d have had better luck moving out of Louisiana.”
