A Life Without Fear

by Leo King

  Sam was distracted, remembering that she needed to call Dr. Lazarus. But as Rodger stood, she focused on him and followed him to the door. Hugging him once more, she leaned up and gave him a final peck on the cheek. “Take care, Uncle Rodger.”

  He hugged her back, patting her shoulder. “You, too, little Samantha.” He winked and went out to the squad car.

  She watched him fiddle with the front seat belt, his frustration plain on his face. She couldn’t help but smile at his efforts. She was glad he wouldn’t have to drive that car for much longer.

  Finally getting the seat belt in place and giving her a helpless shrug, Rodger drove off.

  Sam watched as he left, fondness in her eyes. She loved that old guy.

  Later that evening, after ordering pizza for dinner, she was in her study listening to the radio.

  She had spoken briefly with Dr. Lazarus. He had reassured her that the new medication given by the state-appointed doctor would help with any symptoms of schizophrenia. He had also reassured her that he was both analyzing samples of the tkeeus and doing all he could to stop Dr. Klein from interfering with her new treatment. Dr. Lazarus ended the phone call by promising her that eventually he would have answers about the tkeeus and her special abilities.

  When she had pointedly asked him if he thought she was possessed, he had just said, “I can’t tell you anything now. But soon, I will tell you everything.”

  As satisfied as she could be, she sat down to write. Another cup of hot coffee sat on her desk, and her typewriter had a fresh sheet of paper in it.

  However, Sam’s attention was on the notebook directly in front of her, where she was tapping a fresh page with her silver pen. Rodger had given them back after her discharge. It felt good to touch that pen once more.

  “And in other news,” said a voice on the radio, “the mysterious fire that burnt down the historic Castille mansion has been ruled an accident. It has been confirmed that Gladys Castille, the matriarch of the Castille family, along with the mansion staff, were killed when several gas pipes combusted. The property, which has been donated to the city, will be converted into a public park.”

  She shook her head, trying not to snort. It was obviously false information, but she knew why. The public would demand to know every single detail, and there was too much that couldn’t be explained. The fight at the wharf, the tkeeus, the Knight Priory, and more. She hated lies, but this time it was better to withhold the truth.

  The radio continued, crackling with a little static. “There is still no word from the heir to the Castille fortune, Samantha Castille, who was recently cleared on all charges relating to the new Bourbon Street Ripper.”

  Sam wasn’t rushing into matters regarding her inheritance. While the thought of having nearly five billion dollars was amazing, she wasn’t sure what she would do with that much money.

  “The murderer, Dallas Christofer, a long-term resident of Acadia Vermillion Hospital, who committed suicide during a police standoff, was cremated in a private ceremony earlier this week.”

  A small sigh escaped her lips, and she closed her eyes. She was just glad that the police, the district attorney, and the mayor had all decided not to include that Richie was actually Dallas. Richie’s obituary was two paragraphs, simply stating that he had drowned in the Mississippi after drinking too much. She hadn’t saved that clipping. She preferred to keep her signed copy of Darkness Rising as her way of remembering him.

  “And lastly,” crackled the radio, “Mayor Sidney Barthelemy announced today that he will not be calling for the resignation of Commander Louis Ouellette of the New Orleans eighth precinct. In a press conference, Mayor Barthelemy stated that he believed that the eighth precinct had suffered enough these past few weeks, and that without Commander Ouellette, who has had a flawless track record up to this point, the French Quarter and wharf would be the only ones to suffer. And now for some music.”

  As the radio started playing a catchy dance tune, she thought about the other survivors. So many had suffered, and she didn’t want to hold a grudge anymore. Dr. Klein, Aucoin, even Ouellette. She would try to stop hating and move on.

  “Enough. I need to write. Let me finish this stupid copycat story and move on with my life,” Sam said, looking back at her notebook.

  She hadn’t touched her notes since before her fight with Blind Moses and still needed to come up with an ending. She did have a lot of notes, however.

  She had sketched out a final fight between the lead detective and the killer. In that fight, she had listed over four different ways for the killer to die, including falling, fire, shooting, and impaling. She decided to stick with fire and have the entire building burn down, just like the Castille mansion did. That would be poetic.

  Other notes, such as one of the accomplices dying in prison and another murdering a police officer with a shredding machine, were too close to what had actually happened. So she deleted those scenes. She also removed the part where one of the detectives died in an arrest gone wrong, as she felt it was too close to what had happened with Michael.

  But Sam kept in the sequence where the heroine and an assassin have a fight to death—despite the similarity to her fight with Blind Moses—because she liked the idea of two strong female characters fighting. She also kept the bit about an escape from a house full of traps, because she found that to be deviously wonderful.

  Now with the words “building burns down” written on the page, she moved to a fresh line to start on the ending.

  She didn’t want to have a happy ending. And she didn’t want to continue this story. It was best if she killed off her remaining two characters.

  She examined them: Horatio Benoit and Julia Castille. Horatio had caught the villain, but the stress had destroyed him, so he had turned to Jack Daniels to numb the pain. Julia was horribly depressed from her own loss during the case and was slowly going insane.

  “Heh, this is sinfully easy,” Sam said, uncapping the silver pen and writing: “Horatio Benoit gets drunk and is killed in a car crash. Julia Castille commits suicide by jumping out of a window.”

  Capping the pen, she said, “There. Now, once I write this ending, I’ll start something new. New story. New characters. New genre. I’ll need to read up on voodoo some more if I want to switch to supernatural horror. Maybe I’ll even go straight to an agent with this. I wonder if Gordon Rockway was serious about representing me?”

  She looked at the Rolodex where she had scribbled Gordon’s number. He had contacted her soon after her discharge from the hospital and had let her know that, because of Richie’s praise, he wanted to give her a chance.

  Sam sat there for what felt like a very long time, her eyes closed as she listened to the sound of distant thunder. Sipping her coffee occasionally, she felt truly and genuinely at peace. Thanks, Richie. You looked out for me until the very end.

  Suddenly, the air conditioning kicked on and the temperature started to drop.

  “Shit, it’s getting cold. Why the hell is the heat gone?”

  The radio stopped playing music. The DJ’s voice could again be heard. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a breaking news report.”

  She headed out to the hallway, then stopped at the thermostat and jiggled its controls. The needle was dipping below seventy degrees.

  Ugh, my thermostat is broken. She held the cup of coffee near her chest. The steam felt good.

  The voice on the radio continued. “We have just received word of a fatal car accident at the corner of Saint Peter and Bourbon Street.”

  Sam shivered as a tingle ran down the base of her spine.

  Chapter 33

  Exiting the Stage

  Date: Tuesday, August 25th, 1992

  Time: 7:00 p.m.

  Location: New Orleans Police Precinct 8th District

  The French Quarter

  “A toast to Rodger Bergeron,” said Detective Rivette.

  He, Landry, Breaux, Gravois, Dixie, and about half a dozen other detectives lifted thei
r champagne glasses to Rodger, who lifted his as well. He had been surprised by most of the homicide division waiting for him with a champagne basket and cards of congratulations—for both his success in closing the case and his impending retirement.

  Rodger took it all in stride. He was pretty sure that Dixie had set up the party, because she was the only one who had known he’d be in the office that evening. The somewhat cheeky smile she had didn’t do much to convince him otherwise.

  After the toast, the detectives chatted around Rodger for a little while longer, giving him more congratulations and asking him particulars about solving the case. He kept up his smile and good cheer, but the attention was making him feel a bit uncomfortable. Just like twenty years ago, with the party after arresting Vincent, he felt like he didn’t deserve it.

  Finally, Ouellette came to the rescue, coming out of his office. “All right, everyone, in case you hadn’t known, the Bourbon Street Ripper is dead and New Orleans is back to being a normal cesspool once again.”

  As the detectives all dispersed, giving Rodger final congratulations and claps on the back, Ouellette said, “Bergeron, my office, please.”

  Rodger was slightly taken aback. Ouellette hardly ever said “please.”

  In his office, Ouellette once again sat down and poured a glass of whiskey for them both. “Here, better than that crap they gave you outside.”

  While Rodger didn’t much feel like drinking, he took the whiskey anyway, swishing the cup gently in his hands.

  “I want you to know that I’m sorry,” Ouellette said, also swishing his whiskey around.

  “Commander?” Rodger asked, unsure what he meant.

  Ouellette snorted and sipped his whiskey. “It’s the same goddamn thing as when Douglas retired. You gave your all to this city. You gave your blood, you even gave your partner’s life, and how do they repay you? They make you retire.”

  Rodger blinked and looked away from Ouellette. He hadn’t really thought of it that way. He had figured that retirement was a reward for all the sacrifices he’d made. Not once did he ever think he was being swept under the rug like Douglas had been.

  “It really is a goddamn shame, Bergeron,” Ouellette said. “You turned out to be one hell of a cop.”

  Rodger chuckled and said, “I really didn’t solve all that much, Commander. You know Michael—”

  “That’s not what I meant, Bergeron,” interrupted Ouellette. “I don’t mean a detective, I mean a cop.” He paused for a moment to sip his whiskey. “Let me tell you a story.”

  Rodger sat back and looked at his commander questioningly.

  “Before I joined the police, I served in the Armed Forces during the Vietnam War. You know that, right?” asked Ouellette.

  Rodger nodded.

  Ouellette continued. “My platoon and I were stationed in the A Shau valley during March of 1966. We had seen a lot of violence, a lot of killing, a lot of bloodshed. To say that my men and I were desensitized to violence would be an understatement.”

  Again, Rodger nodded. He knew of his commander’s military past but had never heard him tell a story about it.

  “So there was this girl from the village right next to our camp,” Ouellette said, sliding his glass back and forth between his hands. “Twelve, maybe thirteen years old. Absolutely adorable. Rode her bike past where my platoon was stationed every day. The men would cat-call her, because for some reason soldiers stationed abroad lose their shit the moment a girl goes by, even if she’s more illegal than going AWOL.”

  Rodger, despite himself, snickered at Ouellette’s remark.

  Ouellette seemed to ignore him and continued the story. “So they’d cat-call her, and try to get her to come over, and all the demented crap horny soldiers do. But she’d always just smile at them, wave, and say ‘Cam on ban.’ Do you know what that means, Bergeron?”

  Rodger shook his head. “No, Commander, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “It means ‘thank you,’ Bergeron,” Ouellette said. “Some of my men were pretty dumb and thought she was thanking them for the compliments, because obviously a pre-pubescent girl loves being told she has a fine ass.”

  Rodger held back a second snicker by sipping his whiskey. “Obviously.”

  “So, anyway, every day this girl comes by, says thank you, and heads off. But then, March 9, 1966, comes around.”

  Rodger blinked. The date was significant, but he couldn’t recall why. Vietnam War history wasn’t his strong point.

  “The battle of A Shau.”

  “Ah. I remember reading about it. It was one of the biggest battles in the war next to the Tet Offensive, right?”

  Ouellette nodded, his countenance darkening. “Those VC bastards came in and turned our camp into a bloody graveyard. Worst fight I’d ever been in. Read about it, Bergeron, cause I sure as hell am not going to relive the details for you.” He took a deep drink of his whiskey.

  Shaking his head, Rodger said, “No, I remember enough about the Vietnam War to remember how awful that battle was.”

  “When the smoke finally cleared, when the VC finally withdrew, three of us were all that was left of my platoon. The camp was lost and the village next to it was a goddamn massacre.”

  Rodger shook his head again. He had been lucky enough not to have been drafted. Without dismissing the horrors he had experienced with both Bourbon Street Ripper murders, he couldn’t begin to imagine what Ouellette had experienced.

  Drinking more of his whiskey, Ouellette continued. “So I’m walking around these killing fields and helping identify bodies. Soldiers in my platoon. Soldiers I knew since arriving at the camp. Doctors. Teachers. Journalists. I’m walking around as if in a daze, figuring that this is how the soldiers who opened up the Nazi concentration camps must have felt.” Leaning forward, he said, “So I’m at the end of this one field, and guess who I see?”

  Rodger felt he knew where this story was going. Frowning, he said, “The little girl, right? Dead in a grave?”

  Ouellette shook his head. “Nope. The little girl, alive and kneeling in front of a dozen or so bodies. Her whole family. All dead.”

  Rodger just stared at him. He didn’t know what to say.

  Ouellette wiped sweat off his temples. His voice lowered to almost a whisper. “There she was, this little girl, barely old enough to be considered a woman. She’s kneeling on the side of the road and just praying. Praying over her mother. Her father. Just praying. And when she saw me, when I walked up to her, do you know what she said?”

  Rodger felt a lump in his throat. He shook his head.

  “She said ‘Cam on ban,’ Rodger.”

  Rodger swallowed the lump in his throat.

  A few tears rolled down Ouellette’s face. It was like he wasn’t even aware of them. “I never saw her during the fighting. I didn’t even look for her. I didn’t save a single person she knew. Hell, I didn’t even try. And here she was, with nothing, nothing at all. And she was thanking me.”

  Rodger took a deep, silent inhale and finished his whiskey. It burned going down.

  “I asked her why. Why she would thank me, when I hadn’t done shit for her. She looked at me and said, ‘You’re a soldier. Your job is to die so I can be safe. If I’m alive, it’s because you did your job. So, thank you.’ And with that, she got on her bike and rode off. I was re-stationed in Guinea shortly afterward, so I never saw her again.”

  He sat back, drank the last of his whiskey, and said, “So when I say you’re a good cop, Bergeron, that’s what I mean. It’s not about the case. It’s not about the suspects or the deductions. It’s not about the arrests, and it sure as hell isn’t about the convictions. It’s about you going out there and maybe dying, so that little girls like that can live.”

  Rodger felt a few tears run down his cheeks.

  Ouellette appeared to notice this, since he wiped his own tears away and said, “Enough of that crying crap. You’re a good cop, and it’s a shame that the city’s shitting on you like you committed
the Rape of Belgium. Now that was some screwed-up shit.”

  Rodger dried his eyes and chuckled. “Sounds like a bad memory. What was it?”

  Ouellette blinked and quickly chortled, shaking his head. “Just an old saying from an old soldier who’s buried too many comrades. What I mean to say is that you’re being made to be a patsy, and you don’t deserve it. Anyway, it’s getting late. You better head home. If you ever need anything, you let me know.”

  Rodger slid his empty glass back to Ouellette. “Thanks for the drink, Commander. I’ll keep in touch once I’m gone.”

  Rodger left Ouellette’s office. He needed some fresh air.

  An hour later, he was outside enjoying a cigarette when Dixie joined him. Sitting next to him, she said, “Hey. Douglas is on the phone.”

  Rodger had been lost in his own thoughts, and her sudden arrival jerked him out of them. When what she had said registered, he put out his cigarette. “Thanks, Dixie.”

  As he headed inside, she called out after him. “You know, Rodger, I’m going to be a lieutenant soon. And while Kyle just got off of administrative leave, he’s going to be on probation for a while. Point is, I could use someone like you underneath me.”

  Rodger stopped at the doorway as she continued. “If you want, I can try to get your retirement postponed. Someone like you could really do a lot of good.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “I have done a lot of good, Dixie. It’s time for this old player to exit the stage.” He headed inside, adding, “You be the one to play the lead now, Dixie. It’s your time, anyway.”

  Back at his desk, Rodger paused a moment to look at Michael’s. His personal belongings were stacked up on one side of it. At the center of the desk was a photograph of Michael from when he had graduated from the police academy, along with several bouquets of flowers. Rodger took a moment to touch his partner’s desk. “Yeah. We did it, buddy.”