by Leo King
Another doctor, a younger one in a white coat, entered the lounge. The light glistened off his oily black hair and his small, rectangular glasses. His smile was as wide as it was uninhibitedly condescending.
He leaned down over Dr. Lazarus. “A pleasure to meet you. My name is Dr. Ignatius Kindley. I’m an associate of Dr. Klein’s. We work for the same, well, benefactor.”
As Dr. Lazarus skimmed him over, his eyes slowly widened. On Dr. Kindley’s lapel was an ornate golden pin with the crest of a red cross and a golden crown.
“That crest. It’s the symbol of—“
Dr, Kindley kept smiling. “Indeed it is. We’ve been out of the game for too many years. So now, it’s our move. I do so look forward to seeing who emerges victorious in the final round. Will it be us? You?”
He pushed up his glasses.
“Or perhaps the gods themselves.”
Chapter 1
Darkness of the Unknown
Date: Friday, September 11th, 1992
Time: 4:00 p.m.
Location: A Dark, Silent, Lonely Place
Sam Castille floated in a cold nothingness for a very long time.
Am I dead? Is this Heaven? Is this Hell? Is this nothing at all?
Nothing but darkness surrounded her.
Everything that I went through. Everything I did. Was it all for nothing?
Nothing but silence answered her.
I’ve never felt so alone. So terribly alone. Is this what’s it’s like… to be dead?
Nothing but numbness consumed her.
Then that silent, dark, cold void began to break. A slit of light cut across the blackness before her. As it widened, sensations started filling her being. She heard a steady tone beeping in time to the beat of her heart. She smelled and tasted her bitter sweat. She felt a contrast of chilly air and warm covering.
Then suddenly, her vision filled with blinding light, and she felt pain. Unbearable, hot pain along the left side of her body. But the void of nothingness was gone, replaced by a world of shape and sensation—the world of the living.
Sam opened her eyes.
For a long time, she just lay there, looking up at the ceiling of a very unfamiliar room. At first, she thought she might be paralyzed, like when she suffered from Locked-in Syndrome. But then she sneezed. Sighing in relief, she looked around. The movement was painful, the skin of her neck felt tight and hot.
She was alone in what looked like a hospital room, the fluorescent lights above uncomfortably bright. Along the wall was a sink for someone to wash their hands, and near her bed was a privacy curtain. The door was open, leading out into a hallway. To her side was a steadily beeping heart monitor. Her left arm was heavily bandaged up to her neck, a catheter was inserted in her right arm, and both were bound by leather straps. Gauss was taped to the left side of her face. She was covered in sticky sweat and a stale odor.
Panic welled up inside of her as she remembered the last time she was bound in such a manner. Dallas Christofer, the New Bourbon Street Ripper, was torturing her. He had managed two cuts before Rodger Bergeron, the only detective left on the case, arrived and stopped him. The two had fought, with Dallas overpowering Rodger. But before he could finish him, she freed herself and helped him destroy the copycat killer.
As those awful memories assailed her, she realized she was straining against the straps. The veins in her arms began to pop out, the straps creaking. Just as she felt them start to give, she relaxed, panting. She wasn’t in the Castille Mansion. She wasn’t being tortured. She was in a hospital. She was safe.
But where am I? How did I get here?
Sam closed her eyes and focused on remembering what had happened. All she could recall was a fire in her townhome right after learning that Rodger had died.
Then she remembered that Michael, Rodger’s partner, had been killed a week earlier.
And then she remembered that Richie, her boyfriend, had turned out to be Dallas. He had committed suicide when he realized what he had done.
The memories opened a floodgate within her heart. Before she realized it, tears were pouring down her face. They burned.
Oh God. Everyone is dead.
Rodger. Michael. Richie. My poor, sweet Richie.
They’re all dead. I’m the only one left.
The heaviness crushed her heart. Turning her head to the side, she saw raindrops hitting the window. More memories returned. It had been raining the night Rodger and Michael first visited—the night everything began.
Tears continued to painfully flow down her cheeks. She was the only survivor of Vincent Castille’s madness.
Vincent.
Just thinking of him, the original Bourbon Street Ripper, pulled her heart from the presses and plunged it into fire. Even knowing that Vincent was actually her father wasn’t enough to extinguish the inferno of hate. From beyond the grave, he had managed to mastermind everything. The serial murders, the random deaths, all were him using both Dallas and voodoo spirits called loa to continue his evil work.
But for what reason? Try as she might, she couldn’t remember why Vincent did it. She only knew it was something horrible.
A voice came from the hallway. “All right, time to check on Miss Castille.”
That drew her from her thoughts. Seeing the shadow of someone approaching, she quickly straightened and closed her eyes. She wasn’t ready to speak to others just yet. A moment later, she felt someone standing over her.
Creaking one eye open, she saw an African American nurse taking notes on a clipboard. As the woman turned, Sam shut her eye. She then felt the nurse move around her. She smelt of sanitizing lotion and chewing gum.
“Hmm. All seems normal.” The nurse mopped some sweat off of Sam’s brow.
As she lay there, however, she also began to feel other presences, once she couldn’t see, hear or smell. Were these the voodoo loa? Were they perhaps even ghosts?
Memories of what had happened continued flooding back.
Did Vincent really contact me from the spirit world?
Did I really make a pact with the Queen of the Loa?
Did I really fight my way out of my home as it burnt around me?
“Checkin’ the blood pressure.” The nurse attached a strap to her right arm. Within seconds, it tightened.
Memories returned with every breath. Soon she was certain of what happened that night. Most of her life, she had thought she was mad. It turned out to be a powerful possession.
When I was five years old, Vincent put that loa Marinette inside of me.
But Marinette was dead, killed by her own hand.
Now, I have Bridgette, the Loa Queen.
“Not bad.” The nurse released the blood pressure strap and moved to her other side.
Sam frowned. Despite knowing she had made a pact with Bridgette that night, she couldn’t feel her. It was like the Loa Queen was gone.
Bridgette, can you hear me? It’s Sam. Let me know you’re okay.
Nothing. Not a single whisper or nudge.
The last thing I recall was passing out in my front lawn. I was badly hurt, wasn’t I?
As Sam struggled to remember, the nurse started unwrapping the bandages from her left arm. Searing pain shot through her like venom. She jerked upwards and screamed.
“Holy shit that hurts!!”
The nurse fell back, hand to her chest. “Good heavens! Don’t scream at me like that. Oh Lord, girl. You ‘bout gave me a heart attack!” She leaned against the wall, catching her breath.
Sam was still shaking from the sudden jolt of pain when another nurse, a young, strong-looking guy, rushed in. “Ester, is everything okay?”
Ester waved him off, nodding. “Yeah, Marty, it’s All right. Go… go tell Dr. Hofmann that Miss Castille is awake.”
Sparing Sam a glance, Marty left. As Easter came back over, she tensed the muscles in her left arm. Another hot slice of pain shot through her nerves.
She hissed and relaxed. The pain barely ebbed. “What happened? Did I get
burnt?”
Ester’s lips turned down. “Yeah hun, you got burned. Pretty badly.”
Seeing pity in her eyes made Sam feel a surge of indignation. Who the heck is she looking at like that?
With a “tch,” she craned her neck and looked around. “So, where am I?”
“The burn unit at Tulane.” Ester held the clipboard to her chest as if it were a shield.
“Tulane Hospital.” Sam looked again at her left arm. The pain was a throbbing, constant, inescapable heat.
“What day is it? How long have I been out?”
Ester cleared her throat. “It’s September 11th, hun. A Friday. You’ve been out for ‘bout two weeks.”
“Two weeks.” Sam laid her head back down and chuckled. “Unbelievable.”
That laugh made the left side of her face hurt. Instinctively, she tried to touch it, but was stopped by the leather straps. She wrinkled her brow. “So, Ester, why am I tied up?”
“To stop you from hurting yourself,” said a voice came from the doorway.
A middle-aged doctor with thinning hair and wearing green scrubs entered the room. Sam felt like she had seen him once before. Nearby, Marty stood, his arms folded. His expression was both curious and wary.
“You must be Dr. Hoffman.”
Dr. Hoffman took the clipboard from Ester and examined it. He then nodded and smiled. It was less of a happy sort of smile and more like a pitiable one. Again she felt an indignant surge well-up within her. It was humiliating to be shown such obvious pity.
“How are you feeling, Sam?”
She stared at him, feeling more incredulous every second. “I’m bewildered and confused. I wake up and am hurting like the Devil’s been cooking me. I’m tied up to stop me from hurting myself, whatever that means. I smell and feel like crap. And I got people looking at me like I’m crazy. You tell me how I should feel!” Her neck muscles strained with discomfort.
He leaned forward and rested his hands on the side rail. “Yes, I can see how that is confusing. You know, Sam, this is the third time in your life that I’ve treated you. The last time was a few weeks ago. You had passed out while driving your car. And before that, when you were five years old. Your grandfather, Vincent, brought you here after you suffered a collapse.”
“Don’t call him that!” Sam yelled out with such force that both Ester and Dr. Hoffman stumbled back. Marty started to come forward, but stopped when Dr. Hoffman held him back.
“Let Miss Castille speak. She obviously has a lot to get out.”
Tears again threatened to spill from her eyes. “That damn bastard. He took everything from me. He stole my past. He stole my future. He stole my life. He’s nothing to me!”
Dr. Hoffman slowly approached, holding out his hands. “I am sorry for bringing him up. Given what Vincent has done, I can’t blame you. I just wanted to point out that I am familiar with treating you. I am on your side, Sam.”
She nodded, just wanting the conversation to end. All that pain was tiring.
“So let’s talk about your injuries, okay?”
She nodded again, just wanting to slip back to sleep. Emotions this painful were even more tiring.
“All right. Your townhome had caught on fire. You fell out of the attic. When you did, you suffered deep second and third degree burns to your left extremities, the left side of your torso, including your left breast and buttocks, and to the left side of your neck and head. You’ve been spending two hours a day in oxygen treatment.”
She felt sick to her stomach, trying to imagine her torn up, burnt up body.
“When you landed, you broke over a dozen bones. At first, we thought it was every major bone in your body. But wasn’t the case. After stabilizing and moving you here, we did a second x-ray. You got away with only broken legs and a few cracked ribs.”
She bit her top lip and sucked. No… that’s not it. My ability to heal is enhanced. I’m sure of it.
Again, Dr. Hoffman rested his hands on the railing. “Your first few nights here were pretty rough. We honestly thought that you were going to die. But you pulled through. Three times now, you’ve sustained life threatening injuries and survived. You are truly remarkable.”
Sam continued to suck on her upper lip. She was sure that there was more to it. Vincent had revealed something extremely important. I feel as if I wasn’t in danger of dying. Why is that?
“Anyway, even in a coma, you’ve been pretty reactive to pain. Every time we’ve applied Silvadene to your bruns, you’ve nearly broken a nose or cracked a collarbone. So we’ve restrained you.”
She snorted. “Less for my protection and more for others, eh?”
He shrugged, smiling gently. “Sam, I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t remove the restraints just yet. Much has happened since your accident, and you’ve gained a lot of attention. A few people need to talk to you before your personal psychiatrist can see you.”
She gasped. “No, not Dr. Klein. He threatened to hurt me! He threatened to torture me!” The heart rate monitor quickened until it was a flurry of beeps. Sounds around her started to mute and sensations started to grow.
Ester and Marty traded looks. Dr. Hoffman cleared his throat. “Please relax, Miss Castille. Your psychiatrist is Dr. Lazarus. Don’t you remember firing Dr. Klein? He’s been complaining about it for weeks to anyone who’ll listen. But anyway, Dr. Lazarus will want to know that you’re awake.”
She relaxed, her heart-rate returning to normal, and with it the sounds and sensations of the room. She remembered that Dr. Lazarus was much more open to the idea of her being possessed. “Sorry. I’m okay. I just hate Dr. Klein.”
“I can understand that. For now though, Ester needs to change your bandages. I’ll come check up on you later. Until then, please try to remain calm.” Flashing another smile, he left.
Her ears burnt. She felt a like a scolded child. Hurt and torture me—Jesus, Sam, shut the hell up! You sound like a damn lunatic.
Ester gingerly approached. “Sam, I’m gonna to give you some morphine while I change your bandages, and clean n’ treat your burns. It’s still going to hurt, though. Marty’s gonna keep you steady, all right? ”
Sam glanced toward Marty. He was handsome, in his early twenties and built like a lumberjack. Suddenly, she wondered how good he’d be at pinning her to a wall while having her. Her cheeks grew hot and she looked away, pushing those feelings aside. You whore! What’s wrong with you? The man you love died just a few weeks ago!
Then the world started to swim. Ester had added morphine to her IV. Sam leaned back, smiling goofily. Tears flecked around her eyes, turning the light into specks. Then the specks turned into butterflies. “Yeah, I feel it. Good ol’ Morphine… lovely Miss Emma… delicious. This is the stuff. Go on, Ester. Hit me.”
Through her semi-daze, she saw Ester smirk and then nod. Then she felt Marty’s strong hands resting on the right side of her hip and chest. She rolled her head towards him and winked. “Hey there, kiddo. If you wanna have some fun, wait until we don’t have an audience. Wait until—”
Then some of the most excruciating pain she had ever felt shot through her left arm. It was just as relentless as when Dallas was slicing into her. Almost against her will, she looked. Ester had removed the bandages. Her entire left arm down to her hand was nothing more than charred meat that stank like bad barbeque.
She screamed and thrashed against her restraints. “You fucking bitch! The morphine isn’t helping at all!”
“Ma’am, you need to relax,” Marty said forcefully, pushing harder.
Ester pulled back. “Hun, you need to stop. You’re only going to hurt yourself.”
Sam eventually calmed down enough for Ester to remove the bandages from the rest of her body, including her face. The pain was a constant hot throbbing. He left leg was a gnarled mess that she could barely recognize.
I’m a freak now…
The treatment didn’t get any better, with the pain from having her wounds cleaned bad enough to make
her weep. She somehow endured, gritting her teeth and crying out into her throat until it hurt.
When she was finally done, Ester said, “Sam, I am going to put the Silvadene on now. This is going to hurt, but I need to you be brave like you’ve been so far.”
“Okay,” said Sam in a small voice. She was already hoarse. She just wanted the pain to end so she could go back to sleep. But as soon as the Silvadene hit, her mind went blank, unsure how anything could register as that painful and not kill her. Despite Ester’s pleadings, she struggled harder than before, Marty barely able to hold on.
Then, quite suddenly, the morphine high start to lift, and the instinct to survive overtook any rationality. Clenching her fist, she let out a guttural scream and pulled her right arm against the restraints. The leather strap easily popped free. With another roar, she pushed Marty off of her. He landed against the wall and collapse.
With a snarl, she grabbed Ester and pulled the terrified nurse closer until their noses were touching. She could smell the fear. It was delicious ambrosia.
“You will never touch me again, you goddamn little insect.”
She pushed Ester to the ground and then passed out.
Afterword
Two down and one to go.
As you figured out, what started as a normal mystery/suspense thriller has evolved into a supernatural thriller. I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it.
As I mentioned in the afterword of The Bourbon Street Ripper, I was able to put back in a lot of content that was originally cut when these two books were just one. Most of that content is in A Life Without Fear.
So what exactly was restored? Let’s see, the outings with Jacob, the motorcycle gang side story, most of Dixie’s chapters, and the entirety of Jonathon Russell’s storyline. While the main story of the copycat killer, the influence of the loa, and the rituals performed on Sam didn’t need that content, I feel their addition really rounded out the overall experience.
And now you know for absolute certain that Sins of the Father is really about Sam. To quote the Lady in Red, “It’s always been about Sam.”
