by Ethan Cross
“So what now?”
“Now you shut the doors and go back to the car and retrieve the bag of goodies that I picked up at that truck stop. We’re going to need a few of those items.”
“I won’t let you hurt this man.”
Ackerman winked. “Don’t worry, little sister. I’ll be gentle.”
66
THE BACK ROOM OF THE STORE HADN’T BEEN REMODELED. It was exposed brick and knotty pine floors, and it contained shelving filled with cardboard boxes, which Maggie guessed held more party masks. Tools and materials littered a small workstation used for making some of the more elaborate custom masks. An air-conditioner unit hummed in one window, and the muffled sounds of pedestrians carried in from the streets beyond. When Maggie returned with Ackerman’s bag, she found that the killer had already suspended the unconscious clerk by his hands from an exposed rafter.
Maggie shook her head and instinctively placed her hand over the gun concealed beneath her leather jacket. “I won’t let you torture this man.”
“It won’t come to that. I just need to scare him a bit.”
She held out the bag. “Then why do you need this stuff?”
“All part of the show,” Ackerman said as he snatched the bag from her grasp.
She watched him warily with her hand still on her gun as he moved to the workstation and turned on an old record player. The eerie melancholy of Billie Holliday singing Strange Fruit crackled out of the speaker. Ackerman reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of lighter fluid and a Zippo lighter.
He popped open the squeeze bottle and sprayed it into the clerk’s face. The man jolted to consciousness as he choked on the liquid. “What...” the man started, but then his gaze came to rest on Ackerman. He said, “Please don’t hurt me. I have a family. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
Ackerman said nothing. He just hummed along to the music and started spraying the man down with the lighter fluid. Maggie’s grip tightened around her Glock. If Ackerman tried to set fire to the man, she would drop him. She made up her mind on it right then. She couldn’t allow him to hurt an innocent, even if that meant that they never found Marcus. She would kill Ackerman and go on without him, if that was what it came to.
The clerk said, “Please! You don’t have to do this. I’ll tell you where Louis is.”
Ackerman said, “I’m not really a big fan of the ambience of your fair city. But there are two things about New Orleans that I love. The jazz”—he gestured toward the record player—”and the history. One of my favorite stories is that of the Axeman of New Orleans. At least eight murders were attributed to him in 1918 and 1919, but he possibly killed many more. They never caught him or even determined his identity. But the best part of the story is that he sent a rather eloquent letter to the local papers stating that he would kill again at fifteen minutes past midnight on the night of March 19, the anniversary of which is later this week, but he would also spare the occupants of any place where a jazz band was playing. That night all of New Orleans’s dance halls were filled to capacity. Every band around was booked, and there were parties at hundreds of private residences.”
The clerk started spilling his guts, words falling from his mouth in rapid succession. “Louis lives out in Jefferson Parish. There’s an old plantation house in the bayou. My cousin bought it, and I traded it to Louis for the shop. He didn’t want it in his name because of the reporters and police looking for his son. He doesn’t want any attention.”
Ackerman didn’t even acknowledge the confession. “Of course, not everyone complied with the Axeman’s demands, but still, no murders occurred that night. It’s a beautiful story, don’t you think—the Axeman haunting the streets of New Orleans like the angel of death passing over the people of Egypt.”
“That’s all I know. I swear.”
Ackerman flipped open the lighter but didn’t strike the flame. The alcohol smell was thick in the air. Maggie pulled her gun and aimed it at Ackerman’s back. “Don’t move, Ackerman. I will shoot you.”
He laughed and flipped the lighter closed. “Are you telling me the truth?” he asked the clerk.
“I swear.”
“Directions?”
The man rattled off a series of directions to Louis Ackerman’s home. Maggie committed the directions to memory and suspected Ackerman did the same. When the clerk was finished, Ackerman added, “And what happens if you try to warn Louis or call the police after we leave?”
“I’ll tell no one!”
“But what happens if I walk out that door and you find courage enough to make a little phone call?”
The man swallowed hard and said, “You’ll come back.”
“And next time, I’ll visit you at home. Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” The Bowie knife appeared in Ackerman’s hand as it slid out from under the back of his shirt, and with a flick of his wrist, the rope was severed and the clerk dropped to the floor.
Ackerman gathered his things and headed for the front door. Maggie followed a few feet behind, her gun still at the ready. Once she was sure the encounter was over, she slipped the weapon back into her holster.
Back on the sidewalk along St. Ann Street, she caught up with him and said angrily, “You would have burned that man alive if I hadn’t been there to stop you.”
Ackerman didn’t look at her but sighed and said, “Have some faith, little sister. It wasn’t even lighter fluid.”
“I could smell it.”
“Yes, back at the gas station, I went into the bathroom, dumped out the lighter fluid, and filled the bottle with witch hazel. It’s a type of rubbing alcohol that has enough of a smell to make someone think it’s combustible. Even though it’s only slightly more flammable than water.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and turned to her, the contempt clear on his face. Then he reached into the bag, pulled out the bottle, and sprayed some of its contents on his left hand. He dropped the bag and retrieved the lighter from his pocket. He lit it and held the flame against his fluid-soaked hand. He stared into Maggie’s eyes as the flame licked at his skin. His arm didn’t catch fire, but after a few seconds, she could smell his flesh burning.
“That’s enough,” she said in a whisper.
Without another word or showing any sign of pain, Ackerman flipped the lighter closed, picked up the bag, and headed toward the parking garage.
67
CRAIG LOVED NEW ORLEANS. He just wished that he was there under more amicable circumstances. He wouldn’t even have a chance to enjoy himself on this trip, which made the people around him who were enjoying themselves all the more annoying. For the second time in the past hour, an inebriated man stumbled into him, this time spilling a beer on Craig’s silk shirt. It took every bit of his self-control not to pistol-whip the drunken idiot. If he hadn’t been on a surveillance op and trying not to draw attention to himself, he probably would have done just that. Instead, he choked back a scream and just nodded as the man apologized and went on his way.
Moving up St. Peter Street, he passed a shabby old building with peeling red paint. A sign read Reverend Zombie’s House of Voodoo. He shook his head at the thought of all the poor rubes who bought into that crap. Another sign on the building advertised that the place also sold a variety of cigars. That sounded much better to him than the hocus-pocus trinkets.
His phone vibrated against his leg. He pulled it out of his shorts and recognized Landry’s number. “Yeah,” he said as a greeting.
“I just spotted them over on St. Ann.”
It’s about time, Craig thought. He had all six of his men walking up and down the streets of the French Quarter, based on the intel provided by Agent Garrison. They had specifically targeted the mask shops, but the type of business could have changed since the grandfather had owned the place, so they had been forced to cast a wide net and hope it paid off.
“Did they see you?”
“Negative.”
“Are they still there? Can you maintain surveillance?”
“I’ll do you one better,” the big black man said. “I saw them leave a parking garage and slipped the guy at the door two hundred bucks to show me which car was theirs. We have a tracker on it.”
Craig’s face split into an uncharacteristic grin. “Good work. Text the others and tell them to meet back at the vehicles. We’ll have this wrapped up and be back in DC before the weekend.”
68
HEATHER WOMACK EXITED THE ELEVATOR INTO THE PARKING GARAGE WITH A SPRING IN HER STEP, DESPITE THE DAMN HIGH HEELS THAT WERE PUTTING BLISTERS ON HER FEET. She hated the stupid things, but if she got this promotion, she supposed she’d have to buy a better pair because she’d be presenting to a lot more of the firm’s power clients. She had just left a meeting with the primaries from a company in Tokyo that had approached the architectural firm she worked for about designing a series of new department stores here in the US. If they got the contract, it would mean millions for the firm, and she had been given the job of presenting the designs. It was her chance to prove herself, and she had come through in a big way. The clients had been extremely impressed, and while it wasn’t yet time to pop open the champagne, it was a giant leap in the right direction. Before long, she could be earning more money and have a new title.
She pulled out her cell phone to tell her husband the good news, but she forgot that she never got any signal in the parking garage. The structure had been packed early in the day, but now it was only dotted with a few vehicles. In her excitement, she hadn’t even realized how late it was and that the garage would be nearly deserted.
Ever since her cousin had told her a story about a coworker being raped while walking to her car after work, Heather had been frightened at the prospect of traversing the garage alone at night.
She heard a noise behind her but willed herself not to look. It was just her imagination.
But there it was again.
No, she told herself. It was a stupid cat or her own footsteps echoing off the concrete.
But what if it wasn’t? Had that rape victim heard something and told herself the same thing?
Making up her mind, Heather reached casually into her purse as if she were just retrieving her keys. But then she abruptly whirled around with a can of pepper-spray held in her outstretched hand like a talisman.
There was no one there. No attacker. Not even a cat.
She kept watch for a moment and then, shaking her head at her own silliness, headed toward her car.
Her cream-colored Toyota Corolla was only a few years old, but she had made up her mind that if she got this job then she would trade it in for something sportier, something with a little flash, something to tell the world that she’d made it. She smiled at the thought as she retrieved her keys from her purse and pushed the button to unlock the car.
Her fingers wrapped around the handle of the door, and she was about to pull it open when a terrible pain shot up from the heel of her foot into her leg.
Her leg could no longer hold any weight, and she started to fall. She caught herself on the door but was unable to stay upright. She looked down, and her heart froze in her chest as she saw a man’s hand holding a bloody scalpel slide back under the car.
It only took a split second for her brain to process what had happened. Someone had been hiding under the car and had slit her Achilles tendon when she’d gone to open the door.
Heather tried to cry out but couldn’t find her voice. She landed flat on the pavement, the air expelling from her lungs and making it impossible to scream.
The next few seconds were a blur of flailing limbs and overwhelming fear as she saw the dark figure beneath the vehicle and watched helplessly as powerful hands lunged forward, grabbed hold of her throat, and covered her mouth.
69
MAGGIE ALMOST MISSED THE TURNOFF TO THE PLANTATION HOUSE. It was a dirt lane overgrown with weeds and was barely visible from the main road. They followed the lane through the trees for a couple of miles, working their way deep into the bayou. Bald cypress, tupelo, and water elm trees flanked the one-lane path. A couple of spots were submerged under pools of water, and she wasn’t convinced that their commandeered vehicle—a Chevy Malibu—would be able to plow through. Eventually, they made it up a rise and spotted the end of the line and their destination: an old raised Creole-style plantation house with an exposed basement and a main floor supported by brick pillars. Even in the waning light of dusk, she could see that it was good-sized, but definitely nothing luxurious. It was old and the white paint was peeling, but it looked like it had been kept up moderately well and was structurally sound if not aesthetically pleasing. A small yard surrounded the house but quickly gave way to wild vegetation and melded with the swamp. She could see a river or lake or some large body of water that butted up against the rear of the property. A closed-in boathouse hung over the water’s edge.
Maggie stopped the car thirty yards from the main house and shut off the engine. She glanced over at Ackerman. He had a strange expression on his face. She said, “Any idea what to expect?”
“I only met my grandfather once when I was a boy. I know he and my father had a very strained relationship, but that’s about all I know. I’ve never given him much thought over the years, but now that I know he’s alive and we’re here, I feel strangely...”
“Nervous? Excited?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Are you okay? I’ve never seen you like this.”
“Of course.” Ackerman seemed to shake off the momentary weakness and added, “He may not be very happy to see us. And he’s not likely to want to cooperate with us finding my father—otherwise he would have helped law enforcement track him down years ago.”
“You think we may have to dangle him over a pit filled with hungry alligators to get him to talk?”
Maggie was, of course, being sarcastic, but Ackerman didn’t seem to grasp that. He just shook his head and replied, “We don’t have time to dig a pit or lure in a bunch of alligators. Besides, I don’t like working with animals. They’re too unpredictable.”
She raised her eyebrows and opened her door, saying, “Well, let’s do this.” Within ten seconds of leaving the car, she’d killed her first mosquito.
They ascended the front steps, and their noses were assaulted by the smell of dead fish. A trio of large catfish hung from the porch like macabre wind chimes. The tails had been sliced off, allowing the blood to drip down into buckets sitting beneath the hanging bodies.
Maggie knocked on the front door, but instead of someone answering from inside the house, the sound of a shotgun shell being jacked into a chamber answered from the front yard. An old man with snow-white hair and a bushy beard wearing a pair of bib overalls emerged from the shadows with a pump-action shotgun trained on them. “Get off my property,” the old man said.
Ackerman turned around and moved halfway down the wooden steps. He said, “Hello, Grandfather. It’s been a long time.”
Louis Ackerman’s eyes went wide, and the color drained from his face. He whispered, “You.” Then he raised the shotgun to his shoulder and said, “I should kill you where you stand. Do the world a favor.”
Ackerman moved slowly to the bottom of the steps and said, “Do it, then. Pull the trigger. But I guess you always knew what my father was, and you never had the balls to put a bullet in his brain when you had the chance.”
Tears formed in the old man’s eyes, but before he could say another word, Ackerman lunged forward and closed the distance between them. He grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and jerked it upward. The gun discharged into the air, and Ackerman slammed an elbow into the old man’s temple, knocking him out cold. The killer bent down and checked his grandfather’s pulse.
“Is he okay?” Maggie asked as she joined Ackerman in the yard.
“He’s fine,” Ackerman said. Then he glanced back at her and smiled. “Don’t you ju
st love family reunions?”
70
THE INSIDE OF LOUIS ACKERMAN’S HOUSE WAS BEAUTIFUL BUT DATED AND CRUMBLING. The high ceilings had exposed beams, and the crown molding was elegant but decaying in spots. Scuffs and gouges from years of wear and abuse marred the hardwood floors. The whole house smelled of musty decay. They sat the unconscious old man at a French walnut table resting in what Maggie guessed to be the dining room, although the tabletop was covered with various types of tools apparently used in mask-making. A few unfinished examples and some raw materials rested beside the tools.
“Should we tie him up?” Maggie asked.
Ackerman was staring at some black and white photographs hanging on one wall. Without looking away from the pictures, he said, “He’s an old man. I think we can handle him. Besides, I probably took the last bit of fight out of him.”
“So what now?”
Ackerman walked over and picked up a small coffee cup sitting on the table. He sniffed the liquid inside and said, “We wake him up” as he tossed the contents of the cup into the old man’s face. The liquid collected in his beard and dribbled down onto his shirt. He shook himself awake, and his eyes opened. He glanced around, orienting himself, and then his gaze shifted between Maggie and Ackerman and back again.
Maggie spoke first, figuring that there was no point in beating around the bush after the reception they’d been given. “We need to find your son.”
Louis said, “I can’t help you.” His voice was soft and tinged with a slight accent that she couldn’t place.
“I’m a federal agent, Mr. Ackerman. I work with your grandson.” Louis looked at Ackerman, but Maggie added, “Not him. Your other grandson, Marcus. He’s a good man. He helps people. But your son resurfaced and took Marcus. That was over six months ago. We...I need your help.”
“I’m sorry about your friend Marcus, but I don’t know where my son is.”
