The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (54 page)

The three detectives crept onto the front porch of the boathouse, the area eerily quiet. There was no nutria to be found, and the shotgun rested next to the rocking chair as if it hadn’t been touched all day. The entire boathouse stank, and it looked messy as hell—dirty dishes and filthy towels everywhere.

J. L. spoke in a hushed tone. “Hell, I ain’t never seen it like this before. Think we should go inside?”

Rodger nodded to J. L., then to Michael.

Michael said in a hushed voice, “Rodger, I’ll go in with J. L. while you stake the perimeter outside.”

“All right, partner. But be careful. No unnecessary chances.”

With a nod, Michael entered the boathouse with J. L.

The boathouse seemed only a few yards across. The screen door opened into the messiest and smelliest kitchen Michael had ever had the displeasure of stepping foot into.

A door on the opposite side of the kitchen opened to the other porch on the boat, a small doorway led to a bathroom, and a third doorway led to the bedroom. The bedroom door was slightly ajar.

“Think he’s sleeping, Shreveport?” asked J. L., voice still hushed, with a notable tension to it.

Michael shook his head and motioned for J. L. to wait while he went first. The deputy nodded and waited while Michael crept toward the doorway leading to Robert’s bedroom.

His heart was pounding as he reached the door. He breathed slowly to calm his nerves. It felt like a pressure was on him, a cold and unyielding pushing on his back, his shoulders, and his spine.

Why am I so on edge? I feel like something really bad is on the other side of this door. I feel like I’m being stalked by a predator I can’t see or hear. What’s going on? This isn’t rational!

Michael slapped himself with his free hand, blinking away the sweat that was trying to run into his eyes. His heart was pounding in his chest. It was like pure coldness was pushing on him from behind to enter the room, yet every survival instinct inside of him told him not to do it.

Get ahold of yourself, Michael! You’re exhausted, you’re extremely stressed out. Just get through this! Finish up here, go to the Castille mansion like you and Rodger decided, and then you can take the rest of the day off.

Straightening up, gun at the ready, Michael opened the door to Robert’s room and stepped inside.

What Michael saw immediately burned itself into his memory.

Robert was lying in his bed, arms and legs tied to the four corners by thick wire. His head was strapped down with wire, and a gag was inserted in his mouth. Completely naked, Robert’s chest cavity had been opened up forcibly, and most of his internal organs had been scattered about across the walls of the room. Only his heart was recognizable, sitting on a nearby nightstand, secured to it by way of a kitchen knife. The macabre still life was surrounded by a circle of strange symbols.

Robert’s nutria hung above him, bled out over his former master’s body, the animal’s blood filling Robert’s empty chest cavity. The room smelled as bad as the two serial murder scenes had so far.

Michael’s body was momentarily paralyzed with fear.

My God. My God. My God. Richie and Sam were right. This isn’t just a murder—this is a ritual killing.

Regaining his motor functions, Michael crept to the table with Robert’s heart attached to it. Michael looked over the designs around the heart. He swore he had seen those symbols before.

Wait, are those the same symbols from Sam’s book on voodoo?

Michael detected an odd smell coming from the heart. It was a distinctive fruity odor. Looking closer, Michael saw a small brass bowl beside the heart with a pinkish substance burning inside. Small pink fumes were wafting up, and when Michael sniffed them, the scent of fruit was almost overpowering.

What is that stuff?

For a moment, Michael felt odd, like he had imbibed too much caffeine. His heart continued to race, and he started to feel cold, like the air around him had suddenly chilled.

What the… what’s happening to me?

“Oh my God! What the bloody fuck happened here?!?”

Turning around, his own body’s strange changes momentarily forgotten, Michael saw J. L. coming in the room, a pale look of horror stark on the deputy’s face. With a lurch, J. L. turned his head outside the bedroom and vomited, then stumbled out toward the kitchen.

Michael sighed and followed, the chilling sensation still rippling through him. He stepped out after J. L., who went to the back porch to finish vomiting. Michael called out, holding out his hand, “Hey, J. L., when you’ve emptied your guts, come back in and help—”

Michael cut his sentence short as a small
cracking
sound resonated in his ears, and with a
whoosh
, something moved right past his face, like a mosquito or a fly. A few strands of Michael’s bangs flitted down, falling to his hand.

For a long moment, Michael looked down at the strands of hair in his hand, his eyes widening as the
cracking
sound, the
whooshing
sound, and the cutting of his hair added up.

That was a bullet.

Turning to the side, Michael saw J. L., a hole in his head the size of a baseball, falling into the bayou.

In an instant, Michael’s weapon was ready, and he pointed it at the doorway. All he saw was Rodger rolling into the kitchen, screaming, “Get down!” Looking back up, Michael stared into the foliage ahead and saw the assassin.

A person dressed in dark indigo robes with a face mask painted to look like a skull held some kind of rifle, which looked military grade. Michael’s eyes widened as he saw the indigo-clad figure pull the trigger. The chill around him increased as his heart rate shot up even higher.

Feeling a tingle of sensation ripping down his spine, Michael threw himself to the side as three bullets ripped past him. His adrenaline was pumping like never before.

Neither the chase on the rooftop nor the run-in with Mad Monty’s friends had gotten his blood moving and his senses as on fire as this moment did.

As Michael landed, Rodger called out, “That’s the person who killed Mad Monty. Shit, he’s getting away!” Rodger’s voice seemed to come from a distance.

Looking out of the boat, following his partner’s gaze, Michael saw the assassin running up the path toward the cars.

Shit! Carter is out there!

The world seemed to be moving in slow motion for Michael as he got up and started running. He felt invincible, like he could do anything, like he could catch this assassin. He ignored the sounds of his partner calling out to him and rushed forward with everything he had.

When he reached the road, he saw Carter, weapon drawn, leveling it at the assassin. However, the assassin jumped and, sliding over the hood of the old Crown Victoria, kicked the large African-American cop in the face even as he cocked the gun.

Carter might as well have been a puppy. He flew back more than three feet from the impact, landing with a heavy thud.

Michael heard himself scream out, “No!” before leveling his gun at the assassin and pulling the trigger.

The assassin’s head cocked at the sound, and with a leap, the figure landed on the other side of Sergeant Carter, the bullet whizzing past. Securing the rifle on what looked like a harness on his back, the assassin took off down the road, moving at an uncanny speed.

Michael rushed forward, jumping onto the hood of the squad car and then leaping off, launching himself over Carter. As he landed, Michael tore off running again. His heart was pounding harder than it ever had, so loudly he could only hear the rushing of his own blood. He felt he could all but fly.

What’s happening to me?

The assassin tore into another driveway, leading toward another boathouse. Michael followed, coming across a boathouse about the size of Robert’s. A couple was out front, grilling something.

As the assassin ran past them, he stopped and kicked the grill, launching it into the air. As the grill came down, the assassin spun around and kicked it, sending sizzling hot steaks and flaming coals right at Michael.

Seeing the burning coals and meat come at him, Michael quickly ducked and performed a baseball slide. The fiery debris flew over him as if tumbling silently through space. Michael noted that the meat still looked a bit undercooked. Looking forward, he saw the assassin heading toward the railing of the boathouse. A much larger tour boat was passing by at the same time.

He’s going to jump for it!

Pushing with his free hand, Michael launched himself out of his baseball slide and back into a running position. Leveling his gun at the assassin, and barely hearing the screams of the couples on the tour boat as they dove to the ground, Michael fired off three shots. The sound of the bullets leaving his chamber sounded distant.

The assassin jumped on the railing and, head cocking toward the bullets, did a leap in the air, flipping heels overhead. The bullets whizzed underneath the figure, who had turned to face Michael, albeit upside down. From a leg holster, the figure withdrew a pistol and, pointing it at Michael, fired off three shots. Then the assassin landed on the tour boat, about a dozen tourists scattering.

Quickly, Michael threw himself into the air and twisted his body, slamming himself against one of the exterior walls of the boathouse and sliding along it toward the waterside of the boat. The bullets whizzed past, although one grazed his cheek. Michael couldn’t feel the pain.

Landing on the water side of the houseboat, Michael looked up and saw that the tour boat had nearly passed where he was standing. Gripping his gun hard and taking a few steps back, Michael rushed along the length of the houseboat until he was nearly at the opposite end.

At the last moment, he jumped up and, swinging his legs to the side, ran along the wall for a few steps before vaulting off the side of the houseboat and over the water, his body spinning as he rolled onto the deck of the tour boat.

Once he was on his feet, Michael looked around and saw the assassin racing toward the back of the ship. The tourists were running toward Michael, effectively blocking his path to the killer.

Move!

Rushing toward the panicked crowd of tourists, Michael jumped up and, landing on the railing of the tour boat, slid past the dozen or so now completely shocked tourists before landing on the stern area of the boat. The assassin had reached the railing and was looking to jump into the water.

Michael was aware of himself screaming out, “Stop!” and leveling his gun at the assassin. The assassin turned, pistol focused on Michael, and the two pulled the trigger at the same time.

Michael rolled to the side, avoiding the bullet as it whizzed past him, and the assassin did the same. The two leapt to their feet and the assassin spun around, aiming at Michael’s gut with a kick. Michael barely brought his hand up in time to deflect the blow. Holding the assassin’s foot, Michael smashed his elbow against the assassin’s knee.

As the assassin fell back, his weapon spinning to the edge of the tour boat and going over the side, Michael saw the shape of hips and the outline of a bust.

A woman?
The killer is… a woman?!

Michael didn’t have time to ponder that fact, as the assassin sprang to her feet and leapt at him with a flying kick. Michael barely had a chance to bring up his hands, his right hand—the one holding the gun—taking most of the blow. His own gun went spinning off across the deck as he flew back against an exterior wall of the tour boat.

Damn! She hits hard!

Michael only had a second to re-collect himself before the assassin rushed at him, going for a series of punches. Michael deflected them. He was far more comfortable with close combat. Counting over a dozen strikes at him, and certain they came in a matter of seconds, Michael finally caught what must have been the fifteenth one. Grinning at the assassin, Michael jumped and flipped back, kicking her square in the chest.

The assassin flew back, landing on the deck and skidding back. Michael’s victory was short-lived, as he saw that the assassin had landed near his gun. Landing from his attack, Michael cursed himself for being so showy in his attacks and, with everything he had, he rushed at the assassin.

The assassin lay still as Michael neared her position. Michael rushed toward his gun, reaching where the assassin’s feet were splayed out.

Suddenly, the assassin moved, one of her legs flying up. The foot connected with Michael’s groin. The junior detective saw only bright lights and felt only pain, the world still moving slowly as he stumbled back.

Then he was suddenly aware of a new pain, a stabbing sensation in his gut. Looking down, Michael saw a throwing knife sticking out of the right side of his stomach. Looking back at the assassin, he saw her throwing another knife, this one at his neck.

Michael’s right hand was down at his side, and his left hand flew to close around the flat of the blade, the sharp point less than an inch from his throat. Just as he prepared to throw the knife back at the assassin, he saw that she now had his gun in her hand.

There was a
crack
, and Michael stumbled and crumpled back, pain exploding in his left shoulder. He slid back along the deck. He felt his strength and the rush that had made him feel invincible start to falter.

The assassin advanced over him, pointing his gun at his head. Her eyes shone like lifeless steel.

Michael could only think,
I’m dead.

Then the sound of thunder erupted.

Michael felt the world return to normal as the assassin leapt back, dropping his gun in the process. Turning to the side, Michael saw Rodger on the deck of Robert’s ship, firing his revolver at the assassin. Landing on the railing, the assassin took a look at Rodger, and then a look back at Michael. Leaning back, the assassin dove into the waters of Bayou Lafitte.

What the hell just happened?

Michael’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by an incredible pain in his groin, his gut, and his shoulder. Looking at his left shoulder, he saw fresh blood welling up, turning his white shirt red.