The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (55 page)

I’ve been shot
, Michael thought, the coldness of shock starting to overcome him.
I’ve been stabbed and shot.

Crawling to the edge of the tour boat, even as the pain became overwhelming, Michael saw the assassin emerging on the shore of the other side of the bayou. The rifle was still harnessed to her back, and her mask was still on. Without so much as a backward glance, the assassin ran off into the foliage.

“Damn it,” Michael muttered to himself. “I almost had her.”

Michael then passed out, the pain too great for him.

When Michael awoke, he was aware he was on a stretcher, and that about half a dozen people were around him. He was also aware it was late in the afternoon, and that he must have been out for at least several minutes, if not longer. The paramedics who were around him were loading him up into an ambulance.

Looking around a bit, Michael saw Rodger and Carter nearby. Rodger was smoking a cigarette like his life depended on it. Behind them, Michael could make out that he was back outside Robert’s driveway and that at least a dozen police cars were there. Tourists from the tour boat were being interviewed, and a news reporter was giving a broadcast.

Michael didn’t care about that. All he wanted was to make sure that everything was okay with his partner.

“Rodger,” Michael called out weakly.

“He’s awake,” one of the paramedics said. Michael saw Rodger and Carter immediately come over to him, Rodger putting out the cigarette.

“Michael,” Rodger said, by his partner’s side. “Man, are you okay?”

“I’ve been better,” Michael said with a wry smile, the pain only lessened in the sense that he was sure the knife wasn’t stuck in his stomach anymore.

“Damn, Michael,” Carter said, shaking his head in what looked like disbelief. “Those were some superman stunts if I ever saw it.”

“What do you mean?” Michael asked.

Shaking his head with a look of pure disbelief, Rodger said, “You, partner, started pulling some seriously crazy stunts. People were talking about you leaping from boat to boat. It was like the stuff you see in the movies. Where did you learn that?”

Did I do all that?
Michael wondered, trying to think through everything that had happened. It was all a haze, and his head was aching like someone had been banging on an anvil inside of it.

“Fruit,” Michael said to himself.

Rodger looked down at Michael, his confusion obvious. “Fruit? What do you mean?”

“In Robert’s bedroom, from a metal thing next to his heart. Something fruity. I remember feeling… ” Michael struggled with the words, saying, “… like I could do anything. I felt invincible.”

“Sounds like PCP,” said Carter, shaking his head. “Never heard of it being that strong or fast-acting.”

“Maybe,” Michael said weakly. “I really don’t know.”

“I’ll make sure the CSU boys check it out. They’ve already identified the bullet from the rifle the assassin was firing. It was a 7.62 millimeter. Military issue.” Carter shook his head. “Poor J. L. never had a chance.” That said, Carter patted Michael on the calf, as if to say “Atta boy,” and then headed back to the crime scene.

Rodger watched Carter leave, then turned back to Michael. Michael gave him a weak smile and felt, for the first time in a while, grateful to see his partner. “You saved my life, buddy,” he said. “I guess you’re not so incompetent after all, are you?”

Rodger chuckled, shaking his head and saying, “Man, you are a pain in the ass, Michael, you know that?”

In spite of the pain, Michael laughed. After he stopped, he asked, “So what happens now?”

Rodger thought about it for a moment. “I’m heading back into the city to talk with Ouellette. It seems this Nite Priory thing is a real threat. Then I’m going to go check on Sam and see if she got in touch with Richie.”

“How can I help?” Michael asked.

With a chuckle, Rodger said, “You get better. The EMTs say it’s not likely life-threatening, but you’ll be out for at least a few days. Meanwhile, I’ll follow up on those clues you gave me. Of course, I’ll visit you at the hospital.”

Michael groaned. Being in the hospital could have him out for the rest of the investigation. Conjuring up a small smile, he said, “You’d better not solve this case without me, partner. I’ll be pissed.”

To Michael’s surprise, Rodger laughed and said, “Partner, I don’t think I can solve this case on my own, so don’t you go dying on me, okay?”

Michael felt a real smile pass his lips. “Okay, bud. You got it.”

As Michael was loaded up into the ambulance, the paramedics again swarming over him, the haze in his mind slowly parted, and the pain slowly became unbearable again. Struggling to focus, he wondered how everything was connected. The Bourbon Street Ripper. The copycat. The Nite Priory. The odd smell from Robert’s heart. The sensation of incredible power. The indigo-clad assassin. Everything.

Mercifully, Michael soon passed out again.

When Michael next awoke, he was in a recovery room, his body in a hospital gown, and his wounds obviously in postoperative dressings. Michael wasn’t sure how long he’d been out. Looking around, he saw that he was in a private room. Flowers and cards littered a table nearby, gifts from his coworkers. A huge bouquet of carnations, his favorite flower, bore a large card saying, “From Dixie and Gino.”

But what caught Michael’s eye was his notebook on his bedside table, with a card labeled, “To the World’s Best Partner. Let’s get him together.”

Michael had never been so happy to have Rodger as his partner.

Chapter 28   
Meeting at the Times

It was three thirty in the afternoon, and Richie was sitting with Sam in the waiting room of the
Times-Picayune
. They had just arrived and were waiting for Caroline Saucier to see them.

The complex of buildings itself was rather modern for such an old paper, and while Richie wasn’t sure what he had expected, he was certain it wasn’t what he saw. Several buildings, dedicated to news offices, printing, and distribution, made up the working gears of New Orleans’s largest print newspaper.

By comparison, he hadn’t expected such a clean, modern waiting room for the editor-in-chief, with comfortable lounge-style seating, a television showing the local news, and a cappuccino machine—which seemed so out of place to Richie it somehow managed to work.

He and Sam had enjoyed a quick yet filling meal at Café Beignet, one of the more famous New Orleans cafés, located on Bourbon Street. Richie had eaten jambalaya, one of his favorite Cajun dishes, while Sam had put away half a muffuletta. The two finished off their lunch with a cup of coffee and chicory and were on their way in about an hour.

While they had been sitting there, however, Richie had noticed a difference in the atmosphere of the French Quarter’s busiest street. There wasn’t any less traffic, but it seemed less casual and relaxed. Richie hardly saw anyone traveling alone, and there were almost no solitary women about. Even the men seemed to be grouped together, and everyone almost appeared to looking over their shoulder as they went along with what otherwise was a normal day.

While watching the French Quarter traffic, Richie thought to himself how the city’s change in attitude had to be due to the recent string of serial murders. He had been thinking about the overall situation, finding it odd that an entire city would react this way to only two deaths. But after carefully contemplating everything, he determined it was almost like the city, for whatever reason, had never completely healed from the original Bourbon Street Ripper murders.

By the time they had gotten on the bus to head toward the
Times-Picayune
, Richie had pushed those thoughts away, deciding that for the most part, he was relieved that the public didn’t know who Sam was yet. He had figured it was because she was still relatively anonymous, and the media wasn’t publishing information about her. But he knew that the moment her face and name were made public, Sam Castille could end up in considerable danger.

And that will make things really difficult for her, Rodger, Michael, and me. So long as Sam stays out of the public eye, we’ll all be okay.

Richie was jarred out of his memory of lunchtime, and his subsequent ponderings, by the sound of the secretary’s voice saying, “Sam, Miss Saucier will see you and your friend now.”

The office of Caroline Saucier was, much like the waiting room, not what Richie had expected. A black metallic desk was the central piece of the room, with a comfortable-looking leather chair resting behind it. The wall behind the desk was lined with a large bookcase, sparsely covered with books and binders of various shapes and sizes.

The outer wall was comprised almost completely of large glass-paned windows, the tinted kind that almost made the world look a grayish-blue, and the interior wall was lined with plaques, pictures of famous moments in New Orleans history, and some of the most famous headlines of the
Times-Picayune
.

Without a thought, Richie went over to the wall and examined a few of the headlines.

“Shuttle
Challenger
Lost”

“Governor Long Assassinated”

“In Memory of Pearl Harbor”

Richie, who had never before had an interest in journalism, was surprised that the wall of headlines emotionally impacted him. Perhaps, he felt, it was because he was looking at history, frozen in time, behind those panes of glass. Or perhaps it was something else, a sort of macabre interest in the fact that every headline he saw was about a negative event. Thinking to himself that the media was following a disturbing trend of sensationalizing bad news over good news, Richie shook his head.

That’s a sad statement on humanity.

Richie’s musings were interrupted by the sound of a stern feminine voice making a throat-clearing sound. Turning, he realized he had walked into this person’s office and taken a left turn to check out the wall of headlines. Sam, who was already seated at one of two chairs before the editor’s desk, was staring at him, and the other person, whom Richie could only assume was “Miss Saucier,” looked several shades of irritated.

Ms. Saucier was a woman most likely in her early forties with a stern and businesslike demeanor about her. As thin as Sam, there was something about her that screamed “bitch” to Richie. Perhaps it was the age lines already showing, perhaps it was the dark auburn-red hair that was styled into a bob cut, perhaps it was the charcoal-gray suit she wore, or perhaps it was the cold stare from her dark blue eyes. Whatever it was, Richie felt an instant, almost hostile dislike toward this woman.

“Caroline,” Sam finally said, motioning toward Richie, “this is my friend, Richard Fastellos, author of
The Pale Lantern
. Richie, this is—”

“Caroline Saucier,” said the stern woman, holding out her hand, not to shake it with Richie but to show him where he could sit, “and while it’s an honor, and all that, to meet an up-and-coming author, I have a very tight schedule today. So if you would please have a seat, Mr. Fastellos, Sam and I can conclude business, you two can get back to doing whatever it is you writers do when you’re not writing, and I can go back to running my newspaper.”

Richie scowled inwardly as he took the offered—more like appointed—seat.

What a bitch!
W
hat the hell is her problem?

As Richie sat down, pushing back down his surprising anger, he noticed a single picture that stood out on Caroline’s desk. It was a double frame. One frame displayed a younger Caroline, dressed in a relaxed pair of jeans and a T-shirt, looking uncharacteristically happy with a very pretty brunette woman, posing in front of Cinderella’s Castle at Disney World. The other frame had that same woman, with a close-up of her face, smiling lovingly at the camera while in a park. The two photographs looked old and dated, Richie noticed, and both the pretty girl and Caroline looked to be in their early twenties.

As soon as Caroline saw Richie looking at the pictures, she briskly turned it away from him and gave him a nasty stare. Richie stared back, curled his upper lip, and rocked his head from side to side a bit. He did not like this woman.

“So, Sam,” Caroline said, sitting back down and holding out her hand, “what do you have for me?”

“Here, everything you want,” was Sam’s reply, giving Caroline the manila envelope with her story’s second chapter. “Five thousand words, an engaging story, and lots of tension for the readers to sink their teeth into.”

Caroline opened the envelope, took out the manuscript, and started to scan it. After a few minutes, she said. “A teenage victim, eh? Good stuff. Now, one won’t show up dead tomorrow morning, will it?”

Richie watched as Sam’s cheeks grew red. She shook her head vigorously, her ponytail bobbing from side to side. “I swear, Caroline, I have no idea how that happened. It’s a terrible coincidence. The police”—Sam paused, and Richie could tell that she was struggling with what to say—“think I’m being set up somehow.”

“I bet,” replied Caroline, putting the manuscript down. “In fact, I was thinking we should probably not publish this for a few days. After all, this little ‘coincidence,’ as you call it, has created a major shit storm. If you knew how many phone calls we’ve gotten about this, how many other newspapers want to write a story about my paper, you’d be pissing in your pants right now.”

Richie felt like an outside observer watching a boxing match, with Caroline in one corner and Sam’s ego in another. Sam just winced at Caroline’s harsh words, her face and jaw tightening as stress started to build up again. Richie’s own blood pressure rose as he felt the protective desire toward Sam welling up in him again.