The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (58 page)

Because she was a small child, she had some difficulty opening the book. Once it was open, however, Samantha looked at the pages and immediately wished she had left well enough alone.

On one page of the book was a whole bunch of writing in a language that reminded Samantha of French, but clearly was not. She had heard Miss Patterson and Violet speaking in a French-like language before, and knew what it was called, but had never seen the language written down. However, this is what this had to be—Creole.

On the other page, however, was a detailed drawing of a skeletal figure, dressed elegantly in a black tuxedo, with a black top hat and dark glasses. A cigar stuck out of his skull-faced mouth and a bottle of rum was in his bony hand.

The caption underneath said, “Baron Samedi.”

“Baron Samedi,” Samantha said to herself. As she started to turn the page to see if there were any more drawings, the girl heard the sounds of footsteps and voices approaching the doorway to the study.

Quickly, Samantha closed the large book—quite a feat while kneeling on her grandfather’s chair—arranged it as best she could, and hid herself underneath the desk. She had never snuck into her grandfather’s study before, but she knew it made him very angry when someone did that. So, clinging to her doll, she held her breath and waited.

The first voice she recognized as Miss Patterson, the housekeeper, who said, “Are you sure you want to go through with this, Master Castille? It’s still not too late to turn back, Madonna help us all.”

“I am certain, Miss Patterson,” said Vincent’s voice as he stopped at the door. “Besides, at this point, I’m rather besieged into this arrangement. Our interested party isn’t known for patience. And while there may be some stupid enough to cross him, I am not one of those people.”

The door to the study opened, and Vincent, dressed in his doctor’s attire, entered the study. Miss Patterson walked in behind him. From her vantage point, Samantha could only see their feet, but her grandfather’s highly polished shoes, and Miss Patterson’s thick shoes and thicker ankles, were unmistakable.

“I do understand that, Master Castille, but what about them murders going on in Nawlins right now? You know, the Ripper murders?” There was a real caution to the housekeeper’s voice. “If you were to do anything with all that happening, wouldn’t it send the poh-lice your way?”

Vincent, who was standing at the desk, seemed to stall out while rifling through objects on his desk. Samantha continued to hold her breath, breathing shallowly and only when she dared. She remembered that her grandfather had a keen eye for detail, and wondered if he would notice something off about his desk.

Oh no! The inkwell cap. He’ll notice that the inkwell cap is back on! Oh dear!

Wanting to be an honest girl, Sam thought about getting up and turning herself in now. However, she stopped any movement the moment she heard her grandfather say, “Yes, the Bourbon Street Ripper murders in New Orleans are indeed unfortunate, Miss Patterson. You are being smart and keeping your daughters indoors, yes?”

“Oh yes,” replied Miss Patterson. “I keep them inside at night just like you said. No one is gonna butcher my girls!”

“Good,” replied Vincent as he walked away from the desk. “Now, Miss Patterson, I believe I will be requiring the services of Blind Moses again. Can you contact her for me?”

Samantha wondered who Blind Moses was.

Miss Patterson’s voice grew quiet and subdued as she said, “If that’s what you wish, Master Castille. I’ll bring her to you.”

“I’ll meet her out back, Miss Patterson,” said Vincent as he headed toward the door, the housekeeper following him. “That way I can finish my tea. When Sam wakes up, I want to go riding with her.”

“Of course, Master Castille,” Miss Patterson said, following Vincent out of the study.

For a long time after they left, Samantha lay there, her breathing slowly returning to normal. What she had heard didn’t mean anything to her, and the girl wondered just what the “Bourbon Street Ripper” was, what “Baron Samedi” was, and who “Blind Moses” was.

“What is Grandfather doing, and who is he working with who’s all impatient?” Samantha asked herself out loud.

Heading toward the hallway, Samantha pushed the door open and—

—suddenly Samantha was standing inside the basement of her grandfather’s mansion. The room was bathed in a dim and cold blue light. All around were wooden and metal devices of torture: a rack for stretching limbs, a Saint Andrew’s cross for flogging, an iron chair for cooking flesh, and an iron maiden for puncturing bodies. But the centerpiece of this chamber was a large metal table, with thick leather straps on all four corners, and a tray covered in all sort of equipment, from scalpels to drills to soldering irons to hooks to circular saws.

Samantha gasped and dropped her doll, which shattered like glass as the room took on a red hue, heat rising everywhere about her. In the center of the room, strapped to that table, was her father, Edward, his chest cavity opened up as if an autopsy were being performed on him. Standing next to her father’s corpse was Vincent, dressed in his doctor’s scrubs. Her grandfather was removing Edward’s heart with the forceps, while pausing to write down notes in a notebook with a bloody, but otherwise shiny, silver pen.

Samantha eyes were wide and her lips were curling in terror. Her small frame was shaking violently, and her head hurt, bells ringing in it. Suddenly, she screamed, “Noooooooo!”

Slowly, Vincent turned and looked over at Samantha, Edward’s heart still and unbeating held in those forceps. Putting down the pen, Vincent pulled down his mask. His expression was one of confusion. “No?”

His voice had a tone of stern reprimand as he said, “What do you mean, ‘no,’ Sam? This is the very thing you asked for, the very thing you wanted. How can you say ‘no’ to me now, Sam?”

As Samantha backed away, Vincent stalked toward her, holding out her father’s heart. “You wanted this, and I gave it to you. I told you, you are the most alive when you are in pain. Edward’s suffering, all of my victims’ suffering, it made them more alive than they ever were before.”

Vincent was upon Samantha, holding her father’s dead heart right before her eyes. “Did you see it, Sam? Did you see the life leaving his body? Wasn’t it wonderful, Sam? Wasn’t it wonderful?”

Samantha felt her tongue loosen, and she screamed, “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Why? You want to know why?” replied Vincent. “Can’t you remember why?”

Suddenly, Samantha the child was Sam the adult, standing there in front of the table where her father’s dead body lay. In Sam’s hands, she held a scalpel and a pair of forceps—in them was her father’s lifeless heart. With a gasp, Sam dropped them both, the heart making a
shploop
sound as it hit the ground. Sam backed up, right into Vincent.

Sam froze as her grandfather’s hands came to rest on her shoulders. Leaning forward, his lips parted, and Vincent Castille muttered, “It was all for you, Princess. All so that you might live… ”

Vincent’s breath was like ice on her skin.

“… a life without fear.”

With a start, Sam Castille awoke from her nightmare. The sky was already starting to darken. Looking over at her alarm clock, Sam saw that it was already seven in the evening. Her stomach rumbled and her head, though still feeling full, was no longer in terrible pain.

Getting up, Sam headed downstairs to the kitchen, and was surprised to see that the lights in her study were still lit. Wondering if she had left the downstairs light on, Sam cautiously walked into the study, wary that there might be another intruder.

Sitting in one of her chairs was Richie Fastellos. He had a book—one of Sam’s, entitled
Branston’s Bungle
—in his lap, and his head was leaned back. His mouth was open and he was snoring slightly.

Sam felt herself smile as she took in the sight, pressing herself against the frame of the doorway. Whether she had wanted to or not, Sam had grown quite fond of him. His awkwardness and cavalier attitude, although unwarranted, was very appealing. Moreover, he was nice to her, going out of his way to help her out in this difficult spot.

Sam, remembering it had been Richie who had helped her to bed earlier, and then left her alone, also realized, when you cut away at the layers of attitude, machismo, and charm, Richie was a real gentleman.

As Sam watched Richie sleep, she took in the shape of his face, the broadness of his shoulders, and the leanness of his form. Feeling her heart flutter a bit and a heat rise to her cheeks, Sam looked away, trying to push those thoughts out of her head. When she looked back, she found her eyes sliding down to Richie’s pants. Her body began to ache with a desire she hadn’t felt in years, and with an embarrassed gasp, Sam quickly turned away.

I cannot believe I just checked him out! What’s wrong with me?

Still, Sam felt her gaze returning to look over Richie as he began to stir, and once again Sam found herself smiling softly.

Well, he is nice to look at, and I’ve always been attracted to guys with a lot of intensity.

Sam’s perusal only lasted a little bit longer before Richie woke and sat up suddenly, the book dangerously close to sliding off his lap. Sam quickly looked away, so as to not be caught staring at her guest. Clearing her throat, she said, “Hey, it’s about dinnertime. You hungry?”

Richie, who was still waking up, looked around and presumably saw what time it was, because he muttered, “Crap, I fell asleep. Dinner? Yeah, sounds good.”

As Richie got up, Sam’s book fell to the floor. Richie made an
“ack”
sound before picking it up and checking the book for damage. Sam watched the incident and chuckled, shaking her head and saying, “Goof.”

“Sorry about that,” Richie said, dusting off the book and starting to put it away, but not before tapping the book and saying, “Good story, by the way. You’re not a bad writer, Sam. You just need to work on your narrative.”

As Sam led Richie to the kitchen, she said, “Is that so? Is that some of the professional coaching I get as part of my end of the bargain?”

Entering the kitchen, Sam started to search the cupboards and refrigerators for something to make a meal out of, and found she was sorely lacking in groceries. Frowning, Sam barely heard Richie’s response—that he was just giving advice because he liked her writing and wanted to see it improved.

“That’s nice, thanks,” she said as she scanned the cupboard for food that was not there. She finally shook her head, saying, “You know, I just think we’re either doing takeout or eating out tonight, Richie. My cupboard is bare.”

Richie, who apparently hadn’t noticed Sam’s dismissiveness toward the writing conversation, or didn’t care, said, “Honestly, Sam, either would be lovely.”

“Let’s eat out,” Sam said after a bit of thought. “I don’t want to be stuck here in case some whack job decides to harass me again. Let’s pick a place and then go eat. My treat.”

Richie, who had been looking around Sam’s bare cupboards as well, asked, “That’s twice you’re paying for dinner. Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s cool. I’ve got it covered,” Sam replied, looking over at Richie and winking with a grin. She liked how, even with the level of comfort they had gained with each other in just a few days, he was still a little awkward. It was cute.

“Well, all right then, but I’ll get it next time,” Richie replied. “So, what now?”

Sam looked at the time. “I slept in my clothes and am kind of sticky. So, if you can wait down here for a few minutes, I will go shower and be down in a jiff.”

Richie laughed in agreement and nodded. “Sticky, eh? Okay, Sam. You go un-sticky yourself and I’ll wait down here. Don’t take too long, all right? I’m so hungry I could eat my own toe with a white wine and lobster sauce!”

“Then I’ll hurry up, lest you become an entrée at your own fancy dinner party.” Sam smirked and headed upstairs.

Fortunately for Sam, the headache she had been fighting off was completely gone; however, the memory of her nightmare was not. Even as she let the hot water run over her body, she couldn’t get the images out of her head—her grandfather standing over her father’s body, her own hands bloodied by her father’s viscera, and her grandfather’s taunts that the awful murders were for her—something she had asked for.

A life without fear.

Also, the name in the book kept popping back up in her mind.
Baron Samedi
. Along with that name came the memory of her grandfather mentioning Blind Moses to Miss Patterson.

Sam recalled that one of the detectives had mentioned, during their meeting yesterday, that Blind Moses was in Jackson Square. Closing her eyes and letting the water stream over her body, Sam remembered that someone from her past owned a shop in Jackson Square.

I believe it’s the Patterson sisters who own a shop down there. God, I haven’t seen Tania Patterson in years. Calling on her would almost be worth running into Violet. I wonder if Tania would have any idea where we could find Blind Moses.

As Sam dried herself, she decided that, since it was a Saturday night, the Patterson shop, if it was still there, should still be open.

When Sam was done with her shower, and was dressed again in similar black jeans and a white poet blouse that opened in the front, her hair loose and drying, she went downstairs. She found Richie in the kitchen with two glasses of freshly made iced tea.

When Richie looked up and saw Sam, he smiled and bowed to her. “Cold tea on a hot summer’s night, my lady?”

“Ham bone,” came Sam’s reply. However, she couldn’t help but smile back, feeling herself melt a little on the inside. The gesture was genuinely touching.

As Sam sipped on her iced tea, which had that lemony flavor she so loved, she said, “Hey, Richie, do you want to go to Jackson Square for dinner? The restaurants there are wonderful. And it’s a Saturday night, so it should be pretty exciting to explore afterward.”

Richie gave her a thoughtful look and nodded, saying, “Sure thing, why not? I still haven’t seen Jackson Square, and it’s not like I have anything else going on. Let’s just make sure that wherever we eat, they serve a good dessert. We’ve earned it.”