The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (61 page)

“You’re insane,” Richie said, still holding Sam. “People feeling helpless is a horrible thing. So you were born blind. That’s unfortunate. But to torment Sam like this? To make her so upset that she hits you?”

“I didn’t make her do anything,” replied Violet, her fingers running over the railing of the dark ride. “Like the hag sisters, Marinette and Bwa-Chech, the Princess and I are destined to be in conflict.”

“You want to fight with Sam?” exclaimed Richie. “You’re out of your mind! Why would you want to be at odds with someone you haven’t even been around in over ten years?”

“Because she hates me,” Sam said, her voice bitter with anger as she moved from Richie’s grasp. “That’s it, isn’t it, Violet? For whatever reason, you’ve hated me my entire life. Now, more than ever, you hate my guts.”

There was a very long silence before Violet answered. Her voice was low, but the venom dripped from it like fangs from a serpent. “Yes, Samantha. I hate you. You would never understand why. You cannot understand why. One day, maybe you’ll see the sheer amount of blood spilled for you. Then, just maybe, you’ll grasp the depth of my contempt for you.”

Sam didn’t know what to say. In her wildest dreams, she had no idea how much Violet Patterson hated her.

After a long, tense silence, Violet said, “If you want to meet Blind Moses, don’t worry, she’ll seek you out soon enough. Your stars and hers are also destined to clash, Princess. You best be ready.”

“And the Nite Priory,” Richie asked, for Sam was still feeling bewildered by the hatred she felt from Violet. “What about them? How do they figure into this?”

“Idiot,” was Violet’s reply, her voice contemptuous. “Irrelevant. Don’t waste my time.”

Sam watched as Richie moved to say something, then shook his head. “Come on, Sam,” he said, taking her hand. “The last thing you need is to listen to this hatred. She’s clearly mad from bitterness.”

Sam started leaving with Richie. Suddenly Violet’s voice called out, “Princess!”

Sam stopped, turning quickly, not sure what to expect. Violet, still with her back turned, was holding up her hand and showing three fingers.

“I read your cards while you were unconscious,” Violet said. “Your past is the World Card reversed. Your present is the Moon Card. Your future is the Death Card. Take from that what you will.”

Sam didn’t know what that meant, having never put a lot of stock in the tarot. She filed away a mental note that she’d have to look up what those cards meant later on. She didn’t like the idea of the Death Card being in her future. It sounded ominous.

Sam allowed Richie to tug her out. In the front of the store, Tania was busy helping two customers, a young man and woman, select candles. For a moment, the dark woman turned to look at Sam, a sad look on her face.

She started to move toward Sam, who shook her head, not wanting any more contact with the sisters. Tania stopped, nodded, and went back to helping the couple as Sam and Richie left the store.

On the way back to the car, Sam mulled over everything that had just happened. She felt anxiety at being forced to confront Violet. She felt rage at the way Violet treated her. And she felt fear at how strong the negative emotions inside her were. Sam felt as if she had met her mortal enemy, someone whom she would one day have to kill or risk losing her own life to.

That disturbed Sam terribly. Most importantly, Sam was suddenly very tired. She felt drained, like all her willpower had been siphoned out.

On the ride home, Richie, who was driving, said, “Sam, I think we should stop investigating and leave this to the police.”

Sam, who was leaning against the side window, staring ahead blankly, looked over at Richie and said, “Why? Why would you say that?”

Richie gritted his teeth, and Sam could tell that he was struggling with what to say and what not to say.

“Out with it, Richie,” Sam said. “We’re in too deep to start withholding information from each other.”

“This voodoo cult shit,” Richie said. “It’s a bit too freaky. I mean, I don’t believe in loa or ghosts or Baron Samedi, but there are people who really believe this shit. And they’re crazy. Like that Violet bitch. She probably
is
Blind Moses herself, you know.”

Sam shook her head and looked forward, saying, “Violet was twelve years old during the Bourbon Street Ripper murders, Richie. There is no way a twelve-year-old blind girl could run as a courier.”

“Then maybe Blind Moses is a title,” Richie said, his voice more aggressive. “Maybe those wacky cult people, with their voodoo and Christianity and whatever, just give the name Blind Moses to one of their most important people.”

“Good theory,” Sam said stoically, starting to feel worn down. Her head wasn’t hurting, but her heart was. She wanted to go to bed and forget about today ever happening. She wasn’t even sure what was real anymore—if she was insane or under some kind of control.
Maybe I am possessed by a loa after all.

Feelings of helplessness assailed Sam, and for a brief moment, Sam had an image in her mind of a stone floor covered in blood, a visage of skull-like faces staring at her from the darkness, and a feeling of overwhelming terror.

As Richie continued to prattle on, Sam felt like she was going to cry.

“I’m not trying to theorize here, Sam,” said Richie as he continued his diatribe, his brow furrowing as he harshly turned a few corners. “But this shit is getting way out of control. Serial murders? Secret societies? Voodoo cults? Christ, Sam, this is getting serious!”

Sitting up straight, Sam looked over at Richie, feeling a sudden rush of anxiety. She was sure Richie was getting ready to abandon her like everyone else eventually did. The ache in her heart only increased as she furrowed her brow.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Richie?” Sam said, her bottom lip starting to shake. “Why can’t you be supportive of me in this? I need to follow this thing through to the end! I need to know what’s happening to me! Why are you being such an asshole?”

His voice raised to almost a scream, Richie cried out, “I don’t want you to get hurt! I care too much about you!”

Richie’s exclamation took Sam by surprise. She sat back and stared ahead, unsure what to say. Too much was happening at once. She had to pull away, get away from Richie and everyone else. She had to be alone. She was safer alone.

“You’re too sweet for someone as messed up as me,” Sam finally said.

“Sam,” Richie replied, desperation in his voice, “don’t say that. I—”

Sam interrupted by placing a hand over one of his. Looking over at him, she said, “Richie, I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve been so sweet to me, from the time we met until now. You didn’t need to be, and God knows, I don’t deserve it, but you have been. That means the world to me.”

Sighing, Sam looked away and watched as Richie pulled into the driveway of her townhome. “You should go back to Pittsburgh. I’m falling into hell. It started with my grandfather, and it’s ending with me. This is a Castille problem. Whatever is going on, this is a hell I don’t want to drag you into. Go back to Pittsburgh. Write your next book. Forget about me and all this death. Live a good life. Good-bye, Richie. Thank you for showing me a few days of happiness.”

Sam unlocked the door and got out of the car. The hot August air felt oppressive, but Sam was used to it. All her life people had hated her, and she had been alone. It wasn’t a new sensation to her. It was better she do this alone.

Sam was halfway up the steps to her front porch when she felt someone grab her hand. Spinning around, she saw Richie, a look in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. Instead of the suave novelist, or the disarming goof, she saw the eyes of a man—a strong and sincere man, looking at her with what only could be compassion.

“If you’re going to hell, Samantha Castille,” Richie said, his voice low but firm, “let me be there to pull you out. No matter what happens, I swear you won’t go through this alone. And when this is done, let me be the wings that carry you back out of hell. I love you, Sam. I always will.”

Sam’s throat tightened to the point that she couldn’t swallow. Her eyes instantly began to water. Her tough exterior, the one she had carefully built up over the past twenty years, cracked like an eggshell.

“Richie, I… ” Despite priding herself on always being strong and in control, Sam couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

Richie pulled Sam into his arms. For a moment, Sam looked up into those crystal-blue eyes, lost in their depth. Then her eyes closed, and she leaned up, her head tilting to the side, her lips parting. She felt his lips press into hers as they met in the center—each coming to the other.

Her mind slipped into autopilot. The taste of his kiss, the scent of his skin, the feel of his strong arms around her, drew her into a feeling of security she had never experienced before. Sam wasn’t sure how long the two of them kissed, or when their hands started to tug at each other’s clothes, or when they went into the townhome, or up the stairs, but by the time her mind came back to her, she was in her bed and Richie was on top of her.

Sensations overwhelmed Sam, and with them a feeling of completeness that overtook every one of her senses. She couldn’t describe it. It was unlike anything she could ever have dreamt it to be. Sam felt as if they were no longer two people, but one person, joined in a way that was more than beautiful—it was sacred.

Her arms wrapped around Richie’s neck, holding on to him as if her were her only lifeline, as if letting go would drop her into the abyss. She kept staring into his deep blue eyes, her body tensing from the overwhelming feelings as their lovemaking continued.

After what seemed like an eternity later, Sam was vaguely aware that Richie had sped up his motions, and that she was arching her back and crying out. The pleasure inside her had grown until it overtook her. Then it hit. A tidal wave of unstoppable force, like nothing ever felt before, crested again and again and carried her to a place of bliss.

Sometime later, Sam’s mind came back to her. She was lying next to Richie, resting her head on his chest, her finger delicately touching the muscles on his chest. She gave extra attention to a single scar, shaped like a slight crescent, which reached from the top of his chest down to just above his stomach. Richie held onto her tightly, a silent reminder of his vow.

Sam’s finger lightly traced Richie’s chest scar as if it were fragile. “Where did you get this scar?”

Richie mumbled something incoherent, half-asleep, and turned to fully embrace Sam. His body against hers made Sam feel, for the first time in her life, utterly secure.

Sam couldn’t do anything but smile. Never before had she known such joy.

I can’t deny it any longer.

Sam’s lips pressed over Richie’s chest, kissing it gently before resting her head against it and settling down to sleep.

I’m in love with this man.

And that night, for the first time in many years, all was well in her life. There were no nightmares, no headaches and no worries.

That night, Sam was happy.

Epilogue

The sound of a rat scurrying across the ground of an abandoned apartment in the French Quarter caught the attention of one of the room’s two inhabitants. Wearing a black hooded robe, the man stood over a sink, washing his hands with thick soap. The sink, like the rest of the apartment, was decrepit and stained with mold and rust.

As he finished washing his hands, the man said, “I’m really disappointed in the police, you know. I thought they would be more on their game. Between those detectives following every red herring, and Commander Ouellette being convinced Samantha Castille is me, I have almost no opposition.”

Drying off his hands on a surprisingly fresh-looking white towel, the man walked over to the end of the counter where a tray lay, its contents covered with a duty towel. As he lifted the tray and carried it across the room, the man said, “I am still hoping someone will rise to the occasion and challenge me. Maybe that junior detective, LeBlanc. I have high hopes for him.”

Placing the tray down on a stand near a covered table, the man said, “The sad part is that LeBlanc is right. The police should really be focusing on the original crimes to figure out who I am.”

Looking at the covered table from beneath his hood, the man’s pale mouth parted into a smirk. “You’re frightened. Don’t worry, everything has purpose, even your death.”

The man looked up at the single lightbulb illuminating the otherwise dim room. “I’ve been waiting for this time, my time, for so long. With tonight, vengeance shall finally be mine.”

As he lowered his head, the man removed the duty towel from the tray, revealing the metallic shine of a myriad of surgical items—scalpels, forceps, probes, even bone saws. Touching his fingers tenderly to the steel tools, the man said, “It’s been too many years, but with Nick’s assistance, everything is coming together perfectly. He even managed to get you to me without any problems. I’m very proud of that boy.”

Turning to the side, the man turned on the monitoring equipment, which stood next to the covered table. A heart rate monitor, an intravenous machine, and an artificial respirator were all soon beeping away quietly. The man gave a nod to the equipment and turned back to the table.

With a sound of disgust in his voice, the man said, “You’ll have to forgive me for starting so late. My prior engagements kept me away later than I’d have liked. Necessary evils to keep up my facade.

“But you’ll forgive me, won’t you? Of course you will.”

Grabbing the corner of the covering over the table, the man pulled it back, revealing a girl no more than sixteen years old, dressed in a skimpy, skin-revealing outfit. Her entire body was secured with thick leather straps, and her mouth had a ball gag with holes stuffed in it. The girl’s eyes looked utterly horrified and her entire body quaked.