House of Corruption (14 page)

He had never jumped onto a moving train before, and his pounding heart felt no thrill in it, but now he was in familiar territory. His time in the Calvary returned to his muscles like memory—
keep low, breathe slow, here you go
.

He cocked the lever as he crouched against the door frame.

Here you go
.

He kicked open the door, expecting a volley of gunshot as he waited five, ten seconds. The rifle comfortable in his hands, finger on the trigger, he swung around and inside. This portion of the car contained a half-dozen padded benches on burgundy carpet, three on either side of the center aisle, the varnished mahogany trimmed with velvet drapes and rose-tinted lanterns. End tables jingled with tea services and potted plants. To the left and right hung mirrors with French gilded trim.

Lasha LaCroix sat on a rear-facing bench at the far end, eyes open, hands in her lap. She did not look at him. She did not move. She did not smile. She did not seem afraid.

“Miss Lasha?” he asked.

The door swung violently against his right shoulder, forcing him back. From behind leaped a brown, wiry man garbed in a blue robe and turban, his hands and face pocked with black-dot tattoos. He gripped Grant’s rifle and pulled, hard. The weapon fired its loaded shot into the ceiling and dropped to the floor. The sniper backed up, quick as a snake, and slid his silver dagger from his belt.

“Miss Lasha!” Grant shouted.

The sniper slashed. Grant rotated, let the man lunge too far, and cocked him across the jaw with his fist. Grant struck again—an uppercut—and the man staggered back. He raised his silver dagger; Grant caught the man’s wrist, twisted, and the dagger fell to the floor. He rebounded, took Grant by his lapel, and hurled him against the wall. The impact of Grant’s back cracked a mirror and sent a sidetable tumbling. With a heavy shove, he pushed the man away and reclaimed his rifle.

The man lashed, hands extended as if to tackle; Grant thrust up with the butt of the Winchester, connected against the man’s throat, and dropped him with a moist wheeze.

Grant spun to grab Lasha and run.

“
Mahonri
.”

The Lady of Chalmette stood in the aisle.

She was as he remembered her: porcelain skin and ruddy cheek and red hair and comely shape. She wore a dress of deep green and rounded cap with a gauzy veil that hid the details of her face, but he could see her smiling her white teeth. There was something different about her; her face was as lovely as he remembered, but then he saw red blotches pocked along her forehead and cheekbone and throat.

“
Kiss me
,” she whispered.

He envisioned that smile splattered in blood, the ghoulish face glaring in that back alley, yet he still wanted to hold her close and breathe in her sour scent until he trembled at his revulsion. He could not move, could not breathe. Her voice slithered into his brain.

“
Let me have you
.”

“No,” he started, craving her skin against his own. “I don’t, I—”

Metal clicked and he saw—too late—the Lady raise a four-barreled derringer. She smiled. The gun fired in a burst of smoke. Grant watched, indifferent, as pain like a white-hot hammer nailed into his shoulder and flung him around on his heels. The Lady smiled wider. Behind her, Lasha watched as placidly as a manikin.

Don’t you care I’m dead
?

The Lady aimed at Grant’s head. Grant squeezed the trigger of the Winchester. It discharged in a thunderclap and the Lady’s shot went wild; the bullet slashed hot fire across Grant’s left side—flinging him through a window, breaking through glass and fabric, toppling into the black air until the world became an emptiness of cold, spinning dark and he landed, hard.

His shoulder slid with a wet pop from its socket. He rolled, tossed down a grassy slope. Heartbeat pounded as the train clack-clacked faded away—away—

—his beating heart—

Dead
.

Nothing.

***

thiswaythisway—

The beast slid through dark streets, from one shadow to another.

whereamIamILashawherethiswaywayway—

Barking caught its attention. A hound bounded from a dark place, snapping and howling. The creature tore into it. It ripped the animal’s belly open, pulled its entrails away with its teeth, and left its steaming remains in the gutter. It licked the blood from its claws, only to drop to all fours when voices and electric torchlight headed its way.

awayawaykillmeaway—

It raced from alley to street to alley again beneath a waning moon, the night so dark that those few who heard the scratching of nails, or saw its passing, dismissed it as another dog. Soon the streets ended. Stone became muck and brush, and then the thing plunged between trees. Lights disappeared and the ground softened under its feet. Its claws gripped the pliant earth, found traction. It accelerated out of the city and into the bayou.

runawaynrunthiswayLasharunLashaRun—

Every splash and cry and bubble, every scent and movement of air, all filled the thing with thoughts so contrary it relied on instinct. It ran for an hour. Two. It reached the shore of the lake and followed it. Sometime it raced over manicured lawns, through gardens. Once another dog pursued, gnashing and barking at the intruder, and the werewolf dispatched it as violently as the first.

The creature slowed. Ahead lay a large house with many windows. The backyard was cut, a stony path weaving around decorative ponds, a trellis wrapped in ivy, a fallow patch of garden waiting for spring. 

—
homehomehomehomehomehome.

It thought of that path, the dead garden. It remembered crying, and blood, a tiny little girl crying. It remembered angry faces and glaring eyes drowned with hatred, the sick guilt of murder and shame and loneliness so bitter it hurt to breathe, a mother’s and father’s hatred—the unspoken secret. That house with its dark windows was empty now, a tomb, its soul torn free because of him, him, him—

whatIwhatImemememeLashadontlookdontlookletmediedie—

The creature howled, screamed, and fled into the forest.

Screaming again, distant.

The sound grew louder until he realized it was his own. He snapped his mouth shut. Nerves registered cold, gripping and wet. Naked. He was naked, filthy, sprawled in the brush in some wilderness. Moss hung above him, brushing his face. He inhaled a deep breath, dispelling the sticky fog, his heart slowing to a gentler pace.

His fingers lingered at the round, silvery scar above his heart.

So it was true. The bullet was gone.

Metairie.

She knew.

He inhaled a deep breath, then he saw her face.

Her horror. Her disgust.

Oh God.

Broken thoughts came scattered—the smell of herbs, sepia photograph of a stern woman with eyes like flint—
Mother
—beside a fairy-eyed, ten-year-old girl with a big, floppy hat—
Lasha
; Striped wallpaper with cedar trim; Anaglypta peeling around gaslamp fittings; Four-drawer walnut cabinet with lace cloth and a cracked, alabaster vase full of combs; Books stacked on an endtable; The
tip tip tip
of stocking feet. Was that her room? His own? He tried to see his sister’s face, all smiles and patience and love for a brother who gave back little but distance.

It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? To protect her?

Now she was gone. She had seen him.

If God saw fit to impart this impossible puzzle
, great-uncle Lanquin had written.
I must consider the final solution.

Why hadn’t Arté aimed for my head?

He pressed his palms against his eyes, his body shuddering as sobbing grief consumed him.

13

Grant awoke, his shoulder and ribs feeling broken, tearing, the stiffness in his neck like iron hands twisting. He perceived pale light. He lay in bed, draped in white cloth, the air illuminated by dusty sunlight through heavy curtains. He tried to move and regretted it.

“Take it slow.”

“Mister Savoy?” Grant saw him seated nearby. “Where?”

“St. Catherine’s.”

Savoy looked ten years older as he sat beside Grant’s hospital bed. His brown tweed suit was clean and his carpetbag sat at his feet, but exhaustion lay heavy in his eyes. A surrounding curtain provided some privacy in the recovery ward, but voices and footsteps milled just beyond as nurses pursued their duties, the air redolent with alcohol and blood and sweat. Savoy kept his voice down.

“They found you half-dead in a ditch,” he said. “You had a dislocated shoulder, a cracked rib, and a bullet to the shoulder and your side. The wounds are superficial and stitched up tight. You’ll be on your feet very soon.”

“I lost your rifle,” Grant said.

Savoy smiled. “I wouldn’t worry yourself.”

“She’s gone.”

“I know.”

Grant recalled what he could remember.

“You are certain it was the same woman?” Savoy asked. Grant nodded. “Extraordinary. Your healthy constitution’s the only excuse for you being here. You have survived this creature—twice now, it seems, though I doubt you feel any success. It is a strange affair we’ve stumbled upon.”

“A nightmare,” Grant said.

“A very real one, I am sorry to say. I have spent hours in research while you recovered. A creature such as what we saw, something so horrific—I focused my attention upon those legends of the East where the Carlovecs reside. Folklore always has its origins in truth. There is a legend among the Malay and the native tribes of upper Borneo, a thing known as a
penanggalen
.”

“What?”

“A vampire,” Savoy said, to Grant’s incredulous expression. “Do not allow popular definitions sway your perception. I describe a creature that sustains its life by taking it from another. What we witnessed defies all logic, but we saw it, Mister Grant. We
saw
it. The stories say penanggalen remove their head and entrails and float about, feeding on human blood.”

“You’re joking.”

“I never joke, Mister Grant,” Savoy said. “I do not fully understand the relationship between the Lady of Chalmette and Mister Tukebote, but clearly there is collusion in this affair. You said the woman read your thoughts?”

“She…she knew things.”

“Such a skill might subdue prey. I doubt they could keep Miss Lasha docile without resorting to mesmerism or drugs or similar coercion.” Savoy sat back in his chair, solemn, his expression darkened. “I saw to poor Mister Burlington,” he continued. “Thankfully, we have a timeline of alibis. The authorities are convinced you were shot trying to apprehend Lasha’s kidnappers. It took some convincing, but they now believe Mister LaCroix was targeted for some inexplicable purpose. They believe these same men responsible for Bill Tourney’s death.”

“How?”

“In their zeal to find a suspect, the police broke two or three laws arresting you. How much better to sweep that little scandal under the rug then to blame foreigners?” That gave Savoy a vague smile. “Yet here is the puzzler: Miss Kiria Carlovec, the author of our troubles, continues to reside at the St. Charles Hotel. She is still here. I confirmed it this morning.”

“But the Lady. Wasn’t she—?”

“I thought the same. The deeper we become embroiled in this affair, the less I understand it. She is bound to know something.”

“So what shall you do?”

“The question is what shall
we
do, Mister Grant?”

“I don’t follow.”

“I hope you can be persuaded to see things through,” Savoy said. “You’ve proven your skill, your honesty.” He shifted in his seat, clearing his throat. “I cannot do this alone.”

Grant closed his eyes.

“Consider it repayment,” Savoy continued, “from sparing you the gallows. That should be worth something.”

Grant opened his eyes again, a strange look on his face. When he spoke, his voice came measured and soft, the sound of consignation. “Fair enough,” he said. “So what shall
we
do?”

“A bit of turnabout would serve, I would think.”

***

Miss Carlovec:

I must see you regarding our recent appointment.

 A messenger with more specific instructions will

 arrive at your residence, no later than eight

 o’clock this evening. Please dress for supper.

Discretion is essential, as I am sure you will agree.

My urgent wish is that we can come to a decision

to our mutual benefit.

Regards,

R. LaCroix

***

The next evening, five minutes to eight o’clock, Savoy and Grant entered the foyer of the St. Charles Hotel. The hotel held the glamour of the rich: plants and portraits and French wallpaper, slim columns wrapped with roses, the air filled with perfume and cigar smoke. Unlike more northern accommodations, black men and women served as porters and maids and servants. Savoy regarded the division with distaste. Despite the Southern Rebellion losing its cause, they still maintained a caste system based on color, as if to stubbornly resist the notion they had lost anything.

The men entered as confidently as other guests. They did not stop at the counter, and no servant questioned them. None regarded Grant’s arm in a sling, tucked away beneath the fold of his coat. The hotel was one of the few with an elevator; they ascended to the top floor dedicated to the executive suites. Miss Carlovec occupied the largest, with two suites on either side housing her retinue. They did not know who, or what, they would encounter. The thought of more turbaned thugs lay heavily on both men’s minds.

Savoy knocked on her door, waited, and knocked again.

“Yes?” came a soft voice.

“Miss Carlovec?” Savoy said. Grant stood beside him in his longcoat, his arm in a sling. “May I speak with you?”