The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (57 page)

Richie kept up his smile and inwardly felt much better about the whole thing.

“However, you need to watch your ass,” Rodger said, his voice remaining low so that, Richie suspected, Sam couldn’t overhear them. “Ouellette, my commander, also has his eye on you. If you’re caught doing any more independent investigating of your own, you’ll be back in jail or on the first plane to Pittsburgh.”

Richie gritted his teeth and nodded. “This is not good. So there is nothing I can do anymore to help out?”

Rodger leaned against the door of his car and nodded. “You can stay with Sam.” Rodger’s voice, still low, had taken on a deadly serious tone. “Ouellette has me on a short leash, so I can’t look out for her. Stay with her and make sure nothing happens to her.”

Richie looked back at Rodger, the two men locking eyes in what Richie felt was an unspoken understanding. To Richie, Rodger looked wild, as if he hadn’t slept or eaten all day, like he was running on sheer willpower. There was an almost twitchy quality about him. Richie thought to himself that there was something seriously wrong with the senior detective, like he was giving off the kind of vibes of a man who was dangerously close to the edge.

Realizing that he was staring too long, Richie broke his gaze in a manner that would look like defeat and nodded, saying, “I understand, Detective Bergeron. I’ll keep an eye on Sam. I’ll keep her safe. I’ll stay with her.”

“Good,” Rodger replied, starting to get into the squad car. He stopped at the last moment, pointing at the sky and shaking his finger as if to say that he had forgotten to mention something.

“Although, Mr. Fastellos,” Rodger said, his voice remaining hushed and taking on a sudden primal gruffness, “I know you have a thing for Sam.”

Richie felt himself beginning to sweat.

“And that’s okay,” Rodger continued. “She needs that kind of normalcy in her life.” Again, Rodger stared into Richie, and there was something dangerous to his gruff voice. “If you use her, or hurt her, or fuck her and leave her, what will be left of you won’t fit into a small box.”

With that said, Rodger gave a frighteningly pleasant smile and said, “Have a great day, Mr. Fastellos.”

Richie stared as Rodger took a moment to struggle with the front seat belt, started the car, and drove off. For the second time today, he felt the sudden urge to punch someone right in the face. Instead of anxiety or panic, he felt the intense urge to hurt someone really badly. The mental image of punching Rodger’s teeth right out was unsettlingly satisfying.

You fucking dick! Don’t you dare threaten me!

Richie took a few minutes to shake it off and rationalize why Rodger Bergeron, a normally very nice old guy, would suddenly become so defensive and vicious. Richie finally determined that it had to be due to this “uncle” status he had with Sam. After all, if he was Sam’s father’s partner, and was like an uncle to Sam, being so protective of her, especially with what had been happening lately, made sense. His sudden anger finally abated when he decided that Rodger’s threat was more obligatory than anything else.

“Still, there was no reason to threaten me like that,” Richie said to himself as he headed up the front porch steps back to Sam’s townhome. “I’d never hurt Sam. And I’d sure as heck never, what did he say? ‘Fuck her and leave her.’ Sheesh. Give me more credit.”

But I love her. She will be mine, old man,
and hell on you if you think you can get between us.

With his manhood mentally restored, Richie headed back inside Sam’s townhome, remembering to close and lock the door from the inside.

Chapter 29   
Dessert at Muriel’s

After saying good-bye to Rodger, Sam had headed back into her townhome’s kitchen to make tea for herself and Richie. However, before she could even put the kettle on the stove, she had begun to feel faint and was forced to sit down at the small breakfast table. She was still sitting there, pressing her hands to her face, her consciousness fluctuating, when Richie came back inside. While she had been sure it was exhaustion, Sam had no idea why her fainting spell came on so quickly.

Richie had been understandably concerned, and after a brief discussion had persuaded Sam to go lie down for a while. So Sam, despite wanting to continue with the investigation, allowed Richie to help her upstairs to her bedroom, where she lay down.

Once in bed, Sam closed her eyes, her consciousness sinking into the mattress like a body sinking deep into water. Her thoughts were a mire of anxiety over her current predicament and the drowning nostalgia that had been circulating in her heart recently. Her mind finally drifting far away from the pain, Sam began to dream.

It was a hot afternoon in the summer of 1972, and ten-year-old Samantha Castille was lying in bed with a slight fever. In her arms, she clutched a small porcelain doll wearing a Southern lady’s dress. Next to her sat one of the Patterson sisters, Tania. The young black girl was taking the cool rag, soaking it in a basin of fresh water, wringing it out, and then dabbing it over young Samantha’s face and forehead.

“You certainly did a number on yo’self, Miss Samantha,” said Tania, rinsing out the cloth and folding it up to place on Samantha’s head. “You need to be more careful, else your granddaddy gonna think we don’t take care of you.”

Samantha didn’t say anything, simply staring upward and letting the cool rag on her head lull her into the place between consciousness and unconsciousness. It had been an abnormally hot day, and Samantha, as ten-year-olds are apt to do, had played outside too long with no sunscreen.

So besides having a painfully pink sunburn on her cheeks, ears, and the front of her neck, she was overheated. Grandfather, who had been taking his tea out at the gazebo in the backyard, had instructed Miss Patterson to take Samantha to her room and for Tania to tend to her.

“Is Grandpa coming?” Samantha finally asked Tania.

“Oh, I’m sho’ he will come in time, Miss Samantha,” Tania responded, resoaking the cloth to dab it to the girl’s face again before resting it on her head. “He said he had some important business he had to tend to first.”

“Important business,” Samantha repeated. It was a term she’d been hearing her grandfather use a lot more lately. The girl was only vaguely aware that something bad was going on in the French Quarter, something that kept her father and Uncle Rodger busy all the time, so to have her grandfather get busy as well left her with very few people to play with.

And she could only interfere with Miss Patterson, Miss Cooper, Mr. Reginald, or Mr. Mason so many times before she found herself in trouble.

“It’s because of that horrible stuff happening in New Orleans, Miss Samantha,” blabbed on Tania, increasing the pace of her cloth rinsing and the dabbing of Samantha’s face. “Mommy don’t want Violet and me talking about it, but how can you not talk about it? Not wit’ those ladies missing!”

“Ladies missing?” Samantha again repeated and then looked over at Tania. “What is happening in New Orleans, Tania?”

The Patterson twin looked like someone had slapped her in the face. Flustered, she shook her head and waved her hands, saying, “Lord me, I have said too much. Don’t you mind me, Miss Samantha, I’m just talking out the side of my mouth!”

Samantha didn’t reply. She genuinely liked Tania Patterson. She was the more simple of the two Patterson twins, but she was nice and had a good heart—unlike her sister, Violet, whom Samantha regarded as mean and moody.

“Anyway, Miss Samantha,” Tania droned on, “I don’t know what your grandfather is up to, but I seen him talking to Mama late last night about something. All I heard was them talking in old Creole. Mama said she won’t teach me Creole.”

Samantha looked over at Tania and blinked, the cool rag on her head making it very difficult for her to keep her eyes open. “Why not?”

“Because she’s too stupid to learn Creole,” said a much slower-paced and sterner voice from the entrance of Samantha’s bedroom. Both Samantha and Tania turned to see Violet standing there, hands on the door frame and looking in their direction, her gray eyes staring blankly and showing the usual lack of emotion.

“Oh Violet, why you gotta be so mean to me?” cried out Tania, her face showing genuine upset.

“Because you are an idiot,” was Violet’s reply as she leaned against the frame of the doorway. “You shouldn’t go talking to your betters like you’re equal to them. Also, you need to watch what you say, or Mama will skin your ass.”

Tania’s lip wobbled from Violet’s chiding. Samantha’s brow furrowed, even though that pinched her sunburned skin together. She really didn’t like Violet Patterson. Everything about her screamed “mean” and “bully.”

“Tania can talk to me all she wants,” Samantha said, reaching out to pat the visibly upset Patterson sister on the knee. “She’s my friend, and I like her. You should apologize to your sister right now, Violet!”

Tania looked from Samantha to Violet and back again, tears on the rims of her eyes.

After a few seconds of silence, Violet stoically said, “I apologize, sister.”

Tania got up and rushed over to her twin sister, hugging her tightly. “Oh sister, I knew you was just being tough,” she said. “I always knows you love me.”

Samantha watched as Violet slowly placed a hand on her sister’s back, the insincerity of the hug more than apparent from Samantha’s angle. Violet looked over Tania’s shoulder, focusing on nothing at all. “Idiot. You make a big deal out of everything.”

Samantha thought to herself how horrible Violet was, watching the exchange with growing contempt for her. The little girl wondered how someone could be so mean to her own twin sister.
If I had a sister, she’d be my best friend.

“Tania,” Violet finally said, still in the embrace, “Miss Cooper wants you to go and peel onions for tonight’s dinner.”

Tania stepped back and said, “Oh, but what about Miss Samantha here? Can you tend to her?”

Violet immediately said, “Mother has me on a task from the master. I cannot.”

“It’s okay,” Samantha said to Tania. “I’ll be fine. I’m already feeling much better.” It was a small fib, but Samantha knew better than to distract Tania from her duties, lest the girl get her ears boxed by the cook.

“All right then, Miss Samantha,” Tania said, giving Samantha a thumbs-up. “I will sees you at dinner!”

With that said, Tania scampered off toward the kitchen.

Samantha closed her eyes and relaxed her breathing. She felt the motion of the air in the room, and felt the coolness of the rag on her head. These sweet and comforting sensations were soon overshadowed by a cold feeling of unease. Her brow furrowing, Samantha opened her eyes.

Standing directly over her was Violet Patterson. She had moved to Samantha’s side without making so much as a sound, and seemed to be staring blankly at her. Up close, Violet’s grayish eyes were like polished steel, showing no emotion.

Samantha gasped, her little heart racing. She clutched her doll tightly, as if it were a protective blanket that would keep her safe.

Without a word, Violet took the rag off Samantha’s head. Never shifting her blank gaze, Violet wet the rag in the basin, rinsed it out, wrung it out, folded it, and placed it back on the girl’s head. Then, taking the basin, Violet backed up and left the room, never looking away from Samantha until she was gone.

Despite the deadness of her eyes, the look on Violet’s face was unmistakable—a cold, remorseless hatred.

As soon as she was gone, Samantha breathed again, her little heart pounding in her chest. Tears formed in her eyes. She hadn’t been frightened like that in quite some time.

For a long time, Samantha lay in her bed, looking up at the ceiling and trying to shake the fear. She found that she couldn’t. Violet’s odd behavior had terribly frightened her, and resting was now impossible. Samantha knew what she wanted. She wanted her grandfather. She wanted Grandpa Vincent.

Getting up, still clutching her doll, she slowly crept through the hallways of the Castille mansion to her grandfather’s study. Soon the large oaks doors loomed before her, and Samantha knocked gingerly on them.

No response.

After waiting a few seconds, Samantha knocked again, this time more assertively.

Still no response.

The girl fretted as the memory of Violet’s creepy behavior assailed her, and finally, just wanting to be near her grandfather’s things, Sam pushed open the door and entered the study.

All the lights were off, casting the room into eerie shadows, save for one light on her grandfather’s desk. Holding her doll to her chest, Samantha crept toward the desk and, scooting up on her toes, looked up on it.

Nothing really caught her eye, just some boring letters written in calligraphy and a ledger of household expenses. Her grandfather, caught in what Father often referred to as the “time of antiquity,” still wrote with a quill, and Samantha had learned at an early age not to mess with the inkwell. So when Samantha saw that the inkwell’s cap was still off, lying on a nearby book, the girl slipped up onto her grandfather’s writing chair, swiped the cap, and placed it back on the inkwell.

As she leaned back, she noticed that the book the inkwell cap was on had a funny design, something that looked like a triangle, but with flourishes coming out of the sides and the points. Above the design, written in gold leaf, was the word
Vodoun
.

“Vodoun,” Samantha said out loud, pronouncing the word as
voh-dune
.

It was a curiously thick book, with a bookmark jutting out in one place. Samantha, in spite of herself, found opening the book to be irresistible. The girl excitedly thought to herself that “voh-dune” was something new and different. She figured it would be best for her to learn about it, and then maybe she’d have something new to talk to her grandfather about.