The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 Twenty Years Later

  Chapter 2 Sam of Spades

  Chapter 3 Four Names, Four Leads

  Chapter 4 To Pen a Mystery

  Chapter 5 Stories and Shih Tzus

  Chapter 6 The Pale Lantern

  Chapter 7 Topper Jack

  Chapter 8 No More Fake Smiles

  Chapter 9 Why a Snake Is Dangerous

  Chapter 10 Darkness Rising

  Chapter 11 Mad Monty

  Chapter 12 Dinner at the Ritz

  Chapter 13 Rodger’s Bad Day

  Chapter 14 The Investigation Continues

  Chapter 15 The Magic in Your Mind

  Chapter 16 Breakfast at Samantha’s

  Chapter 17 Introducing Dr. Klein

  Chapter 18 Meeting of the Minds

  Chapter 19 Richie’s Routine Day

  Chapter 20 Introducing Dr. Lazarus

  Chapter 21 Michael’s Busy Day

  Chapter 22 Fat Willie

  Chapter 23 The Nite Priory

  Chapter 24 Mending of the Ways

  Chapter 25 One Last Chance

  Chapter 26 Lonesome Hearts

  Chapter 27 The Scent of Fruit

  Chapter 28 Meeting at the Times

  Chapter 29 Dessert at Muriel’s

  Chapter 30 Sam’s Special Day

  Epilogue

  Support Indie Authors and Small Press

  Excerpt

  Afterword

  About the Author

  More from Leo King

  Recommended Reading

  Grey Gecko Press

  The Bourbon Street Ripper

  Sins of The Father: Book One

  By Leo King

  Boudreaux is innocent.

  Truly innocent.

  I promise.

  — Leo King

  Prologue

  Date: Wednesday, October 18, 1967

  Time: 12:00 a.m.

  Location: A Basement in New Orleans

  It was the night of a full moon and a total lunar eclipse when a young girl with a weak heart was laid down on the floor amidst a circle of candles in a room of stone.

  Barely five years old, she was a small girl with strawberry-blond hair and dark blue eyes, which were barely open due to the drug she had been given hours beforehand. Dressed in a simple white chemise, the girl was laid down by a gentleman with graying hair who wore a black long robe with a pulled-back hood.

  All around the room, groups of people dressed in black-hooded robes, holding torches in their gloved hands, looked on. The girl, however, could not have seen the faces of those people even if she were not so heavily drugged, for each face was covered in a porcelain mask, the torchlight and candlelight reflecting eerily off of them.

  As the older gentleman, the leader of the gathering, placed the girl down on the floor and started to stand, the girl made a feeble attempt to sit up and reach for him as a child would reach for its parent. The man, whose face looked emotionless in the flickering light, brought a finger to his lips and made a sound: “Shhh.”

  Reaching beneath his robe, he took out a small porcelain doll dressed in a Southern Belle’s ball gown and placed it into the child’s arms. She hugged the doll as if it were a life-line. The leader smoothed back her strawberry-blond locks before standing up and walking just a few paces to an altar draped in red velvet. The girl lay still, her limbs slack from the drugs she’d been given.

  As the man reached the altar, he clapped his hands. Two hooded figures emerged from the shadows carrying a brazier that bellowed forth sweet-smelling pink smoke. The brazier was placed in front of the girl, who started to cough as the sweet vapors wafted about her. Upon the altar lay two wooden bowls, one filled with water and one with blood. Next to them was an ornate dagger with a golden hilt topped with a large red stone, and a book no bigger than a hymnal.

  Picking up the book, the man leafed through it until he came to a certain page. Turning to face the child in the center of the candles, he began to lead the others in a chant in Creole.

  “Papa Gede, nou mande w tanpri voye zye w sou timoun sa a nan tan fè nwa sa a. Tande vwa nou ak chante nou yo, pou gras ou kapab geri li.”

  On cue, the hooded figures around the room began to chant, “Papa Gede, nou konjire ou!” Each figure’s foot rose and fell in time to the chant, keeping a measured beat to the words.

  Putting the book aside and taking the dagger, the leader knelt down before the girl and cut off a lock of her hair. She rolled her head back to look at the man, a confused and anxious look on her small face, her mouth slightly open. She tried to sit up, but her movements were feeble and ineffective.

  Standing, the leader returned to the altar, sprinkling the girl’s hair into the bowl of water and the bowl of blood. As he did this, he continued to chant, his own voice ringing out over the chanting of the crowd. “Larèn Brijit, nou mande w tanpri pwoteje saktite timoun sa a nan tan fè nwa sa a. Tande priyè nou k ap monte wo nan chason, pou kè li ka vin fòtifye.”

  The chanting of the figures grew in volume, as did the strength of their stomping feet keeping time, the words changing to, “Larèn Brijit, nou konjire ou!” Some of the figures began gyrating their hips and torsos around lewdly, a few of them ceasing the chant to make guttural noises that bordered on obscene.

  Taking the book in one hand and the bowl of water in another, the leader walked over to the girl, who was now looking around the room, clutching the doll, and starting to sob fearfully.

  Pouring the water on top of the small child’s head, causing her to cry out in a pitifully weak voice, he continued to chant. “Bawon Samdi, Wa Lanmò, n ap mande pou pa fouye kavo timoun sa a aswè a. Tande vre entansyon nou, pou li kapab viv san laperèz.”

  The figures continued to chant, some of them slithering around from where they stood, or crawling upon the ground like beasts, their voices saying, “Bawon Samdi, nou konjire ou!” The circle around the girl began to tighten, the figures drawing nearer to the trembling child.

  Exchanging the bowl of water with the bowl of blood, the leader returned to stand above the girl, who was now crying in a terrified and choking voice. As he poured the blood around the child’s head, making her huddle into a ball and cry out, “Papa,” he continued to chant. “Sen Madonna, nou konjire Twa Gwo Lwa w yo. Nou mande ou pou yo bay pouvwa yo pou timoun sa a, pou maladi li an pa fini avèk li.”

  The child continued to cry in terror, even as the hooded figures’ voices rose to a fevered pitch, chanting, “Sen Madonna, nou konjire ou!” The figures crawling or slithering on the ground moved around the circle of candles that separated themselves from the trembling girl, some of them only pausing to make those guttural noises at her, making her flinch.

  The leader raised his hands, looked toward the ceiling, and cried out, “Kite yo tande vwa nou yo! Kite yo tande chanson nou an!”

  From the darkest corners of the room came the sounds of drums and tambourines. The figures who hadn’t been crawling or slithering on the ground began a dance, moving lewdly and crying out, voices ranging from the high-pitched to the deep and grating. The torchlight, shining off the porcelain masks, gave them a haunting, if not outright demonic appearance.

  Throughout all this, as the girl cried in absolute terror, crying out “Papa” over and over, the leader stood above her, arms raised to the heavens, his face contorted with euphoria. Over and over he screamed out, “Tande chanson nou an!”

  As the dancing and music reached a crescendo, the small girl suddenly let out a horrific scream that tore through the room like a shot. Her tiny hands and feet began to punch and
kick as if she were having a fit.

  One small fist connected with the face of a figure slithering by her head, and with a resounding crack, the mask broke into the face of the dark-skinned man behind it, causing him to scream as he rolled back.

  A small foot connected with the chin of a figure crawling by her legs, and with a snap, the person’s head flew back with the impact, the mask flying off to reveal a Caucasian woman’s face pale with shock. She slumped to the ground. The girl’s strength suddenly seemed inhuman.

  With another shriek, the girl knocked over the brazier, scattering sweet-smelling incense and red-hot embers all over the floor. The nearby figures jumped back to avoid catching their robes aflame.

  The music stopped and a few surprised cries tore through the quickly sobering crowd of hooded figures, but no screams were as loud as those coming from the girl on the floor in the center of the circle of candles. Twisting around, she began to froth at the mouth, her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

  As the tenor of the room changed from euphoric to concerned, the girl threw the doll with preternatural fury. It flipped through the air and hit a hooded figure in the chest harder than a five-year-old should have been able to throw anything. With a muffled cry, the figure sank to the ground.

  “Princess!” The leader rushed to the girl’s side and knelt beside her, trying to get his hands on her. Covered in blood, water, and sweat, greatly foaming at the mouth, she thrashed about violently.

  “She’s having a fit,” the man called out. He motioned toward one of the hooded figures off to the side—it was a tall, slender person. “Get my bag, quickly!” He then pointed to three other strong-looking figures. “I need you to restrain her while I give her an injection!”

  The three figures moved forward, albeit with obvious hesitation, and soon they were upon the small child. Two men grabbed her arms. The leader motioned to the third man, saying, “Hold down her legs!”

  The figure seemed even more hesitant than the others, but he finally reached for her legs. The girl gave a sudden shriek and a jerk and drove both feet into the hooded figure’s face. The mask shattered into hundreds of pieces, slicing the man’s face open, and the force of the kick threw him back. As two figures tended to the fallen man, two more quickly came and held down the girl’s legs.

  Still managing to thrash about, the girl arched her back and thrust her pelvis into the air, crying out in gibberish as she began to choke. “Sir,” said one of the men holding the girl down, “what’s happening to her?”

  “She’s seizing,” replied the leader, who had by now been given a black bag by the tall and slender figure. Taking out a vial and syringe, he quickly measured out a dose. “I believe it’s from the stress of the ritual. I’m giving her a dose of Valium before she hurts herself.”

  Without another word, the leader plunged the needle into the child’s arm. Slowly, the screaming and convulsing started to lessen. All the while, the men held the girl down, even though that appeared to be challenging.

  Once her convulsions lessened to where she could be safely touched, the leader wiped the foam off her mouth and again smoothed back her hair. The girl looked up at him with an unreadable expression. This made the leader’s brow furrow with both confusion and concern.

  “What is it?” asked the same hooded man as before.

  “I’m not sure,” replied the leader. “I think she’s fully aware. But she can’t be. She should be asleep.”

  Reaching his hand out, the leader called for a candle. As soon as someone handed him one of the candles from the circle, he held it over the girl’s face, close to her eyes.

  The girl didn’t flinch; she didn’t even blink. She just stared at him. With concern in his voice, the man said, “Princess?”

  The girl smiled and said, “Li la a.” With a small puff, the girl blew out the candle, leaving the leader with a puzzled look on his face. He leaned back and looked at the girl as her eyes slowly closed and she fell asleep.

  “This was a mistake, Brother,” said the slender figure next to him. She removed her mask, revealing an aged face with a pinched, tight-lipped, sour look. “Now you’ve gone and caused your precious heir permanent damage. She’ll grow up broken now. Mark my words, Brother.”

  “Silence, Sister,” muttered the leader, reaching down to take the child into his arms.

  One of the men who had helped hold the girl’s arms down said, “She’s right. There’s no way a person can recover from that. She’s lucky if doesn’t end up in a sanita—”

  The man stopped as the leader turned and gave him a look that could only mean one thing—death. The figure retreated.

  All around, the other hooded figures were removing their hoods and masks, revealing men and women of all ages and races. Many of them started to help the few who had been wounded.

  Someone called out, “We’re going to need an ambulance. Gerald Robichaux’s face is cut to ribbons.”

  The leader walked through the parting crowd, not looking anyone in the eyes, to a large wooden doorway. Someone opened the door, and the leader walked up the staircase beyond it. The slender woman, still in her hooded robe, followed the man upstairs.

  “Where do you think you are going, Brother?” asked the woman, her arms folded indignantly.

  “To a hospital, Sister,” replied the man in an annoyed tone, stopping in a well-appointed and brightly lit study. “The princess has had a seizure and needs to be looked over.”

  “You need to address what happened,” said the woman as she pointed down the stairs, her tight lips twisting with growing anger. “You need to assure them that this will never happen again. Tonight was a total failure.”

  “Correction: tonight was an unexpected success,” replied the man, his nose in the air. “I will have to take a day or two to analyze the data, and I may have to reference some things with Dr. Lazarus, but I believe we’ve witnessed a miracle tonight.”

  The woman looked as if she could spit, her lips snarling in obvious frustration. “A miracle, Brother? Really now? The child had a psychotic fit. Russell is right, the girl is fortunate if she doesn’t end up chained to a bed for the rest of her li—”

  “Do not say that again, Sister,” the man snarled at the woman, making her gasp with shock and outrage. “Insult my princess again and I’ll forget that you’re family.”

  The woman seemed to lessen her anger at the man’s outburst. Finally, she contented herself with just looking away in a huff.

  The man turned to continue on his way out of the study, saying, “Anyway, next full moon, we’ll be better prepared. We know what to expect this time.”

  “We are doing this again?” asked the woman, the surprise evident in her voice. “They will never go for it. The Priory isn’t like that, Brother.”

  The leader chortled as he stopped at the door and turned toward the woman. “Ha! Those fools would jump off the Huey Long Bridge if I asked them. Face it, Sister, the Priory only lives because of our bloodline. Next full moon, we will try this again. This time, we should use one of the twins. Their mother is one of our priestesses. And they should take to the tkeeus nicely, don’t you think? I’m anxious to see how they react to the ritual.” The foreign word had an African-style click at the beginning.

  As the man started to step out of the study, the woman called out, “Brother!”

  The man stopped but didn’t look back. “Yes? What is it?”

  “There is no such thing as magic or miracles,” she said with a scowl. “You and I both know these rituals are merely superstition to keep the others in line. So stop acting like they could really correct the girl’s condition. It’s madness.”

  The man turned to the woman and grinned widely. “The mind can do things so incredible it may very well be magic. Therefore, there is a fine line between magic and madness, Sister. You would do well to remember that.”

  And with that, the man left, the child in his arms, leaving the woman to stand there with a sour look on her face.
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br />   She only made one last comment before heading back downstairs: “No good can come from any of this.”

  Chapter 1

  Twenty Years Later

  Date: Wednesday, August 5, 1992

  Time: 3:00 a.m.

  Location: Corner of Dauphine & Ursuline

  French Quarter

  A steady rain was falling on the streets of the New Orleans French Quarter. It was a reprieve after an ill-tempered summer shower. The torrential downpour had ceased not too long ago, leaving a low-hanging mist over the cobbled streets. The droplets of water were all but invisible as they fell from the night sky, only becoming perceptible as they passed a streetlight or collected on the shingles of a nearby roof before cascading into one of many gutters.

  The sound of the rainwater rushing down those gutters to the streets below, where they collected in fetid puddles, had a sloppy quality to it, an unclean sound. Mixing together the sights and sounds was the smell. Despite the recent summer showers, the stench of the French Quarter still lingered, the collective booze and bile of the New Orleans tourist hanging like a heavy blanket.

  Detective Rodger Bergeron noted, as he stood deep in thought on the corner of Dauphine and Ursuline, that he loved that smell.

  The smell was a way for Rodger to know that he was home. Born and raised with all the pride of a pure-blooded Cajun, Detective Bergeron loved his hometown. He loved every single flaw New Orleans had to offer. He loved the constant humidity that made everyone sweat even on winter days. He loved the run-down and dilapidated buildings that simultaneously preserved their French and Spanish heritage. He even loved the myriad forms of human decadence that flourished in the heights and back alleys of the French Quarter and the Lower Ninth Ward.

  It was New Orleans. It was the Big Easy. It was hell. It was Rodger’s home.

  As Rodger stood on the street corner, coming out of his musings, he noticed that he was being watched. Looking across the street, he spotted three tourists looking in his direction from the second-story balcony of one of Dauphine Street’s hotels. The men, two of them, were typical middle-aged tourists, wearing cargo pants and sandals, heads crowned with ten-dollar crew cuts, and a little too much chest hair.