Blood on the Bayou Read online

  Quinn nodded and paused to kiss the top of her head. For a moment, he didn’t want to leave her, not even for a second. Her hair always smelled so clean and yet so evocative. He wanted to forget all about rougarous and dead bodies in the swamp. He even wanted to forget about a night out with music and friends. Lock the world away. Play out a scene from Gone with the Wind and sweep Danni off her feet, carry her up the stairs, dive into the comfort of their bed and the sensuality of her bare flesh.

  “Quinn?”

  He snapped back to reality. “Yeah, I’m going.”

  He headed for the door.

  The phone rang.

  It was Jake Larue.

  “I’m sure as hell not saying that there was a rougarou out there last night,” he told Quinn.

  He heard the “but” in Larue’s voice.

  “But the guy did follow those young women back to the city. The blood on their balcony matched that of the first victim. The man found last night in the bayou.”

  * * * *

  Jez, Natasha’s unbelievably handsome, mixed-race assistant, had apparently been told that Danni was coming. Natasha always seemed to know these things, exuding an air of mystery in her manner and demeanor. Jez informed her that Natasha was waiting in the courtyard.

  Natasha was wearing a colorful dress and a turban to match, all in shades of orange and gold that enhanced the dusky quality of her skin. She sat at one of her wrought iron tables, a pile of books at her side. She rose and enveloped Danni in a hug, and then indicated they should both sit.

  “No music tonight?” Natasha asked.

  Danni shook her head. “Tell me what you know?”

  “Quite a bit, actually. I went and looked up the old murders as soon as I heard what happened.”

  “The young women killed twenty years ago?” Danni asked.

  “No, I went way further back, all the way to Melissa DeVane.”

  “I don’t remember the name. Was she one of the victims?”

  “She was, but not twenty years ago. When the French lost this area to the Spanish, Spain didn’t even send a governor right away. The French more or less refused to acknowledge what was going on. I know you’ve heard of Count D’Oro.”

  “He wanted the Good Witch of Honey Swamp—”

  “Melissa DeVane.”

  She connected the dots.

  “Count Otto D’Oro was a horrible man. Richer than can be imagined. He had many mistresses, and many of them disappeared. Nothing could be proven against the man. He was very powerful. It was said that he had his own army of enforcers. He was into everything. Prostitution, gambling, piracy, you name it. But Melissa lived out in Honey Swamp. She was reputed to be able to cure the sick, to make crops grow, even to bring the rain. She never did anything evil. And she was beautiful. Naturally, D’Oro wanted her.”

  “And she didn’t want a thing to do with him.” Danni could tell where the story was going.

  “But he kept insisting. The story goes that she caused rain and a flood, leaving him trapped with some of his minions in the swamp. He was furious, so he waited for the floodwaters to recede, then sent his minions to get her. He tied her to a tree and threatened to burn her alive. She said that she’d rather kiss flames than him. Supposed eyewitness accounts claim that the rains came again when he tried to burn her. In the end, though, it couldn’t rain enough to dampen his enthusiasm. Eventually, he got a fire going. And that was when she cursed him. People say that he then turned into the rougarou—because his soul had been consumed by evil. And, as you’ve heard, he was eventually hunted down. Even his own people turned on him. And, he, too, was finally burned alive and the murders in Honey Swamp came to an end. Here’s the thing. He carried a cane with a silver wolf’s head. Like the cane of the mannequin in your window.”

  “I need to get that display down,” Danni said. “What about the cane?”

  “Apparently, D’Oro had some kind of an evil magician, or warlock, or whatever one chooses to call such a man in his employ, nowhere near as gifted as the white witch and certainly nowhere near as beautiful. The silver wolf’s head on the cane absorbed the brunt of the curse, and that’s what made D’Oro become a rougarou rather than falling victim to one himself.”

  “You think that the cane causes the evil?” Danni asked. “But it’s not in any museum that I’ve ever heard about. And D’Oro wasn’t buried. His ashes were left to disperse into Honey Swamp, along with whatever was left of his bones.”

  “That would make one assume that, somewhere in Honey Swamp are the remnants of that cane,” Natasha said. “Unless, of course, someone found it.”

  “That’s a long shot,” Danni said.

  Natasha was thoughtful. “It brings us back to the question of what evil is. Greed, lust? Hatred?”

  “The world and the human mind are complex, Natasha. People kill for a lot of reasons. They torture and commit atrocities for their own goals and agendas. And then again, is someone with a totally fractured mind evil or just broken?”

  “I don’t know about every circumstance,” Natasha said. “But what’s going on here is evil, by any definition.” She paused. “The mind is powerful. We all know that. If you believe that you have an incredible power granted to you by the devil, or simple evil, can you make it so? Perception can be a form of truth.”

  “You’re right about that,” Danni murmured. “So what do we do? Search the swamp. Search the streets for someone with a silver wolf’s head cane? Or look to the reasons people become evil? Natasha, two young women were on the tour boat that came upon the first victim. The one young lady was convinced that she saw a rougarou on her hotel balcony.”

  “We can believe we see many things,” Natasha said.

  “But there was blood on the balcony that matched the blood of the first victim. Detective Jake Larue just called Quinn. Whoever killed that first victim came into the French Quarter as a rougarou.”

  Natasha sat in silence for a minute. Then she lifted one of the books from the stack at her side.

  “This is on the murders from twenty years ago. There was one young lady named Genevieve LaCoste. She was a shopkeeper in the Garden District. She’d been out with a boyfriend to Honey Swamp the day she was killed. She’d come back to the city, but was found the next day, dead, in the swamp. Maybe, just maybe, this rougarou sees what he wants and comes after it. Your young lady was very lucky to escape him.”

  “She wasn’t alone. She was with a friend.”

  “Maybe the rougarou expected her to be alone. Or maybe whoever was pretending to be a rougarou was startled away by her screams or something from the street,” Natasha suggested. “Read more of the book. Twenty years ago wasn’t the first time people were found ripped apart in the swamp. It happened eighty years and about a hundred and fifty years ago, too. There was nothing about it with rhyme or reason, just every twenty or fifty years, that kind of thing. But it happened first with Count D’Oro, and it’s happened again and again through the years.”

  “No rhyme or reason,” Danni mused. “Except that, there has to be a reason. We just don’t know what it is yet.”

  “Evil.”

  “And evil is usually personified. There’s an evil man out there. We have to find out who he is.” Danni rose. “I think I’m going to check on the value of my property.”

  “What?” Natasha asked.

  “Pay a visit to a realtor,” Danni said. “Meet me back at my place in about two hours?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * * *

  Father John Ryan lived in the rectory by the church.

  He stood to almost Quinn’s height, leanly muscled, bald, and equipped with sharp gray eyes that seemed to quickly assess people and problems. Born in Ireland, he’d served in the heart of Africa and various other places where he’d acquired knowledge about many cultures, peoples, and religions. Not a man to judge, instead more one to evaluate and appreciate.

  “I was expecting you,” the priest told Quinn. “And Wolf, of course.�
�� Father Ryan greeted the mammoth dog with affection. “I assumed there would be no music tonight. So what do you know so far? I’m assuming you’re here because of the murders in the swamps? They just announced that a second body was found.”

  Quinn nodded.

  But before he could speak, Father Ryan said, “Now I get it. You found the second victim.”

  He nodded. “What do you know about the Wolfman murders twenty years ago? Were you here then?”

  “I’d just arrived in New Orleans,” Ryan said. “And yes, I do remember. It was all horrible. One of the young women killed was local. I presided at her funeral.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Genevieve. I’d met her only briefly. She was such a beautiful young lady. Striking in every way. She ran a shop in the Garden District and grew up here. She went all the way through Loyola, a stellar student in the business school. Her shop was wonderful and she was eager to take more classes. To do good things. Her death was tragic, and the police were determined. But it was one of those cases where the swamp consumed all the evidence. After her death, the murders stopped.”

  “But there were other victims,” Quinn said.

  “Both lovely young women.” Father Ryan paused, deep in memory. “Patricia Ahern and Sonia Gavin. The one was from New York City. The other a Texan, I think. They’d been in New Orleans on vacation. I know the police investigated all the tour operators at the time since both girls had been on tours. Of course, Genevieve hadn’t been on a tour, but she’d been out in the swamp with her boyfriend the day before. He was a suspect, but was cleared. He’d been back at work in his father’s bar all through the night.”

  “I heard a little on the past this morning. Detective Deerfield was working back then, too. Those murders fell to the Pearl River department. Those guys seem to think that someone definitely knows about the past murders and all the local lore. Which, I suppose, would point to a local. Only this time we have a male victim. Years ago they were all beautiful young women. I keep thinking, why? What was happening then, and can it have anything to do with what’s happening now? Seldom does a savage killer wait around twenty years to start all over again.”

  “Unless he was in prison,” Ryan said. “But the cops are good. Larue and the Pearl River men will be checking for anyone who might have gotten back out. I still think that we’d have heard about a killer brought in who’d done anything like this. There’s a connection with the past murders. There’s probably a connection back to the D’Oro and the Good Witch and the rougarou story. One murder last night, another today. This killer is on a spree. We have to move on this.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Meeting at the house tonight. But we may have something.”

  Quinn went on to tell Father Ryan about David Fagin and Julian Henri, their new swamp tour, and the e-mails they received.

  “Rival tour group?” Father Ryan said doubtfully. “That’s pretty drastic, brutally murdering people as a means of getting rid of competition.”

  Quinn’s phone buzzed.

  He checked the display.

  Danni had sent him a text.

  Back at the Cheshire Cat at 7:00?

  He hit the O and K keys and sent his message, then looked at Father Ryan. “Want to check out the local competition?”

  “Sounds like a plan. That is, of course, as long as we’re sending someone out for dinner once we get there.”

  Quinn pulled out his phone again. Victoria Miller owned Crescent City Sites. The reservation office was on Decatur Street, about a block from Jackson Square.

  “We taking Wolf with us?” Father Ryan asked.

  “Hell, yeah,” Quinn said. “Wolf is always up for a good swamp tour, aren’t you, boy?”

  The dog barked his agreement.

  They headed out to Quinn’s car. It wasn’t much of a drive, but the evening had turned cold. The streets of the French Quarter were heavy with pedestrian traffic and finding a place to park on the riverfront took some time. From there it took them only a matter of minutes to reach the tour offices. The doors were closed against the cold. Quinn pushed them open. Wolf followed first, then Father Ryan. The woman behind the counter was probably in her early forties, the kind though who would be a beauty at any stage of life. Her features were delicate, her body slim. She was dressed in a tight red sweater that enhanced the platinum color of her hair and the brilliant shade of her green eyes. She smiled at first in welcome, then seemed to shrink back as she noted Wolf.

  “Sorry,” Quinn said quickly. “I’ll have him wait outside.”

  “No, it’s all right. He just startled me. Your dog is the size of a pony. Come in, please. What are you looking for? Actually, I should tell you we really can’t allow the dog on the swamp or plantation tours. Though honestly, for a walking tour, if you wanted to hang in the back, I suppose it would be okay. I’m getting ahead of myself. What kind of a tour are you looking to take? I’m Victoria Miller.”

  “Michael Quinn, and this is my dog, Wolf. And the tall gentleman behind me is Father John Ryan.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, frowning. “You’re an unlikely tour group.”

  “Honestly, we’re here because of the murders in Honey Swamp,” Quinn said.

  “Oh.” Her fine features grew taut. “We don’t do murder site tours.”

  “I’m a private investigator, working with the police,” Quinn said.

  She shook her head, as if baffled. “Why are you here? Legends is the company that was involved. It was one of the Legends boats that came upon the body of that poor man.”

  “Yes, but you have boats out there all the time, don’t you?” Quinn asked.

  “We don’t do anything like a ridiculous monster tour.” The tone of her voice indicated that it was offensive that anyone might even think such a thing.

  Quinn picked up one of the brochures advertising a vampire tour. “But these are okay?”

  “That’s different. We do vampire tours that include facts about Anne Rice, the craze that went around because of her books, the people in the city who practice ‘spiritual’ vampirism, and the cults who drink animal blood. We try hard to keep facts and history in our tours.”

  “Sounds enterprising,” Quinn said, offering her his best smile. “We were hoping you might have some clue as to what’s going on in the swamp. If there have been strangers hanging out around any of the docks. If you’ve seen anything unusual. You do own a big tour group, known for blending fact with fun.”

  That mollified her ego.

  “I have to admit,” she said. “I thought it was ridiculous that David and Julian wanted to start their own thing. I wanted to buy Julian’s property. It could have helped us. I mean, he was already running tours in the city and out to the plantations. There are a zillion tour groups working around here. We didn’t need another one. And as far as the swamp goes, I’d check it all out with some of the realtors who keep trying to buy property.”

  “Are you from this area?”

  She tossed back her long blond mane. “I’m from New England. But don’t go thinking that doesn’t make me every bit as good as the Legends guys. Those of us who aren’t from here love the area with a greater passion. We research whatever everyone else thinks that they know. We’re good. No. We’re excellent. But the two little college brats wanted to usurp my business.”

  “Did you threaten them?” He smiled as he added, “Or send them a few e-mails?”

  “I wouldn’t stoop so low,” Victoria said. “Now, you gentlemen are not the police. And if you were, I couldn’t help you anyway. If you don’t mind, I’m busy.”

  He glanced around at the empty office. “I can see that you are.”

  He, Father Ryan, and Wolf headed for the door. But before they left, the priest nudged him. A door was ajar to a back office. Inside, a young man sat, watching, listening. He saw that Quinn and Father Ryan had spotted him. He nodded, as if he was aware they needed answers that could not be provided then.

/>   Quinn lowered his head in acknowledgement.

  Message received.

  And they left.

  * * * *

  A receptionist told Danni that Byron Grayson would be right with her, but after twenty minutes she still sat in the waiting room. His offices were down in the Central Business District, near the convention center. He must have been doing well enough as the offices were elegant. Plush sofas and a wide screen television adorned the waiting room, along with a pod coffee maker. A visitor could also grab a power bar or read any one of a number of high-end magazines.

  She rose and approached the receptionist’s desk. “Excuse me. Is Mr. Grayson available this evening? If not, perhaps—”

  “I sent him a message ages ago that you were here,” the receptionist said. “Let me buzz through to his office. He’s usually out as soon as I let him know we have a new client.”

  Another buzz, but no answer.

  “I thought he was back there,” the receptionist said. “I had a list of items that needed to be attended to on my desk this morning.”

  “You mean you haven’t seen him all day?” Danni asked.

  “I don’t disturb Mr. Grayson,” she said. “If you’ll just wait a minute, I’ll see what’s keeping him.”

  The receptionist started down a hallway. Danni held back, and then followed behind her. A knock on a closed door went unanswered so the woman opened it.

  And screamed.

  Danni ran up behind her and looked in, expecting to see a dead man.

  But there was no one there.

  Only a massive pool of blood spilled over Grayson’s desk, dripping onto the rich beige carpet in little crimson waves.

  Chapter 4

  Quinn and Larue arrived at the offices of Byron Grayson at about the same time. Larue was accompanied by sirens blazing and Quinn with Father Ryan and Wolf. He left the priest and the dog on the street and hurried into the realtor’s office. Danni sat in the waiting area, her arms around the shoulders of a young woman, shaking with fear. Larue was hunkering down to talk to her as the forensic people worked in Grayson’s office.