AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Twelve
There But For The Grace Of God
The call came about four in the morning.
Another fire. Another victim. This time we were almost expecting it. It seems there isn’t a moment I’m not expecting something, some reminder of the horror I’m surrounded by.
Even though Ignatius is off duty, he was notified, and so was I. It didn’t matter, I won’t be able to get into the crime scene, most likely not until tomorrow when the embers have cooled down enough. Ignatius made good on his threat – or his promise, depending on how you looked at it – and took an indefinite leave of absence. Which means he’s still my watchdog.
Admittedly, I’m grateful.
This incident came a lot closer to the one before than the others had, which is what I was afraid of. With the rapidly approaching Mardi Gras, and the very probable connection to The Seven Deadly Sins, the threat of things happening alarmingly fast is much too likely. The fact it took place in a church is almost poetic horror. It didn’t surprise me when we heard. Actually, it somehow made perfect sense, even before I’ve had a chance to investigate the location. I’m dreading the idea of going in, but at the same time I can’t wait to see if there is a more concrete link to The Seven Deadly Sins.
But above everything, I have to stop telling myself it could have been me. I know I’m on his radar - he knows my name, he sought me out. He marked me. Even though he didn’t actually touch me, I feel him on my skin, I see him in my nightmares, and I hear his whispers in the dark. Honestly, it’s terrifying.
We’re still at Ignatius’ house and it’s early, very early. I wanted to watch the news. I could have gone into precinct, but there would have been too much going on to focus on what’s being reported.
The woman on the television at the crime scene is attractive and, not surprisingly, well-put-together, especially for this God-awful hour. It always amazes me how they can look so good hours before the sun even comes up.
“Authorities have not confirmed or denied this is another Voodoo Burning incident, however, all evidence points in that direction,” she’s saying as the first glimmers of sunlight shine behind her in the distance.
Jesus Christ, they’ve given the crimes a name and now the public’s going to be talking about the Voodoo Burning Killer! That’s great, and the tabloids can commercialize him and cash in on the Voodoo Killer craze. I’d love to find out who’s giving them the information.
We aren’t supposed to say anything, no information about any details are to be leaked to the press, or to anyone outside of the investigation. Ever. It could destroy any possible indictments.
“We do know there is a victim inside the premises behind me.” She turns to look at the church, a macabre image with the golden embers of sunrise hinting at the horizon. The building is an abandoned Catholic church that was damaged during the hurricane. “Again, there is no confirmation it is a woman, we can only assume it is, given the previous crimes. No identifications have been made on any of the other victims so far.” The fact the women are being referred to as things makes me furious. “Authorities are asking women to be extremely cautious when going out. They suggest not venturing out alone, especially at night. Anyone with any information is urged to contact the local police department. Anonymity will be guaranteed.”
Somebody should lock her up for damaging an investigation. That’s obviously impossible, but it infuriates me the press can get away with doing whatever the hell they want, despite the backlash, and the damages.
“Be sure to stay tuned for updates. This is Savannah St. George reporting live from Almonaster Boulevard. Back to you in the station.” Her bleached pearly whites practically glow under the spotlight. I mash the button on the remote, as if the pressure makes any difference, and the television screen goes black. However, it does help me release some of my anger, even if it’s only a smidgen.
Almonaster Boulevard, near the hood, a shit part of town. Of course. Whoever’s doing this is very good. There is a rhyme and reason to their choices of locations, and not a soul around at any of them. They’ve got to be a local, no one else would be sure of the areas and how New Orleans practices voodoo.
Voodoo is not cut and dry, but more of a mish-mash of everything.
Like using the Catholic church where this crime took place.
I pace the floor beneath the original ceiling of the old Beauchamp plantation house. It has seen so much over its lifetime. Generation after generation of Beauchamp’s have lived and died here, have rejoiced and mourned here, have done things here still whispered in backrooms. Beneath the detailed paneled ceiling where the wealthy, and the not wealthy, of New Orleans have danced and drank, where secrets of indiscretions will forever be kept, this is a room where history is embedded into the walls, floors, and the ceiling, the secrets are as much a part of the home as the wood and paneling.
The house is as much a Beauchamp as Ignatius is, and Bertrand was.
I have not been able to get out of my head that the killer followed me here, assuming I’m the one he meant to target. In situations such as this, you take nothing for granted, or allow for any possibility of mistakes. The markings were on my car, therefore, they were meant for me. At the Beauchamp plantation. Is there a connection to the house?
I wring my hands as I glance out the window. So many questions are swirling around in my mind.
What are we going to find at the crime scene this time?
What condition is she going to be in? (She’s a woman, I have no doubt.)
Is there going to be any deviation in the symbols?
These are only a few of the things preoccupying me, and frankly, things I don’t want to answer.
If I could just leave, I would. This entire situation is a horror beyond anything imaginable.
But I can’t leave. I owe it to those women. Someone has to stick up for them, fight for them, give them the respect they deserve, help identify them so they can at least have a proper burial, so their families can be notified, and the living can say goodbye to their loved ones.
I drop to the sofa as my face falls into my hands.
