I decided I needed to stop in at the magicians’ house before I went back to the Dauphine. Why did I need to do that? I wondered. Because I was wired. Because I am obsessive. A couple of New Orleans policemen were stationed out front. They looked bored and underutilized, and definitely not obsessive.
I showed them ID, then I was let inside. No problem, Detective Cross.
I really wasn’t sure why, but I had a vague feeling that we had missed something in the house. Forensics had spent hours going over the place. So had I. We hadn’t found anything concrete. Still, I didn’t like being in the old house again. The domain. Maybe I needed a gris-gris for protection.
I walked through the overdone, very ornate foyer and living room. My footsteps made the big house sound empty. I kept wondering, what were we missing? What was I missing?
The master bedroom was situated off the hall at the top of the stairs. Nothing had changed since the first time I was in there. Why in hell had I bothered to come back? The large, open room was filled with dark modern art, some of it hung, but several paintings were propped up against the walls. The magicians slept in a bed, not in the coffins we’d found below in the tunnels.
As I was searching through their closet again, I came across something I hadn’t seen before. I was sure it hadn’t been there when I’d examined the bedroom earlier. Lying among the shoes were effigies of Daniel and Charles—miniature dolls of the magicians.
There were slash marks across the throats, chests, and faces. Just like the way they had been murdered.
Where the hell had the gruesome effigies come from? What did they mean? What was going on down here in New Orleans? Who had gotten into this house after we sealed it? I was tempted to call Kyle, but I held off. I wasn’t sure why.
I didn’t want to go back down into the tunnels alone and at night—but I was here, and I figured I ought to take another quick look around. There were two cops posted right outside the door, right?
What were we missing?
Unspeakably violent murders went back at least eleven years.
Our two best suspects had been murdered.
Someone had put effigies in thei
r bedroom.
I went down to the cellar, then into the tunnels that spidered out in several directions from the main area. New Orleans is about eight feet below sea level, and the cellar and tunnels were probably always damp. The walls sweat.
I heard a scraping noise and stopped. Something was walking around. I reached into my shoulder holster, took out my Glock.
I listened closely. Nothing. Then more scraping.
Mice or rats, I thought. Probably all it is. Probably. Almost definitely.
I had to go and look further, though. That was my problem, wasn’t it? I had to go look, had to investigate, couldn’t just walk away. What was I trying to prove to myself? That I had no fears? That I wasn’t like my father, who had quit on just about everything in life, including his kids and himself?
I inched forward slowly and quietly—and I listened to the house.
I could hear water dripping somewhere in the dank tunnels.
I used my old Zippo to light a few torches hung on the tunnel walls. There were really bad images in my head. The bite wounds on the bodies I’d seen. The way Daniel and Charles had been attacked. The poisonous bites I’d suffered in Charlotte. You’re one of us now.
The anger, the rage connected to the murders were present in so many cities.
What were the killers angry about?
Where were they right now?
I never heard them coming, never saw a movement.
I was hit—twice. The attackers had come swiftly out of the darkness. One went for my head and neck. The other hit around my knees. They were a team. Efficient.
I went down hard, and it took the wind right out of me. But I fell on the attacker who was wrapped around my legs. I heard a loud crack, maybe a bone breaking. Then a scream. He let me go.
I got up, but the second assailant was attached to my back. He bit me! Oh Jesus, no!
I cursed and slammed him into the wall. I did it again. Who the hell were these fantastic madmen? Who was the leech riding my back?