It took reading the small, almost hidden public notice for a third time before my heart let itself slide back down into my chest. Even at that, it kept racing, fueled by a fresh dump of adrenalin.
I sat back in my chair and let a hot breath escape slowly through pursed lips, then rubbed my hand across the lower half of my face, ignoring the sharp stubble that by now must have had me looking like a bum. Pushing my glasses up, I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, simply sitting there and allowing the information to soak fully into my grey matter. Whether I was suffering from a bout of subdued elation or exhaustion-induced insanity, I didn’t know, but I heard myself let out a small chuckle.
When I finally opened my eyes, I looked to make sure the words were still displayed on the base of the reader and hadn’t merely been a figment of my exhausted imagination. Finding that it was quite real, I muttered to myself, “Miranda, you bitch.”
I leaned forward then snatched up my pencil and scribbled a couple of quick notes. Scooting the chair back, I stood, and with a rapid spin turned the crank until the film had rewound completely onto the spool. Popping it off the feed shaft, I made my way quickly across the room to the microfilm imaging station. My timing was fortunate, and there wasn’t a wait for this more sophisticated piece of equipment.
Loading up the roll, I quickly advanced it to the noted page. When it was centered to my satisfaction, I punched print, and a moment later the large format laser printer nearby hummed to life. I zoomed in and bracketed off the text then printed enlarged versions of it as well, just to make sure I had myself covered where readability was concerned.
Less than five minutes later, I was returning the spools of film to the tops of the storage bins where they belonged and then collecting the rest of my belongings.
“I made these three copies,” I said to the archive librarian behind the desk as I splayed them out on the counter for him to see. “What’s the damage?”
“A dollar-fifty,” he replied. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yeah, you could say that,” I answered absently, digging through my wallet and extracting a pair of dollar bills. “An interesting part of it, anyway.”
“Let me get your change,” he said as he took the money.
I didn’t wait. I had already folded the papers, stuffed them into my backpack, and was three steps toward the elevator by the time he finished the sentence.
“Keep it,” I called over my shoulder, not bothering to look back or even slow down.
I now had a brand new piece of the puzzle. I just had to figure out where it fit and what to do about it.
“Why the hell haven’t you been answerin’ your goddamn phone?!” Ben demanded.
He wasn’t going out of his way to contain his anger, but right now I didn’t care. As long as I held the phone far enough from my ear, I was good.
“I was in a library,” I told him calmly. “So I had it turned off.”
I was telling the truth, for the most part anyway. My cell phone had really been off the entire time I was in the library. However, the real truth was that I had switched it off much earlier. The minute I pulled off the lot at the Southern Hospitality motel, in fact. Primarily, because I expected he would constantly be trying to get hold of me, and I wasn’t yet ready to be bothered.
My expectations were dead on because as soon as I was outside and punched the power button, the device began chirping with voice mail alerts. Five minutes later, when I reached where I had parked my car, it was warbling with an incoming call.
This time, however, I was still riding on the adrenalin high of my new discovery, so I gave in and answered it.
“Yeah?” he barked. “So why the fuck didn’t ya’ just set it ta’ vibrate?!”
“Because I was busy and wouldn’t have answered it anyway,” I replied. “And, with you calling every ten or fifteen minutes you would have worn out my battery.”
He grumbled something unintelligible but refrained from direct comment on my candor. Instead he launched directly into admonishing me. “Sonofabitch, Row. What were ya’ thinkin’? Do ya’ realize how much shit you coulda been in with that stunt?”
“Not answering my phone?”
“Goddammit, stop bein’ an asshole. You know what I’m talkin’ about. The shit you pulled impersonatin’ a copper!”
“Oh, that. Well, yeah, I think Detective Fairbanks made that pretty clear.”
“Yeah, well imagine my friggin’ surprise when I got the phone call this mornin’.”
“Are you sure ‘surprise’ is the right word?”
“Pissed off works too.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought you really meant. But, we both know you expected me to do something about getting into the crime scene.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t actually think you’d be able ta’ find it. Dammit, White Man, I never woulda dreamed you’d go that far.”
“Neither would I,” I admitted. “Trust me, I didn’t know I had it in me.”
“This ain’t a joke, Row.”
“I know that, Ben. But, remember, we’re talking about Felicity here. You should know by now, I’m going to do whatever it takes where she’s concerned.”
“Obviously,” he replied. “So, I guess you realize I owe this copper a big one now, don’tcha?”
“I figured as much.”
“We ain’t just talkin’ a box of cigars or somethin’ either,” he added.
“I kind of figured that too. And, by the same token, I owe you as well. But, I think I’ve pretty much been running a tab for a while now anyway.”
“Yeah, you can say that again.”
“Well, do me a favor and don’t call in your markers just yet. I might need an extension on my credit line first.”
“How’s that? Fairbanks told me you were s’posed ta’ be gettin’ outta town, ASAP.”
“I’m not done here yet.”
“As far as he’s concerned, ya’ are, and I gotta agree with ‘im.”
“I’ll be home Saturday, just like I originally planned.”
“You’re gonna get your ass in deep shit again, Row, and I ain’t gonna be able ta’ get ya’ out of it.”
“I’ll be fine if I’m careful.”
“Like ya’ were this mornin’?”
“More careful.”
“Jeezus…” he muttered. “You’re a fuckin’ piece’a work, ya’ know that?”
“So you’ve told me several times.”
“Well? Was it worth almost gettin’ locked up?”
“I don’t know for sure just yet, but I think so.”
“Did’ja end up goin’ all Twilight Zone?”
“Back to back episodes with no commercials,” I replied.
“Jeezus…” His tone switched to one of concern. “So, you okay?”
“Other than a lingering gender dysphoric psychological issue, just fine.”
“Gender what, psycho who?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, I think ya’ had lingerin’ psych issues before ya’ ever went down there.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “So spill it. Whaddid ya’ see?”
“A seriously twisted mirror image of my wife named Annalise.”
“You saw ‘er?”
“Hell, I did more than that. I talked to her.”
“Was it la-la land talked to, or like for real?”
“In the vision,” I explained.
“How the fuck did ya’ talk to ‘er?”
“I think it has something to do with the fact that the Lwa is a spirit, so we’re obviously dealing with a dead person here. And, as we know, I tend to have conversations with dead people.”
“So ya’ didn’t talk ta’ evil sis, ya’ talked ta’ the ghost.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure I talked to both of them.”
“See, now that’s just even more fucked up than usual, Row.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Well? Whaddid she…they say?”
“She told me she wants it back. All of it.”
“It?”
“Unless I missed my guess, I think she was talking about sexual gratification.”
“You wanna explain that one? You ain’t sayin’ you had some kinda la-la land sex with ‘er are ya’?”
“No,” I replied, shaking my head out of pure reflex. “Of course not. I’m pretty sure she means the sexual gratification she gets from torturing and killing her victims.”
“Okay. So does she think you have it or somethin’?”
“No, but she definitely thinks I know who does.”
“Felicity,” he grunted.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“At the risk of sounding glib, she didn’t say. In fact, I got the impression she doesn’t even know who Felicity actually is, but unfortunately she knows her name. And, mine too.”
“Whaddaya mean? How?”
“Long story short, I was talking to myself…”
He interrupted me. “I thought you were talkin’ ta’ her?”
“This was before I was talking to her,” I said with an exasperated sigh. “Just let me finish. So, I happened to say my own name aloud, and she came back with something like, ‘oh, that’s who you are.’”
“Fuck me… How much weirder is this gonna get, Row?”
“Weirder, I don’t know. Clearer, that’s a different story.”
“How so?”
“You sitting down?”
“Awww, Jeeeezzzz… Yeah. What?”
“Listen to what I found at the library…”
I reached over into the passenger seat and pulled the printouts from my backpack. Unfolding them, I shuffled through in search of the largest image. While I did so I asked, “First off, have you ever heard the story about the Lalaurie family in New Orleans?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“Okay, then let me give you a little background. Back in the early eighteen-thirties, Doctor Louis Lalaurie, his wife, Delphine, and their daughters moved into a mansion on Royal Street in the French Quarter. They quickly became prominent in the community and were soon very well known for their social gatherings.
“Now, remember, this was during a time of slavery, and they definitely owned their share. More than their share, actually. They had a house staff consisting of dozens. But, before too long people started noticing that slaves seemed to come and go a bit more often than normal, and that raised some suspicion.
“Then, in April of eighteen thirty-four, the reality behind those suspicions came to light when a fire broke out in the kitchen and swept through a good portion of the mansion. After the blaze was put out, the people who had been fighting the fire discovered a secret room behind a barred and locked door in the attic. When they entered, they found more than a dozen slaves, both male and female, in various horrific states. They were all either chained to walls or to makeshift operating tables. Many had open, festering wounds where limbs had been amputated or organs removed. Several of the men had been castrated, and it is said that one man even had a hole bored into his skull and a stick protruding from it.”
“Jeezus, Row…” Ben groaned. “Are you sure you ain’t talkin’ about a friggin’ horror movie or somethin’?”
“I know. It sounds like one, doesn’t it? But, here’s the rub. One of the initial theories was that Doctor Lalaurie had been conducting medical experiments on the slaves. However, according to the story printed in the New Orleans Bee, it was determined via witnessed accounts that the wife, Delphine, was insane and that it was she who was responsible for inflicting the tortures on them.”
“Damn. So did they hang ‘er sorry ass?”
“No. Following the discovery, she fled New Orleans in a somewhat spectacular escape, and where she ended up is a bit of a mystery.”
“So you think maybe the ghost of this Delphine woman is really Miranda?” he asked.
“No, but close. Listen to this,” I replied then shifted the papers so I could read him the notice. “ Found Drowned. The coroner held an inquest yesterday on the body of a woman named, Miranda Blanque, sister of Delphine Lalaurie, aged forty-three years, who was found floating in the Mississippi opposite the third municipality. It appears that on Sunday night last, she was seen to have jumped into the river. Verdict accordingly.
“That was from the front page of the New Orleans Bee, September eighteenth, eighteen fifty-one. The tomb that Doctor Rieth is taking me to see is that of one Miranda Blanque, date of death, on or around September fourteenth, eighteen fifty-one, which would have been that Sunday.”
“Jeezus, Row…”
“Yeah, Ben. I think maybe insanity runs in that family.”
“No shit,” Ben muttered, then spoke up and huffed, “Okay… I hate ta’ rain on your parade, but where does all that get ya’?”
“It gives us a pretty good idea why Annalise has been doing the things she has,” I explained.
“Yeah, but we’re still talkin’ about a dead person here, Row. I can’t arrest a dead person. Besides, what it all comes down to is that Felicity’s evil sis is the one that’s really doin’ the killin’.”
“I know that. But, Miranda is the one driving her to do it.”
“Yeah, so? Miranda’s still dead. We need ta’ be lookin’ for a live homicidal bitch.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“I mean Annalise is your problem, not mine.”
“Come again?”
“Look, Ben, I’ve been told at every turn to stay out of this. By your superiors, by Detective Fairbanks this morning, and at least a dozen times by you over the past few weeks. So, that’s what I’m doing.”
“I thought ya’ said you’d been at the library?”
“I have.”
“Well, the way you’re talkin’, it sounds more like ya’ been hangin’ out in a bar gettin’ trashed. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re up ta’ your ass in all of this no matter what anyone has said.”
“I can’t help it if our investigations overlap.”
“Now you’re just bein’ an asshole again, White Man.”
“Call it what you want, but I’m not here looking for Annalise. I’m looking for Miranda.”
“Oh, so now you’re a friggin’ ghost cop, are ya?”
“Sure. Why not? Obviously somebody has to do it; I guess it might as well be me. Look at it this way-I’m giving you what you want. I’m staying out of your way.”
“Fuck me,” he spat then paused. A second later he added, “Like I said before, I think you’ve lost your goddamned mind. When’s the last time you got some sleep?”
“You’re the third person to ask me that today,” I said. “It’s starting to get a little old.”
“Been awhile, huh?”
“That’s irrelevant, Ben. This whole thing got personal the minute Miranda decided to use Felicity as a horse. You don’t really think that’s going to stop just by finding Annalise and locking her up do you?”
“Shit, I don’t know,” he huffed. “I ain’t mister Voodoo guy. It’s all just one big freak show as far as I’m concerned. Hell, I sometimes wonder if I’m a half bubble off for believin’ any of it.”
“You’ve seen too much not to believe, Ben.”
“Yeah, and that’s the problem…” he sighed. “So, tell me… What’re ya’ gonna do now that ya’ think you’ve found ‘er?
I puffed my cheeks then blew out a heavy breath before answering. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”