Fugue Macabre: Ghost Dance (Fugue Macabre Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Fugue Macabre:

  Ghost Dance

  by

  C. J. Parker

  ISBN-13: 978-1475188950

  ISBN-10:1475188951

  PUBLISHED BY LSP DIGITAL, LLC

  www.lspdigital.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  © 2012 by C.J. Parker

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  Third Edition

  Cover Art and Formatting by Linda Daly

  In memory of Anna Marie Catoir.

  To my critique partners. May you all be blessed with free flowing words, story ideas, and life's best. I love you all.

  Sheryl Hames Torres, Courtney Torres, June Phyllis Baker, Pamela Reese, Jen Garsee, Neva Franks, Mical Kneeland, Nancy Lepri and Holly Sharp

  Chapter One

  Reporters already clogged the cemetery entrance when Detective Derek Bainbridge pulled alongside the police units sitting end to end like a funeral procession down Basin Street. He leaned his head against the steering wheel. Bile burned his throat, and his stomach cramped from fighting nausea. He knew what awaited him—another dead child and not a trace of evidence—nothing to help him find the lunatic doing this.

  A sharp knock at the window drew Derek’s head up with a snap. Detective Karney smiled through the glass like the brainless idiot he was. “What?” Derek shouted.

  “Oh, nothing. Just wondered if you were going to get out of the car during this century. The kid is gonna start getting ripe.”

  Gritting his teeth, Derek opened the door and exited his SUV. Karney’s dun colored eyes crinkled at the corners giving people the misguided impression he was jovial and kind, where in truth he was a mean son-of-abitch, his heart as black as his hair. “You got business here, Karney, or just sightseeing?”

  “I heard the call and was nearby. I’m leaving now.” Karney jerked his head toward the scene. “Don’t envy you this one. The Governor’s giving the Chief a lot of shit.” His smile widened baring crooked, stained teeth. “And, it’s gonna run downhill all over you, Bainbridge.”

  Derek swung the car door shut, forcing Karney to move or be knocked down. Derek made his way to the yellow crime tape stretched around an area containing eight elaborate crypts and what he knew would be the body of ten year-old Selma Fortier. Thunder rumbled overhead, echoing through St. Louis Cemetery Number One as though the occupants of this necropolis were angry over the intrusion of the living.

  He surveyed the scene and pulled in a deep breath instantly regretting it. Musty scents of centuries-old tombs and ever-damp soil intermingled with the sticky-sweet aromas of gardenias and jasmine in bloom. Summer’s noontime heat settled over him in a humid, suffocating cloak, making the air seem that much more dense.

  “Detective.” A uniformed officer stepped up beside him struggling for a breath. Derek nodded once. “Who found her?”

  Turning red-rimmed eyes to his left, the young officer indicated an old black man losing his lunch behind a grave. Sounds of his retching bounced from one tomb to another. The officer drew another deep breath. “Name’s Earl Levy. Came to visit his wife and found the girl’s body.”

  “This your first murder?”

  “No, sir. First kid, though. I got a son ‘bout that age.”

  The officer swallowed so hard Derek heard his throat clench and then release. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I nearly got sick when I saw her, though. They’re not gonna let me live it down, either.” He gestured with a tilt of his chin toward two detectives trying to keep the press at bay. More reporters and cameramen jammed the wrought iron entrance of the concrete wall surrounding the cemetery, shouting questions and snapping photographs.

  Anger tugged at Derek’s already sour stomach. Those barracudas thought of nothing but a byline, never considering those left behind. Common decency be damned, get the story. He shook his head. And people couldn’t understand why cops’ souls hardened?

  “Don’t let them fool you, kid. They’ve done their share of puking at crime scenes.” Derek swooped under the tape and strode to the remains of the murdered child. The killer had taken the time to pose the child’s nude body against a mold-blackened tomb—legs crossed at the ankles, tiny hands folded in her lap and head tilted to one side. The pose would appear peaceful had her face not been streaked with dried blood from maroon hollows where innocent eyes had once viewed her world. The girl’s injuries exposed raw, bloody bone and ragged-edged flesh where her scalp belonged. As with the five children murdered before her, elaborate symbols were carved into her torso.

  Mrs. Fortier’s tortured expression flashed across Derek’s memory and tore at his gut. For the last three days, she’d come to the station begging for answers. Having to tell the woman her baby was dead made his insides twist painfully.

  A cocksure photographer from some supermarket rag made it over the wall and dashed close enough to snap a shot of the naked victim before two officers tackled him to the ground and confiscated his camera.

  Frustration and anger fueled Derek’s temper. “Why don’t we have a blind up? Hasn’t the ME been here yet?”

  The young cop’s back stiffened.

  “No, sir. Not yet. I roped off the area and kept everybody away. Crime scene’s not been messed with.”

  Derek’s eyes were drawn to the front of the crypt where words written in blood taunted him. Always the same enigmatic message: Ogou La Flambo, Lieutenant of burning battlefields, gorge with this blood and grant me my revenge.

  He pivoted to his left when Detective Frank Panner, approached. Running fingers through his sandy-blond hair, Panner shouted orders to nearby men to blind the scene with tarpaulins. He glanced at Derek. “Found out what that Ogou La Flambo shit is.” He flipped his cigarette beyond the cordoned area. “Voodoo head-honcho. Some war god or something.”

  The scenario wasn’t a new one. Ten years ago a boy of thirteen had started his own Voodoo doomsday. And then there was the old woman who read Tarot cards in Jackson Square. If the death card came up during their reading, she would stalk them until she got her chance to carry out God’s wishes. “You think this could be a cult gone bad?”

  Frank reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out another Marlboro. “Best motive I’ve heard so far. Isn’t this cemetery where Marie Laveau is supposed to be planted? Maybe...” He wiggled his eyebrows, and the corners of his mouth twitched with mirth.

  Derek felt the heat of rage sting his cheeks, and the pounding of his pulse inside his brain. “I’m in no mood for jokes, Frank. We have another dead kid. Or didn’t you notice?”

  “Yeah. Number six.” Frank lit his cigarette and drew in a smoke- clogged breath. “The Governor thinks you should be replaced, you know?”

  Derek’s anger climbed another notch as he clenched his teeth so hard he felt a sharp pain shoot to his left eye. He brought his face so close to Frank’s he smelled a mixture of peppermint and smoke on the man’s breath. “I don’t give a damn what the Governor thinks. Let him come out here and see these kids. Then see if he can tell me what I’m not doing to find the son-of-a-bitch doing this.”

  Frank held up his hands in stop-sign fashion. “Hey, man, I’m with you. Don’t kill the messenger. I’m just telling you what he said.”

  Derek stepped away. “Sorry, man.”

  “No need. I understand. This case is eating at everybody.”

  �
�Have you talked to the guy who found her yet?” He took a deep breath trying to calm himself. It didn’t work.

  With a shrug and a flick of his hand to dust away a smear of dirt from his shirt, Frank said, “No. Figured I’d let you talk to him first. But, Derek, do him a favor. Soften up that scowl. You look like you have a mad-on for the whole damned world.”

  A shrill whistle drew their attention.

  “Found something,” an officer yelled.

  Detectives and officers converged on a pale yellow sheet of notepaper with two bloody orbs placed on top. Four words mocked them: She has to pay.

  “Is...is that...?” The officer didn’t finish his question. “Oh, God.” He gagged and ran a few feet away before throwing up.

  Frank whistled low. “You think those are the kid’s eyes?”

  Derek gritted his teeth. “Bastard’s playing with us.”

  Memories of a twenty-year-old unsolved murder teemed inside his skull like the buzz of a low-hanging power line. As with this one, the killer’s note baited him. The taunting message reverberated over and over like a mantra in his brain.

  I couldn’t let you have her.

  Chapter Two

  Will someone... please... tell them I’m not dead?

  Drifting between sleep and wakefulness, Tabatha’s defenses were at their lowest. She’d spent years training her mind to shut out the voices of the dead, but tonight she was too tired to keep them at bay. Even the simple act of opening her eyes took more energy than she had left. She slid one of her legs to the bed’s edge until she had one foot on the floor. “Come on legs,” she encouraged with a groan. “One down, one to go.”

  With great effort, she sat up and ran splayed fingers through her hair, twining it into a bun at the nape of her neck. The room spun and her vision blurred. She wanted nothing more than to lie back and sleep for the next twenty-four hours. Her pager vibrated against her hip. After glancing at the display, she reached for the phone and keyed in Emergency’s number. “Dr. Gray.”

  “I have a patient for you.” Tabatha recognized Dr. Boone’s smooth comforting voice instantly. “Slit wrists, thirteen years old. No hurry. We sedated her. Just need someone to sign her into psych.”

  “I’ll be right down.” She replaced the receiver in its base and left the resident’s sleep room, stumbled down the hallway and entered the elevator.

  Tabatha exited the elevator on the first floor and headed into a glassed-off area restricted to all but medical personnel. Dr. Boone stood next to the file cabinet with an open folder in one hand, the other tucked into the waste band of his pants. His eyes were nearly as red as his unruly hair. The front of his white jacket touted blood splatters and other stains only obtainable in an emergency room. “You look like death whipped to a peak, Dr. Boone.”

  He dropped into the nearest chair. “All hell broke loose in the city tonight. So many gunshot wounds have come in I’ve lost count. One man with a knife sticking out his chest kept insisting the Japanese were invading. Another strolled in with a broken wine bottle sticking out of his skull. Just walked in like he had nothing more serious than a splinter.” He slumped deeper into the chair and rubbed his hands over his face. “Yours is in room one. Think I’ll try to sneak in five minutes rest before the next wave.”

  “Sounds like a typical Saturday night in New York to me.” She ran her gaze over his crumpled form. “Looks quiet for now. Why don’t you go lie down? I’ll cover until the Devil is finished with his own break.”

  Tabatha entered the white on white room and listened to the monitor beep out a steady heartbeat. The only color in the room was the girl’s crayon red hair. Tabatha moved to the girl’s side and patted her shoulder. Despite the sedation, the girl struggled against the binds tying her to the bed. “It’s going to be okay, Miss O’Connor.”

  “Mary. My name is Mary.” The girl’s words came out slurred as if each were a struggle to pronounce.

  Tabatha struggled to understand her. “Fine, Mary it is. Now, tell me, why did you do this to yourself.” Reading Mary’s chart, Tabatha saw nothing that stood out. Nothing to give her an indication of trouble in Mary’s past. “My daddy.” She swallowed a sob and shook her head. “No. Forget it.”

  “Forget what, Mary?”

  “Nothing. Will you untie me? I’ll be good. I promise.”

  Tabatha dragged a stool over to the side of the examination table. “Not nothing.” She released the girl’s arms. “It has to be something pretty awful to make you do something like this.”

  “I just wanted it to be over.” The girl’s startling green eyes rolled in their sockets, and Tabatha watched her struggle to focus. She must have tremendous strength not to succumb to the meds Boone gave her.

  “What happened, Mary?”

  “He... Mom doesn’t believe me. Why should you? Go away and let me go home.” A sob nearly choked her as she uttered the last word.

  “I can’t go away, and you can’t go home. You tried to kill yourself.”

  The girl shot her a shocked look. “No, I didn’t. I just...” She raised her bandaged arms and stared at them. “I just wanted him to stop.” She burst into tears and rolled into a fetal position, her back to Tabatha. Sobs shook her body violently. “She called me a trouble maker, said I just wanted attention.”

  Tabatha’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach. God, don’t let this be what I think it is. “What did your father do, Mary?”

  Silence spoke the unspeakable truth.

  “I know this is hard to talk about.” Tabatha focused all her emotions on the girl, and ran a feather-light touch over Mary’s forehead willing her to calm. “Mary, I need you to tell me everything.”

  “He...did the dirty,” she wailed. “He told me it was okay. He loved me. But it’s not okay, is it?”

  “No.” Tabatha swallowed the anger-induced bile burning her throat and then paused, taking several deep breaths. “Was this the first time?”

  “No.”

  Tabatha pressed her lips together and gritted her teeth.

  Mary wiped her nose with the heel of her hand. “Don’t be mad at that other doctor.” Her face flamed scarlet. “He asked me the same things, but I just couldn’t tell him. I was ashamed.”

  Tabatha smiled and patted her arm. She had this effect on people. They told her everything as if she could snap her fingers and everything would be all right. “It’s not your fault, Mary. You did nothing wrong.” Tabatha opened the door of room one and looked for the Charge Nurse.

  “Martha, bring me a rape kit.” She paused to calm her anger before she spoke again. “And call the police.”

  Mary tried to sit up, but the remaining restraints kept her from leaving the bed. “No. You can’t tell. He’ll kill me.”

  Tabatha cursed under her breath, condemning herself for her callous behavior. She returned to Mary’s side and looked her in the eyes. “Trust me, sweetheart, he will never hurt you again. But you have to be brave. The police will ask you the same questions I did. You have to tell them the truth. That’s the only way this will stop.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card. “This has my email. If you need me—”

  An hour later the police had their questions answered. Social Services had been notified and Mary was wheeled away to a private room with orders that her parents were not allowed to visit. Tabatha leaned against the wall and tried to convince herself she’d done everything she could for Mary. A warrant for her father’s arrest was being processed. Her family doctor had been notified. It was out of Tabatha’s hands now.

  She longed to return to the sleep room, but she’d promised Dr. Boone she’d cover for him. It was almost over—this night, her residency. She dug deep to find an ounce of adrenaline to carry her through the remaining hours. She glanced around for anything to take her mind off of Mary and saw the nurses’ attendant, Bobbie Luckman, trying to maneuver two sheet-draped gurneys toward the service elevator.

  “You can’t do that by yourself, woman.” Tabatha
grimaced. “You’ll pull a muscle and end up a patient here yourself.”

  Bobbie glanced at Tabatha, pulled the tie out of her long, ebony ponytail and gathered the wisps of stray hair back into the tie’s bindings. “They’re swamped down here. I was just going to get these out of the way. Patients get spooked when they see bodies lying about. I’ll take this one and come back for the other.”

  “I know Dr. Boone said it’s been crazy tonight, but can’t the orderlies do this?”

  The Charge Nurse slapped a pile of paperwork onto her counter. “No! I can’t spare them right now. It’s not going to kill her to take them down.”

  Tabatha bit her tongue to keep from telling the nurse she needed to remember who was in charge here. Charge Nurse was a glorified title, not governing rule. Tabatha returned her attention to Bobbie. “I’ll help you.”

  “That’s not your job, Dr. Gray,” the Charge Nurse shouted as if ordering her to step down.

  “It’s not Bobbie’s job either.” She turned her back to the nurse and grasped the edge of the gurney. The sheet flew off the upper half of the body as if it had been ripped away. The cadaver’s arm fell limply over the side, swinging as if his hand searched for something to grip. A cleaning lady gasped and stumbled against the wall, fear sculpting her brown face as she clawed at a chain around her neck. She drew a crucifix from under her green, v-necked top, holding it out like a shield. “Stay away from me. You got the touch of the Devil.”

  “Oh for Pete’s sake, Edda.” Bobbie placed her fists on her hips and leaned toward the woman. “It was just the air conditioner switching on, and I must have jostled the body trying to maneuver the gurney causing the arm to slide over the edge.”

  Tabatha reached out to touch the cross, but Edda snatched it out of Tabatha’s reach. “I’m afraid you have your mystical creatures mixed up, Edda. I’m not a vampire. A piece of jewelry has no effect on me.”

  The old woman’s eyes widened when Bobbie lifted the corpse’s arm into place and drew the sheet over the body. Her gaze darted from the body to Tabatha. “I’ve heard about the things you do. People talk.”