The Killing Edge by Heather Graham
“Harry Lee announced that no psychopath is going to get the better of him. He promised a reward of a hundred thousand dollars to anyone who helped find the killer. And he said that the calendar shoot on Coco-belle Island will take place as planned.”
“I can’t believe it,” Victoria said.
Brad smoothed her hair comfortingly. “I don’t know what to feel, myself. In a way, it’s in incredibly poor taste to capitalize on a murder spree to sell calendars. But maybe Harry Lee’s right. Bowing down to a killer, letting him call the shots… That’s wrong, too.”
Jared said, “I think he’s right. The shoot needs to happen. With all kinds of security in place, of course.”
“Well, one way or another, Harry Lee means to make it happen,” Brad said. “He said he owed it to Myra, who had worked so hard for her girls.”
“I don’t suppose he mentioned Alana?” Chloe murmured.
“Or the poor seamstress,” Victoria said. “Do we even know her name yet?”
The mule-drawn carriages clip-clopped down the street.
Last night, crossing Bourbon Street had been an act of derring-do, dodging frat boys, tourists and happy drunks, all moving to a sound track made up of country-Western competing with pop competing with heavy metal competing with some decent jazz, thanks to the many clubs lining the street.
But now it was daylight. The tourists who wanted to know the history of the city and admire its remarkable architecture were out in force, and the carriage drivers were talking loudly about the Louisiana Purchase, the reign of Marie Laveau, the voodoo queen, or the making of Anne Rice’s Interview with a Vampire.
Luke had seen the home in the Garden District where Jill Montague had once lived. The street wasn’t busy; the house wasn’t hidden.
Canal Street was big and broad, to accommodate the streetcar that ran along it. The sidewalks were teeming with locals and tourists alike, and traffic was constant. There was nothing secretive about Canal Street—unless it took place in havens of vice that were hidden from the daily flow, which was certainly possible.
What seemed impossible to Luke was that a girl could have been attacked on Canal Street without being noticed.
They entered Joe Mulligan’s district office. They passed cops going about their business, streetwalkers, junkies and the occasional person who had apparently never been arrested before and looked as stunned as a doe in the headlights.
Luke met Mulligan’s superior, and then they went into his friend’s office. There, Mulligan took out the full file on Jill Montague. The police work had been thorough. Any and every lead had been followed. After she was found, she had been given a pains takingly exact autopsy, and when the medical examiner had exhausted any possible clues the body might give him, she had been returned to her family to be buried in Lafayette Cemetery in the Garden District.
Joe gave Luke a magnifying glass, and he studied the pictures slowly and carefully. It didn’t matter how long you worked with death—this kind of picture made your heart ache and your insides turn over. She had been a beautiful young girl. In life, she’d had a smile a mile wide. In death, her flesh was shrunken on her bones, her color had darkened and she looked both far too real and like a prop out of a horror movie.
Luke let himself acclimate to the appearance of the body, then began studying the carvings on the girl’s back and forehead.
At last he looked up and found Joe studying him.
“It looks like a—a hamza hand,” Luke said, for the first time realizing what the handlike drawing on the wall had been.
And that it was the same as this.
“What?”
“You can find it in jewelry or Judaica shops—it’s an ancient symbol.”
“Oh, great, don’t let that get out or—”
“No, it isn’t just a symbol in Judaism. Arab cultures—”
Joe groaned aloud.
“—and many others around the world use the same symbol. For a lot of them, it represents protection against the evil eye,” Luke finished.
“You’re sure that’s what it is?” Joe asked.
“Pretty sure. But I need some transparent paper,” Luke said. “And is it all right if I mark up these copies of the autopsy photos?”
“Photos we got. Go for it,” Joe said.
Luke traced the drawings on the dead girl’s forehead and back, connecting what lines and grooves he could where the flesh was gone. In both cases he was able to form the hamza hand, with an eye in the middle of the palm and circles on the extended fingers.
Joe sank into his chair and stared at Luke. “Well, I’ll be damned….”
“Supposedly those kids were killed a decade ago because they were living lives of sloth and sin, and the killer thought they would be better off in the hands of whatever god he worshipped. ‘Death to defilers!,’ he wrote. They were unclean. And he drew this—a symbol to ward off evil, the same symbol he carved into your dead girl, who was on her way to a club, as if she needed to be protected from her own proclivity to sin. Partying, drinking, meeting up with friends, probably having boyfriends. I can’t say for sure, but I have a feeling if we searched hard enough, we’d find similar cases in a number of other places. I’m sure the FBI would step in if we could prove similarities in different states. Then…”
“Then we’d have to trace the movements of who knows how many people,” Joe said with a groan.
“This killer—or these killers—may have some kind of religious agenda. Or he may be using what looks like a religious agenda as a means to his own end. Or maybe he wants certain people to die, but likes to kill in between, which, if discovered, would certainly deflect suspicion from his real intent, and he travels to make himself harder to find. But I don’t think all the killers died after that massacre, though I suspect that anyone who could name the mastermind behind the killings—like those two men in the Glades—is dead. So now it’s going to be a lot of footwork, computer searching and piecing together a puzzle.”
“I’m telling you, I know some folks who can help you,” Joe said.
“Psychics?” Luke wanted to be polite, because Joe obviously believed, but he couldn’t keep the skepticism out of his voice.
“How do you think we found Jill’s body?” Joe asked.
Luke frowned. “Joe, I’m really sorry, but I just don’t believe in dial-a-ghost.”
“Neither do these people. I asked you if you’d heard about a man named Adam Harrison. He’s more under the radar than you are, but he’s totally legitimate. Not only the FBI, but a number of other agencies, have called him in, or consulted one of the people who work for him, and we happen to have a few of those who live right here in New Orleans. They’re not mediums or even psychics, at least not in the customary vein. The Native Americans refer to them as nightwalkers. Those who see through the darkness of man’s night—death.”
He knew Joe really was trying to help him, so he bit his tongue to keep from saying something that would offend the man.
But it already bothered him that Chloe was seeing ghosts—and now he was being offered psychic help. He had dealt with worse, and he could deal with this, too.
“I’ll be happy to meet your friends,” he said, pasting a smile on his face.
Joe stood. “But first, in search of your hamza hands, we should go down and talk to Mama Thornton.”
“Who is Mama Thornton?” Luke asked cautiously. “A voodoo priestess?”
Joe grinned. “A shopkeeper. She may be a voodoo priestess, but I see her a lot at church in Jackson Square. Half of voodoo comes from Catholicism, you know. But she runs a shop that sells everything—rosaries, crosses, Stars of David, chicken feet, alligator heads, you name it—probably including those hamza hand talismans you drew.”
“I would like to talk to her, but I’ve got to make a phone call, and if possible, I need to get a flight back tonight, too.”
“I’ll get you on the 5:52 into Miami, will that work?”
“Yeah, perfect,” Luke told him.
“Take your time,” Joe told him, and headed out to wait by the car.
Luke dialed Chloe, who picked up on the second ring and sounded pleased to hear his voice. “So it’s going well up there?” she asked.
“Interestingly, let’s say. I think we’ll get a lot more help on this case once I show people what I’ve found out. But at the moment, I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. Everything is great. Brad and Jared are here, Uncle Leo somehow managed to get out of work after only a few hours and Victoria is doing really well. Oh!”
“Oh, what?”
“Harry Lee, the head of Bryson World wide, said in a news conference that we’re still doing the calendar shoot.” She was silent, no doubt waiting for him to object to her taking part in it. When he didn’t say anything, she went on. “Victoria is very determined. But here’s the thing—I think it’s important for us to do it. We’ll stick together, so nothing can happen. And you know I’m good with a gun. I don’t usually carry one, but I do have a little lady’s Smith & Wesson five shot. And Brad and Jared will stick with us, too, and with everything that’s happened, we’ll have you, and I know Harry Lee will hire extra security. Oh, Victoria knows who you are—she must have over heard you talking to the police at the…the other night—but she’s not saying anything to anyone, not even Jared and Brad.” She was silent again. “Say something, Luke.”
“I’ll be home tonight,” he told her. “I probably won’t make it to your house until nine-thirty or ten.”
“I’ll be here,” she told him.
He hesitated. “And how about you? Any more…experiences?”
“You mean ghosts?” she asked dryly.
“Yes.”
“No, but I’m not afraid of them, and yes, I really do believe I saw them. I wish I could see more.”
He still felt uneasy, but Chloe did sound fine, and entirely rational.
Feeling relieved, he hung up and rejoined Joe. They took the unmarked car down Orleans Street, to Mama Thorn ton’s shop, aptly named Believe in What You Will.
Looking at herself in the mirror, Chloe had to laugh.
Victoria was every bit as good as she claimed. She had said that they would keep to the basics, so they looked as natural as possible for their appearance at the potluck.
She had made use of neutral shades to give them both a pale appearance. Not dramatic, just a look that signified they didn’t see the sun much, even if they lived in Miami. She had produced two wigs in blah shades of brown, and used pencils and eye shadow to play down their eyes rather than play them up, and she’d given Chloe brown contacts that turned her immediately recognizable lime-green eyes to a more normal hazel. Amazingly, such minimal effort had left them looking so different that even their friends wouldn’t have been able to recognize them unless they were close-up and personal. To finish, they wore serviceable shoes and dowdy flowered cotton dresses.
“See?” Victoria said proudly. “I rest my case.”
“You’ve worked wonders,” Chloe agreed. “But what I don’t understand is…what do you think we’re going to find out tonight? It’s a potluck supper. No one is going to set down a plate of meat loaf and suddenly declare that he’s a murderer.”
“Stop trying to talk me out of it. We both know that you really want to go, and that you know what to watch for and what questions to ask,” Victoria said. “Don’t look away. It’s the truth, and you know it.”
“All right, so…I guess we should get going. Luckily, Uncle Leo got called back to work, but we’ve got to be out of here before he gets back or we’re doomed never to leave. Okay, here’s the plan. We’ll walk out—we won’t take the cars—and call a cab. And we’ll get there at seven and leave at eight, agreed?”
“Yes, I promise,” Victoria said. “Are you sure we shouldn’t wear buck teeth?”
“Yes, I’m sure. We don’t want to be noticed. You make us look any worse, and they’ll remember us for certain. Let’s walk down to Main Street and get a drink at Mister Moe’s or Greenstreet’s, then call a cab from there.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Victoria agreed, and together they left the house.
Chloe was reassured when she passed a neighbor who had known her most of her life, and he just nodded politely and kept walking.
“See?” Victoria said.
“Yeah, yeah. Walk faster. It’s hot out here. I need air-conditioning or this makeup will melt right off my face.”
“You have your gun, right?” Victoria asked nervously.
“Yes, but I’m not happy about it. I have a permit to own it, but not a permit to carry a concealed weapon.”
“Hopefully, no one will ever know,” Victoria said, then laughed suddenly. “Did you see that car?”
“What car?”
“The one that just passed us. The driver took one look at us and hit the gas pedal. We’re really all right, Chloe. We’re really all right.”
Chloe wasn’t sure, and she didn’t like the feeling. She had spent her life since the massacre doing everything she could to learn how to defend herself if necessary, and how not to ever put herself in a compromising position where defending herself was necessary, and now she was doing just that. In addition, she felt like a kid who had not lied, exactly, but she had certainly avoided telling Luke or Uncle Leo the truth. A truth that had to do with life and death and murder.
But just because Victoria and she had been due at the mansion, it didn’t mean they were in particular danger. Other girls actually lived at the mansion, and they didn’t seem unduly afraid. There really wasn’t anything to connect the murders now and the massacre in the past.
As for the Church of the Real People, it was bound to be crawling with cops. And no one would know who they were, anyway.
Maybe it was the situation with Luke that had her so on edge. She cared too much about him, and he certainly cared about her, but he’d also made it clear that he wasn’t a man who stayed around, who sought anything real, lasting or stable. And now, of course, he probably thought she was crazy.
Maybe she had shared a few too many of her thoughts with him, she decided wryly. At least she hadn’t mentioned that she was seeing ghosts to anyone else. And she didn’t intend to, either. She trusted Luke more than anyone else she knew, she realized, even if she had him worried about her mental state.
They chose a restaurant they knew, and sat down at the bar, deciding on sodas. It wouldn’t do for anyone at the church to smell alcohol on their breath. The bartender, a guy their own age who they’d known casually for years, came over and took their orders, then walked away without a glimmer of recognition.
The minute he was gone, Victoria whispered, “See? I told you. We’re going to be fine.”
“Yeah—so long as you quit laughing,” Chloe told her with a laugh of her own.
Mama Thornton’s shop was one of a kind—even by New Orleans standards. Crystal balls, chicken’s feet, rosaries, crosses, Stars of David, alligator heads and more all fought for space. Pictures of Christ, Buddha, Mohammed and Greek and Roman and Indian gods crowded the walls. There was a shelf of Wiccan herbal powders, and to top it all off, customers could buy vampire wine and witches’ beer, and something called Doc Holliday’s Extra Special Tennessee Bourbon.
Mama herself was in the back, but Joe knew the clerk, who led them behind a beaded curtain to an office in the rear.
Mama herself was a beautiful middle-aged woman with deep-set dark eyes and café-au-lait skin. She was dressed casually in jeans and a white cotton shirt, and her hair was tied back in a neat queue. She smiled when she saw Joe, rose to greet him and cordially welcomed Luke to her shop.
“Sit down, sit down. Would you like coffee or tea? There’s nothing like our New Orleans coffee, and I have a special blend with just a touch of chicory. Or would you gentlemen like something stronger?” she asked.
“Nothing for me, thanks,” Luke said, and Joe agreed.
“Then you?
“We’re looking for anyone who might have come in here a few years back who struck you as being strange, even for a religious fanatic,” Joe said.
She stared at the two of them, then burst into laughter.
“A religious fanatic—in here?” she demanded. “Darlins, you are jokin’, right?”
Luke shook his head. “I’m afraid not. And I’ve already got the impression you’re a pretty good judge of people, so I’m thinking you might remember someone out of the ordinary.”
“You’re not looking for the kooks who think they’re vampires, or my run-of-the-mill voodoo folk, are you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’m looking for someone who worships a god who condemns everything, someone who believes in the Old Testament God of wrath, the kind who would destroy a city to prevent sin, who believes that the body is a temple. He walks and talks like any normal man, and he may even be charming on the surface, but there’s something underneath that, when he gets going on the subject of religion, makes your skin crawl.”
“Interesting,” Mama Thornton said, and gnawed on the end of a pencil, watching him, thinking. “I may have to ask some of my staff.”
“Are most of your sales by credit card?” Joe asked her.
She nodded. “Most, these days. Not all. I have so many folks come in here, and you’re asking about a lot of time gone by. I’ll tell you what, I can’t help you this second because I’ll have to go through a lot of records to see if something jogs my memory and about ten different people who’ve worked for me, but…can you tell me anything else about who you are looking for?”
“Someone from Miami,” Luke said. “And also, anyone who might have bought a charm or necklace of hamza hands.”
“Miami and hamza hands.”
She let out a sigh. “We’re a hop, skip and not even a jump from Miami by plane. But Miami and hamza hands…maybe that will help. I’ll check my records and see if anything comes up.”
They stood, and Luke gave her his card. “I’d sure appreciate any help.”