City of Spirits - an excerpt

In City of Spirits, my second book in the French Quarter Mystery Series, N.O.P.D. homicide detective Tony Nicosia is dealing with Mardi Gras, an escaped killer, and an affair he's having with a woman young enough to be his daughter. The killer is on a mission of revenge. Only Tony can stop him until a woman and a stray dog get in his way. Please check out the book that author J.C. Brennan described as "A tale of lies, deceit, and adultery."

Chapter 1

T

hunder rattled the roof of Ron Bernard’s house. Awakened with a start, he watched the lightning show with sleepy eyes as rain and gusting wind whistled through an open window, whipping his wife’s flowered curtains. When his fading dream had vanished into darkness, he got out of bed and shut the window with a thud.

He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and lit one up but thought better of it. Relaxing against the bedpost, he jumped when his wife touched his arm.

“Damn it, Angelica! You scared me half to death,” he said.

“It ain’t Katrina, just a little storm out over the Gulf. Come back to sleep.”

He stroked his young wife’s hair, muted brown amid lightning flashing through the window, and kissed her forehead.

“I’m okay. Go back to sleep. I need some coffee.”

“You mean coffee and a smoke?”

“Just coffee,” he said.

She didn’t see him hide the cigarettes behind his back as he grabbed his robe from the four-poster bed and walked down the hall to the kitchen. Coffee in the pot on the stove was cold. It didn’t matter as he filled his mug with vodka from a flask he kept in the robe.

The alarm in his head wouldn’t stop ringing. When nicotine and coffee laced with vodka failed to calm him, he took one of the pills Doc Brown had given him for the problem. The phone rang, startling him again, and he answered quickly so as not to arouse Angelica. He immediately recognized the throaty voice of U.S. Marshal Terrance Blake.

“What’s up?”

“Trouble for me, money for you,” Blake said. “We got goods heading your way. Meet us in twenty minutes at the chopper pad.”

Blake’s voice faded and was gone before Bernard could respond. It didn’t matter. Now, there was a job to do, and no need to wake Angelica to tell her about it. He’d leave a note beside the bed and call her from the boat in the morning. His deceased wife, married to a sea captain for twenty years, would have understood. His new bride might not.

He grabbed his Navy pea coat before heading out the door into a driving rain, peppering the hood of his old Army truck. His hands were finally steady when he turned the ignition and slammed the clunky gearshift into gear. Reaching the chopper pad, he didn’t have long to wait.

Gulf wind continued lashing trees as a moving light appeared through thick cloud cover and strobe-like flashes of lightning. Rain was mostly gone when the Government helicopter landed near the dock in a flurry of flying debris.

Hours of darkness remained as five men exited the chopper, one a prisoner dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit. He was handcuffed, with a belly chain and leg irons attached, armed guards in camouflage fatigues, and bulletproof vests surrounding him. Blake climbed into the cab of Bernard’s truck as guards and prisoner scurried into its canvas-covered truck bed.

“Last time you had this many guards, we transported ten prisoners. I thought all your transports were dangerous.”

Blake’s gap-toothed smile revealed a mouth filled with gold and silver, his own eyes as dark as Bernard’s.

“You don’t drive a railroad spike with a tack hammer.”

“He’s that dangerous?”

“If you look up the word in the dictionary, you’ll see his picture beside it.”

“What’d he do?”

“Kills people,” was Blake’s terse answer.

Down a muddy road from the chopper pad, they reached the little town’s boat harbor. High seas crashed over the breakwater rocking boats docked at the marina. Bernard’s boat, the Clancy Jane, lay moored at the end of the pier. He watched as guards jumped from the back of the truck and escorted the prisoner toward it.

“Take him below,” Blake ordered. Turning to Bernard, he said, “Now get us up the river to New Orleans.”

The haunting cry of a bayou loon sounded from across the bay as Blake left Bernard standing on the dock. He followed them aboard to the wheelhouse, where he cranked the boat’s massive diesels and started checking gauges.

The storm had moved back into the Gulf, occasional flashes lighting up the southern sky as Bernard piloted the old crew boat through the maze of marshes, swamps, and river passes. The wake of the sleek boat rippled the bank, cluttered with flood debris, turtles, and an occasional gator plunging into the brown water.

Bernard loved the Clancy Jane, still the fastest crew boat plying the Gulf of Mexico and worth every penny he’d saved so long to buy. Only Angelica knew how much.

They reached the Mississippi River before dawn. Near Southwest Pass, the narrowest part of the river passage to New Orleans, hazy sunlight poked up through an early morning mist. Pelicans, rising upward in an explosion of beating wings, took flight in the wake of the passing craft. Bernard didn’t notice.

“What’s the hurry?” he finally asked. “New Orleans isn’t going anyplace.”

Blake didn’t take his eyes off the pinks and reds blemishing disappearing darkness.

“Keep your foot in it. We got important people waiting with bated breath for our cargo.”

“If we crash this baby, they’ll still be waiting tomorrow.”

“I’m expecting you to get us there in one piece.”

The boat’s hull bounced as the three guards wrestled the prisoner on deck, giving Bernard a close look at him for the first time. Their eyes locked momentarily.

The large man with short-cropped hair stared up at him, his strange, gray eyes as menacing as the scorpion tattoo on his forearm. While two men watched, their rifles ready, the third guard attached the prisoner’s belly chain to a metal restraint.

“Jesus! That’s one big dude. Why are they bringing him on deck?”

“It’s way too rough down there, and this tub doesn’t have seat belts.”

Ignoring the slight to his boat, Bernard asked, “Who’d you say he is?”

“I didn’t, but he’s Jacque Leguerre, former mob assassin. If he got the chance, he’d take us all out and never bat an eye.”

“Why’s he so important?”

“He’s set to testify against his former bosses and has a price on his head.”

“You could have just choppered him to New Orleans.”

“We thought about it. Local crime seems to know our every move, and you don’t have to say ‘dirty cop’ when talking about the n.o.p.d. Only a handful of people know we’re bringing him up the river. Nobody will know until he is locked up in New Orleans.”

The wake of a passing boat caused the Clancy Jane’s bow to rise out of the water again, driving one of the guards to his knees.

“You can’t keep me locked to this thing,” the prisoner said. “If this tub sinks, I won’t have a chance.”

One of the guards, a big man with a crooked nose, responded harshly.

“Shut your mouth. You got no say in what’s happening here.”

“At least put the keys where I can get to them if necessary.”

The bent-nosed guard rattled the keys attached to his belt. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Forget about it. You’re not going anyplace.”

Blake monitored the conversation with his headset as Captain Bernard watched with interest.

“What’s all the commotion down there?”

“Our prisoner’s whining about a little choppy water,” Blake said.

“Your men need to put on their life jackets if they’re going to stay on deck. They wouldn’t last thirty seconds in the river with its currents and undertows.”

Blake nodded and spoke into his microphone. “Jones, you and your men get your life jackets on.”

“What about the prisoner?” the man asked.

“What about him?”

“We’ll have to take his cuffs off to get the jacket on him.”

“Then forget it,” Blake said.

Captain Bernard glanced at him. “You know you’re breaking the law.”

“I am the law.”

The boat bounced again as it hit another wake, water splashing over the bank into a reed pond, sending a flock of ducks skyward.

“Then at least unhook him.”

Blake mumbled something to himself, grabbing the railing for support as the boat topped another large wave.

“Detach the prisoner from the restraint. Stay ready. Just don’t kill him.”

Bernard watched as Blake’s men reacted to his orders. He wanted to call Angelica. The river much too choppy, he couldn’t take a chance on removing his hands from the wheel. Blake wouldn’t understand anyway.

Swirling fog had formed a sheer curtain over the river as the Clancy Jane and another boat entered Southwest Pass simultaneously from different directions. Before either captain could react, it was already too late.

The boats collided, the impact knocking Blake and Bernard off their feet, banging them against the cabin's rear wall. Both mortally damaged boats began to sink immediately, two of the guards on deck washed overboard and quickly sucked under.

Thrown to the deck by the impact, Jacque Leguerre grabbed the metal restraint as water rushed over the bow. The guard with the keys somehow managed to hold onto the railing, until the current finally dislodged him. As he swirled across the deck, struggling to keep his head above water, Leguerre snagged him, wrapping his leg irons around his neck and pulling him toward him.

Grasping the flailing man, Leguerre dived into the river before the suction of the sinking boat could pull them under. Racing to find the keys on the guard’s belt, he unhooked the life vest that had precariously kept them both afloat. Ignoring the guard’s cries, he ripped his arms and hands off the vest, and then pushed him away.

As undercurrents sucked the struggling man’s head below the river’s swirling surface, Leguerre detached his cuffs, belly chain, and leg irons. Free of his shackles, he held on to the life vest, stroking toward the nearest bank, praying the river’s deadly currents wouldn’t drag him under as it had the others.

Finding her husband’s note, Angelica called his phone to assure him his recurring nightmare had no real meaning. His recorded message, answered on the first ring, was the last time she heard his voice.

 Chapter 2

M

ardi Gras rocked the French Quarter, excited tourists and locals alike being driven into collective frenzy as passing floats, populated by colorful characters in masks and costumes, tossed beads, trinkets, and doubloons to the agitated crowd. Reluctant n.o.p.d. Lieutenant Anthony Nicosia was among them.

Tony didn’t look like a cop. At that moment, he didn’t feel much like one either. His baggy green shorts, black Reeboks, white socks, and plaid windbreaker, did little to change anyone’s first impression of him. Along with his thinning hair, sallow complexion, and plump shape, he looked like a middle-aged couch potato, more interested in soap operas than crime.

Tony’s muscles ached from the extra pounds he carried, due to his failed diet plans, and continuing lack of exercise. His promise to return to the gym when Mardi Gras had ended failed to relieve his aching joints. It didn’t matter. Sore knees or not, the world’s biggest block party was in full swing, and he was on duty.

The approaching Muses parade had the crowd already worked into a state of mass hysteria. Consecutive days of policing parades and parties had frayed Tony’s nerves and shortened his temper. His extra twenty pounds of flab pounded his sore knees and tired feet like a jackhammer. His shoulder holster chafed a tender spot on his chest, and he felt like screaming. It didn’t matter because no one would have heard.

Anxious onlookers surrounding him had already raised the noise level to an ear-splitting roar when his younger, ruddy-faced, red-headed partner, Sergeant Tommy Blackburn, tapped his shoulder, breaking his rapt spell.

“You okay, Tony? You look like warmed over shit.”

“Yeah, and Fat Tuesday still a week away.”

“I’d feel sorry for you, except me and every other man on the force are in the same boat. Hey and Mardi Gras is just once a year.”

“Same for Christmas. Instead of Santa Claus, we’re stuck with more gangs and bigger guns.”

“You right about that. I don’t remember ever having so many gang bangers on the street.”

“Katrina.”

“Maybe we should have moved to Houston with everyone else.”

Tony bent down and rubbed his legs. “I might just yet if my knees don’t quit aching.”

“You just getting old and fat,” Tommy said with a smirk.

The engine of one of the tractors pulling the floats backfired, causing both men to jerk, and then touch the shoulder holsters hidden beneath their windbreakers. Tony frowned and shook his head.

“I can still kick your young ass. It’s these back-to-back fourteen-hour shifts that are wearing me out. Hell, it’d be tough if I was still twenty-one.”

“And you’re not. You looked at yourself in the mirror lately? Too many cold Dixies and Lillian’s red beans and rice. It might help if you tried pushing away from the table every once in a while.”

Tony felt a sudden pang of hunger at the mention of his wife’s cooking. “Great advice for next Carnival, assuming I survive this one.”

“We’ll make it. Flannery heard the Chief has convinced the Governor to send a squad of State Troopers to help us out. He says they’ll be here tomorrow.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. If you ask me, we’d do more good in uniform than going undercover, dressed up like a bunch of over-aged, college dorks.”

“Can’t upset the tourists. They all think this is Never Never Land.”

“Yeah, until Captain Hook sticks a sharp one up their ass.”

The piquant smell of boiled crawfish reminded Tony of his growling stomach. Though Tommy was also dressed in civilian clothes, he looked more like a recently retired defensive end than a middle-aged beer drinker like his older partner.

A young woman in a red and blue Ole Miss sweatshirt made eye contact with Tony. Grinning drunkenly, she approached him and exposed her breasts, then hugged his neck, caking crimson lipstick on his face. Her jealous boyfriend grabbed her arm, pulling her into the crowd. It didn’t stop her from blowing Tony a kiss.

“You may be old and fat, but you ain’t lost your effect on women. I think that college girl had her sights on you. Maybe you oughta get yourself some of that.”

“Shut up Tommy! I’m married you know, and we’re on duty. Besides, that big jock that dragged her away looked like he could bench-press me.”

As the parade’s first float rumbled off St. Charles Avenue and headed up Canal, the already rowdy crowd grew even noisier. Feeding the chaos, masked and costumed Musers began raining colorful beads and souvenir doubloons off the gaudily decorated floats. Canal Street revelers parted in a wave as the first float rumbled past.

With conversation suddenly becoming impossible, Tony and Tommy endured the crowd, but not for long. Gunfire erupted, a hail of bullets zooming over their heads as a shooter unloaded a semi-automatic pistol into the crowd, miraculously doing little damage.

Tony dropped to his knee, quickly drawing his revolver. Tommy was faster. Slapping his badge on his purple and gold l.s.u. windbreaker, he started after the shooter, bulling his way through the crowd. When Tony tried to stand, his leg collapsed beneath his weight. Clutching his left knee, he could only grimace as unwitting revelers closed around him.

Floats continued passing on the street, people chaotic as beads and trinkets rained down on them. Above, gray February clouds further darkened the already gloomy day as the mass of excited parade watchers engulfed him. When the third float had passed on Canal, he shielded his face and head. The mob, intent on retrieving beads and doubloons, didn’t notice the crouching cop.

Unaware of his partner’s pain, Tommy bulled his way through animated spectators, bowling over revelers in his wake. The going was slow, the man he pursued having the same problem. The shooter’s pistol empty, he swung it ineffectively at the crowd of people crushing around him. Most of them, their attention focused on flying beads and trinkets, didn’t even notice. Blood flew from the mouth of a woman, dropping to her knees when he nailed her with the barrel of the gun.

Tommy gained on the shooter. When he saw the woman on the ground, he kept going, close enough to the man to see gang tattoos on his neck and arms. Redoubling his efforts he fought to within six feet of the shooter, his stare focused on the man’s dark pigtail.

When he finally saw an opportunity, he dived forward, grabbed a pair of legs he prayed were the right ones and rolled the person to the ground, knocking down half a dozen unsuspecting revelers along with them. A woman screamed, kicking as she tried to get away from the fight.

When Tommy transferred his grip to the man’s tee-shirt, the Chicano gang member backhanded him and then ripped the shirt down the front. Tearing it off, he bounded to his feet in a single fluid motion. Ignoring his busted lip and skinned knees, Tommy didn’t bother yelling for him to stop, charging after him instead.

Standing six-four and weighing two hundred twenty pounds, Tommy was an imposing man. Ten years out of high school, he still held the State shot-put record. When his hand snagged the strap of a digital camera, he quickly palmed it, aimed and slammed it into the fleeing man’s back. The shooter dropped in pain. All the time Tommy needed to overtake him, rolling him through the crowd and knocking down screaming people. He wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

The gang banger retrieved a long knife from his baggy pants. Opening it with a flip of his wrist, he stabbed it directly into Tommy’s midsection. Yanking the blade free, he went for the throat, trying to stop the larger man’s attack. Tommy grabbed a strong wrist and held on, though his own strength was ebbing as blood gushed from his exposed wound.

The crowd drew away in fear, unwittingly forming an almost impenetrable barrier around the two combatants. Though mesmerized by the struggle, no one stepped forward to help the severely injured police sergeant fighting for his life.

The gang banger’s blade slashed a deep gash across Tommy’s cheek. He continued to resist, even though he could no longer feel the intense pain that had set his stomach afire. Neither could he feel his arms or legs, his mind becoming progressively numbed. What he did see was his mother’s face, and his grandmother’s. They were both crying.

After surviving the weight of the crowd, Tony pushed himself off the ground, dragging his sore leg through the melee, following the fleeing man and his partner.

“Police,” he yelled as he waved his badge. “Get the hell out of my way.”

The beignet he’d eaten that morning sat in his stomach like a broken sandbag as he dragged his gimpy leg through the crowd, internal warning sirens screaming above the din surrounding him. Sensing something was terribly wrong, he plunged ahead, adrenaline coursing through his body overcoming the pain in his knee.

He kept moving, knocking protesting people out of his way when he reached the ring where his partner was gasping his last breaths. Seeing the two men on the ground, he knew his instincts had proved correct.

Tommy was down, his eyes closed, pluming blood painting a growing stop sign on his tee-shirt. Tony had learned the chokehold maneuver in the police academy. It was no longer taught and no longer used, at least officially. It didn’t matter. The situation was dire. It was either the chokehold or else a bullet through the man’s brain.

If he could have used his service revolver before the gang banger’s knife slashed Tommy’s throat, there would have been nothing to decide. As it was, he only had enough time to dive for the man’s neck, grab it, and squeeze.

Chapter 3

  

I

’d taken a sabbatical from the Catholic Church for most of the past few years. Today was different. My ex-wife Mimsy had died of breast cancer after a year-long fight.

I called her once during her ordeal and it puzzled me that her new husband so readily allowed me to talk to her. When she answered, her voice seemed hoarse and faint, likely from the pain killers she was taking, and she didn’t seem to know who I was.

“Mimsy, it’s Wyatt. I called to see how you’re doing.” I didn’t truly mean it when I said, “Is there anything I can do for you?” The last thing I wanted was to see the beautiful woman I’d married ravished by cancer, her long, dark hair ruined, face sallow, figure gaunt, and hope waning from once beautiful eyes.

“Fine, I’m fine,” she said. “Thanks so much for calling. Please don’t hang up.”

I could only imagine what I’d done or said to cause her to think I would hang up on her. Maybe it had something to do with the unmistakable neediness so evident in her voice that it seemed to emanate from the receiver. We’d had a five-minute conversation interspersed with long pauses as if she were trying to catch her breath. Finally, her husband took the phone from her.

“Thank you so much for calling,” was his unexpected response. “You don’t know how much we appreciate your concern. Mimsy’s extremely tired. Please call again. It helps her spirits when someone calls.”

Her new husband, Rafael Romanov, was a strange man I’d met once before. His words were almost a plea. I could hear his grief and realized he loved her far better than I’d ever had.

I had no answer for his desperation, the only response I could think of at the moment inane.

“Try to hang in there.”

Mims and I had met in college. I was on the rebound; she was the new girl in town. I was seeking a good time; she wanted a house full of babies. Ultimately, neither of us got what we wanted. Our marriage ended seven years, almost to the day, after it had begun. Too many harsh words and broken dishes had left us less than friends, and we soon lost touch. It didn’t seem to matter because my life went further downhill from there.

My badge for years, alcoholic excess and uncontrolled anger, rapidly grew worse. When the sleazy client I’d shoved against a wall filed a bar complaint on me, I quickly learned he had far-reaching connections. After being disbarred, I spent the next six months in a drunken haze, managing to insult, incite, and piss off almost every friend I had. Everyone except Bertram Picou, that is.

Bertram owned an eclectic bar on Chartres Street. Finding me at a local soup kitchen, he’d given me a room upstairs and a constant ration of shit until I’d finally given up the bottle. He and Lady, his trusty collie, stayed with me through my abusive ranting, emotional tirades, and suicidal jags.

Whenever I begged for whiskey, Bertram gave me lemonade. Before long, lemonade became my crutch. That was a while back. Now, it was a quiet February night, a cold breeze blowing up from the Gulf of Mexico, as I stood alone outside St. Validius Cathedral, buying time before going in to view Mimsy’s body, seeing her husband Rafael and all her grieving relatives who still thought of me as part of the family. It was the same church where I’d been an altar boy and where Mimsy and I’d been married.

Unable to move, I stared at the moon as powerful tsunami memories crashed against my brain, flooding it with guilt and my own terrible grief I dared not acknowledge. When someone unexpectedly tapped my shoulder, shattering my musings, I wheeled around, staring into Father Alphonso’s gray eyes.

“Wyatt Thomas, I thought you must be dead.”

My old parish priest was at least four inches taller than my own height of six feet. His slate-gray hair was whiter than I remembered and the wrinkles in his face slightly deeper. His voice hadn’t changed, resonating deep from within his barrel chest, his words accented by native Italian even though he hadn’t left New Orleans in fifty years.

“You’re looking good, Father Alphonso.”

My words sounded hollow, even as they raced from my mouth. Father Alphonso smiled, either not noticing or else just overlooking my lack of communication skills.

“Thank God, you’ve come back to the Church. I prayed you would return.”

“I’m not here for myself. Mimsy divorced me years ago. Even so, I felt I needed to pay my last respects in person.”

“Of course, you’re here for Mimsy’s vigil. I’m sorry it was her death that brought you back. At least you’ve finally returned.”

I thought seriously about pretending I hadn’t heard. Hell, she didn’t even make thirty-five.

“God needed her in another capacity,” he said.

“I guess. They say only the good die young. If so, then I’ll live to be a hundred. I wasn’t lying when I said I almost didn’t come tonight.”

“Nonsense,” he said, grasping my shoulder. “I’m here for you. We’ll go in together.”

Father Alphonso was convincing, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He pushed me ahead of him, through the dense cypress doorway of St. Validius, not giving me the opportunity to bolt and run.

When the hallway of the old church opened up to me, I took a deep, almost instinctive breath of antiquity and dimming memories. The distinct odor of the church caused poignant images to confront my senses, even more than my thoughts and distaste at peering into Mimsy’s open casket.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I was an hour ago.”

Father Alphonso grasped my hand and squeezed, then kissed me on the forehead, like a father reassuring his son there wasn’t a monster under the bed. It had the same effect on me as I headed down the darkened hallway with strengthened resolve.

We soon reached the entrance to the anteroom. When we opened the door and entered, I saw Mimsy’s mother Betty. Sight of her caused my newly found strength to drift from my body soon as it had arrived. Too late! Seeing me, she grasped me in her fleshy arms and held on tightly, her tears dampening my collar.

“Oh, Wyatt, I don’t think I can handle this.”

It was all I could take. My own tears, dammed inside for so long, welled up and flooded down my face. Soon, sobbing uncontrollably, I was in a group hug with half the family.

The first person I saw when we all finally got control of our senses was Rafael Romanov, Mimsy’s grieving husband. With the exception of Father Alphonso, he was the only person in the room without tear-streaked cheeks. Still in a daze, I gravitated toward him.

Though I’d met him once before, this was like seeing him for the first time. Like Father Alphonso, his eyes were also a strange shade of gray, causing me to do a double-take when I noticed them. His nose and fingers were long and his hands expressive. Though taller than me, he was just as slender, his curly hair dark as his eyes.

“Thanks for coming. It would have meant a lot to Mimsy. And Wyatt, it means a lot to me.”

“It feels so strange. This is a place for her family. Not ex-husbands.”

“She was closer to you than any of them.” Before I could reply, he added, “Please, forget what I just said.”

The smell of whiskey on his breath told me he’d had more than just a mind steadying drink or two. He maintained his grip on my hand, almost as if he were holding on to a buoy in a storm. Still, he seemed sensible and spoke in a confident manner. He released my hand, just as Father Alphonso appeared through the multitude of grieving friends and relatives.

“Wyatt, come with me,” he said, frowning and ignoring Rafael.

It was then I noticed Rafael was standing alone amid the crowded room. A circle of space surrounded him, separating him from the rest of the family who all seemed to have their backs to him.

“I’m visiting with Rafael.”

“Please,” Father Alphonso said.

“No problem,” Rafael said. “We’ll talk later.”

The old priest led me back into the hallway. “What’s so urgent, Padre?”

Father Alphonso put his hand on my shoulder and drew me closer as if he were about to reveal some conspiratorial information.

“You know Rafael was a priest. Well, he is no longer with the Church. He was defrocked. Although he technically will always be a priest, he can no longer hear confessions or perform duties incumbent to the Church.”

“I didn’t know. What did he do?”

Father Alphonso paused before answering. “His mother is a witch. She casts spells and prays to the Devil. He is her son.”

I waited for further explanation but got none. Though it sounded like a joke, Father Alphonso wasn’t laughing.

“You’re kidding. You don’t believe in that malarkey, do you?”

“Real evil exists. It’s not a joke and certainly not malarkey.”

“Didn’t the Church know this before they ordained him into the priesthood?”

“We are men and women of God, not seers into the future.”

My next questions brought an even graver expression to Father Alphonso’s face. “Even if Raphael’s mother is a witch, what did he do? Should he have to suffer for her sins?”

“He deceived the Church. He had no right to invade the priesthood. Wyatt, he is a gypsy.”

“You mean like a spy for the Devil?”

Father Alphonso stepped back and stared at me. “You think you know more about good and evil than does the Church?”

My mouth opened, but words were slow in coming. When they did, it was only to say, “Father, I’m sorry.”

We reentered the church’s dimly lit nave where vigils for the faithful were held in St. Validius’ diocese. Mimsy’s casket, surrounded by wreaths of wilting flowers, sat at the far end of the room. Candles burned on both ends of the coffin. I could see it was open.

Mimsy’s friends and relatives clustered around it, some kneeling in prayer. Mimsy’s father and mother were at the head of the casket, Betty’s tears still flowing profusely. I made my way through the mourners, knelt before the ornate chest and said a little prayer, continuing to kneel, staring at the floor, dreading the inevitable glance into the coffin. When I finally got off my knees, Betty hugged me again, sobs of grief wracking her body.

“God damn it, Wyatt! God damn breast cancer took her beautiful hair, and that awful wig makes her look like some Vegas showgirl. I don’t even have a lock of hair to remember her by.”

Wrestling from Betty’s grasp, I bent over and kissed Mimsy’s forehead, feeling a knot tighten in my gut. Looking away, I fished in my pocket for the brooch Mimsy had given me so many years before, opening it to reveal a locket of her hair. Showing it to Betty, I pressed it into her hands.

“Forgive me for not giving it to you before now. I’d almost forgotten I had it.”

Saddened and deeply troubled by my glimpse into the coffin, I finally managed to pull away from Betty and her husband Mike. After paying my condolences to the rest of the clan, I hurried out the door and down the darkened hallway to the parking lot outside. Father Alphonso intercepted me as I went out the door, grabbing me by the arm.

“Wyatt, you need to confess. Let’s do it now.”

“Not now, Padre. I’m not ready, and I may never be.”

“God and Satan are wrestling for your soul. Don’t let Satan win.”

“Seeing Mimsy in that box shook me to the essence of my being. I can’t deal with anything else tonight.”

The priest squeezed my hand. “Her death reflects your own humanity. You have serious issues you need to resolve. Please, let me help.”

“I can’t. I’m too upset right now,” I said, pulling away and hurrying across the parking lot. “I’ll talk with you later.”

“Wyatt, don’t wait too long,” he said, calling to me as I walked away.

Except for cars of the mourners, the lot was deserted. I started walking toward St. Charles Avenue hoping I wouldn’t have long to wait for a streetcar. Headlights from a car coming up from behind startled me. It screeched to a halt, and a familiar voice called out my name.

“Wyatt, can I give you a ride? I promise not to cast an evil spell on you.”

It was Rafael, smiling from the open window of a silver Cadillac Aviator that flashed in the moonlight. A tugboat on the river blew its whistle.

“A spell, or maybe even a shot of Novocain, would be appreciated about now. I’m sorry. You must be in much more pain than me.”

If you took my pain away right now, I’d disappear.

We both needed to change the subject, so I opened the door and climbed into the plush, leather, passenger seat beside him. The vehicle smelled brand new.

“Nice car.”

“Thanks. You must be wondering how a defrocked priest can afford such an expensive s.u.v.”

“Actually, I was wondering how anyone can afford such an expensive s.u.v.”

We both laughed as Rafael turned up Napoleon Avenue. “Where to?” he asked.

“Picou’s bar on Chartres. I have a room upstairs. It’s in the Quarter,” I said.

“I was living in the Quarter when I met Mimsy. She helped me land a job as a rent-a-priest.”

“A what?”

Rafael laughed again. “I work on one of the cruise ships that sail out of New Orleans. Many passengers are comforted to cruise with a Catholic priest. The company I work for pays me extremely well.”

“But you’re—”

“Not a priest? In fact, I am. Once a priest, always a priest. As the ship’s chaplain, I perform marriages and conduct services. The passengers don’t know I’m defrocked, and the cruise line doesn’t care.”

“Hey, it’s no business of mine. I’m just glad you were there for Mimsy when she needed you.”

Rafael’s smile disappeared at the mention of Mimsy. “I’m still in shock. I never thought cancer would take her, even when she was in constant pain and on oxygen twenty-four hours a day.”

“Why was she so glad to hear from me when I called? Our marriage didn’t exactly end on friendly terms.”

“Toward the end, everyone, family and friends, seemed to abandon us. Days would pass with the phone never ringing. Maybe it was the aura of impending death. Sometimes I would call a friend of hers, or someone in her family. When they answered the phone, I’d give it to Mimsy and tell her they had called her. I don’t feel guilty about doing it because it always perked her up. Occasionally, an old friend, or an ex-husband would call unexpectedly. It was then I knew there is a God up there.”

“I wish I did,” I said.

“Oh, there’s a God, and Devil, all right. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”

I had little time to contemplate his cryptic words as we neared the lights of the French Quarter. Mardi Gras was in full swing the surrounding venues crowded with noisy revelers. Most of the streets were cordoned off by the police, allowing only foot traffic into the Quarter. Rafael stopped the Cadillac on Canal Street, near the intersection with Rue Chartres.

“Sorry I can’t get you any closer.”

“Thanks for bringing me this far. There’s a parking lot down the street. Sure you won’t join me at Bertram’s? I have many more questions to ask you.”

“Not tonight, my friend,” he said. “A half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey awaits me.”

Before I could walk away, he lowered his window and spoke to me. “Wyatt, my mother has a shop near Royal and Toulouse. It’s called Madeline’s Magic Potions. You obviously have lots of questions. Please go see her. She’ll have answers for you.”

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.