David ed. - Face Off (2014) Anthology

Jack didn’t like this, any of it. But Chastain had called while Gia and Vicky were back in Iowa visiting her folks and he felt the need for a brief change of scenery. A fat fee, round-trip transportation to New Orleans in a private jet. It had all sounded too good to be true.

And naturally that was how it was turning out.

Hit man. Sheesh . He hadn’t bargained for that. But if he could sneak in and sneak back out of this mausoleum with no one the wiser, everything would be cool. He’d stop by the French Quarter for a fried-oyster po’ boy and then be on his way.

“All right, let’s get this over with. And money up-front—all of it.”

“Certainly.” Chastain reached for an envelope on a nearby table in the shape of an elephant. “Cash in hundreds, as agreed.” Another one of those Percy Dovetonsils smiles. “I take it Uncle Sam won’t be seeing any of that.”

Jack said nothing as he pocketed the envelope. He wouldn’t know a 1040 if it poked him in the eye.

Chastain said, “I was concerned you might not be armed, but no longer. I’ll have my man drive you over to the plantation and—”

“You’ll show me how to get there, then have your man drive me to where I can hail a cab.”

Arrive in a silver Maybach Landaulet. Yeah, that would work.

“Very well. But be prepared for deadly force.”

“Uh-huh. Got a map?”

After watching Chastain trace a path along the Mississippi to the location of the old Chastain plantation on River Road, Jack let himself out onto the front porch to wait for the car. He stood between two of the massive columns, staring out at the misty night and listening to his forebrain playing “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” by The Clash while his hindbrain blasted “Go Now.”

Something definitely rotten in New Orleans. A guy with a contract out on him didn’t stand at a window. He’d have all the curtains drawn and all the doors barricaded. So Jack had pulled his pistol to see how he’d react. In the context of having your name on a contract, “This is impossible!” was not a response that made any sense when looking down the muzzle of a gun.

But it made plenty of sense if the contract didn’t exist.

Chastain was lying—probably about many things. The smart thing to do was walk away. But Jack’s interest was piqued. What was the game here? He’d come a long way, the money was good, and he felt a need to see this through.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The air was different here. Heavier than New York’s. Manhattan was old, and he’d found ancient secrets in its hidden corners. But this place—the atmosphere was laden with the rot of dark mysteries with maybe even a touch of magic hovering on the edges. Jack had seen magic. He hated magic.

Be prepared for deadly force.

Jack was hoping to avoid that, but he’d be ready.

MICHAEL QUINN STOOD FLAT AGAINST the side of the Boudreaux vault in the family cemetery of the Chastain plantation, listening. His ears were attuned to hear the faintest rustle of movement. A sliver of moon cast meager light, but that didn’t stand against him. He had learned the art of seeing by night.

The vault was filled top to bottom with decaying coffins or the sun-cremated dead, so he couldn’t hide inside. Besides, the door was sealed. The Boudreaux family had long ago left the area and it was doubtful that the vault would ever be unsealed. But he had no interest in the Boudreaux family tonight.

Still, he hadn’t been desperate enough to forget all sense and wait inside the Chastain mausoleum. The crumbling old Boudreaux vault was adorned with gargoyles and angels, strange mix that it might be, and a good place to wait. In the darkness, if a piece of his head showed as he watched the night, he might appear to be simply part of a gargoyle.

The Chastain mausoleum had a gate and a door and a chapel inside filled with an altar and chairs. The walls themselves were lined with coffins; two sarcophagi stood to each side of the chairs that allowed seating. While the old Chastain plantation had burned to the ground during the Civil War, the family had merely moved on into the city of New Orleans—and every decade or so, a new Chastain joined his or her ancestors.

He knew the mausoleum well; he’d come out here often enough in his misspent youth with friends. Adolescents loved to sneak out to the ruins of the Chastain plantation and into the old cemetery to tell ghost stories and try to scare themselves—and dare one another to sleep in the mausoleum. They were somewhat outside the French Quarter and the old section of the city where the timeworn buildings and Spanish and French architecture ruled in the unique and beautiful aura of faded elegance that created the atmosphere of New Orleans. Far from the jazz bands and commercial pop that emanated from the clubs on Bourbon.

Yet, here, out in the bayou area, Michael felt even more a part of the essence of Orleans Parish. Here, the cicadas were rubbing their wings; he heard the rustle of the wind through skeletal trees that scattered the graveyard. And beneath the meager glow of the moon, he felt the pervasion of death and history and something lonely and sad as well.

The cemetery was not the size of St. Louis, but was built in the true style of the “cities of the dead” that were so much a part of the South Louisiana landscape. Eerie by night, the small and large tombs did seem to make up their own city and it was easy to imagine that ghostly denizens might emerge from the wrought iron gates and different archways and openings at any minute, ready to dance beneath the sliver of moonlight.

The vigil seemed long. The tomb he leaned against seemed cold despite the sultry weather of the night. His muscles began to tighten.

There. Movement.

Quinn saw someone in dark clothing—almost invisible in the night—moving like a wraith. He appeared to slip through the iron gate and the giant wooden doors of the structure. They must have been left ajar. How? By whom?

Quinn waited, damning the fact that his own heartbeat seemed loud in the night. He watched; he’d seen only one person. He’d begun his vigil almost two hours early to see who would come.

He didn’t head across the overgrown path to the front of the vault. He knew it well. Hell, he’d slept in the damned thing. The Chastain dead were apparently not vengeful; nothing had happened to him. And, oddly enough, he could be grateful now that he did know the vault so well.

He knew of a small entrance at the back, behind the altar. Apparently, one of the Chastain founding family members had liked to enter unobserved and mourn his dead.

Quinn hurried around as quickly as he could, ever watchful of the front.

Nothing.

Coming to the rear, he took his time, barely breathing as he carefully pried open the rear iron door, praying it wouldn’t screech. No one had used it in some time but the vines and weeds that should have nearly choked it had been pulled away.

Something was off here. But still, he was sure he could use this passage to get the jump on whoever was inside.

He eased the door open just wide enough to get his body through. He dropped and rolled behind the altar as quickly as he could. The rear wall offered broken stained glass windows and the weak illumination of the moon came through what remained of the colored glass in a strange purple color. The air smelled musty, but no surprise there.

A tile tilted under his left shoe. Had the intruder hidden back here? If so, where was he now? Something within Quinn wanted to investigate that tile, pry it up—

Later.

He held his breath and listened. No sound. Not even the other’s breathing. Was he holding his breath, too?