House of Corruption (7 page)

It is with much gladness I have found you. Please

accept my heartfelt wishes for your continued

health and happiness.

Please forgive my imposition, but I must be direct.

I am aware of your condition. I have learned you

found means to fend off your terrible symptoms.

It is of the utmost urgency that we speak concerning

this matter.

I have come to propose an offer that will prove

beneficial to us both. I respectfully request an

immediate appointment: south gate of City Park,

nine o’clock tomorrow evening. There, with some

measure of discretion, we might make negotiations

to our mutual satisfaction.

Please RSVP at the St. Charles Hotel. My valet will

assist you with whatever needs you might require.

I look forward to meeting you in person.

Yours,

Miss Kiria Carlovec

Reynard read it three times.

He turned the paper over, expecting it to be a gag, a cruel prank. He did not recognize the signature. The name Kiria and the family name Carlovec felt vaguely familiar, but he had no thought as to where he had heard the name before.

He burst upstairs, bounding three steps at a time, racing down the hall to Lasha’s bedroom. He knocked hard. From inside he could hear a startled sound of movement, the clatter of something striking the floor—books, a cup.

“Lasha?”

“Leave me alone,” her voice came, irritated. “I was asleep.”

“Who sent this letter?”

“Which?”

“The one on the floor.”

“Which?”

“Do not play games with me,” Reynard said. “Fancy envelope with a red seal. Was it here when you arrived? Did Eleanor give it to you?”

“Eleanor is gone,” she said, “
remember
?”

“Who brought it?”

“Foreign gentleman. Far more manners than you seem to have. Now leave me alone. I shall chastise you in the morning.”

He stood ready to fly another harsh word, but checked himself. She deserved no hard words. He had been a jackass; he promised her a pleasant evening and had forgotten in the midst of a terrible day. He had left her alone in that house, one she secretly hated for its memories, and now here he stood with his glowering tone as if their father had come back to life.

He moved to the staircase. Since their relocation from Montreal he could not remember a time when an unsolicited courier visited their doorstep. His officer manager Frederick Burlington had strict orders to direct all personal correspondence through the office. He knew well the fickle tides of social commerce, and he chose not to invite them into his own home.

Someone knows
.

Halfway downstairs he felt the thrashing body of the acolyte he had killed in Lisbon, felt his soft flesh in his mouth, tasted the boy’s coppery blood. All at once he tasted countless throats like filth boiling from a drain—the slick stones of back alleys and moist grass from nameless wilderness, the bells of old churches and the stink of immigrant ghettoes, gunshots and shouting, rushing scents and wet muck beneath his naked palms, the stink of peppermint blood screaming in his throat and the taste, the
taste
, between his teeth. Most fragments came so sudden, so bitterly, he nearly collapsed with shaking.

Not true not true not true.

They were real, and he was damned, dripping with darkness, the heavy weight of sin choking until he thought he might die. When he felt this way—more often than not—the pain came so palatable he thought he might scoop it from his belly and smear it across a wall.

He remembered the funeral for the Portuguese acolyte in Lisbon. Friends and members of the young man’s family wept upon the coffin, each draped in various shades of grief. Some rubbed ashes on their faces, commanding damnation against the devil responsible for his death. He had sat in the back row, terrified, supplicating no God other than his fear. He was there only because Savoy, seated beside him, said it would serve to see the results of his behavior—as if it might convince his rational mind to command the beast to stay away. He doubted it. If the mourners understood who sat on the back row, he who was responsible for that day, they would hang him from a tree and burn his carcass. More likely, he feared, he would stand and announce himself and get exactly what he deserved.

One woman sat frail and shrouded on the front row. She placed a briar rose upon the coffin and drifted down the aisle toward them. She paused only once, staring at Reynard—not a random glance—and whispered:

Lobis-homems queimadura no inferno
.

Man-wolf burn in hell.

She knew.

Then came Bill’s smiling throat with his pink and bloated face, glazed, white eyes rolled back into his head.

Go away
.

He remembered.

How can—
?

He stumbled to the bottom of the stairs.

How can anyone know?

Last of all came the memory of his sister’s face. She shrieked at the monster, at
him
—the terrible thing that leapt from the shadows. She shrieked as he sank its teeth into her nanny’s face—

Lasha
.

—
If someone knows
…

Not her. Not her. Never her.

He flung open the front door and leaned over the porch rail. He retched once, kept it down. He retched again and spewed vodka and acid in a great, choking cough.

6

Excerpt, Artémius Savoy’s Journal:

Friday, October 10, 7:35 p.m.

Interview with the chief coroner at Charity Hospital. He accepted my credentials and permitted a brief, firsthand examination of the post-autopsied bodies. The old fellow was glad to have an ear listen to his adequate, if incomplete, findings.

Bill Tourney and Paul Rabeaux died as a result of massive trauma to the neck between the mandible and upper clavicle. On Bill, subcutaneous tissue shredded, jugulars and sternohyoid cut. Would account for the extreme loss of blood—curious not much found at scene.

Mister Rabeaux deliberately emasculated. Femoral severed on both legs. Spinal damage (intervertebral, between third and fourth cervical) consistent with a neck broken by sufficient force. Why the throat was also shredded is beyond my guess. Bill’s personals spared, but spinal column nearly severed a half an inch above the larynx. I agree with coroner’s theory there is similarity to that from an edged blade, but such a wound does not leave the surrounding tissue in such poor condition.

Bill’s spinal incision incomplete. Was he to be decapitated?

Bill’s remaining blood infested with extraordinary clotting beyond livor mortis. Squeezed out like jam from open vein. Examined sample under microscope. No explanation other than caused by a coagulant of unknown origin. Laboratory work pending. 

Damaged tissue along Bill’s upper left shoulder, akin to bite mark; unclear if by vermin, scavenger or damage during transit. Mister Rabeaux had no such wound.

Odiferous substance upon both men’s clothing, stains along their shirts and skin below primary wounds. The coroner would not have mentioned it; he assumed it spilled formaldehyde. Doubtful, for the scent is sharp yet more natural, like rancid oil. No explanation as to the liquid’s source or composition.

Unable to retain any evidence. When authorities arrived, the coroner concluded our conversation and bid me leave at once.

Addendum, 9:07 p.m.

En route to Parish Prison. Will conclude the day’s findings after interview with primary suspect, Mahonri Grant.

***

Parish Prison leered over Orleans Street, ivy infesting its towering brick and plaster walls, crawling up and over the scrubby roof until the place seemed caught in some ghastly web. Sheets of rain washed down its neglected façade before draining into the gutter. It was an old place, a sad place, one few dared consider with their full attention, known more for its reputation than its reality. The weather only added to its grim appearance as if, once inside, there would be no leaving.

I suppose
, Savoy thought,
that is the point
.

The hansom abandoned him before the prison’s leering front gate, the iron bars slick with rust and oil. A rat-faced old guard, sequestered in a booth with only a lantern as company, glared at his approach. 

“I am here to see Mahonri Grant,” Savoy said.

“No visitors,” the guard said.

“I am Mister Grant’s counsel.”

“You know what bloody time it is?”

“And do you,” Savoy said with a firm but quiet voice, “know the illegality of detaining a man beyond twenty-four hours without retaining adequate counsel? I dare say Phineas would be most displeased you—”

“Who?”

“Mister Phineas Mealey signs your pay voucher, correct? I wonder how he would react knowing you...what does your badge say? Officer Sills? Well, Mister Sills, I wonder what he would say you turned out his chum from the Chess and—”

The guard’s face soured. “Damnation.”

The front gate opened on screaming hinges. Another rifle-slung guard, looking just as cold and miserable, ushered Savoy into the gatehouse. He searched his person and his bag and, assured he carried no contraband, led him through another barbwired gate to a muddy courtyard. Lines of concrete and plaster cells stretched into the rainy black like cages from a forgotten zoo; the prison had not seen a coat of paint since it housed Union prisoners over twenty years earlier.

Savoy was glad the doorman did not make confirmations. Few would bother a warden as notoriously temperamental as Police Administrator Mealey, but he dared risk that temper for a first-hand account from the only witness. This Mister Grant was a man who, if guilty, was capable of unspeakable violence—quite possibly against old men who hadn’t the good sense to conduct their interviews during the day.

The guard escorted him to a cell stinking of urine, empty save for three chairs and a rickety table. He waited a long time. When he thought to demand an update, the door opened and the guard shoved a tall man inside.

“Ten minutes,” the guard said.

Mahonri Grant blinked with dark eyes as the door locked behind him. He examined his surroundings, focusing on Savoy. He stank.

“Mister Grant?” Savoy asked.

“Who’s asking?”

“Doctor Artémius Savoy.” He held out his hand. Grant did not take it. “Travelling lecturer from Cambridge University, Trinity College, professor of biology and secular member of the Order of St. Eustachius.”

“I’m not Catholic.”

“I gathered that.”

“You know what time it is?”

“I am here to inquire on your extraordinary case.” Savoy took his seat and opened his notebook on his lap. “I am curious, as you claim, when you first saw the—”

“Oh hell. Another rag-writer.” Grant moved toward the exit.

“There is no proof you were capable of such a crime.”

“You sure?”

“I would like to be.”

“You a priest or something?”

“Something like that,” Savoy said. “My place as a secular tertiary is confirmed, but it has been ages since I performed any useful service. I doubt my membership is still valid. I took an oath to dedicate myself to Christ and yet...” He took a breath. “I would like to think I can hear your case with...shall we say, an open mind?”

“Even what I’ve seen?” Grant asked.

“What exactly did you see?”

Savoy considered this bear of a man, his smell, his unkempt appearance. He had interviewed plenty of maniacs, and unless his intuition was wrong—which was rare—it seemed this man was not the type. Every lunatic he had known, in any capacity, always betrayed their disconnection. Grant’s eyes held more depth than his look would suggest.
He could be a very convincing actor
, he thought.
He could have torn those men open in that alley and you, the idiot, sit alone with him?

Yes, he could be guilty, but who else would have suspected Reynard LaCroix to be a penitent man, an honest businessman, a loyal brother...a friend?

“You’re not really my counsel,” Grant said.

“No.”

“Read the newspaper. You won’t believe me anyway. I don’t need you to attract any more attention than I’ve already got. You understand?”

“No,” Savoy said.

“I don’t need her finishing what she started.”

“Who?”

“
Her
.”

7

Darkness, then spots of creamy light came, like faint stars in the fog. Croaking frogs, the rotten stink of decomposing soil.

—
Drink—

His clawed hands grasped at the muck to pull him forward, clawed feet and muscular legs propelling him like heavy springs. He darted around the murky water to thicker tuffs of grass, around cypress trees with their tentacle roots. He kept to higher hills, blending with the night—there, a blur—gone in a breath.

—
Drink—

Globes of bright light appeared, stinking of rotten eggs, white in the center and blue-green at the edges. He paused where the bayou ended and the manicured lawn began, in view of the great house with its many windows. Voices echoed with a scattering of broken moments, memories: a flash of gunpowder, the stink of sewage, the dark, dripping recesses beneath streets and daylight, the ever-present raging hunger. He tasted the night air—the scurry of a lizard, the scum on a stagnant pool. The bayou breathed through him; every fleck and pebble and beating heart held its own glamour.

He considered the big house with its gaslights, his ears twitching at the faint, scratchy sound of music. He breathed in, deep, silent, pressing his nostrils to the ground, inhaling the scent of footsteps rolling over his tongue.