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?
No. The mausoleum felt empty. But how could that be? Quinn had seen him go in.
Pulling his revolver, he moved out from behind the altar and crept around, searching. The place was empty. But that was imposs—
A sudden flurry of movement stunned him — someone moving with lightning speed, hurtling toward him. Quinn spun away but something cold and metallic rammed none too gently against the base of his skull.
“Another move and your brain stem comes out your nose.”
The pistol’s muzzle was positioned to do just what the intruder said, so Quinn froze, cursing himself. He’d played just about every role known to man in life, from idiot hero-addict to cop and now investigator of the unusual — and he wasn’t accustomed to being the one taken by surprise.
But, hell, he’d also learned how to talk and stall, how to retreat to fight again — and this seemed the right time for that.
“Okay, okay.”
The other man snickered as he removed Quinn’s revolver from his grasp. “Some hit man.”
The words stunned Quinn. “What — what did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“You called me a hit man.”
“On your knees. Gotta little hog-tying to do.”
“Wait just a goddamn minute. Who do you think I am?”
“That lady de Medici’s boy. Now on your knees or I put your own slugs through them.”
Madame de Medici? Quinn thought. He thinks I work for her?
“I’ve had no contact with the madame. Ever. I don’t know where you got your information, but I was hired by the owner, Jules Chastain.”
He could feel the other man stiffen behind him.
“Bullshit.”
“No, true shit.” He spoke quickly. “Reach into my jacket pocket for my ID. My name is Michael Quinn. I’m a private investigator in New Orleans.”
The muzzle pressed harder against his skull as the man reached around, found the folder, and removed it.
“It’s too dark to read in here anyway.”
“You mean you came without a flashlight?”
“No.” His tone was annoyed. “It’s just that my hands are full at the moment.”
He shoved Quinn toward the chairs. “Have a seat while I figure this out.”
Quinn did as he was told. The guy seemed dangerous but Quinn felt no fear of him. Odd. It was occurring to him that they’d both been taken — he hoped it was occurring to the other guy, too.