Father of Fear (21 page)

Ackerman had come out of the store with a plastic bag full of items, but Maggie hadn’t asked him about it. She wasn’t in the mood to talk anymore, and so she drove the last leg of their journey in silence. She thought about Marcus and whether or not he was even still alive. And if he was, what had he been through, what horrors had he seen, what torment had he endured? She thought about Andrew suffering at the hands of Craig and his mercenaries. She worried about the Director and what would happen to him and the Shepherd Organization because of her actions. In the end, she had no reason to believe that this trip would lead them to Marcus. She just chose to have faith and not let the other very real possibilities creep in.

Once they arrived in New Orleans, Ackerman told her to drive through the French Quarter until something sparked a memory. So they drove up and down streets that looked like the pockmarked face of a chronic acne sufferer with their rough surfaces and abundance of potholes, both patched and not. They passed nail salons, voodoo shops, cigar and coffee lounges, palm readers, art galleries, a multitude of bars, gumbo shops, bistros, and a wide range of small specialty boutiques. It seemed that nearly every building was of a Spanish or Creole type and many had wrought-iron balconies on the second stories adorned with ferns and other hanging plants. The buildings were all exuberantly colored—yellow, orange, red, baby blue. They met horse-drawn carriages as they clip-clopped down the uneven roadways. They saw a New Orleans-style funeral procession with a jazz band blowing out an upbeat version of
Just a Closer Walk with Thee
, players in black suits and white hats leading a marching group of somber mourners. Iridescent Mardi Gras beads hung from the cast-iron lampposts at each corner, even though Mardi Gras was a couple of weeks in the past.

“Anything?” Maggie asked.

“Not yet. Keep driving.”

They rolled past Bourbon Street and Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo and turned onto St. Ann Street. They were coming up to a large pedestrian mall brimming with activity and street vendors in front of the St. Louis Cathedral and Jackson Square when Ackerman said, “Wait. Go around this block again.”

Maggie circled around, and Ackerman told her to stop. They parked in a small garage operated by a big man in a black button-down shirt wearing a white fedora with a peacock feather poking up from it. They walked up and down one side of the street and then the other.

The whole time Ackerman had a disgusted snarl on his face. Maggie asked, “What’s eating you?”

“I don’t like New Orleans. It would make a good stomping ground for a serial killer, but it’s not really my style.”

“What do you mean? It’s fun. Lots of parties and activities.”

“Yes, it’s so colorful and … festive.” His lips curled up at the word as if it tasted bitter on his tongue. “It makes me sick. Not to mention that the whole place reeks of urine and vomit.”

“You’re a real killjoy, you know that?”

“We’re not here to partake in drunken revelry.” He stopped, turned around, and pointed at a building up the street. “That’s it. That’s the shop my grandfather used to own.”

“We’ve already passed that place twice.”

“I wanted to be sure. Now I am.”

“How do you know he doesn’t still own it?”

“I don’t. Let’s find out.”

A worn wooden sign over the door read Jezebel’s Masks & More. A pair of white French doors, filled with small windows and flanked on both sides by solid oak shutter doors, opened into a newly remodeled showroom full of all types of masks. The air inside smelled of plastic and resin. Some of the masks were simple and elegant. Others were elaborate affairs, covered in jewels and feathers. Some covered only the eyes, while others hid the whole face. Still, these were props for costumes. None matched the detail or intricacy of the masks worn by the Coercion Killer.

Except one. It hung on the back wall behind the counter. It was incredibly detailed and showed the face of a smiling man with a thin mustache. It was a work of art and held a place of prominence among the others.

The clerk smiled and nodded as they entered but then returned his attention to the computer sitting on a table that served as the store’s counter. He was a foreigner of some kind. Maggie guessed Armenian or something along those lines. A beard covered his face, all gray except below his nose and around his mouth, and his head was shaved. He wore a green untucked plaid shirt, black trousers that were two inches too short, and a pair of alligator-skin boots.

Ackerman didn’t waste any time pretending to be a customer. He bellied up to the makeshift counter and said, “We’re looking for a man named Louis Ackerman.”

The clerk tensed but said in a slightly slurred accent, “Never heard of him.”

“He used to own this place.”

“Sorry I can’t be of more help. I bought the shop from a friend.”

“Who did he buy it from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have your friend’s contact info?”

The man was becoming more suspicious and perturbed with every question. “I can’t just give out that information. What’s your interest?”

“Personal.”

“Well, I personally can’t help you. I apologize.”

“He made that mask hanging on your back wall.”

The man didn’t glance back at the intricate mask. “It came with the shop. If you’re not going to buy anything, then I’d appreciate…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes went wide. Under his breath, he said, “You—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Ackerman slammed a palm against the clerk’s throat. The man’s hands flew up as he made a choking noise. Ackerman grabbed the top of his shaved head and slammed it down on the surface of the table. The keyboard he had been typing on shattered under the impact of his head. The man fell back against the floor in a daze.

Ackerman rounded the table in a blur of motion and grabbed the clerk in a chokehold. The man was already stunned and offered little resistance. Within a few seconds, he was unconscious, and Ackerman left him on the hardwood floor. He stood, looked into the back room, and said, “Close the front doors and flip the open sign.”

Maggie was dumbfounded. She looked from Ackerman to the unconscious man and said, “What the hell?”

“He recognized me, and if he knows who I am, then he probably knows my grandfather as well.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Think about it, Maggie. Out of all the books and TV programs that have featured myself or my father, none of them reveal anything about my grandfather except for a few vague details. We’re not the first ones to come asking about Louis Ackerman and his family legacy. My guess is that this guy not only knows where he is, but has a deal with my grandfather not to send any reporters his way.”

“So what now?”

“Now you shut the doors and go back to the car and retrieve the bag of goodies that I picked up at that truck stop. We’re going to need a few of those items.”

“I won’t let you hurt this man.”

Ackerman winked. “Don’t worry, little sister. I’ll be gentle.”

The back room of the store hadn’t been remodeled. It was exposed brick and knotty pine floors, and it contained shelving filled with cardboard boxes, which Maggie guessed held more party masks. Tools and materials littered a small workstation used for making some of the more elaborate custom masks. An air-conditioner unit hummed in one window, and the muffled sounds of pedestrians carried in from the streets beyond. When Maggie returned with Ackerman’s bag, she found that the killer had already suspended the unconscious clerk by his hands from an exposed rafter.

Maggie shook her head and instinctively placed her hand over the gun concealed beneath her leather jacket. “I won’t let you torture this man.”

“It won’t come to that. I just need to scare him a bit.”

She held out the bag. “Then why do you need this stuff?”

“All part of the show,” Ackerman said as he snatched the bag from her grasp.

She watched him warily with her hand still on her gun as he moved to the workstation and turned on an old record player. The eerie melancholy of Billie Holliday singing
Strange Fruit
crackled out of the speaker. Ackerman reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of lighter fluid and a Zippo lighter.

He popped open the squeeze bottle and sprayed it into the clerk’s face. The man jolted to consciousness as he choked on the liquid. “What…” the man started, but then his gaze came to rest on Ackerman. He said, “Please don’t hurt me. I have a family. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

Ackerman said nothing. He just hummed along to the music and started spraying the man down with the lighter fluid. Maggie’s grip tightened around her Glock. If Ackerman tried to set fire to the man, she would drop him. She made up her mind on it right then. She couldn’t allow him to hurt an innocent, even if that meant that they never found Marcus. She would kill Ackerman and go on without him, if that was what it came to.

The clerk said, “Please! You don’t have to do this. I’ll tell you where Louis is.”

Ackerman said, “I’m not really a big fan of the ambience of your fair city. But there are two things about New Orleans that I love. The jazz”—he gestured toward the record player—”and the history. One of my favorite stories is that of the Axeman of New Orleans. At least eight murders were attributed to him in 1918 and 1919, but he possibly killed many more. They never caught him or even determined his identity. But the best part of the story is that he sent a rather eloquent letter to the local papers stating that he would kill again at fifteen minutes past midnight on the night of March 19, the anniversary of which is later this week, but he would also spare the occupants of any place where a jazz band was playing. That night all of New Orleans’s dance halls were filled to capacity. Every band around was booked, and there were parties at hundreds of private residences.”

The clerk started spilling his guts, words falling from his mouth in rapid succession. “Louis lives out in Jefferson Parish. There’s an old plantation house in the bayou. My cousin bought it, and I traded it to Louis for the shop. He didn’t want it in his name because of the reporters and police looking for his son. He doesn’t want any attention.”

Ackerman didn’t even acknowledge the confession. “Of course, not everyone complied with the Axeman’s demands, but still, no murders occurred that night. It’s a beautiful story, don’t you think—the Axeman haunting the streets of New Orleans like the angel of death passing over the people of Egypt.”

“That’s all I know. I swear.”

Ackerman flipped open the lighter but didn’t strike the flame. The alcohol smell was thick in the air. Maggie pulled her gun and aimed it at Ackerman’s back. “Don’t move, Ackerman. I will shoot you.”

He laughed and flipped the lighter closed. “Are you telling me the truth?” he asked the clerk.

“I swear.”

“Directions?”

The man rattled off a series of directions to Louis Ackerman’s home. Maggie committed the directions to memory and suspected Ackerman did the same. When the clerk was finished, Ackerman added, “And what happens if you try to warn Louis or call the police after we leave?”

“I’ll tell no one!”

“But what happens if I walk out that door and you find courage enough to make a little phone call?”

The man swallowed hard and said, “You’ll come back.”

“And next time, I’ll visit you at home. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” The Bowie knife appeared in Ackerman’s hand as it slid out from under the back of his shirt, and with a flick of his wrist, the rope was severed and the clerk dropped to the floor.

Ackerman gathered his things and headed for the front door. Maggie followed a few feet behind, her gun still at the ready. Once she was sure the encounter was over, she slipped the weapon back into her holster.

Back on the sidewalk along St. Ann Street, she caught up with him and said angrily, “You would have burned that man alive if I hadn’t been there to stop you.”

Ackerman didn’t look at her but sighed and said, “Have some faith, little sister. It wasn’t even lighter fluid.”

“I could smell it.”

“Yes, back at the gas station, I went into the bathroom, dumped out the lighter fluid, and filled the bottle with witch hazel. It’s a type of rubbing alcohol that has enough of a smell to make someone think it’s combustible. Even though it’s only slightly more flammable than water.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and turned to her, the contempt clear on his face. Then he reached into the bag, pulled out the bottle, and sprayed some of its contents on his left hand. He dropped the bag and retrieved the lighter from his pocket. He lit it and held the flame against his fluid-soaked hand. He stared into Maggie’s eyes as the flame licked at his skin. His arm didn’t catch fire, but after a few seconds, she could smell his flesh burning.

“That’s enough,” she said in a whisper.

Without another word or showing any sign of pain, Ackerman flipped the lighter closed, picked up the bag, and headed toward the parking garage.

Craig loved New Orleans. He just wished that he was there under more amicable circumstances. He wouldn’t even have a chance to enjoy himself on this trip, which made the people around him who
were
enjoying themselves all the more annoying. For the second time in the past hour, an inebriated man stumbled into him, this time spilling a beer on Craig’s silk shirt. It took every bit of his self-control not to pistol-whip the drunken idiot. If he hadn’t been on a surveillance op and trying not to draw attention to himself, he probably would have done just that. Instead, he choked back a scream and just nodded as the man apologized and went on his way.

Moving up St. Peter Street, he passed a shabby old building with peeling red paint. A sign read Reverend Zombie’s House of Voodoo. He shook his head at the thought of all the poor rubes who bought into that crap. Another sign on the building advertised that the place also sold a variety of cigars. That sounded much better to him than the hocus-pocus trinkets.

His phone vibrated against his leg. He pulled it out of his shorts and recognized Landry’s number. “Yeah,” he said as a greeting.

“I just spotted them over on St. Ann.”

It’s about time
, Craig thought. He had all six of his men walking up and down the streets of the French Quarter, based on the intel provided by Agent Garrison. They had specifically targeted the mask shops, but the type of business could have changed since the grandfather had owned the place, so they had been forced to cast a wide net and hope it paid off.

“Did they see you?”

“Negative.”

“Are they still there? Can you maintain surveillance?”

“I’ll do you one better,” the big black man said. “I saw them leave a parking garage and slipped the guy at the door two hundred bucks to show me which car was theirs. We have a tracker on it.”

Craig’s face split into an uncharacteristic grin. “Good work. Text the others and tell them to meet back at the vehicles. We’ll have this wrapped up and be back in DC before the weekend.”