Beneath a Blood Red Moon

But I’m desperate. This horrible thing was done to her, and I’ve got just about nothing to go on. Can you think of anything, anything at all to tell me?”



Jeanne thought about it, then shook her head with frustration. “I know she had a pimp ... and that’s it. I don’t know where she was supposed to meet the John she had that night or anything. She just called me, told me she’d be late. I told her, sure, I never mind having Isaac. But when she didn’t come home, I knew something was wrong. She just wouldn’t have left her baby, you know?” Sean nodded. “Has anybody called you about Bessie or her son?”



“No.”



He produced his business card. “Well, if you come up with anything at all, anything—you know the routine—please, call me. That’s my direct line at the office, the other is my home— and there’s my beeper number. If you don’t get me at either phone, please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.” Jeanne nodded. “Of course. Of course. I’d do anything to help. Anything at all.”



“Thanks,” Sean told her. As he got up to leave, she let out a little squeal. “Wait!”



“What?”



“It’s nothing that big, I’m sorry!”



“Whatever it is—”



“Well, I was just thinking, maybe it is something. I think that her Johns were acquired for her through a woman. A woman who owns a restaurant.”



Sean’s heart was thundering. Dear God, something! At long last, something!



“What makes you think so?”



“When she called about my keeping Isaac, she said something about a ‘she’ who had made arrangements. And Bessie had said she knew she’d be home by midnight, but she wasn’t exactly sure how long she needed to be available because there were so many dishes clanking in the background when the arrangements were being made.”



Sean nodded. “Good. Great. Miss Montaine, I could kiss you. I am going to kiss you.” He drew her close, pressing his lips to her forehead. She was excited, flushed, pleased.



“Thanks!” he told her.



“Is it a good clue?”



“A great clue. I’ll keep you posted.”



He hurried out to his car, and quickly radioed Jack.



Jack sounded frustrated. Combing the city was turning up too many pimps. “It’s like going through the hair for bugs in the head of a kid with lice,” Jack told him.



“Never mind. Get a car over to the Creole place, Le Bon Marche, on Prince Street. Arrest Mamie Johnson.”



“All right,” Jack said slowly. “Sean, I do need to have a specific reason to arrest her, you know.” Sean hesitated. “Bring her in for accessory to murder. That should help get her talking.”



“Will do.”



Thirty minutes later, Mamie Johnson, a tall, regal, copper-colored woman, sat in a conference room with Sean and Jack and Gyn Elfin, one of the two women in his task force. Gyn reminded Mamie of her rights, but despite her elegant appearance and confident ways, Mamie seemed ready to talk. She knew the cops weren’t interested in busting her chops for her little side line—she ran a clean show. There was far too much that was really low-down and dirty in New Orleans for them to be bothering with her little piece of the action.



“Bessie Girou was certainly a friend of mine,” Mamie said. “And I did try to steer her toward a certain caliber of men when she was looking for a date. May I have a cigarette?”



“There’s no smoking in this building—” Gyn began. Sean looked at her and she grimaced. “A cigarette.



Sure. You fussy on kind?”



“Anything menthol. And I’ll take some coffee, too. I haven’t had much sleep lately.” Gyn hurried out on her quest for coffee and cigarettes.



“Okay, Mamie, so you arranged for Bessie to meet a gentleman on Friday night,” Sean said.



“I did.”



“Who was the gentleman?”



“A tall, handsome, smooth talker. I’d never seen him before. He came into my place in a fine-looking leisure suit, smelling of expensive cologne. He ordered the most expensive meal in the house, steak au poivre with lobster au gratin. He ordered a hundred-year-old bottle of wine, and we got to talking, and he asked me if I was interested in a date, and I knew what kind of date he meant, and he was so smooth and good-looking that I almost said yes, except that my business sense got to me— it was a Friday night, when I make most of my income—and so I told him I knew a few really fine ladies who might want to enjoy a quiet night with him. He agreed. I gave him a time and place.” Sean nodded as Gyn returned with coffee and cigarettes. “So, you can tell me where they met?” he asked her.



“Sure. The Blue Pontchartrain. Room number eight. Just two blocks from my place, right off Prince.” Mamie took a long sip of her coffee. “Why, Lieutenant, you need to talk to this girl. Honey, there should have been something stronger than coffee in this coffee.”



“Oh!” Gyn declared, startled.



Sean almost smiled, looking at Gyn, assuring her that it was okay, and she’d learn eventually just how to deal with whom. Spiked coffee was not actually required for questioning.



“It doesn’t matter anymore, Mamie. Listen, I’m calling an artist. I want you to give him a description of the man who came into your place and made arrangements for, er, feminine companionship. When we’ve got a drawing of this fellow, I’ll take you for a drink myself.”



“Why, Lieutenant, that would be fine.”



“Jack, get a crew over to the Blue Pontchartrain. Mamie, you’re with me.”



“Sure thing, honey,” Mamie drawled, tawny eyes raking him.



“Gyn!”



“Yes, sir!”



“You come along, too. I think we could all use a drink.”



Back in the very beginning, she had learned. Learned about herself, learned about others. That there was good, and there was evil, but not just black and white; the world was filled with all kinds of shades of gray. Therein she lived. Her world was not darkness, it was gray. Back Way back.



She awoke hungry. So hungry it hurt. So hungry she felt as if long, taloned nails dug into her stomach, clawed at her insides, ripped into her heart and soul.



Night. Naturally, she couldn‘t sleep.



She had tried so hard to refrain. To prove that what was couldn’t be. In weeks now, she’d had nothing but a sewer rat here and there, seized with revulsion when she couldn’t bear the cold ...



Then, of course, there had been the morgue. But in the last few days, she‘d not allowed herself any real sustenance.



And now ...



The pain. Agony.



A full moon. Night. The hunter’s time.



She prowled the city. Like her, it seemed that Paris seldom slept. Prostitutes walked along the Seine, hawking their availability with sensual invitations, softly spoken, almost melodies on the breeze. Men walked by; dock workers, drunks, the occasional aristocratic college student, out on a lark, young, eager to be taken ...



She could hear the pulse of so many hearts! Young hearts, wild hearts. The men stopped her, thinking that a woman alone, she, too, was plying her trade.



Veins ...



From a distance it seemed that she could see the blood vessels of the people around her. All of them huge, all of them popping from their necks ...



No, no, she could not kill...



So she had hunted out the Paris morgue, but unbelievably, in this city of so many, there were no fresh corpses. She had learned early from her father that she would not sicken and die from the blood of one already dead— her dear father! He had done so much research, so much to keep her alive. He had defied his friends, who all thought she ‘d be better off dead. She had wanted death herself. Her father had told her it would be suicide— a sin to the Catholic church. She had told him she was already dead; he had refused to believe her. What could the Church matter, when she was among the damned? But he didn’t believe her, damnation was only in the soul, and in her soul, she had sinned only in her determination to trust and love, and those were sins God easily forgave.



But her father had never prepared her for this kind of hunger ...



“Ma belle!” A lady of the night called to her. “Come, come with us, we can show you a different way to pleasure.”



She found herself smiling. “No, m’amie! I’m afraid that I would show you a different kind of pleasure!”



She hurried by. There ... on the ground. A drunken old sod. But his pulse, oh, his pulse!



No, walk by, he is drunk, he is pathetic ...



“Whoa, there’s a lively one!” the drunk called, reaching out for her skirt. “Come, ma belle, entertain old Francois!”



“Let go!”



“I will have your purse, and your love, mademoiselle!”



“And what will I have?”



“Your life!” he snapped out.



She shook her head. He reached for her. His vein, oh, God, his vein, there, pulsing so rampantly in his throat! The bastard had threatened to kill her . .. she could almost taste the life-sustaining blood.



He whimpered as he saw her lips contract, her feeding teeth appear. She suddenly felt pity, but it wouldn‘t have been enough to stop her if not for ...



The garlic. His breath. The scent of it sickened her. She threw him down, and ran, and ran ...



On the outskirts of the city, she heard a strange sound. It came again, and again.



Cows . ..



She walked out into a field of them. Even the blessed cows had such big, brown, trusting eyes .. .



but she realized that this field where she had come was on the outskirts of a large slaughterhouse.



She chose an animal. It stared at her. Oh, those eyes! She stared back. Slowly, the creature closed its eyes and stumbled down. Gently, she petted the beast. Then she bit into it...



She glutted. And glutted. When she was done, she looked at herself. She was covered in the blood.



The edge of her hunger had abated. She lay atop the animal she had drained.



“Now that’s lovely, really lovely.”