CHAPTER FOUR
NIKITA
Thomas Jared Kendrick.
Also known as: “Havoc”
D.O.B: 07/07/83
Malicious Destruction of Property.
Two counts of breaking and entering.
Two counts of possession of a controlled dangerous substance.
Four counts of assault.
Three counts of illegal gambling.
Three years served in Orleans Parish Prison.
My eyes skim over the file I brought home from the prison for the hundredth time, and I feel sick. I can’t really believe I took it. If anyone finds out I did, I could lose my job. I felt like I had to do it, though. I couldn’t wait until morning to find out exactly who this Tommy Kendrick character is, and a prison isn’t exactly the kind of workplace where you can stay late if you need to. Once five thirty hits, that’s it. You’re out the door without so much as a by-your-leave.
So, yes. I broke the law. I tucked the file into the waistband of my pants, concealing it underneath my shirt, and I walked out of the place as if nothing had happened. Normally I wouldn’t have risked such an insanely stupid thing. Technically I should be patted down by the C.O.s before I leave the building, but they’re not quite as strict with me as they should be. I’ve worked here for years now, and most counsellors never last more than a few months. Everyone knows me. Everyone trusts me. So while I might get checked religiously on the way into work in the morning, the guards generally wave me through the metal detectors and send me on my merry way later on in the day.
What would have happened if they’d found the file on me, though? I’d have lost my job for sure. My license would have followed shortly after that. Maybe I’d have earned some jail time myself. Fucking stupid of me. It’s only now that I’m home and in my PJs with a bottle of red sitting on the table in front of me that I’m finding myself panicked by how easy it was for me to break a legal and professional code of conduct. Too easy.
I take a sip of my wine, trying to make heads or tails of Tommy Kendrick’s file. Dr. Lindstrom was the counsellor on staff during Kendrick’s stay, or for the majority of it anyway. The guy must have been nearly a hundred years old. At the end of my working day, I sit at my computer and I type up my notes for each of the inmates I treated over the seven hours previous, then I print my comments and observations out and add the papers to the relevant inmate’s file, as well as store the file on the computer. Not Lindstrom, though. He didn’t save a single file during his career at the prison, nor did he type up his notes. Everything is handwritten in the most illegible, scratchy handwriting, like a drunken spider crawled across page after page of paper.
I don’t doubt it made perfect sense to Lindstrom, but I can barely make out every third word. It’s incredibly frustrating, and makes my risk seem worthless. Kendrick’s rap sheet is literally the only printed document in the entire file.
I cut my losses and take out my cell phone, determined to get some info on the guy one way or another tonight. After his weird behavior earlier on, I haven’t wanted to ask Mitch anything. He was almost respectful to Tommy, like he admires the other man in some way. I can’t imagine how that could possibly be the case, but it’s my job to see these things. I read people’s body language like I read the pages in a book. It may not make any sense but that’s what I witnessed.
The phone only rings three times before Mitch picks up. “Nikita? What time is it? Aren’t you normally asleep by now?”
“Mitch, it’s nine p.m. No, I’m not usually asleep by now.” I kick myself as I say the words; for a long time now I’ve been staving off Mitch’s advances, his gentle persuasion tactics to get me to stay at the bar for just one more beer with him, because I tell him I like to go to bed early so I can get up and work out before my shifts at the prison. There’s an extended period of silence between us, and I can imagine the stunned look on Mitch’s face. Damn it. I should have thought before I opened my mouth.
“Okay. Well…what can I do for you?” he asks politely.
I don’t pull any punches. I get straight to the point. “I’m worried about Junior. I need to know he’s okay. You were talking about fights earlier—”
“Nikki, you are not…” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “You can’t just show up at these events, okay? You’ll get yourself into some major trouble. And anyway, it’s been five hours. Do you honestly think Junior’s out throwing punches in a cage? I think there’s more chance of him being dick-deep in some hot bartender than anything else. The guy hasn’t had sex in three years. Listen. The men who organize these things aren’t messing around, Nikita. They’re powerful and they’re dangerous. People don’t talk about them. They don’t even whisper about them in the safety of their own homes.” He’s exasperated, his voice tense. “The Champion Ultime fights are a very well kept secret. I only know about them because…well, my old man used to fight in them when I was a kid. I’m not proud of the fact, but there you go. I grew up around that stuff, and it made for a fairly terrifying childhood. So, please, Nikki. Please. Don’t concern yourself with this stuff anymore. I promise I’ll go and check on Junior in a couple of days, okay? You can even come with me if you really need to. But for now, promise you’re going to let this go.”
“Mitch—”
“I mean it. Tell me you’re going to quit digging this hole. It’s a hole that could turn into a grave really fucking quick, believe me. Nikki? Say the words. I want to hear you say that you’ll drop this.”
I screw my eyes shut, breathing out hard down my nose. God damn it all to hell. If he didn’t sound so serious right now, I might tell him to mind his own business and let me do what I need to, but I get the impression he’s about to drive over here and chain me to my kitchen sink. He’d be able to do it easily enough; the man has access to a lot of restraints. “Okay. Fine. But just so you know…I’m not letting this drop. It’s my duty and responsibility to take care of my patients. If you think I can just switch that off the moment they’re released, you’re grossly mistaken.”
“Of course I don’t expect that of you,” he says softly. “You’re good at your job. You care about people an awful lot. Too much, in fact. It’s one of the things I admire about you, Nikita.”
I squirm, holding the phone away from my ear for a second. Mitch has never come out and said anything sentimental or romantic to me before. He’s never professed his feelings for me, and I thank the lord for that every day. The prospect makes me incredibly uncomfortable. To be fair, it’s not just Mitch. I’d be uncomfortable about any guy telling me he had feelings for me. I’ve had boyfriends in the past, but the moment they become too emotionally involved, I pull the ripcord. I know how ironic this is. Usually that kind of dynamic is reversed between men and women. The psychologist in me should want to analyze why this might be, but, honestly, I try not to think about it.
“I have to go,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry I bothered you so late, Mitch.”
“It’s okay.” He sounds a little annoyed, like he might have been expecting me to say something different. Thank you, or, “I had no idea you admired me, Mitch.” Or maybe, “You’re sweet. There are many qualities I admire in you, too. We should grab dinner sometime and talk about them, then go back to my place and fuck like animals.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, Nik.”
“Night, Mitch.”
******
It was an accident, but Mitch let a tiny piece of information slip just now. He said, “The Champion Ultime fights are a very well kept secret.” Laughable that he told me the name of the event as he was telling me how clandestine they were. He was fretting, though, clearly not paying attention to the words that were coming out of his mouth, and I have very sharp ears along with an excellent memory. Just ’cause I know about the blood sports that fund much of Alexander Bastien’s empire doesn’t mean I know where they’re held, or what the events are called, so this little tidbit of information is very helpful. As soon as I’m off the phone, I open up my laptop and type in “Champion Ultime New Orleans.” The top result that pops up is for NCIS: New Orleans, season one, available to purchase now on Amazon. I suppose it would be too much to ask for the initial result to be directions to an underground fighting ring, but it’s frustrating that the entire first page is dedicated to a TV show and where you can buy it. Page two is the same. It’s not until I hit the fourth page that I stumble across any other information, and then it’s all course info for a community college I’ve never heard of before. Page six’s results are vague and barely related to the search terms anymore: “The Tourism Board of New Orleans invites you to explore our historical city. Enjoy a coffee and a beignet at the iconic Café Du Monde.” Four different ghost tour companies advertising their services come next, and then—
Wait…
The third ghost tour company…
There’s a tiny, grainy image next to the web address for “Papa Rioux’s Authentic Cemetery and Haunted Maison Tours, EST. 1921.” The tiny thumbnail depicts a cemetery scene, all dark blues and blacks, but in the bottom righthand corner of the image, there’s an unmistakeable splash of red. I click on the image and it enlarges, showing numerous headstones, a twisted, sinister-looking tree in the background with a rope and noose hanging from one of the boughs…and then a small, red CU in the corner. CU? Champion Ultime? Could it be that this ghost tour company has something to do with the underground fights?
It’s such a tenuous link. The CU could stand for anything. It could be the license number of the stock image they’ve used on their website. It could mean literally anything. I don’t know, though…I’m a logical, pragmatic person. I don’t often get what people term “gut feelings” or bouts of intuition, and when I do I’m the least likely person to follow irrational or dangerous paths to settle a suspicion. But this time, it feels like more than just intuition. It seems to make sense. What better way to hide an illegal business than behind a legitimate one? And Mitch said his father used to fight in this Champion Ultime organization when he was just a little kid. Papa Rioux’s Authentic Cemetery and Haunted Maison Tours was established in 1921, which means the company has been around more than long enough to have been hiding something like this.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m getting changed out of my PJs and I’m pouring my glass of wine down the sink. I dial the number advertised on the Rioux website as I’m collecting my car keys and walking out of my front door.
“Good evening, you have reached Papa Rioux’s Authentic Cemetery and Haunted Maison Tours. How can I assist you this evening?” a heavily accented female voice purrs down the line.
“Yes, I was wondering if you’re fully booked on your midnight cemetery tour tonight?”
“For how many guests?”
“Just one.”
There’s a pause and then a ruffling of papers, which I think is just for effect. “You’re in luck, madame. We have one space available on our midnight tour. Would you like to reserve the spot now via Visa or Master Card?”
Fucking scam artists. I keep a civil tongue in my head, but I’m seething as I check my jacket pocket to make sure I have my credit cards. “Sure.” I smile sweetly. I know this is going to lead to the fights. Whatever I have to pay to make that happen will be worth it if it means I can make sure Junior is okay. He took more than one beating defending me at the Parish. I won’t stand by now and allow him to fall back into his old life. I just fucking won’t.
******
It’s eleven by the time I make it across the city. Traffic is light, but I drive the longest route possible in order to give myself some time to think. I need to make sure I know what I’m doing. And I need to figure out how I’m going to broach the subject of an underground fight ring with the tour guide when I’m surrounded by a bunch of wide-eyed tourists. I doubt people just come right out with it and ask. There’s probably some sort of buzzword or something, and only people who use it get taken to the fights. Seems like a lot of effort to me, but like Mitch said, this thing is run by criminals. Successful criminals don’t stay successful for long if they advertise their criminal activity to all and sundry.
I stop at a roadside food truck and order a burger. The skeletal guy behind the register inside the truck looks surprised when I ask for extra cheese. He probably expected me to ask for a veggie patty and no bun or something. I’m hardly skinny, but I’ve been blessed with a high metabolism. A lot of women assume I work out every day and pick over salads to maintain my physique, but the truth is I binge on junk food every available opportunity I get. I just can’t seem to put on weight.
I’m not really hungry tonight, though. I eat half of the burger and then disassemble it to its parts, stabbing the thick slab of tomato with my plastic fork, tearing the lettuce into small pieces. I’m worried. Seriously fucking worried. Junior didn’t deserve to be sent to the Parish the first time around, and I can’t help but feel like he’ll be back there sooner rather than later if he doesn’t have someone looking out for him. That someone should not be me. I know that. I’m aware of what will happen if the prison board finds out what I’m doing, but fuck. If I don’t get involved, Junior’s life will be over, one way or another.
Goddamn these tour guides for being so melodramatic. Why the hell do they need to wait until midnight before running the cemetery tour? Why not just do the tours when it gets dark and be done with it?
The allotted time rolls around very slowly. I toss the remains of my burger into the trash and head to the meet-up point that was sent to my email account. I almost laugh when I see how many other people are loitering in the parking lot, waiting for the guide to show up. Four. Four people. So much for the tour being completely booked up. I’ve seen crowds of twenty or thirty people tripping over each other on these things.
Two girls stand side-by-side, arms looped together, already looking freaked out. An older man, maybe early sixties, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, stands a solid fifteen feet away from them, talking to what I’m assuming is his wife, though she’s a good twenty years younger than him and is wearing skyscraper heels and a mini skirt. Okay, maybe wife is being a little generous. She looks like the kind of woman you can hire for the night, if not by the hour.
I stand off to one side, flicking through the newsfeed on my phone, head down, trying not to draw attention to the fact that I’ve shown up to this bizarre tour alone, or that I have my gun tucked neatly into the waistband of my jeans, in the small of my back. I would have been foolish not to bring it after how dangerous Mitch made the fights sound.
At around quarter past twelve, a sleek black panel van with no windows pulls up into the parking lot, the frame of the vehicle shaking violently as heavy, bass-driven music thumps from the speakers inside. The van looks brand new, the paintwork waxed and polished to a high shine under the security lights posted in intervals around the parking lot. I’m expecting a thuggish, dangerous-looking individual to climb out of the vehicle, but instead a short, overweight guy in a pale blue button-down shirt swings out of the driver’s seat and drops from the seat to the ground. He’s so pale, his skin almost looks transparent, and the cuffs of his pants have been rolled up at least five or six times by the looks of things. He collects a clipboard from the car and heads over to the group, fishing a pen out of his creased khakis.
“All right, all right. Good evening, ladies and gents, and thank you for choosing Papa Rioux’s. Papa’s a little under the weather this evening, so I have the pleasure of stepping in and taking this tour. That sound good to you guys?”
“Where’s your cape?” the leggy blonde with the heels asks.
Her companion in the Hawaiian shirt looks at her and, presumably seeing the disappointment on her face, frowns. “Yeah. This is a ghost tour. The guide on the website was wearing a cape and vampire fangs.”
The short guy with the clipboard sighs heavily. “My name is Russell. I’m afraid I’m not an actor like some of our other guides. I normally do the accounts for Papa Rioux’s tours, but I am a historian, and I do know everything there is to know about the cemeteries we will be visiting this evening. Some people might consider themselves lucky to have someone well versed in New Orleans folk lore take them around instead of a guy dressed up to look like Dracula who just reads everything from a script.”
Heels and Hawaiian Shirt just stare at him blankly.
“Never mind,” Russell says awkwardly. “I’ll get things started by checking you all off my list, and then we’ll get moving. Harriett?”
One of the girls, the one wearing glasses, raises her hand, chewing nervously on her lip. “Here.”
Russell smiles a watery, ineffective smile at her that makes the color drain even further from her face. “Rebecca?”
Harriett’s friend raises her hand. “Here.”
“Good, good. Nikita?” He looks up at the blonde with the heels, both of his eyebrows curving upward as he waits for her to respond.
“I’m Nikita,” I tell him.
“Oh. Oh. I apologize. I’m sorry, I just thought...”
“That Nikita sounds like a fake stripper name?” I’m half expecting the woman in the heels to get pissy and make a comment about what I’ve just said, being that I’ve just implied that she looks like a stripper, but she just blinks vacantly back at me when I look at her. Her expression transforms, her mouth hanging open. “Whoa. Where did you get your contact lenses? Your eyes are seriously freaky. You look like a wolf.”
I bare my teeth at her by way of response, which she doesn’t seem to like.
“That must make you Charlie and Diane, then?” Russell asks hurriedly, stepping between us.
“Yes, sir. We was looking forward to havin’ the bejebbus scared out of us, Russell. Do you think you’re gonna be able to deliver? We don’t want no classroom lesson about dead folk. We want excitement. We want to fear for our lives and our eternal souls, don’t we, honey?”
Diane nods solemnly.
“I’m afraid your eternal souls are in no danger, Mr. Bryson. But yes, there are some sections of the tour that some people can find quite intimidating,” Russell informs them. “If at any point anyone would like to stop the tour so they can return to the bus, please just let me know and I will escort you back immediately.”
“We’ll be just fine,” Diane says defensively. Meanwhile, Harriett and Rebecca both look immensely relieved. I feel a little bad for them. They’re not from New Orleans, clearly. They’re probably from a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, where the chance of any kind of scandal or intrigue, paranormal or otherwise, sends the locals into piques of hysteria.
“Okay, then. I can see we’re going to be a fun crowd this evening,” Russell says, as he casts a doubtful glance around our motley crew. “Let’s get this show on the road, folks. Everyone in the van.”
I’d rather not go anywhere in Russell’s rape van, but it would look weird if I balk at his request, so I climb up into the front passenger seat. I think he expects everyone to sit in the back, because he looks sideways at me awkwardly when he notices me. “Oh. Okay, then.”
I shoot him a menacing smile in response. He immediately turns the stereo on, though he does turn the volume down a little, so the car isn’t so much vibrating as gently rumbling with every thump of the bass line.
Charlie and Diane coo over each other like newlyweds in the back, while Harriett and Rebecca sit quietly, each of them with their hands folded in their laps, eyes locked straight ahead, lips pressed into identical white lines. I don’t understand why they’re here if they’re so terrified. I mean, why put yourself through such torment?
Russell focuses on the road, fiercely squinting out into the darkness as he drives, swerving erratically every time another vehicle approaches from the opposite direction.
“Why couldn’t we meet at the cemetery?” I ask.
“This cemetery isn’t open to the public. The grounds are private. Papa Rioux has a standing arrangement with the grounds keepers, but they don’t want the location advertised. You understand. This is a very spiritual place. Very haunted. Supernatural beings are very sensitive to the comings and goings of the living. If too may people started traipsing through the place, who knows…it could send the spirits away. Or worse…it could make them violent.” He waggles his eyebrows for effect. I just stare at him. The guy’s a moron if he thinks spouting that kind of shit is going to freak me out. When I don’t gasp or start fidgeting uncomfortably in my seat, he clears his throat, fidgeting himself. “We don’t get many people coming to the tours on their own. You must have been really excited to come and check this thing out, huh?”
“Not particularly.”
“Oh. Then, why…?” He trails off, hands tightening then releasing the steering wheel. He’s clearly beginning to worry about my motives. Am I a serial killer? Am I going to go postal and murder everyone on the tour as soon as we reach the darkest, most secluded part of the cemetery? Am I going to flay him alive and wear his skin suit as a bespoke jacket? Russell is one twitchy dude. His discomfort would be mildly entertaining if I weren’t so uncomfortable myself.
“Some friends told me this was fun,” I say vaguely. “They love a good spectacle. A little…blood sport.”
His eyes go wide. “I’m sorry? Did you just say blood sport?”
I don’t reply. I just let that sit there between us for a moment. I plan on dropping a few more non-too-subtle hints on the car ride to our destination. If I’m wrong and the Papa Rioux tours have nothing to do with the Champion Ultime fights, then he’ll probably think I’m crazy and maybe he’ll call the police. If I’m right and the tour is linked to the fights, then he might eventually click and point me in the right direction.
“I’m afraid there’s no sport involved in our ghost tours,” Russell says. “And definitely no blood. Not real blood, anyway.”
Oh, great. Someone’s going to jump out from behind a headstone and spray us with fake blood? No, thank you. I will literally throat punch the underpaid actor who attempts to douse me in corn syrup and food dye. “There aren’t any special side events that people can visit?” I ask. “No other attractions people can visit if they pay extra?”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Russell says slowly. Sounds like he suspects I’m asking about an illicit sex club by the tone of his voice.
“Never mind.” I look out of the window.
We arrive at the first cemetery and Russell takes us around, giving us information about the historical figures that are buried here. The tour is bland to say the least; Diane and Charles look like they’re bored to their back teeth, while Harriett and Rebecca are starting to look a little calmer. I continue to make vague comments about fighting, asking if there are any famous boxers buried in the grounds, but Russell doesn’t seem to get it.
My frustration levels are pretty damn high by the time we get to the second cemetery. Halfway around the tour’s loop, Russell finally loses his temper with me and tells me that I can wait in the van and receive a full refund from Papa Rioux’s Tour Group if I’m not satisfied with the content of the tour. I decline his offer politely, flashing him my teeth.
I’m going to ride this out. I’m going to see it through until the bitter end. I won’t be able to sleep otherwise. It’s looking like I was wrong, though. The tours don’t appear to have anything to do with the Champion Ultime fights. Disappointment hits me in waves as we head back toward Russell’s van. I was so sure I was onto something. So sure. Now it looks like I’ve wasted most of my night lurking in cemeteries with the strangest mix of people, and I have nothing to show for it.
We’re back in the parking lot and I’m about to climb into the van when I see two guys wearing ball caps and leather jackets jogging toward the entrance of the cemetery, though. I stop dead, watching them as they jostle and rough house with each other, laughing as they boost themselves over the gates Russell locked behind us when we left.
“I think I’m going to walk back,” I tell Russell. “I’m not feeling too hot.”
He looks relieved, though he masters his face into a look of professional concern. “Are you okay? Do you need me to call you a taxi?”
“No, really. It’s fine. I think the night air will do me good.” I take off after the guys before he can reply. He shouts something at me as I vault over the gates too, but I don’t pay attention. My focus is on the two men a hundred feet ahead of me, weaving through the crumbling, aged headstones and looming mausoleums. They have no idea they’re being followed. No clue whatsoever. I hold back, watching them, waiting.
They eventually head toward one of the grander, more impressive mausoleums—a great dusky pale grey block of marble amongst otherwise sandstone and limestone structures. I wait until they’ve vanished inside before I approach the mausoleum. As soon as I see the words carved into the lintel above the door, I’m kicking myself. Of course. How could I not have thought of this?
Bienveillant et Gentil. Règles Sur Tous.
The name Bastien is nowhere to be seen on the vault, but I’d know that motto anywhere. It’s also carved above the doorway of the Bastien mansion. It also takes up half the skin on Alex’s back.
It makes perfect sense that the fights would be here, somehow concealed, hidden from the prying eyes of the public. But where, though? The vault is large, sure, huge compared to the other mausoleums in the cemetery, but it’s not that big.
I take out my gun and hold it by my side, cautiously entering through the same door the two guys in leather jackets just walked through. Inside: candles. Hundred and hundreds of candles, all lit, the flames guttering and flickering, sending wild, long fingered shadows stretching up to the mosaicked ceiling. A number of caskets sit on shelves, and coins are piled up high around them, placed on top of them, slotted into the cracks in the stone-tiled floor, precariously balanced on every available surface, stacked high in the corners of the room. At the far end of the vault, on the other side of a narrow fold out table, a gnarled old man stares at me with glassy, confused eyes. Behind him, a wide stone stairway leads down into the ground. My pulse spikes when I hear the unmistakeable rumble of chatter and boots on solid packed earth, flooding upward from the stairwell.
“You can’t be here, miss,” the old guy informs me.
“Sure I can.”
He shakes his head. “No women allowed. Sorry, sweetheart.” He spreads his hands in front of him, giving me an apologetic look. “I don’t make the rules, see. And this is no place for a lady.”
I raise my gun, blowing out a deep, exasperated breath. “I’m afraid I’m no lady. I’m pretty sure I need to be down there right now. I don’t want to hurt you, so—”
The old man gets up from his seat behind the table, groaning a little from the strain of his movement. “I did what I was supposed to,” he says gruffly. “They don’t pay me enough to face down heavy artillery.” He holds out his hand to me, palm up.
“I’m not giving you the gun, buddy.”
“I don’t want it,” he says. “I just need something to pay the dead. Then by all means you can go down and face the consequences.” He jerks his head, indicating toward the coins. “Offer them a good tribute and you might make just it out alive.”
I check my pockets, but I don’t have any coins. The old man gives me a toothless smile, pulling out a smart phone with a Square sticking out of it. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he says. “The dearly departed accept Visa, MasterCard and American Express, too.”