The Lost Reflection Read online

  I sat in silence. It was as if the teeth of some hidden truth were gnawing into me. “It is like I got fucking T-boned by Cupid or something. I have been trying to figure this, I mean her, out since I got here. Truth is, I do not know what the fuck is going on with me.”

  “Maybe you’re sick. Do you have a fever? Could be something you ate,” Phillip asked in his cynical I-care-but-I’m-going-to-unmercifully-joke-the-hell-out-of-you smart ass manner. “Hey, might even be this deadly beaver fever I’ve heard was going around.”

  “Know where I might get a vaccination?”

  “Well now that you ask, I’ve got the perfect prescription. We gonna take you down to Bourbon Street General Hospital tonight. I’m gonna prescribe some tequila shots chased by at least a dozen brewskies, and maybe a hot oil rubdown from Nurse Hooker. How’s that sound for starters?” Phillip raised his beer bottle to the proposal. We clanked bottles and doused about half of the beer, thudding the bottles heavily on the wooden table.

  “So . . . how hot is she? Mile-high club hot?”

  “No? Yes? Fuck, I don’t know. But she is in my head and there has been no getting her out. She is attractive, not like drop-dead supermodel gorgeous. More like smokin’ sexy librarian.”

  “Oh kinky, like MILF in the grocery store,” Phillip chimed in. “I know the appeal.”

  “Maybe like that, but then not really. As we talked she cut right through my bullshit, reversed tactics on me, and generally unraveled me like a ball of yarn rolling down the stairs out of control with a cat in full pursuit.”

  “What kind of cat?” Phillip asked, ever the smart ass as he polished off his beer. I did not humor him with a reply. “That’s pretty deep, Brian. A ball of string being chased by a pussy. I am completely under-whelmed. And on a plane of all places. What happened to the golden rule?” I stared at Phillip with a dumbfounded expression. “You, my friend, are in deep shit.” Phillip stared, eyes gleaming. “What did you say her name was? Brenda?”

  “Samantha. And it is over. Golden rule intact,” I proclaimed, defiant of my mischievous thoughts.

  “Ease it down, Romeo. I wouldn’t bet the bank on that one. On the contrary, I’ll bet you’ve got her name, number, and know where to find her. And judging from how ate up you appear, five thousand smackers says you will see her again.”

  In stone-cold silence I gave Phillip the poker face death stare, my line drawn in the sand.

  “You can write the check now, unless you have cash,” Phillip beamed confidently.

  Considering his curious insistence, this entire Samantha scenario stunk of staged happenstance.

  As the empty soldiers accumulated on the table, nighttime seeped through the windows, replacing the golden glow of the afternoon with encroaching lifeless shadows. Phillip was always on point concerning work, like Bill Clinton at an intern slumber party, but thus far had avoided any topic remotely connected to the assignment.

  “So are you gonna tell me why we are here or are you going to just flap your jaw all night?”

  Phillip looked at his watch. “Two hours and eight beers. Damn, I never thought you’d make it that long without asking.”

  “OK, this one is special, and I am jacked beyond words. Believe it or not, I’ve got a plan and that’s why you’ve got to wait just a little longer.” Phillip leaned into the table, stretching his neck in giraffe proportions. “This will require more skill than you’ve ever needed before, at least working for me,” he said in hushed tones. “The potential downside could be cataclysmic.”

  Phillip had finally earned my undivided attention, work mode firing on all cylinders. “Bring it on, big boy. A job that hot is going to cost you big time,” I said, sporting a cocky smile. Phillip did not smile back. “We should stop by the bank first, so you can fill out a loan application.”

  Phillip remained unamused. “Brian, I’ve gotta tell you I’ve considered having my head examined for even attempting to pull this stunt off. But if we can pull it off, it will be one of the biggest scoops of the decade, quite possibly the fucking century. But you must understand, if you don’t feel right about it, even to the slightest degree, don’t take the job,” Phillip lectured, deep-rooted concern chiseled across his face.

  “Geez, Phillip. Let’s hear it.”

  “No, not yet. There’s something you need to experience first.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Our post-dinner stroll led us to Place d’Armes, now known as Jackson Square. The plaza was fronted by a wrought-iron fence encompassing the park on one side and three historic eighteenth century buildings, the Cabildo, Saint Louis Cathedral, and the Presbytere on the opposite side. The space between was filled with various street urchins selling worthless trinkets, fortune-telling gypsies, and a few performing artists, all conning the tourists for cash donations in a subdued carnival atmosphere. Weaving through the masses, we approached an eclectic assortment of people gathered on the steps leading into the park. Entire families, some with small children, some with teenagers, groups of friends, couples of assorted ages, and a few just outright-bizarre individuals completed the mixed bag of nuts. Most looked as if they had arrived from an Ozzie Osbourne concert caravan sporting dyed jet-black hair, black boots, black clothing, silver chains with excessive studding, disgusting body piercings, and unrestrained tattoos.

  “I’ll be right back.” Phillip briskly departed in the direction of a buxom woman who seemed to be in charge of this unusual gathering. Night had wrestled control from day, humidity glared as filtered haze in the soulful presence of the moon.

  “We are set to go my friend,” Phillip chirped in giddy tones.

  Images of this plaza from a distant era flashed as my thoughts transferred from Samantha to current circumstances. Shaking my head to clear the images, Phillip redirected my attention, “I hope you are ready for some bizarre entertainment.”

  “From you, I would be disappointed with anything less. So what is up with the Goonies World Tour Group?”

  “Means to an end. I did this last month and haven’t been able to get the damn story out of my mind since,” he said as he waved his arm in the direction of the group. “I want you to experience the myth before you make any decisions.”

  “Damn, if that is the case, what the hell are we waiting for?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a sinister voice interrupted “if you will all follow me, we will begin the tour.” A pale, lanky man, near forty, sporting long jet-black hair, matching the color of his tight pants and ruffled shirt, led the group away from Jackson Square down a dark alley. The sudden arrival of Spookzilla captivated our group of gothoids. Walking down the street about a half a block, Lurch stopped in a doorway and stood on the elevated door stoop. “Gather around please, closely, so all can hear,” he recited in a theatrical tone. His accent was definitely imported, most likely a dialect native to Chicago. While he attempted to put on a pretty good “Louziana” drawl, he could not entirely mask his Midwest roots.

  He waited patiently until all complied and were listening intently. “New Orleans, in particular the French Quarter, possesses a rich history involving vampirism. Vampires, are they real, or are they just a fantasy of our sick and twisted imagination, embellished on the pages of novels over centuries of storytelling? Whichever is true, the fact remains that they have been made notoriously famous through years of cinematic magic. This in turn has led many to desire the immortality and power possessed by these creatures, and for others, the most terrifying nightmares imaginable.”

  Our guide’s theatrical training was evident. He was captivating the crowd with every accentuated word and gesture.

  “Historians have documented blood-drinking creatures such as Vlad the Impaler. His murderous deeds inspired many of the modern-day vampire tales our society craves. It was his very actions that awoke our eyes to the extreme evil men and women are capable of committing. What kind of creature was Vlad? Throughout the course of history, this question remains unproven. But his deeds of cruelty are well-documented and remain to this day a legacy of pure evil.” Our guide took a dramatic pause as he glared at two chatty girls, who silenced immediately.

  “And it is in history, not myth, that we look for clues of the very existence of vampires living among us today. Tonight, I will testify of historical facts. These facts, validated through court, police, and hospital records, are of a blood-drinking culture existing for centuries on these very streets. Listen to the stories, research what you wish. You will find my words true. Decide for yourself what you choose to believe. Did vampires only exist years ago or do they still roam the streets tonight?” Abruptly his speech ended as he hopped down from his perch. “Follow me,” he instructed in his best sinister tone.

  Walking down the dimly lit rugged streets mixed of pavement and cobblestone, our tour guide meticulously related documented tales of vampirism at pertinent locations, the first being the home of Saint Germaine. According to our guide, in 1903 a young unidentified female victim escaped his villainous schemes and reported the incident to the police. According to official reports, his seduction was initiated by partaking in a mysterious burgundy beverage. Eventually, in a sex-driven frenzy, he began to lacerate the victim and collect her blood. Surmising his intents of murder, she managed a daring escape. Before the police could arrest Saint Germaine, he mysteriously vanished forever. The search of his home revealed numerous dried pools of blood and a multitude of bottles containing a gruesome mixture of wine and blood.

  I visualized his ghostly image peering back through the cloudy paned glass at his home at the corner of Ursuline and Royal. The precision of his haunting features standing in the darkened window, peering over the crowd as if searching for someone, sent a wave of the macabre. I shook off the vision and my reaction, writing it off to ima
gination running amuck. Time to cut back on the brew-has just a little.

  As we traversed, Phillip buzzed my left ear with meaningless chatter while peculiar whispers ensconced the other. Unexplainably, my amused skepticism faded, and I became captivated by our guide’s every word. I did not believe in vampires, ghosts, werewolves, or anything supernatural. Having traveled the world, I witnessed unimaginable cruelty, and in the end it was always the result of mortal men. I knew we were in the general vicinity of Bourbon Street, but this road was unnaturally quiet and unsettling, with the exception of the occasional clomping of a horse-drawn carriage. Our next stop: a second-story apartment building on Royal Street, home of the Carter brothers. Recounting the tale, in the 1930s John and Wayne Carter abducted and imprisoned victims from the city, slashing their wrists, draining and drinking their blood. Their final victim, a young girl, was able to free herself and escape during the day while the Carter brothers were away. She led the police to the apartment where three other victims were found alive. They were bound to chairs, wrists bandaged, concealing the insidious wounds. The Carter brothers had been feeding off the four victims for days. Of the four victims, the little girl had been fed on only once and thus recovered from her injuries after a brief hospitalization. Her family moved away shortly after she was released. Her whereabouts or fate remains a mystery. The adult female victim recovered from her injuries, however she chose to institutionalize herself in a state psychiatric hospital for the remainder of her life.

  “Knowing the condition of present-day state psychiatric hospitals, to do this to yourself in the thirties? Her mind must have been totally fucked,” Phillip whispered in an almost jovial tone.

  He was loving this a bit too much, I thought. Where was this heading?

  The story of the nine-year-old boy, one of the two surviving males, ended so tragically it actually wounded my spirit. According to our guide, he was treated and released to his family after being rescued. Several months later, he died in his home, consumed in a horrendous fire. The man who later turned himself in and confessed to the hideous crime was none other than the boy’s father. In his confession, he stated the child returned to him was not the innocent son he had once loved, but instead, a creature of pure evil.

  In an adjacent room of the Carter’s apartment, the police located the bodies of seventeen other victims, drained of blood, covered in lime, stacked in a pile, all in various stages of decomposition. For their crimes, the brothers were tried, convicted, and electrocuted. Their bodies were sealed in the cement tombs for a year and one day, as was customary at the time, to speed up the decomposition of the corpses. The brothers were to be exhumed from the crypts after the year to dispose of the dusty remains. When the tombs were chiseled opened, there was no sign of either body. The sheer nature of the disappearance was considered by many to be more disturbing than the murders themselves.

  “It’s true, you know. I checked it out,” Phillip whispered with a poke to my ribs. “And on top of that, right next to the frigging police station.”

  On the move once again, I considered the complexities.

  “I did this tour a month ago, with four out-of-town girls I met in a bar,” Phillip explained as he slapped his hand on my back.

  I rolled my eyes. Here we go again, another tale of Phillip the snake charmer. I pretty much knew the story, just insert a new locale and add water.

  “This one girl was totally smoking. We hit it off from the get-go, but I got shut down by her femme Nazi girlfriends before I could seal the deal. They were looking for something different to do the next night, so I wined and dined them, you know, turned on the charm and loosened ’em up. One of them was pretty intent on doing the tour, so I figured what the hell? Why not? Initially I thought it was a load of bullshit, but I played it up, like I was completely freaked out by the whole vampire thing. That was the covert plan. When my girl got spooked, she would need my protection. Pretty ingenuous, eh?”

  “Frighten them into sex? Shameless.”

  Undeterred, Phillip chirped on. “So I pointed out the freaky people we passed on the streets saying, ‘Bet he’s a bloodsucker.’ It really wigged her out. She stuck to me like tree sap all night. But I think I went a touch overboard. Hell, the rest of the night I could hardly take a leak without her clinging to my side.”

  “Barracuda, how long until you start nailing women in the hospital head trauma unit?” I joked. “And you know what comes after that? I do. It is called necrophilia! That’s right, the morgue. And sadly that is where you will meet the only woman who will ever tolerate all your antics.”

  “Necrophilia, why not? You know, at least one time. Don’t call it sick until you’ve tried it.” Phillip laughed loud enough to turn heads.

  I just shook my head. “You, my friend, are indeed a sick bastard.”

  “I’ll bet you a G note I can pull it off again, just for instructional purposes. You can observe the master honing his craft, up-close and personal.”

  Our banter abruptly halted as my eyes consumed a structure worthy of the blackest nightmare. A dark, uninhabited house with a rusty, buckled tin can roof served as the focal point of our host’s attention. Upon the rickety porch was a weathered and dilapidated front door, no longer capable of withstanding the assault of intruders or containing the bitter memories it once hid from the unsuspecting outside world. The paint remained peeled in large chunks around the broken window glass. Although there was no discernible wind, the ragged curtains appeared to flow from an imaginary breeze. Whether an illusion of the darkness, or result of neglect, every single tree, shrub, and plant appeared withered and lifeless surrounding this desolate structure.

  “This was the house of the Carter brothers’ fourth victim, Phillipe DeFond, a young man not yet twenty at the time of his abduction,” our guide began in a morose tone. “With much of his blood drained, he was saved only days before perishing into darkness. It was believed he was saved just in time, affording young DeFond to return to a life of normalcy. From a family of considerable wealth, upon release from the hospital he remained under psychiatric care, hidden away from public scrutiny and attention for several years.”

  Our guide glared at a kid in the back of the group immersed in a cell phone conversation until he became aware of the unintended intermission, his voice silenced by the icy penetration of our irritated escort. With all attention now forward, the tale continued.

  “Upon DeFond reaching adulthood, the family purchased the home standing before you. He remained here in solitude for many years, a forgotten man. It wasn’t until decades later, as the home was being renovated, that a journal chronicling the life of Phillipe DeFond was discovered. It meticulously detailed every thought and evil deed by this profoundly disturbed young man.”

  Captain Creepster’s voice grew stern, intensely punctuating the graphic verbiage to enhance his message.

  “The journal was the idea of the psychologist treating DeFond following his release from captivity. DeFond chronicled an increasing occurrence of bizarre dreams involving grotesque rituals of blood consumption. The journal went on to describe the dreams in increasingly explicit and erotic details as time passed. These satanic fantasies eventually overpowered the young man until he succumbed and subsequently committed his first murder. The murder involved lavishly painting his body with the victim’s blood. It was during this psychotic ritual that DeFond first consumed what was to quickly become his insatiable lust for the blood of life. The diary went on to describe another thirty-two grisly murders that transpired over the following years.

  “According to the journal, the remains of bodies were dissolved in a bathtub of lye, leaving only a substance equivalent to human jello,” our guide continued to explain with well-performed theatrical mannerisms. “The gooish remnants were then poured into large drums, sealed and then transported to the Mississippi River in the dark of night, at which point DeFond simply dropped the barrels into the river, eventually being swept out into the Gulf of Mexico.