EXECUTION IN E Read online

  “There’s a search box.” Gethsemane tapped the screen. ‘Find family connections.’ Type in Ely and Baraquin.”

  “Zero hits,” Tim said after a moment.

  “Search for Jared’s obituary. It might list some extended family members.” The familiar “da-da-da-dum” trilled from Gethsemane’s phone. A text from Saoirse.

  Miss, I’m not supposed 2 know about sigil but I do

  Showed Colm and twins

  Feargus told me about deal with devil website

  “Why does Feargus Toibin know about ‘deal with the devil’ websites?” Gethsemane said aloud.

  Frankie scanned the computer screen over Tim’s shoulder. “Because he’s a teenaged boy. Teen boys are repositories of information both horrific and shocking.”

  Gethsemane rolled her eyes and muttered about chatting with his mother. The text continued.

  No sigils. Lots of tat2s

  Several screengrabs showing tattoos followed. Gethsemane scrolled through them. She stopped at the twelfth. “Try Amott. Add an ‘e’ to the end.”

  Tim and Frankie looked up from the computer.

  “Try Amott,” Gethsemane repeated. “In that Creole genealogy database, search for a connection between Amott and Ely. Spell Amott with an ‘e’ at the end.”

  Father Tim typed. “Looks like Amottes have been marrying Ely’s for centuries.”

  “Malcolm Amott is related to Jared Ely.” Gethsemane held her phone so the men could see. “This tattoo, the human hand grasping the monstrous claw hand. I’ve seen it before. On Malcolm Amott’s arm. He keeps it covered but,” she remembered remarking on his tattoos at the pub, “once he rolled up his sleeves high enough for part of it to show. He wears this tattoo.”

  “Given your outburst regarding Feargus Toibin’s web surfing habits,” Frankie said, “I’m going to assume this tattoo is often worn by—”

  “People who’ve made deals with the devil.”

  “Come look at this.” Tim beckoned them back to the computer. “I found Jared’s obituary. It ran in the Times-Picayune.”

  Frankie whispered to Gethsemane, “What’s a picayune?”

  She shrugged. “A small, furry, swamp animal? How do I know?” She addressed Tim. “Can you pull up the obituary?”

  Tim clicked the link. A grainy photograph of a stunning young man with large dark eyes and a mop of curls filled the screen. His birth and death dates, printed below his photo, revealed a too-short span between them.

  “Look at Jared’s middle name,” Gethsemane said. “It’s his mother’s maiden name—Amotte. Jared Amotte Ely.”

  “A blood relative of Malcolm Amott.”

  “Who intends to claim Agnes’s blood as payback for Jared’s death.” Gethsemane texted the information to Niall as promised. “They’ll never find them in time. We have no idea where to look for her.”

  “Look no further.” Rosalie stepped into view of the robing room. “The answer you seek is in your own backyard.”

  “Oh, for—” Gethsemane closed her eyes and counted to three. “We’ve no time for your cryptic nonsense, Rosalie.” And I’ve no time for you, either, Tchaikovsky, she added silently as “Pathetique” welled up in her head.

  “No nonsense, I promise. I read the cards today. They predicted death.”

  “Really, which one? We’ve had four.”

  “A fifth. The last. Not yet happened but approaching.”

  “Perhaps you could give us some specifics, Miss Baraquin,” Father Tim said.

  Frankie gaped, his eyes wide with incredulity. “You’re not listening to any of this woo-woo foolishness, are you, Father?”

  “Miss Baraquin’s trying to help,” he said.

  “Enter Baraquin and Landreneau in your search box, Father.” She spelled the name. “It’s Malcolm’s middle name. He shared it with my great-grandmother.”

  “You’re related to Malcolm?” Gethsemane asked.

  “New Orleans is a big place, Gethsemane,” Rosalie said, “but it’s not that big. Mal and I are cousins. Mal and Jared were cousins but Mal treated him more like a little brother. Jared’s parents raised Mal after his mother died.”

  “You knew it was him?” Frankie asked. “Behind the murders?”

  “Not until I read the cards today. Malcolm is—guarded. He’s able to keep things from me, able to shield himself.”

  “A perk of selling your soul to the devil, no doubt.” Gethsemane fought the urge to fly at Rosalie and shake the whole story out of her. “Bet you learn all sorts of things in exchange for eternal damnation.”

  “If only you knew.” Rosalie wiped at tears. “You knew I was lying when I said I didn’t recognize that sigil.”

  Gethsemane nodded. “Too many similarities between it and your pictograph message and your tattoo for me to believe you had no idea what it was, despite your protests. That and your reaction to it.”

  Rosalie continued. “I knew it was meant for me. My…business associate…letting me know it was time to settle accounts. A reminder, like the note he sent to me at Sweeney’s.”

  “Why would your ‘business associate’ deliver the sigil to Father Tim, instead of directly to you?”

  “One, to put the Church on notice—”

  “Tim did say something about professional courtesy.”

  “Two, as a joke at my expense, a hint that I’d better hurry and make my final confession and receive Last Rites. He knew the priest would connect the sigil to me. Father Tim’s gained a reputation in some circles because of his occult collection. His late brother’s skill as an exorcist was infamous. Or legendary, depending on whose side you were on.” Bitterness filled her laugh. “My associate hadn’t counted on you.”

  “I suspected Malcolm planted it to throw suspicion your way, or maybe to warn you off. He figured the similarity to one of your tattoos would be noticed. The similarity isn’t coincidental, is it?”

  “No.” Rosalie pushed up her sleeve and exposed the tattoo. “This sigil is the spell I used to…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Frankie sputtered. “Are you telling us you actually sold your soul to the devil? And the devil came to Dunmullach to collect it?”

  “Frankie’s a skeptic,” Gethsemane said.

  “And you’re not? Seriously, Sissy?”

  Gethsemane held a finger to her lips. “Frankie, you know that old saying about ‘speak of the…?’ Maybe you could not mention his name.”

  Rosalie hung her head. “It’s true, Frankie. I made a Faustian bargain. Something Mal and I have in common. Guess you could call it a family tradition. I have the tattoo to prove it. It’s like Mal’s but better hidden.” She pushed her sleeve up farther and raised her arm. A small tattoo of a human hand clasped in a demonic handshake with a clawed monstrosity lay tucked near her armpit.

  “Why, in the name of all that’s holy, child, would you do such a dreadful thing?” Father Tim asked.

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Of course, it wasn’t worth it in the end. It never is, is it? But when you’re so full of hate and anger that you can hardly breathe, you don’t think things through to their logical conclusion. I’ve regretted making the deal ever since the ink dried.”

  “Ink?” Frankie sneered. “Not blood? You didn’t sign your deal with the devil in blood?”

  “That’s an old wives’ tale.” Rosalie raised her arm higher and pointed at the handshake tattoo. “Ink’s just fine.”

  “What was the deal?” Frankie asked. “What did you want that was so terrible or so wonderful that your soul seemed a fair price to pay?”

  “You ask almost as many questions as your friend.” Rosalie jerked her head toward Gethsemane.

  “She’s a bad influence,” Frankie said. “She’s also taught me not to be easily put off. What did you do? Did it have a
nything to do with Ty?”

  “Hardly. Ty Lismore wasn’t worth the time of day to me, let alone my soul. I’ll spare you the gory details of my contract because they’re none of your business, but since you won’t be put off,” Rosalie paused for emphasis, “I will tell you that what happened occurred a long time ago, on the River Road. Cousin Mal knew about it. It’s what gave him the idea to make the same deal to avenge Jared’s death.” Another bitter laugh. “I guess I’m a bad influence, too.”

  Frankie started to speak but Gethsemane stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Did Mal turn to you for help?” she asked Rosalie. “As the one person who could understand what he was going through?”

  “And not judge him because she’d done the same? Yeah. Mal asked me to introduce him to Sunny. He wanted to offer her his skill as a photographer. What better way to get her to eat from your hand than to make her look good on social media? No deal with the devil required.”

  “I thought Sunny’s mother introduced her to Mal after seeing one of his shows.”

  “She did. I got Mrs. Markham the ticket to the show. I earned a…contract extension by agreeing to help Mal. I figured a degree of separation in the introductions would keep my name out of it. Sunny’s mother is a respected art collector. I met her when I worked in a gallery. And Mal really is a brilliant artist. He specializes in video installations. He does all of the work, lighting, and everything himself.”

  “Meaning he has the technical know-how to set up his executions.”

  “Twisted performance art,” Rosalie said. “Brilliant right? But brilliance doesn’t pay the rent or buy groceries. Mal wasn’t shy about admitting he needed paying work. Sunny paid. A lot. In advance.”

  “Sunny’s money was the icing, wasn’t it?” Gethsemane said. “What he really wanted was access to the people he blamed for killing Jared.”

  “He didn’t come right out and say so…but I knew.”

  “A man willing to put up with Sunny Markham’s brand of melodrama,” Frankie said, “to get revenge on her fiancé, is a dedicated man. I almost admire him.”

  “Mal doesn’t mind Sunny,” Rosalie said. “He has a way with her, you’ve seen it.”

  “More icing? The ego boost of managing the unmanageable?” Gethsemane asked.

  “Mal appreciates Sunny’s ability to control others by creating chaos.”

  “She came by her talent without having to sell her soul.”

  “You can’t sell what you don’t have. She was born without one.” Rosalie crossed herself. “Sorry, Father.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Tim said. “But do tell us how Malcolm knew the truth about Jared’s death.”

  “Jared bragged to Mal about his New York girlfriend and his plans to hang out with ‘the Brits’ for the week. For all of his airs, Jared was a River Road hick, easily impressed. His name was the only thing high class about him.”

  “Mal didn’t know Agnes?”

  “He never met her. He was on assignment for a travel magazine, had been out of the country for almost two years, somewhere between the Galapagos and Fiji, when Jared and she got together.”

  “How did he know the truth about the accident?”

  “Mal never believed Jared was the driver. He used to rage about Jared being blamed. Wanted the police to investigate the other people in the car. He knew Agnes’s name; Jared told him that much.” Rosalie shrugged. “Once he tracked Agnes down, I guess it wasn’t hard for him to find out who she hung with.”

  Gethsemane gripped Rosalie’s arms and held her face an inch away. “Where has Mal taken Agnes, Rosalie? No more ‘mysterious Creole conjure woman’ routine. Agnes is running out of time. Where are they?”

  Rosalie wriggled free. “They’re here.”

  “Not amused, Rosalie.” Gethsemane grabbed her arm.

  “Can you think of a better place for the devil’s minion to commit murder than in a house of God?” She wrenched out of Gethsemane’s grip.

  Frankie ran from the sacristy. He returned in a moment. “The narthex and nave are empty.”

  “How could Mal electrocute anyone in the church? People are in and out all the time. They’d have seen him rigging up whatever he plans to use to do the, the deed.” Gethsemane shuddered at the thought of a killing machine being hidden somewhere waiting for its victim. “Unless his plan was to stick her hand in the holy water font and toss in an iron? And people would see him dragging her in to the church. I’m guessing she’s not cooperating with the man who’s trying to kill her.”

  “The baptistry.”

  Everyone turned to look at Father Tim.

  “The old baptistry in the subbasement. He could use the baptismal pool.”

  “He knows it’s there, he’s seen it,” Gethsemane said. “He mentioned it when he talked about scouting photo shoot locations. Too gothic for Sunny.”

  “But not for murder,” Father Tim said.

  “He found a way in through a side entrance. One without a lot of foot traffic. The baptismal pool. It was used for immersions?”

  The priest nodded.

  “Then Agnes would fit.”

  “The pool would be dry, surely,” Frankie said.

  Gethsemane reddened. “I told him about the stream that runs under here, about how it provided water for the pool. Mal’s resourceful. He’s had time to find access to the stream.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Tim led the procession through the undercroft, past the basement level, to the subbasement. Bare overhead bulbs cast a mournful glow over dust-covered cardboard boxes and surplus religious paraphernalia. The items here looked as if they’d been neglected even longer than those in the rectory’s basement.

  “This was the baptistry’s narthex,” Tim explained. “These bulbs,” he pointed at the overhead lights, “are a modern addition. They’re not kept burning, as a rule.”

  “Someone’s here,” Gethsemane said.

  “Yes,” a voice, a hint of Louisiana audible under its polished veneer, called out from the dim recess of a back room. “Please join me. Executions need witnesses.”

  “It’s Mal.”

  “The baptistry’s that way.” Tim led them into the semi-darkness.

  Gethsemane called out, “Is Agnes with you?”

  “Of course.” Malcolm’s reply gave her goosebumps. “She’s the guest of honor.”

  “Did anyone think to call the guards?” Father Tim whispered.

  “I forgot,” Gethsemane whispered back.

  Frankie pulled his phone from his pocket.

  “And,” Malcolm added, as if sensing Frankie’s action, “if any of you are thinking of phoning for help, Agnes will be dead before the police, excuse me, the gardaí, get here.”

  Frankie tucked his phone back in his pocket. Gethsemane pulled it out again and mouthed, Text anyway.

  They kept walking toward Malcolm’s voice. It brought them to an octagonal chamber cluttered with more church surplus and discards. More overhead bulbs illuminated the remains of faded, damaged frescoes, partially visible between cardboard box towers, depicting the life of John the Baptist. Three stone steps led from the center of the room down to a piscina—a baptismal pool that should have been dry after two centuries of disuse. Instead, water filled it to its brim. Puddles formed at its edge where water lapped over the sides. Agnes, up to her neck in water, sat in its middle. Duct tape covered her mouth and bound her hands. Her eyes pleaded for salvation. Malcolm stood over her, bright camera monolight in hand. The light’s electric cord trailed off into the gloom behind him.

  “Pull up a box, ladies and gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable.” Malcolm’s apparent calm made his words seem even more malevolent. “Father, if you wish to administer last rites, I don’t mind waiting. I don’t think Miss Haywood is Roman Catholic, but given the circumstances, I’m sure you’ll overlook technicalities.”
>
  “Stop this,” Tim demanded. “How dare you profane this sacred space, desecrate God’s holy church?”

  “Be careful up there on your high horse, Father. It may hurt when you fall. Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows will hardly be the first holy place to serve as witness to death. Ask Thomas Becket.”

  “This is sacrilege!”

  “This is justice!” Malcolm’s eyes flashed as fury contorted his features. “Justice for Jared, whose only ‘crime’ was choosing a faithless, rotten woman.” He spat at Agnes.

  Agnes made noises behind her duct tape and tried to move away from her tormentor. Gethsemane strained to see what kept Agnes in the pool—something wrapped around her legs.

  Malcolm noticed her stare. “It’s a weight. An anchor, specifically. The condemned is usually strapped into the electric chair with a leather belt, but an anchor seemed more practical.”

  “Agnes doesn’t deserve to die for being a lousy girlfriend,” Gethsemane said.

  “Let’s ask Frankie.” Malcolm turned his malicious grin on the math teacher. “He’s had more than one man’s fair share of lousy life partners. What’s a just punishment for betraying the trust of the man who loves you?”

  “How do you know about—” Gethsemane caught herself before she said Yseult’s name.

  “Heartbreak and despair? A rosy little bird told me, didn’t you Cousin Rosalie? When she warned me you were snooping around, asking about New Orleans and what happened there. I admire you for wanting to protect your friend. If others had been as loyal as you they wouldn’t be dead now.” Malcolm turned back to Frankie. “How about it? What’s the best way to deal with cheating hearts?”

  “A restraining order and suing for custody of the dog,” Frankie said. “Not this.”

  “You’re too soft-hearted, my man. For what it’s worth, Verna did love you. Although, she wouldn’t have hesitated to feed you to the wolves to save herself and her sister.”

  Frankie tensed and leaned toward the piscina. Gethsemane squeezed his arm and willed him to wait.