The Killing Cross

The Killing Cross

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Louis Tridico

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This is a work of fiction.

All characters, events, organizations and some of the locations portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination.

The Killing Cross

Copyright 2015 by Louis Tridico

Duke Street Press

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.

The only exceptions are brief quotes used in reviews.

To Roz, Suzie and Lou.

My unofficial sisters of the cypress.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Author’s Note

About the Author

Chapter 1

1819

On the Mississippi River near Baton Rouge

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The small canoe drifted slowly in the steady current of the wide, swollen river. It looked like a tiny leaf on the back of a large slithering snake that was the color of creamed coffee. The wet, earthy aroma of the river gave it the smell of a living thing. A deadly thing, thought Charles Desormeaux. Odds were, this river would be his grave today.

It was a muggy fall day, but the heavy gray overcast made it look as if it were winter. A thin fog hung over the river and moved with the current. It also prevented him from seeing far ahead. A wall of willow trees along the bank to his left aided his navigation as he searched for his appointed rendezvous.

I should see them by now, he thought.

No sooner had he finished that thought than he did see them. Like an apparition, they appeared out of the fog ahead of him. It was a small flatboat, common to the booming commerce of the Mississippi River. Three rough-looking men stood up and silently watched him. One was in back holding the large oar, and the other two in the front. Their tattered, filthy coats hung off them like the moss that covered the cypress trees of the nearby swamps. They were in sharp contrast to the fine clothes worn by the young Desormeaux.

He could not believe the nothingness in their eyes. There was no glint of light, no color that would hint at a soul. It was as if they were already dead. He thought of his Greek myths, and the boat that took the dead across the river Styx. It would look something like this.

Welcome, rich man! the oarsman barked. Took you long enough. I’m tired of this foolishness already. Let me see what I want. He was the biggest of the three and covered in crude buckskin that matched the hues of his greasy brown hair and beard. The man’s mouth contained a few rotted tobacco-stained stumps that might have once been teeth.

Charles could see the flatboat was anchored against the current. He used his paddle to maneuver along the upstream side of the bigger boat so the canoe held firmly to the flatboat. He used one hand to pull the canoe in. He cleared his throat and noted how that hand shook with a slight tremor. Soon enough, he said. Today will be a good day for us all.

The other two men sat in silence, their insect-like eyes unblinking. Charles thought they smelled like the New Orleans fish market in August.

No tricks, Desormeaux, the oarsman said. I could kill you now and go back for your wife and daughters. A liquid laugh ended with a hacking cough that produced a hunk of phlegm he spat into the river.

Charles smiled and pictured the man dead. It was a pleasant thought. He reached down and pulled out a brown leather bag.

Hold there, rich man! Don’t move, the oarsman said. Johnny boy, see what Monsieur Desormeaux is reaching for.

Charles raised his hands as the other man grabbed the bag and pulled it back.

Maybe you got that cross in there, no? the one called Johnny Boy said. He handed the bag to his boss.

The oarsman took the bag and weighed its heft. Could be. Let’s see. He stuck his tree trunk of an arm down into the leather bag, but he never took his eyes off Desormeaux. In an instant his mischievous grin changed to a look of horror and he jerked his hand out of the bag with a scream. Attached to his arm was a thick cottonmouth water moccasin, its head clamped to the oarsman’s wrist and its writhing body wound around his arm. He yelled louder and waved his limb in crazy circles as if it were on fire.

Charles steadied himself in the rocking canoe while the other two men turned and looked back at their superior. They were dumbfounded, mesmerized by the spectacle. While they were doing that, Desormeaux pulled two pistols from beneath his cloak, aimed the one in his right hand at the man with the snake arm and fired. The ball smashed into the oarsman’s head and knocked him into the water, taking him to his death and the snake back to its home. The crack of the pistol shot reverberated across the water. Two blue herons lifted off from the shore on huge wings six feet across, beating the air in tremendous swaths. The two other men in the boat turned toward Desormeaux. They both reached for their own pistols but weren’t fast enough. Desormeaux fired the second pistol and one of the men grunted and slumped over. Before the second man could act, Charles drew a sword and held it at the man’s throat.

Do not move, fool, or you will join the others. Drop your weapon in the river. Get back!

The man dropped his pistol and moved backward on his rump to the stern of the rocking flatboat, one hand in the air. Desormeaux steadied himself and removed another bag from the bottom of his canoe. What he pulled out of it froze the man in his place, his once dead eyes now alive.

Here is what you want, Charles said. He held a golden cross in his right hand like a mad priest at an exorcism. It was large, about 18 inches high and 12 across. Jewels of every color, size and type were embedded in it in an intricate pattern. Diamonds, rubies and emeralds mostly. The outrageous mix of colors seemed to violate the gray-brown palette of the river and sky. I am tired of this thing and the pain it has brought to my family, he continued. His breathing was labored and his voice cracked. No sane man can possess it, which is why I give it back to you and your kind. Take it and leave my family alone!

The man said, You’ve killed two of us, Desormeaux. What of that?

Desormeaux made a mocking laugh. That is for my father and my brother. As if you were also going to let me live after I turned this over to you.

The man said nothing.

Desormeaux continued. You I will let live, so you can take this thing back to your vile leader and report that I lived up to my bargain. He pushed his canoe away from the flatboat and steered it to the riverside, letting the current do its work. When he was 20 feet away, he tossed the heavy relic toward the man, but purposely misdirected his aim. He had no intention of letting the man get his hands on it. The flatboat was still rocking somewhat, and now without someone manning the rudder it was in a slow turn. The cross sailed high and to the right of the man’s outstretched arms and hit the brown water with a liquid thunk.

The man stared into the water and let out a slight moan. For a moment, Desormeaux thought the fool was going to dive into the murky water in an attempt to retrieve the cross. If so, it would be the last thing he would do. The current and muddy bottom would surely do him in. Desormeaux needed him alive to return to his masters and report what he had seen. But common sense prevailed, and the man snapped his head back to Desormeaux, pure hatred on his face. With a yell, he looked down, found his dead comrade’s pistol and took aim at Desormeaux in his retreating canoe. Before he could get off a shot, Desormeaux rolled out of the canoe and disappeared under the brown water.

The lone man in the boat stared down into the brown water that had just swallowed Desormeaux. He sat down and put his hands to his face and wept.

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Charles surfaced downstream like a turtle, his head coming up with hardly a ripple. He eased over to the riverbank and emerged into some thick willow and cypress. Although the autumn air had been pleasant a while ago, it was now a cold wet vise around his body and his soaked clothes weighed him down. He stumbled onto higher ground and looked around. Not a hundred yards away down the riverbank was his horse, tied to a tree.

Faithful Alphonse, Desormeaux thought. His Creole servant had left the horse at the predetermined spot. A bag full of dry clothes hung from the saddle. He changed quickly and buried his wet clothes under some brush along the bank. He peered through the heavy willows and spotted the flatboat as it went by, now unanchored. Its sole living occupant still seated like a statue. The boat drifted aimlessly down the river.

Tell them what you have seen, Desormeaux whispered. He then mounted his horse and rode for home.

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An hour later he sat before a fire in the parlor of the house. His second glass of brandy was nearly empty. He could hear the muted laughter of Marie and the children upstairs. The sound warmed him more than the fiery liquid he poured down his throat. He smiled and sighed deeply. His fingers caressed the smooth surface of the polished wooden box that sat on his lap. Without looking, he unlatched the metal clasp and opened it. His face seemed to shimmer, but not from the light of the fire. Something else had caught the firelight and reflected it upon him. He looked down on the gold, jeweled cross and his smile dimmed.

Ah, your counterfeit twin now lies at the bottom of the river, Desormeaux said. They think they have lost you forever. His eyes filled with tears and one slowly trekked down his cheek and fell on his shirt. You should have affirmed life, but instead you have brought nothing but death to my family. I don’t know where you came from, or who crafted you, but your destination is certain.

He picked up the heavy cross and turned it in the light. It seemed to glow with an unearthly luminescence. He quickly put it back into the box as if merely touching it would kill him. He placed the box on a nearby table and  said in a near-whisper, I will send you into the future. But do not worry. Someone will discover you. I’ll make sure of it somehow.

He picked up some papers on the table, sat back and glanced at them. He stared at one in particular, his eyes scanning it very carefully. It was a schematic building plan for a magnificent two-story mansion. After a moment, he looked up and cocked his head, a thin smile forming on his lips. His eyes stared off to the other side of the room, but they were looking at something else that was not there. Something in the future. He had an idea. And a good one, he thought.

Yes. I will make certain someone will find you. But may God have mercy on their soul.

Chapter 2

Present Day

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Emma Eaton flicked the blade of the pocketknife open and closed as she stared up at the huge cypress beam near the roof of the great old plantation home. Great was not the correct word that described Gladewood in its present condition. The structure was still a wreck. Maybe a wreck jacked up on all four wheels with the tires off and the engine pulled out. But still a wreck, although it was on its way to future glory.

Emma stood on the huge second-floor gallery of the 200-year-old Greek revival house and looked at the beam the way a paleontologist might look upon an exposed dinosaur bone. The house had been gutted and was in the process of being rebuilt and restored. Not that long ago, it was a total ruin, left to decay and neglect until a local historical foundation bought it and funded the restoration. Emma, a restoration architect and historian, got the nod to run the thing. After months of planning, the house was finally being rebuilt. A new roof had been put on, and now the interior work could really begin. New lumber was being added to the existing structure, and the sound of table saws, hammers and nail guns filled the air.

Emma brushed her honey-blonde hair from her eyes and put her hands on her hips. The low afternoon sun illuminated the giant piece of wood hewn from a single tree trunk. A light autumn breeze carried the scent of burning leaves and freshly cut wood.

Looks in pretty good shape to me, Emma, Mitch Verret said. He took a gulp from a Pepsi and burped.

Man, you couldn’t nuke that wood, she said. Scrape that gray off and it’ll look good as new. Old Charles Desormeaux himself ordered that red cypress from a mill in the Atchafalaya Swamp back in the early 1800s. It’s the only wood around that can handle the Louisiana humidity.

Mitch admired the old lumber. Wish there was more of it. Found another guy who’s got some over by Pierre Part. Me and Zip are sending some guys over there with a truck tomorrow. We can use it on a lot of the interior joists.

Good. We’ll need a lot more. Emma squinted up at the beam. What the hell is that? She climbed the extension ladder to get a better look at something else that caught her eye. Mitch preferred to get a better look at Emma’s backside as she went up. She opened her knife and dug a small piece of metal out of the wood. Where’d you come from? she said. She stared at it a moment and tossed it down to Mitch.

Ever take Civil War history, Mitch? she said.

I took it, but I put it back, he said. He thought this was immensely funny.

A true scholar, Emma said.

What is it? He held the object up to his eye.

It’s what’s left of a 52-caliber Union minie ball, fired no doubt from a Smith carbine, Emma said. She jumped down the last three steps of the ladder.

Yankee bullet? Mitch rolled the piece of disfigured lead between his thumb and forefinger. I thought the Battle of Baton Rouge was fought in town by the old cemetery?

Emma’s eyebrows shot up. Not bad, Mitch. You must have been awake for a least one class.

I can’t remember.

Mitch Verret and his partner, Zip Carmouche, were the general contractors for the restoration of Gladewood. The two young entrepreneurs had come in with the lowest bid. Ridiculously low, Emma figured. She, Mitch and Zip had all gone to LSU together, and now they would be working together for the next few years. Restoring the old home would take lots of time. And money. And luck. And a couple of hundred other things.

Emma Eaton was not the foundation’s first choice to manage the project. The state of the derelict old home was so bad that most of the top restoration people had passed. The foundation itself was new, and its billionaire patron was into risk taking. So he took a chance and bought the house, and after a few calls, he took a chance on Emma. Up until then she had never managed a project of her own. Now, at a tender young age, she would get the project of a lifetime.

Here, you keep it, Mitch said. He handed her the minie ball.

Emma took it and put it in her jeans pocket. I’d love to know how that got into my lovely house, she said. But we’ve got a few thousand more important things to do in the next few years. She took in the activity going on all around her. It gave her a sense of relief that things were finally happening. She turned around and faced out to the front yard of the home. It looked more like a lumber camp. A landscape crew was taking out dead old trees and brush that had turned the once beautiful front acreage into a jungle. An old sweet gum tree crashed to the ground, the vines attached to it ripped away from it like so much viscera from a gutted animal. It was now easier to see the two rows of ancient live oaks that lined the original carriageway that ran from Highland Road to the front of the house. Desormeaux himself supervised the plantings even before Gladewood was built.

The 200-year-old plantation home had once been the pride of the great homes built along the Mississippi between Baton Rouge and New Orleans. Charles Desormeaux, a wealthy planter and merchant, had built it as an idyllic retreat for his beautiful wife Marie and their five children. It had served the family well and had even survived the Civil War. But things started to go badly for the great house in the 20th century. The Desormeaux heirs began to move away and make their fortunes elsewhere. Parcels of the great plantation were sold off. Then, in the 1970s, two factions of the family had gone to court over the ownership of Gladewood. Neither could claim clear title, and the house sat vacant for decades. Neglect had nearly killed the place. It was completely overgrown with vegetation. The roof had weakened and finally collapsed after numerous hurricanes and storms. The interior had been laid bare for animals and the elements. Gladewood no longer appeared on the tourist plantation maps. The tour busses would drive down Highland Road south of the city and pass the place without anyone even noticing. Even if they had stopped, the thick woods in front of the home would have prevented anyone from seeing the once-great house. Finally, the foundation had purchased it for a song, and now it was Emma’s challenge. And nightmare.

She turned back to the house and caught her reflection in the wavy glass of one of the old windows. It made her look smaller. Her faded jeans and ratty blue Jazz-Festival T-shirt were her standard uniform around here. She was average height, with honey-blonde hair at the shoulders and slightly olive skin, rare for a blonde. She was still in pretty good shape, but her recent 30th birthday had given her pause about her body, her biological clock and her overall mental health. She worried the stress of getting this project done was aging her. She preferred to look at Mitch’s reflection instead. That boy was easy on the eyes. Tall and lanky, with longish dirty blonde hair and blue eyes. They had known each other for years, but nothing serious had developed as far as dating was concerned. Lately, though, she thought their close working relationship might lead to something. Maybe.

Hey, you here? Mitch said.

What? Oh, yeah. Just having another freak-out moment.

Mitch looked at his watch. As if on cue, the hammering and sawing began to wind down, like a heavy percussive song coming to an end. Crew’s shutting it down for the day, he said. Landscape guys’ll be around for a bit longer. I told them to push it to get that front cleaned up.

Emma sighed. Okay, let’s take a look.

They waited as the carpenters headed out to their trucks. Once they had left, Emma and Mitch took 30 minutes inspecting the work. The place was starting to look a little more like a house now, and the aroma of freshly cut lumber gave the structure life again, versus the stench of decay that had been so prevalent since the project had begun.

Mitch’s subcontractors were top-notch, Emma noted. The craftsmanship could be seen in every cut and every nailed board. She figured the guys were even more motivated to bring Gladewood back to life.

Nice work, Emma had noted more than once.

Mitch smiled. I told you. It’s going to be okay.

She held up her hands. I know, I know. I’m trying to remain calm.

Emma and Mitch walked back to the guesthouse where she lived. It was a smaller one-story French Planter-style home with a steep roof and broad porch across the front. It had been built in the late 1800s by the family, long after the main house was completed. It had originally been a place for visiting guests and for the Desormeauxs as the family had grown into multiple generations. It had been restored just prior to Emma moving in.

A silver Tesla Model S electric sedan was parked out front in the circular gravel drive. A lone man sat inside.

Only one guy I know who can afford that thing, Emma said.

Good luck, Mitch said. Gotta run.

Coward.

Emma hiked up her jeans and adjusted her T-shirt. A quick hand through the hair was about as much grooming as she could do. She walked toward the car. Just as she did, the man got out and smiled at Emma.

Looking good, he said. He glanced at her and over at the plantation home.

Me or the house? Emma thought and smiled back at him. Hey, Chris, how’s it going? she said.

Great. I was heading down to New Orleans and thought I’d stop by for a look.

Chris Moran was Baton Rouge’s resident billionaire. He was in his early forties, about six feet, slim, dark hair, blue eyes and perpetually tan. He wore black jeans, a white button-down shirt and expensive black Italian loafers. Emma thought he looked like a successful actor. He was also her boss. Besides oil and gas, real estate, tech, manufacturing and a dozen other things he was into, he was now officially in the plantation restoration business. He had started a foundation a few years back with the intention of funding projects throughout the state. It also had a research arm that was tasked with adding to or correcting Louisiana’s rich, colorful history.

Emma turned back to the house. We’re getting there, but at least we’re now putting things back instead of taking them out.

On schedule? he said.

I’d say so. Now that the roof’s on, we don’t have to worry about weather so much, especially with winter coming.

Okay, great, he said. Hey, you got a minute? Something I want to run by you.

Oh crap, she thought. When Chris had something to run by her, it usually entailed more work or a change in plans. Sure, let’s go up to the porch.

She led the way and they each grabbed one of the rockers that sat on the long front gallery of the guesthouse.

Nice to see the old oaks like that, he said. He pointed to the original live oaks that were now revealed in the front. A lone bulldozer pushed a huge rotted stump of a magnolia into a growing woodpile.

Yeah, she said. Got a tree guy coming this week to check them out for any oak wilt or bugs. But they look pretty healthy to me.

Moran nodded his approval.

So what’s up? Emma said.

Mmmm, the Gladewood Cross.

Emma noted a frown on his face. What about it?

You know the legend?

Of course. Who doesn’t? she said. A gold, jeweled cross hidden somewhere here at Gladewood by old Charles Desormeaux, supposedly not long after he and the family moved in.

You think it’s true?

Emma shook her head. I’ve read everything about this place, and not once has that been officially recorded. It’s just word-of-mouth bullshit passed on over the years. Like stories about every other plantation up and down the river. Ghosts. Treasure. You name it.

Moran maintained his little frown and looked out across the newly cleared front grounds of Gladewood. What if I told you that the legend was true? He turned to her.

I’d say prove it.

You know I’ve been buying up things at auction all over the South. Especially anything that has to do with Gladewood or the Desormeauxs.

Uh huh.

And you know about Harlan Decker and his obsession with this place? Chris waved his hand toward the old plantation home.

Right. He wanted to buy Gladewood but you outbid him for it.

Mmmm. Yeah. And his other obsession with finding the cross. That’s why he really wanted to buy it. Just to go through it piece by piece until he found that thing.

I know.

Well, the bastard got his hands on some things at a private sale in South Carolina that I didn’t even know about, Moran said. Things either from or related to Gladewood. Books, paintings, furniture. And apparently something else. My spies tell me he struck pay dirt. Something he found has him all jazzed up about the cross. Like he discovered a clue or something. He’s got people on it now.

You have spies? Emma said. Really?

"Uh, sources, let’s say. Anyway, he’s going after the cross now with a vengeance."

There’s no cross, she said. He’s wasting his time.

It sounds pretty conclusive, Moran said. Decker is not the type of guy who wastes his time or money.

Harlan Decker was a wealthy, powerful and well-connected political consultant out of Jackson, Mississippi. He made a fortune getting people elected, from mayors to governors to U.S. Senators. He was also a noted collector of southern antiquities. When Gladewood had come up for sale, he and Chris Moran had gone toe to toe with each other to buy it, with Moran coming out on top.

Emma wasn’t convinced, but played along. Okay, if you say so.

Moran stared out over the property before looking back at Emma. "I’m putting millions into this place. I want to establish credibility for the foundation. And for you. If Decker does find that cross, he’ll steal a lot of our thunder. It would be an embarrassment. The cross would overshadow what we’re doing here, especially if it’s in someone else’s hands instead of ours. If there is a cross, it needs to be displayed here, not up in Mississippi or wherever Decker will put it."

Emma nodded her agreement. That would suck for sure.

Well put. Moran sighed and didn’t say anything for a moment. Emma waited.

Have you ever looked into it? he said. Even casually?

What? The Cross, she said.

Yes. Never any interest?

Well, not really. Obviously there are more important things to do around here.

I think I might disagree with that a bit.

How so?

I want you to take some time and find that cross. Before Decker does.

Seriously?

Yes. Give it a strong push to see what’s out there.

Can your spies tell you exactly what Decker found? What he’s not telling the world? That might help.

Moran shook his head. Doubtful, but I’m working on it.

How long do you want me to look? I mean, I’ve kind of got a job at the moment. She nodded toward the big house.

I have a feeling it won’t be long. Decker will put all his resources into this. As will I.

Emma said, I would imagine your resources are substantially bigger than his.

Moran smiled. Yeah, I’ve got him on that one. But what he lacks in net worth, he more than makes up for in other ways.

Like what? she said.

Moran’s frown returned and he looked at Emma. He’s a bad dude, Emma. A lot of stink around him. Political stuff that’s pretty nasty. A few years back he was indicted for voter fraud, wiretapping and blackmail. Got thrown out. Strong-arm tactics are par for the course for him. A few people have disappeared; there’s been some apparent suicides, and a few timely accidental deaths. All benefitted his candidates, clients or friends. He’s an operator.

And you want me to take this guy on?

No, just find the cross. Let me take him on.

Okay.

But...watch your back, too.

Chapter 3

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Emma just stared at Moran. You’re kind of freaking me out a bit here. The guy sounds like trouble.

Just laying it out for you, Moran said. I don’t like to surprise people.

Thanks, I guess, she said.

There’s something else you should see, he said. He pulled out his phone, tapped and swiped a few times and then put it away. I just sent you a TV interview Decker did yesterday. He was gloating about the whole thing. I thought I was going to puke.

Emma didn’t think billionaires puked. They paid people to puke for them.

Did he say anything useful?

Actually, yes. Watch the video later, but I’ll give you the gist. The items he bought were part of the Bradley estate at Yorkley plantation.

Emma cocked her head. Bradley? David Bradley?

One and the same.

Emma knew all about David Bradley. He was a close friend of Charles Desormeaux who owned a huge plantation in South Carolina, and during a trip to New Orleans, he had been introduced to Desormeaux by a mutual banker friend. Bradley and Desormeaux had hit it off and become fast friends, since their backgrounds, business interests and family situations were so similar. Bradley had even invited the Desormeaux family to visit Yorkley, his plantation home in South Carolina. Later, the offer was reciprocated, and the two kept in touch as their empires grew.

Keep talking, Emma said.

Moran continued. Seems his descendants were parceling off some assets of Yorkley to help raise money for a makeover of the place.

Emma said, Right. It was fully restored decades ago, but unlike Gladewood, they didn’t let it go to seed.

Moran nodded. Anyway, they were having an estate sale of select items. But Decker found out about it before any of the big-time collectors did. Including me. And he swooped in and grabbed whatever he wanted before anyone knew anything. The way he described it, the stuff was mostly junk. But there were some books from Bradley’s collection, along with some trunks found in the attic of a recently deceased descendant. The books were literary works, old first editions, and nice to add to anyone’s collection. But one of Bradley’s books was a large Bible. And this is where it gets interesting.

Moran leaned closer to Emma in a conspiratorial way. She thought he was going to kiss her.

"Inside the Bible was a hollowed out section that held a personal diary of Bradley’s."

Emma frowned a bit. Like something a convict would use to hide a file or drugs or something?

Exactly like that, Moran said. "Amazing no one bothered to open that Bible. So Decker started reading Bradley’s diary. Mostly day-to-day stuff about running his plantation, his family, travels, stuff like that. But one of those travelogues is a trip he made to visit his old friend, Charles Desormeaux. And this is where it got very interesting."

Emma was so focused on Moran’s story, the loud crack of an old willow oak falling to the ground in the distance made her jump.

Moran looked over and watched the tree fall and