Departing the entrance hall was like entering a different home; the foyer might have remained in limbo for centuries, while here the modern world had burst in hard. An entertainment room caught her eye. She didn’t have a good sense of dimension, and could only think that the TV screen was huge; it was surrounded by cabinets that offered all manner of audiovisual equipment. Here, too, there was plenty of space for visitors; there was a wet bar—just in case the kitchen, right around the corner, she believed, was too far—a refrigerator, microwave station and a half–dozen plush chairs, recliners and sofas. Entertainment had definitely been done right.
Moving into the kitchen, she was met with a pleasant surprise. The room was absolutely beautiful, remodeled and state–of–the–art with an enormous butcher–block workstation in the indent with rows of pots and pans and cooking utensils above it on wire stainless–steel hangers. The sink and counter area had a large window that was a bypass to a counter outside on the courtyard. There was a massive refrigerator–freezer combination, dishwasher, trash compactor, microwave, all manner of mixers, and all was shining and immaculate.
The senator’s wife had intended to entertain, so it seemed.
There were eight chairs around the kitchen table, and Angela drew one out and took a seat. She opened the book she had found—her true treasure trove of information on the house.
In 1888, Jack the Ripper terrorized the denizens of White–chapel; in 1896, the man known as H. H. Holmes was hanged, having confessed to the serial killings of at least twenty–seven victims before he was hanged. Before that, New Orleans had its own monster, Madden Claiborne Newton. While the mystery of the identity of Jack the Ripper makes him one of the most notorious fiends to find his way into the pages of history, Holmes far surpassed his body count—as did Madden C. Newton.
Angela paused. She looked around the kitchen and felt nothing. It was so modern. Yet, this was still the home in which the atrocities had taken place. She flipped a few pages.
Newton’s first murder (in New Orleans, at least) was suspected to be that of Nathaniel Petti, the bankrupt planter from whom he had purchased the property. Nathaniel Petti was a desperate man, selling his New Orleans “townhome” to Newton for whatever he could. He had already lost the family plantation on the river, and while Lincoln’s plan after the Civil War had been that the North should “forgive their Southern brethren,” the death of the strong and humane leader left many in the country in a mood for vengeance, and the laws during Reconstruction were often brutal on the native inhabitants of the South. Such was the case in New Orleans. Nathaniel was being taxed into the grave. He disappeared after the sale to Newton, who was newly arrived from New York City. Petti’s wife and child had died during the war years, and the official assumption—if there were such a thing at the time—was that Petti had left, unable to bear the pain of being in New Orleans. While martial law became civil law, politics created almost as much of a war as that which had been fought. While the Freedman Act became law, the “old guard” of the South rose, and organizations such as the KKK came to life. Race riots in 1866 cost more than a hundred souls their lives, and there could be little worry given to the fact that one disenfranchised man had disappeared.
This set the stage for Madden C. Newton to begin his reign of terror.
To this day, it is not known whether or not he killed Petti; what is known is that Petti disappeared, and the motto of the day for the Reconstruction populace was, “Good riddance!”
Angela twisted the book to read the old, fraying dust jacket. It had been written by a man named James Stuart Douglas, born and bred in New Orleans in 1890, when the Civil War, and the era of Reconstruction, would have been fresh in historical memory. There was definitely a bit of skew in his telling of the story.
According to Douglas, the killer, Newton, found those who had newly arrived in the city, and offered them a place to stay. He also found those who were suddenly homeless—apt to leave the city and look for an income somewhere else. The first known murder had been of the Henderson family from Slidell. They had been about to leave for the North, searching for a place where Mr. Henderson could find work. His son, Percy, had been twelve; his daughter, Annabelle, had been ten. All four of the Hendersons had perished after accepting Newton’s offer of hospitality. The children had been brutally killed with an ax in the room where they had slept; Mr. and Mrs. Henderson had died after being tied to chairs in the basement, cut to ribbons and allowed to bleed to death. Newton had found watching people bleed to death particularly stimulating. Before Newton’s execution, twenty–three known victims later, he described his crimes, and told police where to find most of the bodies.
Angela stopped reading again. No wonder the house was on all the ghost tours in the city.
Darkness had come. She reminded herself that she wasn’t afraid of the dark.
Maybe that wasn’t true—here. The house suddenly seemed to be alive with shadows. It was probably a bad idea to read the book when she was alone and night was coming on. She wasn’t really afraid of the dark, but she didn’t want to start seeing things in her mind’s eye that weren’t there.
She sat still for a minute, thinking about the past. She could recall the day of the plane crash she had survived—but which had killed her parents and everyone else on board—at any given time.
So clearly.
She was incredibly lucky to be alive.
Alive and still so aware of the strange events that had occurred when she had opened her eyes with flames and sirens all around her…
A doctor had told her once that strange things could happen when the neurons in the brain were affected, causing such things as the “light” so many people with near–death experiences saw, so, according to him, she hadn’t seen the “light” of spirits leaving their mortal forms; she had experienced neurons crashing in her head. After her sessions with the doctor, she had learned to keep quiet. Nor did she ever explain why it seemed that sometimes she had more than intuition. She’d always had a good grip on the world—in many ways there were very thin lines between the truth and insanity. People’s perception of the truth was often the difference between leading a normal and productive life—and having someone lock you up for your own welfare.
Adam Harrison seemed to be different, as had many of the officers she had worked with at the police force in Virginia. She had become known for her use of logic, careful study of a crime scene and the victim, and the possible personality of the perpetrator or perpetrators. Police officers tended to believe in intuition; good detectives always seemed to rely upon gut instinct.
Sometimes, she had almost been frightened of herself. But she had to tamp down the fear; good could come when she allowed the thoughts and “instincts” to run through her.
Take the Abernathy case. The one in which she had really made a difference. The baby had been kidnapped by kids just wanting to make money. Two teens, seventeen and sixteen. They’d easily managed to steal the baby from the babysitter. But they’d buried the little boy, and if she hadn’t come to the house, if she hadn’t added it all up—no break–in, no signs of disturbance, no prints or even smudges on the windowsill—and felt certain that the child was close, they might never have found the baby, buried in the crate right in the backyard. She would never forget the joy in the mother’s face when they had dug up that baby, and she had heard her awaken at last and cry….
She had entered the mind of the Virginia Stalker, and found the remains of Valerie Abreu, allowing the courts the evidence to put the man away.
There were battles, of course, that she couldn’t win. Life was full of them.
She had lost her parents. And she had lost Griffin.
Griffin,