

The Black Jester

The Kings of New Orleans Series Episode 1

by Emily Ford

COPYRIGHT 2015 EMILY FORD

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Emily Ford

www.emilyfordworld.com

Second Edition

Editing by Lizzy Ford

www.lizzyford.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To Mom for being the best thing God ever created

To my sister for saving my life every day and giving me the chance to start a new one

To Dad for being a constant source of love and support

To Ron Jenkins, one of the good ones. Thank you for reading my first books!

To Dale and Alex for being two of the best gentlemen I've ever known

## PROLOGUE

"If any city needs saving, it's New Orleans."

The one known as the French Quarter King sits at his dark mahogany writing desk. His bird's eye view of Canal Street in New Orleans is like none other. From his high rise penthouse apartment, the distant lights on the bridges, barges, bustling street traffic, and tall street lamps appear as twinkling stars below him. He loves the view of the city at night.

On this night, like most others recently, his heart is heavy as he reflects on the events of the past ten years. Resolved to reconcile his thoughts and feelings on paper, he slides open the heavy top drawer and withdraws a brand new, leather bound writing journal. He runs his hand and over its dark maroon cover, his fingertips following the custom engraved outline of a fleur-de-lis. Opening the cover, he flips the Papyrus paper to the second page and folds the first page down against the cover, his way of protecting the immaculate leather design. He picks up his gold rollerball pen and clicks it to expose the writing point. He always loved writing, but in the old school way, with pen and paper, not with a typewriter or computer.

He glances out his window into the dark and sparkling night once more. It's time to atone for his sins. Sighing heavily, he puts pen to paper.

"We saw it as a chance to evolve," he begins writing. "If there's one certainty about a catastrophe, it's that it brings the opportunity for renewal. The ability to wipe out the norm, force a clean slate. Disaster is the ultimate reset button.

"Our opportunity came with the 2005 desolation of New Orleans, otherwise known as Hurricane Katrina. That godforsaken homicidal storm carried the ocean into homes and businesses, wielding swelling waves and winds as its murder weapons. It severed power and telephone lines, and the breakdown of communication, life support, and law became inevitable. The slaughter of nearly two thousand residents was only the beginning. With the storm came the opportunity for renewal.

"The storm woke sleeping giants, both evil and benevolent. Of the evil already living and breathing inside the city, it spread in aggressiveness and intensity. Both the Central City King and the Gentilly King used the cover of the storm to commit murder and spread mayhem that was assumed by law enforcement to be a side effect of the natural disaster.

"For those of us witness to, or victims of, this malignant hand of injustice, and for victims of the villainous Kings, a new purpose burned within us. The Kings solidified their reign, their territory, their terror. So, in defense of all that was good and just, I naively seized an opportunity to become a King myself and quickly realized protecting the ultimate good often required committing the ultimate evil.

"Do my actions violate the Hippocratic Oath I took as a young man and revere to this day? I fight a disease of this city's soul. But am I any better than the cancer that grows here? My intentions were benevolent. They were designed to improve lives, to save lives. I wanted to help innocent people. I wanted to stand up to the sickness that the other Kings were inducing on these poor people. My methods have resulted in death. Destruction. Suffering. Does the end justify the means? Or am I simply an evil man with the delusion of being good?"

The King's pen pauses. He reads his words, his confession, in an effort to evaluate himself. His heart sinks. He knows he's in too deep to stop now. It's too late for him. He has chosen his path and it is a one-way journey. His thoughts turn to his men.

"What of my Jesters?" He pens. "I admit, I am as fond of them as if they were my own children. All are remarkable. The Gold's natural leadership. The Red's dedication. The Blue's sense of justice. And the Black's ferocity, despite his internal battle. Remarkable."

He gazes up and presses the expensive pen against his lips as his body briefly warms with thoughts of his men. His kids. A sobering thought sends a cold chill through his body, chasing away the warmth.

"Have I lead them into darkness from which they will not return? They're good men, all of them. But this mission is distorting their views of the world. I can see that now. They deliver vengeance and justice at the cost of their empathy and goodness. I fear the day they veer from our task, when human nature rears its ugly head, and they begin to crave violence and power, viewing them as a necessity of life, rather than tools to ensure justice. The signs of this outcome are showing among them. I no longer ask if that day is coming but when my actions will result in a horrific influx of danger and death that will rage upon this city unlike any a monster storm could ever produce."

He leans back in the soft leather captain's chair that matches his desk. The beautiful furniture set he was so proud to have custom ordered several years ago offers him no comfort now. He stares wide-eyed at the words in his journal. Disturbed by inner rumblings of apprehension and remorse, he shakes his head, silently cursing himself.

"My God. What have I done?"

## CHAPTER ONE: KATRINA

"Clear!" The young African-American doctor applies the paddles of the defibrillation device to the chest of a teen boy on the table before him. His handsome features are strained and he's oblivious to the bead of sweat that rolls down his forehead and into his eye. A nurse works hurriedly to prepare a breathing tube for insertion into the patient's throat. The temporarily audible pulse of electricity accompanies the steady long beep of the heart rate monitor as it flat lines. Controlled but rushed communication flows between doctors and nurses inside the overwhelmed emergency room.

Outside the hospital, Hurricane Katrina rages without mercy, destroying buildings and drowning its terrified victims. The hospital lights pulse and flicker despite being on a generator system separate from the city's devastated power grid. The Classical Mozart music playing over the speakers has more of a haunting effect than a soothing one. Walls and windows bang and creak as the beastly wind screeches and howls. The hospital staff struggles desperately to keep up with the increasing number of injured patients pouring in from the catastrophe.

The young man's body doesn't respond to the electric shocks. His heart has flat lined and his breathing has stopped. His hair and clothing are still soaked from ocean water, and his face is badly burned. He's been clinically dead for nearly five minutes.

"Clear!" The doctor yells again, applying the paddles to the young man again. The body arches beneath them, but the heart monitor still sings its flat line song. "Come on, kid!"

His staff exchange disheartened looks. "Doctor," the nurse says solemnly, shaking her head. "He's gone."

The doctor's heart pounds in his chest. "Get me another epinephrine shot." He glances up when his staff hesitates. "Now!"

"Doctor, you gave him two already. He's gone!" the nurse protests.

"Get me the shot, Jane, please."

Relenting, she unlocks the medicine cabinet and retrieves the syringe. She hands it to the doctor and watches as he injects this the third shot of adrenaline into the young man's dead body.

The doctor watches the monitor as he injects the solution into the IV. No response. He picks up the defibrillator paddles again and charges them.

"Clear!" The charge surges through the young man's body. The doctor remains poised, ready to charge and apply the paddles again.

The faintest agitation disrupts the terse flat line on the monitor. The staff gasps collectively. Fearing it is a random anomaly, the doctor raises the paddles and prepares to send another charge into the boy's body.

Another agitation, followed by a stronger but irregular staccato pattern, hops on the screen.

"Wait!" the nurse cries.

Holding his breath, the doctor watches as a faint but steady rhythm begins to course on the monitor.

"He's alive!" Another staff member verifies.

The doctor numbly returns the paddles to the machine and checks the other vitals. Blood pressure returning. Temperature normalizing. Breathing slow but steady. The young man is coming back to life. But in what mental condition? Deprived of oxygen for over five minutes, it's possible his brain won't recover the way his body is.

The doctor takes his penlight and opens the young man's eyelids to check the pupils. The right eye responds normally; the whites of the eye are clear and the iris is a warm brown. He may not have brain damage after all, he thinks to himself. But then as he opens the left eye, he balks.

Noticing the doctor's unusual flinch, the nurse grows closer. "What is it, Doctor?"

"This is really odd," the doctor says, shining the light into the young man's left eye. "Am I seeing this right?"

The nurse peers over his shoulder and gasps. "What is that?"

"I've never seen anything like this. The entire iris is white!"

A hospital aid peeks around the curtain from the hallway. "Doctor? The young man's friends are asking about him. Is there a status update?"

Puzzling over the change in the boy's eye color, the doctor releases the eyelid and lets it close. He verifies the vitals again to be sure the teen is recovering. "I'll come out and speak with them," he answers finally. He turns to his nurse. "Let's keep him here for a half hour, then we'll transfer him to ICU."

The hospital aid leads the doctor to the young man's friends in the overcrowded emergency room lobby, which has reached a state of chaos. The police are just arriving to help maintain order in the hospital, and the doctor watches them infiltrate the room and begin to calm the agitated mass. Hospital staff members are passing out blankets to the wet, panicked masses crowding every inch of the hallways and waiting rooms.

The strained faces of a group of disheveled boys in their late teens light up hopefully as the doctor approaches them. Having the appearance of stressed out drowned rats, they've obviously been battling it out with the wind and floodwaters. Draped over their shoulders are colored hospital blankets.

"How's our friend? Is he okay?" The one with the royal blue blanket asks anxiously. He's tall with dark hair and a tortured look in his dark blue eyes. Beneath the blanket, his clothes are a bit torn but he appears to be injury free.

"I'm Dr. Percy. Are you his friends?" the doctor asks.

Wrapped in a mustard-gold blanket, the taller of the two young blonde men steps up. "I'm Harry, this is my brother Eric, and this is Johnny."

Dr. Percy nods. "Your friend was out for quite a while. He's stable now. He's breathing and we're watching him closely." He glances around at the boys, certain that they've just been through hell. "Do you boys know where his family is?"

The young men look at each other grimly. "He just watched his mother die," Eric replies, pulling the blood red blanket around him tighter. "We all were-"

Harry's fist flies out from beneath his gold blanket and socks his younger brother in the arm. He glares at him, silently ordering him to shut up. There's an odd silence among the young men. Johnny appears to be lost in thought and stares down at his feet. Are they in shock? Or are they hiding something?

"Are you boys okay?" Dr. Percy inquires. After a long silent moment, he tries another angle. "Your friend will need to stay here for a while. If you boys aren't able to get home, I suggest you stay here for the time being. This hospital is a storm shelter. You'll be safe here." Assuming things don't get worse, he added silently.

A riot breaks out at the entrance of the emergency room as police struggle to maintain order. The sick and injured alike battle desperately for the hospital staff's attention, the floor squeaking beneath them as wet shoes shuffle and stumble on the bare waxed floor.

The doctor withdraws a set of keys from his pocket. He flips through the keys and stops at a large gold one. "Here. Take these. Go to the third floor, room 325. That's my office. You boys go in there, and take it easy for a while. There are vending machines down the hall from there, too. I'll have someone come find you when we have any updates on your friend, okay?"

Harry takes the keys and thanks him. They file into a line and head towards the elevators.

"Oh, boys, one more thing," Dr. Percy calls after them. "Are your friend's eyes different colors? Or does he wear colored lenses?"

The puzzled look on their faces gives the doctor his answer. "No," Johnny says slowly. "Why do you ask?"

Not wanting to worry the boys more than they already are, the doctor smiles and shakes his head. He turns to walk back to the emergency room. "It's nothing. Go on upstairs."

## CHAPTER TWO: CANAL STREET

Present Day

"Help a blind man? Help a blind man."

The elderly man shakes the red plastic cup held closely to his chest, the coins inside it rattling. With his other hand he slowly swings a long walking stick across the sidewalk in front of him, feeling for obstacles in his path. He's dressed in a worn brown tweed suit with a matching fedora. He shuffles in his scuffed brown leather shoes while his head gently sways back and forth in rhythm with the swinging walking stick. Black sunglasses cover his unseeing eyes.

It's a warm Monday morning in April. The French Quarter in New Orleans is bustling with tourists in the shops and on the sidewalks, and a healthy mix of work and tourist traffic beeps and buzzes in the streets. The heat and humidity amplify the highly unpleasant smell of rotten trash vapors seeping out of the overflowing garbage receptacles on the sidewalks. The city waste management team is running behind schedule due to budget cutbacks, a common topic in the monthly city government meetings the elderly man overhears on the television.

He senses someone has approached him and stops his slow shuffling walk. He rattles his cup. "Help a blind man?"

"Not today, Pops. Today you're going to help me." The man's voice has a thick Brooklyn accent. "Word around town is, you're the man to come to for information on things happening in the streets. Is that right?"

The elderly man turns his head towards the voice and smiles. "You must be that Detective...uh, Jenkins, right? Yeah, I hear you on the news sometimes, Detective. You ain't from here, you from up in New York, ain't that right?"

"Yeah, that's right. Look, I've got some questions for you. How about you come with me to the police station so we can talk?"

"No, sir, I can't do that. See, I got to be here right now, this is how I make a living." He rattles the plastic cup.

"I need you to tell me everything you know about who's behind the French Quarter murders. Tell me who people think they are, and where I can find them."

The old man chuckles. "What makes you think an old man like me knows anything about that?"

"Don't play me, Pops. There's enough buzz on the streets that you know exactly what goes on around here. And if you're not careful, I can have you arrested for obstruction of justice. So, you've got two choices. Either you start talkin', or I'll lock you up, blind man or not."

"Well now, Detective. Since you put it that way, I might have a story for you."

"A story? Pops, this isn't a game, I don't want some story-"

"Now calm down there, Detective, all's a man like me does is tell stories. It's up to you if you believe it or not."

The Detective sighs in frustration. "All right, then. Tell me your story, but make it fast, I ain't got all day. I gotta hunt this psycho down before he kills again."

"You know, on second thought, I could use a cup of coffee first. The Ruby Slipper Diner has damn good coffee!"

"All right, let's go to the diner. I'll get you coffee, and then you're gonna talk to me."

"You got it, Detective."

Better not be just another crazy old homeless guy, the Detective thinks as they walk down the street. After what seemed like eons with the old man's slow pace, they are finally settled in a booth at the diner, both with coffee, the detective ready to write on his notepad.

The old man slowly inhales the aroma of his brew and takes a sip. "Ah, that's what I'm talkin' about."

"All right Pops, let's get this going. Who is he?"

"Who is who?"

"The guy killing people, Pops. Who is this psychotic criminal, or criminals?"

The old man tilts his head as if considering the question. A faint smile flashes across his face but fades into a serious scowl just as quickly. "I hear whoever's doin' this... ain't human."

"I'm sorry, what? Not human? Of course they're human. What else would they be?"

"You misunderstand. They're inhumane. They'll murder without a second thought to get what they want. Whoever they are, they'll be hard to stop. They ain't afraid of nothin'."

The Detective grumbles under his breath. "Ok, I'll bite... so, what do they want? Why are they terrorizing my city?" Just then his cell phone rings. He pulls it out of his pants pocket and rejects the phone call, setting it on the table next to his coffee.

"Detective, that's for them to know, and you to find out."

The Detective leans back against the wooden bench seat and rubs his face. He curses under his breath, then leans forward, elbows on the table. "Look. This is serious. A dozen people are dead. Killed in cold blood. Whoever you think they are, please tell me. Any information you can spare, no matter how insignificant it may seem. Please. Just tell me anything you know."

The old man takes a slow sip of his coffee. "Detective," he says, his voice lowering. "You makin' one big mistake here."

"What do you mean?" The Detective's cell phone rings again. It is painful for him to reject the call again, but he does.

The old man pauses for another sip of coffee. "Sometimes things ain't so black and white. Sometimes you got to look into the grey. Now, you got to figure out who's who, and what's what. And that's all I know."

The Detective's mind races, and he leans as far forward as he can in the booth. "Give me a name. Names. Give me something!"

"This is a colorful city, Detective. Always has been. Always will be."

"Colorful? What do you mean by that? Is that a hint?"

The Detective's phone rings again. "Goddam it," he grumbles. This time he takes the call from his precinct. "Yeah!" he answers gruffly. The words he hears are sobering. "Where? On Canal? Well that's just down the... down the street from me. I'm on my way."

He tears his wallet out of his jacket and throws down money for the coffees. Both men can now hear the wailing of police sirens growing closer. He hurries out of the booth but turns to the old man before he's halfway to the door: "We'll continue this conversation, Pops. This ain't over."

"Be careful, Detective. There's some bad people out there," the old man, genuinely concerned, warns him.

"I hadn't noticed," the Detective mumbles sarcastically to himself. He bursts out of the diner and hurries down the sidewalk towards the sirens.

The old man sits for a moment, listening to the Detective's noisy departure from the restaurant. He hears footsteps softly approaching and smells the familiar perfume, and smiles. "Miss Martha," he says fondly.

A well-dressed woman not too distant in age from him sits down at his table. She immediately reaches out and places her hand on his. She's smiling, despite the fact that she knows he can't see her.

"Mr. Percy," she replies warmly.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this morning?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing. What does that police man want with you?"

Mr. Percy sighs heavily, and sits back. "Miss Martha, things are startin' to heat up around here."

"I know," she says, nodding slowly. "As we expected."

"Yes, that we did. That we did."

"Listen. I think we should let the boy know. I think it's time."

He considers her for a silent moment, then reluctantly agrees. "I think you're right, Miss Martha. The time has come."

She smiles warmly again and pats his hand. "We'll speak soon," she says. He nods, listening to the sound of her light footsteps trail off as she leaves the diner.

Mr. Percy pats the table, feeling for his tweed hat. He picks it up, shakes it twice, and fits it onto his head. He picks up his plastic change cup, and reaches under the table for his walking cane. "Well, sir," he talks as if he still has someone listening to him, a habit he adopted to entertain himself when alone. "I best be on my way. Got to get back to work, you know? It's hard earnings these days." He chuckles then shuffles out of the diner and disappears down the sidewalk.

The Detective jogs down the street towards the skyscraper hotel and the chaos surrounding it. "Christ," he curses under his breath. A group of spectators and at least two news crews are already at the scene hovering just outside of the yellow police tape.

"Detective," a police officer calls to him.

"Christ, Danny. Get all these people back, and tell them to go home."

"We are behind the police tape, Detective!" calls a female voice from the crowd. "We have a right to be here. The people of this city have a right to see this."

"I haven't even seen this yet, Ruth," he answers, annoyed.

The news reporter approaches him and positions herself and her cameraman between the Detective and the police tape. She signals her cameraman to begin filming. "Detective Jenkins, can you confirm that this death is connected to the recent murders in the city?"

The Detective holds his hands up in front of the camera. "I can't confirm anything right now. I don't have any details, Ruth," he says as he slides around her and ducks under the police tape.

"Who is responsible, Detective? Do you have any leads? Why are they doing this?"

"What makes you think I know? If I did, the police department would have held a press conference by now."

"What is the significance of the Tarot card inside the victim's mouth?"

"What? Goddam it." He loathes it when the reporters find out about a crime before he does. He scans the crowd of first responders and moves away from the police tape. "Danny!"

A young police officer scrambles towards him in response.

"How the hell does the press know about a Tarot card? Are we just telling everyone everything now?"

"No, sir, I-"

"Get them the hell back from my crime scene!"

"Yes, s...sir!" Danny stutters. He and another officer rush over to the reporters and gathering crowd to herd them father away from the scene.

Ruth yells over the shoulders of the corralling officers. "How long are these murders going to continue, Detective? This city isn't safe!"

Ignoring her questions, the detective inspects the scene. A well-dressed man's body lies supine in the middle of Canal Street, his head having exploded from the impact after what the detective assessed was a long fall. The shattered glass around him glistens in the morning sun. Fresh streams of blood pour out from under the body and roll into a street drain at the curb.

An officer hands the detective a pair of blue latex gloves. "Thanks," he says and shoves his hands into them. He's after one thing: the Tarot card wedged inside the dead man's mouth. Crouching, he pulls it out slowly. One side is blank, save for bloody smudges. On the other side, The Fool smiles beneath more smears of blood. "Shit," the Detective mutters. An evidence technician holds open a plastic bag, and he carefully drops the card down into it. "Who's the suit?"

"His identification says he's Vincent Dupre, from Brooklyn. That's your old neighborhood, right, Detective?"

"Yeah," he answers, distracted. He cranes his neck back to look up at the top of the skyscraper hotel towering above them. "He fall off the top of the Marriott?"

"We think so. We have a team up there to check things out, sir."

He gives a nod of approval. "Let me know what you find out."

"Detective, there's more," calls Johnny, a plainclothes police officer walking briskly towards him.

The Detective's protégé wears a sober expression. There are few people whose opinions matter to the Detective, and Johnny is the youngest. Despite being one of the younger members of the force at twenty-nine, he's arguably the most disciplined and diligent member. His service in the Army as a Military Police officer enabled him to learn and adapt quickly to the rigors and requirements of civilian law enforcement. His reputation as a by-the-book lawman, combined with perfect manners and pristine personal hygiene, painstakingly ironed uniform, sharp military haircut and always closely-shaven face, sparked the other officers on the force to coin the phrase "Johnny Justice" when referring to him.

The Detective waits for his protégé. "Johnny – more what?"

"Bodies. On the roof," he says as he points to the top of the hotel.

"Damn it. Okay, let's go," the Detective says. "Johnny, you come with me. Danny you keep these people back, understand?"

"Yes, sir!" Danny answers.

The Detective leads the way into the hotel lobby, with Johnny close behind. They step into the elevator and press the button for the top floor. When the elevator doors close, Johnny breaks the silence and turns his concerned expression to his mentor.

"What are we looking at, Detective? Gangs? Mafia?"

The Detective sighs and rubs his chin. "Could be either. Could be something else, too. I don't know. The thing with the Tarot cards bothers me. Most of the time when someone leaves a calling card it's likely to be a serial killer or something other than organized crime." He notices the puzzled, pensive look on Johnny's face. "You all right?"

Johnny stirs from his thoughts. "Yeah. I just can't understand this kind of thing, you know? As long as I've been in this line of work, I still can't understand it."

"What? Guys getting thrown off buildings?"

"Murders. I could never be the kind of man that commits cold-blooded murder."

"Johnny, man is ugly. There's nothing worse than us."

"Sometimes I don't see how God allows these things to pass." Johnny usually keeps his religion to himself, but his occasional mention of it makes the Detective even fonder of him. A moral man in the midst of corruption deserves respect even from a jaded, hard-nosed crime fighting veteran like himself.

"God?" The Detective snorts as the bell rings and the elevator stops at the top floor. "When's the last time you saw God in New Orleans?"

The elevator door opens to the top floor of the hotel. Adjacent to the elevator, two police officers guard the entrance to the stairwell. One of them opens the door to the stairwell for the Detective and Johnny and they climb the two flights of stairs leading to the hotel rooftop. Once outside, they follow the trail of police officers and forensic unit personnel to the scene of the crime.

The bodies lay where the men died, all in fine suits, just like the man that landed on the street below. Some are face up, some face down, but all have dark pools of blood around them.

The Detective and Johnny pause to examine the first body they come to. An evidence technician approaches to give them an update.

"No bullet casings, no bullet wounds. Each victim has multiple lacerations to the major arteries. They pretty much bled out, so our guess is the weapons used were knives or other sharp objects."

"Other than knives?" the Detective asks. He squats down to get a better look at the body.

The evidence technician nods. "Some of these wounds are too deep for a small knife blade, even for a hunting blade. It had to be something bigger, like a machete ... or a sword."

"Any weapons found?" He studies the bloody gash across the dead man's throat.

"None, sir," the evidence technician responds. "We've looked extensively."

"And the Tarot cards?"

The young technician raises his eyebrows. "All of them had cards in their mouths."

"My God," Johnny says.

"God isn't here today, John," the Detective says soberly. "What about IDs? Where are these guys from?"

"Hey, Jones," the evidence technician calls to his partner. "IDs on these guys?"

"Yeah," his partner answers. "Looks like they're all from New York."

"Your old neighborhood, Detective?"

"Yeah," he mutters. "How long have they been dead?"

"Judging by the state of the bodies and lack of rigor mortis, I'd say less than an hour."

The Detective stands. He turns to Johnny. "All right, I want hotel surveillance footage, from this building and surrounding buildings, I know they've got 'em everywhere. I want footage from outdoor cameras, indoor cameras, elevators, stairwells. I want tourist videos. Question everyone you see. They may not have seen who did this but maybe they saw something that can help."

"Got it," Johnny affirms.

"Whoever did this could be close." With his hands on his hips the Detective slowly rotates to survey the surrounding buildings, his eyes gliding over rooftops and windows of neighboring buildings. "They might be watching."

## CHAPTER THREE: ROSE WHITE

Back in his office several hours later, the Detective drops heavily into his desk chair and stares at his blank computer screen. The noisy precinct buzzes with phone calls and conversations, though thankfully, the glass walls of his office muffle most of the racket. He's edgy from the morning's events and waiting to hear back from Johnny on the hotel's video surveillance and witness interviews. The thought of a mass murderer in his city leaves him pensive and concerned. He's deep in thought when a female officer interrupts his temporary moment of peace.

"Detective, I have someone here that would like to talk to you. Her name is Rose."

A blonde woman in her late twenties timidly steps into the office and up to the Detective's desk. She's dressed conservatively in jeans and an oversized black hoodie sweatshirt. She clutches an oversized cloth handbag, her eyes darting around nervously.

"Hello, Rose," he says, offering her a hand to shake. "I'm Detective Jenkins. Please sit down." He searches for a pen on his desk but can't locate one. He mutters under his breath.

Sensing his frustration, Rose hesitates to sit. "Is this a bad time? I can come back."

"No, no, please. It's as good a time as any. It's just been a busy morning," he answers. "Have a seat, please."

"Thank you," she says quietly. She sits rigidly in the hard wooden chair and immediately begins fidgeting.

"What can I do for you today?" the Detective asks kindly, sensing her distress.

Rose glances around the office, then behind her, making sure no one else can hear her. She takes a deep breath and reluctantly meets the Detective's inquisitive gaze with dark green eyes. "I just left my husband. I recently moved here and, he's not here but..." Her face flushes and she stops.

"It's okay. Take your time," he says.

"Thank you." She breathes deeply and then gives a wan smile, clutching her handbag tighter. "He always told me he'd kill me if I left him. So... I left him, and now... now I'm afraid that he's coming after me."

"Okay. Well, Ms. White, I'm sorry to hear that but I can promise you that I give cases like yours the highest priority, okay? We're here to do whatever it takes to keep you safe." He opens his desk drawer and pulls out his notepad and finds a pen. "Has he made any recent direct threats on you?"

"Um... no, I don't think he knows I'm here. He's from New York. That's where I lived with him. I just got to New Orleans a few weeks ago."

"Okay. So, no direct threats. Do you have any reason to believe he's in New Orleans? Has he tried to contact you in any way?"

She shakes her head. "No, he hasn't. I haven't talked to him since I left."

"Did he know you were leaving him?"

"No. I left in the middle of the day, when he was working."

"Did he physically abuse you?"

She shakes her head again. Her expression is a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. "No, he never physically hit me or anything... but it was... everything else."

The Detective sighs and sits back in his chair. "Okay, I'm afraid there's not much I can do. If he's not in contact with you, and he's not threatening you, then I can't really do anything for you, I have nothing to go on."

Rose looks down at her hands and tries to relax the iron grip she has on her handbag. "But what if he comes after me?"

"Well, then I can help you." Sometimes the limitations of the law disturbed him. The girl is obviously afraid, but legally his hands are tied unless there are direct threats or physical abuse.

"But what if it's too late?"

"Ms. White, I'm sorry, but the only thing I can really do is to take down his name, and his last known address, and basically sit on it. If you find out that he's in town, or if he makes contact with you, then you let me know, okay?"

"Okay," she says sadly.

"You know, in the meantime, it wouldn't hurt for you to get some counseling and maybe even learn some self-defense, just in case. You're alone in a new place. I take it you have no family here?"

"Not here," she answers.

"Then I recommend you take some extra precautions. Be careful of where you go, especially at night. Maybe take a few self-defense classes, I tell all the women in my family to do that. It never hurts to have those skills just in case something ever happens. And it might even help you feel better. It doesn't mean something will happen, just that you can be better prepared in case it does. All right?"

"Yes."

"All right then. What is your husband's name?"

"Can I just write it all down?"

"Sure, go ahead," he says as he slides the notepad across the desk to her. She writes down a name and address, and her own cell phone number. "Funny, you don't sound like you're from Brooklyn," he says.

"I'm not. I met him and moved there, and..." She drifts off as her thoughts stray and her mouth slides into a frown.

Sensing her inner turmoil, the Detective softens. "Look, maybe you could talk to someone, a counselor, or a Psychiatrist, about your situation. It might help you."

"I don't know if it would," she says.

"There's a doctor that works with our department. He's counselled a lot of domestic violence victims." He opens his messy desk drawer and shuffles through loose papers, then pulls out a business card. He hands it to her. "Doctor Vance. In fact he has a secondary office in this building. I can check to see if he's in today, if you feel like talking to him. You're not obligated, of course, but would you at least consider it?"

Rose accepts the card and nods. "I guess I could talk to him."

The Detective pages the female officer that brought Rose into his office and instructs her call the Psychiatrist's office. The doctor is in and has an immediate opening for Rose.

"Well, there we go, he can get you right in. Officer Barnes here will escort you to his office."

Rose stands and returns the female officer's warm smile.

"Be careful, Ms. White. Stay safe and let me know if anything new develops. All right?"

"Yes, okay. Thank you," she says.

They shake hands and Officer Barnes walks her through the precinct to the Psychiatrist's office.

The Detective watches as the young woman leaves his office. He can't help but wonder if there is a connection between the day's events. The dead men on Canal Street are from Brooklyn. So is this young woman, who seems scared for her life. Is this a coincidence, or something more?

"Jim," he calls to the closest officer typing away at a desk.

"Yeah, boss," the officer answers. He stops typing and enters the Detective's office.

"I need you to get me some info on someone from out of town." He scribbles Rose's information down, then tears out the page of the notepad that she had written on and hands it to the officer.

The officer reads the names and address. "Yes, sir, I'll check it out."

Moments later, Johnny arrives at the precinct and walks into the Detective's office, who raises an eyebrow as soon as he sees him.

"What the hell – why are you back so soon? Did you get my surveillance?"

Johnny shakes his head. "There isn't any."

"What do you mean? Where is it?"

"The cameras at the Marriott aren't operational. They've been down for several days. I contacted the surrounding businesses. Several have already responded that their surveillance is either not running or didn't catch anything."

"Christ," he groans. "Why the hell would all those cameras be down at the same time?"

"I don't know. It's either suspicious or extremely inconvenient. But we've still got officers checking around for witnesses."

The Detective raps his fingers on his desktop, thinking. "I want to know if the cameras being down in the Marriott and around it was a fluke coincidence, or if it was purposeful."

"According to the hotel's manager it's an electronic issue. "

"I don't accept that. I want to know the cause of the issue, when they went down, who has access to them. Get under their fingernails on this one, John."

Johnny nods. "I'm on it."

***

"Rose White? The doctor will see you now."

Rose sets the magazine down on the small coffee table and picks up her handbag. She only had to wait a few minutes after filling out paperwork to see the Psychiatrist. She thanks the receptionist as she passes by the desk. Apprehensive about the appointment, she knows she needs the help. Her fears have nearly turned unmanageable.

"Come in, Rose," Dr. Vance says warmly. Dressed in a light brown suit and red tie, the doctor pushes up the silver rimmed glasses that have partially slid down the bridge of his nose while reading her paperwork. He has a kind face and a warmth emanates from his pale blue eyes. His silvering hair and wrinkling skin remind Rose of her grandfather.

"Hello," she greets him. She sits at the plush leather chair in front of his desk.

"Are you comfortable sitting there, or would you prefer to sit on the lounge chair?" he points to the chair in the corner of the office.

"No, I'm fine here, thank you."

He picks through her file once more and then removes his glasses, setting them on his desk. "Well then. What brings you here today, Rose?"

"Well, I guess I just need to talk about something. I'm new in town. I'm pretty much alone, so I don't have anyone to talk to."

Dr. Vance nods. "And what brings you to New Orleans?"

She hesitates and looks away from him. "I left my husband."

"I see. Is this a temporary separation?"

"Oh no," she says, snapping her eyes back up at him. "No, I'll never go back to him. Ever."

"Okay. That's okay. Please continue."

Rose's hands are clasped in her lap but she squeezes and twists her fingers and thumbs, while bouncing her right foot on the floor. "Well, the problem is ... and I told the Detective this ... I think he might come after me."

"Your husband? Why do you think that?"

"Because of the kind of man he is. The way I left ... in the middle of the day, without telling him ... would be like a slap in the face to a man like him. That, and he always told me he'd kill me if I ever left him, and now, here I am."

"So you're concerned that he will live up to his threats?"

"Yes. That's my biggest fear. And seeing him again – I just don't ever want to see his face again. Or hear his voice."

"Did he physically abuse you?"

"No. But he bullied me, and threatened me, all the time. He had a bad temper and when he lost it, he would just destroy me with the ugliest, meanest words. He treated me more like a slave than a wife. He treated me like I was dirt under his shoe."

Dr. Vance nods. "I see. That must have been a very difficult time for you. How long were you with him?"

"Eight years."

He raises his eyes. "That's a long time to be in a relationship with domestic abuse, Rose."

"That's domestic abuse? What I just told you?"

"Yes, of course it is. You see, a person doesn't have to be hitting you in the face to be abusive. Sometimes the emotional and verbal abuse can be much worse than the physical kind."

"The problem now is, he told me he'd kill me if I left him so often, that I believed him. And I believe him now, and I just think he's going to come after me... and try to kill me."

"It's understandable that you feel this way. Sometimes threats like those can be a method of controlling you. Perhaps that was his way of manipulating you to stay in the relationship."

"I don't even know why he really cared, I mean... he had several affairs while we were together. I tried to leave when I found out about them, but he told me he'd kill himself if I did, or he'd kill me or my family. But why would he want me around so bad if he wanted to sleep with other women?"

The doctor pauses thoughtfully. "To some men, having an extramarital affair has nothing to do with their wife, and everything to do with feeding an ego, or perhaps he had an addiction."

Rose sighs. "Doctor, I don't know what to do. I feel so on edge. I'm always looking over my shoulder for him. I'm suspicious of everyone I meet. You see," she pauses, then lowers her voice to a whisper, "he's kind of involved with the mafia."

"Oh goodness," Dr. Vance comments. "Do you feel that increases the chances that he will act out his threats on you?"

"Yes. A thousand times yes. That's why I can't relax. I worry constantly, I can't sleep at night because I think he's going to come crashing through a window to kill me. I just don't know what to do."

"Do you have family anywhere? Friends?"

"No friends. I have family but they're scattered around the country. Some I haven't seen since I was very young. I've been really isolated from everyone. He liked to keep me isolated and I lost touch with just about everyone." She watches him scribble down notes in her file. "Doctor, sometimes I feel like I'm going insane. Or that I'm being paranoid. I'm not crazy, am I?"

"I don't believe you're crazy, Rose. But many times our fears and just that. Just fears. Not really based in reality, but they come from our imagination."

"But I'm not imagining things."

"You may not have imagined the emotional and verbal abuse you've suffered. But the fears that your husband is going to jump out and grab you, or crash through your window while you're sleeping at night, those fears come from your imagination and are probably not realistic."

"They feel real. Does that mean I'm being paranoid?"

"Not at all. It's your mind's way of working through things. I can prescribe you some medication to help you relax. Have you talked with the police about your concerns?"

"Yes. Actually, Detective Jenkins referred me to you. He said you help people like me."

"Yes I do. What did the Detective tell you to do?"

"He said there's nothing he can really do unless my husband actually comes after me."

"I see. Well, I think I can help you by prescribing you something that might help quell some of your anxiety. In the meantime, why don't we schedule you to start coming in, so we can start working through this. How does that sound?"

"I would like that," Rose says, still anxious but feeling a sliver of hope.

## CHAPTER FOUR: PERCY

"Dad, when are you going to stop doing this?"

The blind man's heart warms when he hears the familiar voice. He smiles broadly and reaches out his hand, happy to feel his son's strong warm palm slide into his. He squeezes it and returns his son's loving hug. He starts to stand from the crate he's been sitting on, but his son places a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't get up, Dad," he says as he seats himself on the crate beside his father.

The blind man angles his body towards his son. "Now you know this is exactly where I need to be, son," he says with a smile. "How else can I keep my ear to the ground?"

"I know, Dad."

"How's work in the hospital going?"

"It's fine, Dad. Actually, they want to promote me to Chief of Emergency Medicine."

"Well, it's about time!"

Doctor Percy laughs gently. "Yeah, it's a great thing. But I don't know, Dad. That might be more than I can handle right now."

"You can handle anything, son. Ain't no one else ever been able to take on what you do."

"I don't know about that," he says humbly.

"I do! I remember when you made it to medical school. You got that football scholarship and worked your way through college, then won that other scholarship to get you into medical school." Mr. Percy laughs fondly. "My, my, sometimes I still can't believe I got a Doctor for a son!"

"I was fortunate, Pops," Doctor Percy says, reminiscing about his family's early struggles. His mother passed away when he was twelve from cancer, and a rare disease caused his father to go blind shortly after. As the oldest of five children, he felt obligated to provide for the family when his father's disability prevented him from working, causing him to take to the streets to beg for money. It was always a struggle to put food on the table, and the college scholarships were a godsend. His ascent into the medical field enabled him to fully care for his father and siblings, although his father kept his job as a street beggar mostly because he actually liked running into different kinds of people each day. That, and to hear the whispering in the city about what's been going on.

"You doing okay, Dad? What did you want to talk to me about?"

Mr. Percy's proud smile fades, and his demeanor turns serious. He leans in towards his son to prevent potential eavesdroppers from hearing him. "There was a detective asking questions," he begins.

Dr. Percy looks at his father's concerned expression, partially hidden by the opaque sunglasses. "When?"

"Earlier this week. The bodies are piling up, and he wants to know who's behind it."

Dr. Percy sighs. "I know, Dad. The bodies come to my hospital's morgue. All of them."

"I just want you to be safe, son," he says gently. "There's a lot of bad people in this town. Please, just be careful."

"I'm always careful, Dad," he reassures the worried old man. He picks up his father's wrinkled hand covered in age spots and pats it. "It's going to be all right. Just try to avoid talking to that detective. He'll figure things out soon enough, but he needs to leave you alone in the process."

"He ain't getting' nothin' outta me, son. Ain't no way," he says stubbornly.

Dr. Percy chuckles. "That I can count on. Look, I've got to get back to work, or they're going to wonder where their top doctor is!"

"All right then, you go and work hard now!"

The two exchange another warm hug. "You keep that cell phone on you, at all times, right, Dad?"

"Of course, Son."

"All right. Let me know if you need anything. I'll see you soon."

A half a block away in a parked, unmarked car, Johnny sits in the driver's seat while Detective Jenkins watches through a small set of binoculars as the middle-aged man hugs the blind man and walks off. The blind man remains seated on the crate for a few minutes, then he stands and makes his slow descent down Canal Street, shaking his plastic cup and winning change and conversation from several tourists.

The Detective sets his binoculars down and scribbles on his notepad. "Percy," he says aloud. His eyes glance in the direction of the younger of the two familial men. "And was that Percy, Junior? We'll need to run the senior Percy's background when we get back to the office." According to his anonymous source, Percy knows something about these murders. And now, perhaps both Percy's do.

"What do you think their involvement is? What exactly did the source say? Do we know who it is?" Johnny asks.

"They're anonymous tips. Someone leaves them on my voicemail late at night when they know I won't answer," the Detective says, his voice tightening as he peers through the binoculars once more. "Whoever it is, they're hell bent on stressing this Percy's involvement."

Johnny silently chews on his bottom lip. The Detective has known him long enough to recognize it as a sign of an inner conflict of some sort.

"What's got you in a twist?"

Johnny shrugs. "Are we finished here?"

"Yeah, let's get back to the station," the Detective answers, casually flipping through his notepad.

Johnny starts the car and merges into traffic, glancing at the blind man on the sidewalk as they drive by.

"I still can't believe we have no witnesses to the rooftop murders," the Detective grumbles. "I mean, these guys get sliced and diced, one gets hurled off the building into the street, and there's not a single eyewitness. And conveniently, no surveillance either. I swear to God, John, things like this just boil my blood." He stomps a foot on the floor board and clenches his fists around the pen and notepad he's still gripping.

"It's bad news, Detective," Johnny agrees in a somber tone. "But we're going to find who did it and stop them. Whatever it takes."

"You got that right."

## CHAPTER FIVE: KRAV MAGA

"I can do this," Rose says under her breath. She pauses before entering the Krav Maga self-defense school. She doesn't like the idea of having to learn how to fight, but the discussions with both Dr. Vance and Detective Jenkins made her realize that maybe it was a good idea. It might help her feel less afraid, at the very least. She takes a deep breath and, with shaky hands, she pushes open the glass door and enters the school.

Inside the door is a small sitting room with two short rows of folding chairs. A young man in a suit sits in the first seat, lost in his iPhone. The seats have a clear view of the first training room by way of a large window in the wall that allows visitors to watch the class. It's a self-defense class for kids. Rose stands while she watches the children bounce around the room, all wearing white martial arts gis with variety of different colored belts. A man in his late fifties leads the class, his own gi black with a black belt. His face is kind and he seems to be doing more smiling and laughing than teaching as the kids try adorably to execute kicks and punches in their oversized sparring gear. Rose smiles and relaxes, even laughing at times. The lighthearted scene distracts her from her own anxiety.

"Are you here for the self-defense session?" The soft, deep voice nudges her from her trance. To her right approaches a tall, handsome man about her age with wavy light brown hair that just barely brushes the tops of his broad shoulders. His eyes are a warm shade of brown. Taken aback by his handsome features, she barely even notices the flesh-colored scarring that covers both of his cheeks and part of his chin.

"Uh... yes," she stutters. She gazes down at his black gi and black belt.

He extends his hand to her. "Welcome. I'm Michael. I teach the private lessons." He nods towards the training room.

"I'm Rose." It's difficult for her to look away from his warm gaze, and she drops her eyes out of habit. Her husband would become instantly jealous and possessive if he felt she was looking at any other man too long. She wasn't allowed to look let alone talk to them. Her insides instinctively tighten in apprehension of setting off her husband's volatile temper, despite the fact he's nowhere in sight.

"Hi, Rose. Come with me. We'll get started." Michael leads her down the hallway and into the adjoining classroom. He bows before entering. "When you enter the classroom here, we bow to the flag," he instructs, pointing at the American flag on the far wall above the large mirrored wall.

"Oh, okay," she says quietly. She bows and enters the classroom. The far wall in front of them is covered with mirrors, and sparring gear and extra mats line the sides of the classroom. A free standing heavy punching bag shaped like a human torso with a head sits in one corner. This is a real life training room, she thinks to herself.

"Take your shoes and socks off, and set them along the wall. We train barefoot here."

Rose complies and removes her black and pink Nike shoes and black socks and sets them against the wall closest to the doorway. She's aware that the instructor is watching her, which causes her shy nature to flare and exacerbates her anxiety. She silently reminds herself to breathe while simultaneously doubting that she should even be here. Wrestling with her inner conflict, she walks in bare feet onto the cushy mat and meets Michael in the middle of the room, stopping a few feet away from him.

"The most important thing to remember is, if you can run away from trouble, then run. But if you can't, then you need to be prepared to do anything to save your own life. Even if that means seriously injuring someone else. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she says timidly.

"Any man is going to be stronger than you. It doesn't matter how big or small he is, men are stronger than women. It's just how we're made. So my job is to teach you how to defend yourself in ways that don't rely on you overpowering a man. Instead, I'm going to show you how to hurt or disable the attacker, long enough for you to get away or to keep hurting him until you have a window to get away."

"That sounds good to me," Rose says.

Michael steps closer to her. His proximity makes her nervous. At first, it reminds her of how her husband used to intimidate her by getting close to her face to whisper his threats. Instinctively, she steps backwards.

"Don't do that," he corrects.

"Sorry," she says automatically. She looks at him with wide eyes. She again silently scolds herself that she's way out of her league coming to a place like this. She doesn't belong here! She doesn't have what it takes to do this.

"Don't be sorry, just don't step backwards." He steps close to her again and grabs her throat, gently. "If a man comes up to you and does this, he means to choke you. What do you think you should do?"

Rose's mind goes blank. Her senses are on overload. A handsome stranger has his hands around her neck, and she can't tell if she's enjoying the attention, or if she's scared to death thinking about how it could be her husband trying to strangle her.

"He means to strangle you, Rose. He wants to hurt you."

"I don't know," she mumbles. She has already broken into a nervous sweat and feels her body growing hot.

"Are you okay?" Michael asks, softening his grip. "You're sweating... are you nervous?"

"Yes... I mean, I don't know." she stammers.

He studies her conflicted expression for a moment and then smiles. "It's okay, Rose. I'm not going to hurt you."

She meets his warm brown eyes and sees that he is being genuine. He is not threatening. He is safe. "I know," she relents, with a small sigh.

"This is a safe place, where you will learn how to protect yourself. No need to be nervous. I'm only here to help you."

Rose is silent and a little overwhelmed by his kindness. Michael's words and mannerisms are disciplined and firm, but he's gentle and reassuring, as if he truly means to help her. To have a man tell her that not only is she safe, but that he means to help her, is the stark opposite of every intention of her domineering, bully of a husband.

"Okay, you strangle me," he says. He grabs her hands and brings them up to his neck. He is a foot taller than her and she stretches to reach his neck to mock strangle him. He brings up his hands. "Squeeze your fingers together, like this," he demonstrates. "Now, in a quick, fluid motion, aim for your own collarbone and swipe at the hands at your neck." He demonstrates the move and easily flicks her hands away from his neck. "Do it again, only this time try to hold onto my neck. Try to strangle me." She performs the movement and is surprised when he easily swipes her hands away, breaking her hold on him. "Okay, now you try."

He puts his hands around her neck. She executes the move. They practice the move several times, until she starts to forget about her life drama and the anxiety she experiences about taking the self-defense class. Michael is not only a great teacher, but she can see that he is a kind person. His strength is evident but he uses great restraint when he touches her. She wonders if he is a true gentleman outside of teaching.

"Next step. Look down at your legs. Now look at mine. Look how close we are, close enough for you to kick me square between the legs, right?" he asks.

She looks down, past the two veiny, muscular forearms mock strangling her, to their feet. "Oh... yes!"

"Now when you kick, use your shin. It has more surface area and it's much harder than just using the top of your foot. You'll do more damage with it."

She slowly simulates a kick, then looks up at him. He smiles.

"Good! Now in a real situation, kick him hard. And repeatedly if you have to. Enough to inflict so much pain that he forgets what he was doing. Then, you run."

The lesson continues until Rose begins to feel comfortable with her new instructor. The moves he shows her already make her more confident. At the end of the hour, Rose is completely relaxed.

"You did well today," Michael says.

Rose smiles. "Thank you."

"Now, I'm going to ask you an uncomfortable question."

"Um, okay?" Rose's stomach tightens, anticipating that something horrible will come out of his mouth. Horrible words so frequently came out of her husband's mouth, it's the only thing she expects out of men now.

"I ask this of all my female students. Is there something going on that has brought you here? Are you having a problem with someone?"

She relaxes. Thank goodness he's not barking a harmful criticism or threat at her. Thank goodness he's not berating her or putting her down. He's nothing like the monster she's used to living with.

"Well, I'm here because..." she pauses and looks into his warm eyes. He appears to genuinely care and awaits her response. But her confidence wanes and she looks away. She can't let anyone in yet. It feels too dangerous. "No. I just want to learn self-defense," she mumbles.

Michael nods and drops his gaze. "Come back the day after tomorrow. Same time," he says.

"Thank you," she says, feeling sad to leave. She retrieves her shoes and sits on the matted floor to put them back on.

As she stands up to leave the room, she is taken aback by the handsome, smiling face of another young man as he bows and enters the training room. When he sees her, he first looks to Michael and nods, then comes directly to her and shakes her hand.

"Hi there! I'm Johnny," he says, his dark blue eyes sparkling. Almost as tall as Michael, he's built stockier and seems to be more open and outgoing in comparison. His dark hair is cut short in military style, and he's wearing a dark blue gi with a black belt. His smile is broad and bright. "I teach the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu classes here, but I'm sure Michael has already told you all about me!" He laughs at his own joke.

"Hi," Rose says smiling.

"This is Rose White," Michael says for her. "She's new."

"Well, Miss Rose White, it's great to have you here!"

"Thank you," she says, blushing.

"Johnny is a police officer, Rose," Michael says.

"Oh, wow, that's great!" she says. A feeling of guilt suddenly sneaks up on her. It is a heavy, true guilt, as if she deserves to be arrested for the way she planned and executed her escape from her husband. Three months of planning, she thinks to herself, to be exact.

Johnny nods at Michael's comment. "It doesn't hurt to have a guy like me around."

"Well, nice to meet you," she says to Johnny. "And, thank you, I'll see you the day after tomorrow," she says to Michael and gives him a small wave.

"Goodbye, Rose," Johnny says.

She walks into the parking lot, automatically checking her surroundings for any sign of her husband or someone he's hired to get her, before she leaves the safety of the building towards her car.

The trainers watch Rose as she bows on her way out of the room and heads down the hallway towards the school's entrance. They observe, and sense the oddness, of the way she carefully scans the parking lot before approaching her car.

Johnny turns to Michael. "Rose White? It seems like I've heard that name recently, but I don't remember where."

Michael gazes out the window moments after Rose drives away in her small grey car. She lied about why she wanted to learn self-defense. There's a fearful edge to her that bothers him. Of the female students in his classes, at least half take self-defense as the result of domestic abuse. Naturally drawn to protecting women that are afraid, Michael gladly equips them with the training they need to ensure they'll give anyone hell for messing with them again.

"I think that girl might be in some sort of trouble," he voices, concerned.

Johnny looks up at him from his seated position on the mats as he stretches. "Really? Did she say something?"

"No. It's what she didn't say. And the look in her eyes. Something was wrong."

"I wish I had your knack for knowing things like that, Mike." Johnny chuckles, then sighs, his smile fading. He recalls the horrific crime scene at the Marriott. "There's a lot that isn't right in this town. You ready, or what?"

A shadow darkens Michael's face as his thoughts deepen and steal his mind away from the present. He's thinking about the girl. What is it about her that seems off? He doesn't hear his friend's questions.

Michael? Hey, have you been taking your medication? Michael? We can't afford to lose you.

Johnny stands up and claps his hands to snap Michael out of his trance.

Michael blinks, then looks at his sparring partner, already squared up and ready to practice their Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu moves.

"Are you ready for the pain?" Johnny jokes emphatically with a huge grin.

Michael cracks a half smile. "Bring it!"

Johnny executes a leg sweep, quickly taking Michael down to the mats. "Wow, thinking about that girl is slowing you down, Mike!" Johnny says with a chuckle.

"I wasn't ready," Michael retorts, rolling his friend into his guard and applying a triangle leg choke. Johnny is the only one he's ever fought or sparred with that can escape his triangle before Michael can force him to submit. He defends the choke and somersaults, rolling Michael into his guard.

Despite Johnny holding a black belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Michael almost always dominates him on the mats. Michael was training in BJJ for mixed martial arts fighting long before Johnny came into the sport. While Johnny was away in the Army, Michael racked up an impressive undefeated record of 22-0 and a Southern States Title Belt during his MMA days.

Maneuvering himself to put Michael in an arm bar, Johnny takes the opportunity to leverage Michael's undivided attention. "Mike, I asked you before but you didn't hear me. You still taking your medication?"

Michael briefly meets his friend's inquisitive gaze. "No John," he grunts. Johnny is taken off guard by the answer and his grip slips. Michael uses the hesitation to his advantage, rolling him into a headlock and forcing the submission.

Johnny taps his friend's arm and gasps for a breath when he's released from the choke. They stop rolling, both breathing hard, and Johnny's red face now showing concern.

Michael chuckles at his friend's dismay. "I'm kidding," he says. "Yes, of course I'm taking it."

Johnny's entire body shrugs with relief. "Good. I just want to make sure you're keeping it up, all right? We all need you."

Michael nods and drops his gaze, briefly rubbing his left eye. Before he clears his thoughts, Johnny accosts him in another chokehold and rolls him around again.

"Round two!" Johnny yells playfully.

Rolling relieves stress and hones skills for both of the fighting friends.

## CHAPTER SIX: LACRIMOSA

That night, the mournful notes of Mozart's Requiem: Lacrimosa swirl around the dimly lit second floor apartment. The Black Jester sits at the lighted wooden vanity next to the small window overlooking Decatur Street. The night sky is dark, and the light poles and the burning gas lamps affixed to the lower level buildings cast their warming yellow-orange glow on the streets. The constant flow of tourists and native residents walking to and from the local bars keeps the streets alive.

He is in full costume. The black Kevlar clothing hugs his body, protecting his long limbs and svelte physique. The black boot-length trench coat that wraps comfortably around him is loaded with knives and throwing stars, his preferred weapons of choice. His face is painted white with black around the eyes and mouth, a precaution he always takes in case his mask comes off during a fight. A white contact lens transforms his eye so that it matches the other. He slicks his hair back; the gel darkens and holds it in place. Lifting his ghostly eyes to meet his reflection in the vanity mirror, he returns the killer's stare and remains unmoving, save for the slow, rhythmic breaths that raise and lower his chest.

The cell phone on the vanity buzzes, and he breaks his gaze to look down at it. The text message has arrived. He picks up the phone and slips it into an inside coat pocket. He secures the black mask over the top half of his face and fits the black jester hat snugly onto his head. He waits for the last seconds of the Mozart song to finish playing, turning his face towards the antique record player to soak in every last haunting note. At the song's end, he closes his eyes, breathes in deeply, and exhales. His demeanor shifts from passive to predator, and he tears out of the barren apartment into the night.

Despite the recent rooftop bloodbath, the Mardi Gras themed party at the Marriott on Canal Street is in full swing. The Black Jester is in plain sight yet remains inconspicuous as he blends in with the drunken costumed partiers. He slips through the lobby and onto a noisy elevator packed with partying guests, riding it up to the top floor. The last one remaining after the drunks have off loaded onto their floors, he steps out of the elevator and proceeds down the hallway. Having already scoped out the location earlier, he approaches the conference room and stops outside the door, listening. Behind him, another elevator dings and opens slowly. He glances at it and watches as a costumed Red Jester steps out of the elevator and walks towards him. The two silently acknowledge each other with nods. They prepare for their entrance. The Black Jester pauses when he hears the drop of a name from inside the conference room.

Voices laden with heavy Brooklyn accents leak out of the thin walls of the executive conference room. "I don't care what it takes. Have you found her yet?"

"She's been seeing this shrink, Vance is his name. He's on the payroll, if you know what I mean. Says she goes by the name Rose White."

"Rose White? Christ. All right, tomorrow night, you pick her up. No matter what, you bring her to me, got it?"

In the hallway, the Black and Red Jesters make eye contact once more.

"You got it, boss," the other voice answers.

Inside the conference room, the suited men have taken their seats at the long oval table. They sip ice water, some fiddling with their cell phones and pagers, while others light cigars and chat amongst themselves as they wait for the meeting to start.

"All right, gentlemen. I'd like to thank all of you for coming tonight. We've got a lot to talk about, so let's get down to business." The voice belongs to Antonio Strong, a mobster from Brooklyn that has successfully managed to fly under the law enforcement radar and avoided arrest for years.

The lights in the room flicker and completely blacken for a few moments. The men at the table collectively mumble and curse, glancing cluelessly around the room. When the lights flicker back on, the Black and Red Jesters are standing in the room with them.

"What the hell?" Antonio Strong grumbles.

"Who the hell are these guys?" A smoking mobster yells.

The lights begin to flicker off and on again and the mobsters shout angrily.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"Gentlemen, please remain calm," the Red Jester says in a soothing tone. Hands slide into jacket pockets ready to draw weapons on the intruders, but the Jesters aren't ruffled. "Forgive the intrusion. If I may have your attention for just one minute."

The conference room, equipped with a built-in speaker system, begins to fill with the Black Jester's fight song, Mozart's Requiem, Lacrimosa.

"What is that shit?" A surly mobster growls. "Antonio, what the hell is going on here?"

"You walked into the wrong room, you clowns! Get out of here before things go very wrong for you!" Antonio warns.

"To the contrary, Mr. Strong, this is exactly the room we want to be in. And ... we're Jesters ... not clowns," the Red Jester says with a laugh.

As the deliberately dooming notes of the deceased composer's song float around the room like a deadly fog, the scene unfolding is surreal. It happens fast, but to all men in the room except the Jesters, it is a slow motion nightmare.

"Sorrowful day," begin the haunting voices of the song, in Latin.

The Black Jester springs into action, moving at what seems to be superhuman speed with the athletic prowess of an acrobat. He throws two knives. They plunge into the necks of two mobsters sitting next to each other at the table. Before the others can react, he has snapped the neck of a third mobster and brutally punches a fourth in the temple, causing him to slump over motionless where he sits.

"When from the ashes shall arise."

Antonio's right hand man begins pulling his boss away from the chaos towards the nearest door and opens fire at the Jesters. The flashing lights are too disorienting and the bullets hit nothing but walls.

"Guilty man to be judged."

The Red Jester engages the mobsters, quickly disarming them with two long, slender, lethal swords that move in silver blurs. The Black Jester slaughters two more mobsters. The Red Jester sees Antonio's escape and sheathes his swords beneath his long red cape. He tries to pry the Black Jester off a strangled mobster.

"God have mercy."

"The boss is getting away!" the Red Jester grunts, hoping to get the Black Jester to pursue the mob boss instead of choking his victim. "It's time to go ... come on!" It takes all his strength to pry the murdering maniac off of the now lifeless mobster.

"Compassionate Lord Jesus."

Ripping himself from his consuming rage, the Black Jester releases his victim's body with the intention of following the Red Jester out of the conference room, but the two remaining living mobsters steal his attention. They are wounded and scrambling to their feet, and they continue their feeble attempts to shoot the Jesters. To the Red Jester's protest, the Black Jester descends upon them with the ferocity of an attacking lion. He disarms them and with a single knife renders both men mortally wounded before they hit the floor.

Mozart finishes. "Grant them peace. Amen."

Antonio and his right hand man have escaped down the stairwell and through a lower hotel floor elevator. The Black and Red Jesters do not pursue them but quietly slip out of the hotel without drawing a suspicious eye. The gunshots from the top floor, mistaken for party popper noises, do not alarm anyone. The Jesters pause in a darkened alley behind the hotel before parting ways for the night.

"What's with the music?" the Red Jester questions his partner in a playful tone.

The Black Jester ignores the question and checks his coat for any remaining weapons. He briefly glances at the Red Jester, then pivots and begins to trot down the dark alley.

"Got somewhere else to be tonight? What about the debriefing?"

The Black Jester says nothing as he picks up his pace and disappears into the darkness.

"Would it kill you to talk once in a while?" The Red Jester calls to his partner but knows he won't get a response. He scans the shadowy alley around him to ensure it is clear of witnesses. He pulls out his cell phone and makes the call. "Yeah, it's done. He and another got away, but the others... understood," he says, hanging up. The debriefing calls are always short.

***

The carnage in the hotel conference room goes unnoticed until the next morning, when a cleaning crew finds the bodies. The gunshots were presumed by the myriad of drunken hotel guests to be noises associated with the usual over the top parties that so frequently occur in the hotel. Detective Jenkins steps around the obstacle course of overturned chairs and bloody bodies, looking for clues.

"Seven bodies total, Detective," Johnny reports to him. "There was plenty of shooting but none of these guys seem to have been shot. They all suffered from multiple lacerations."

The Detective studies the scene and squats down by one of the bloody bodies. With a gloved hand he grabs the man's jaw and pulls it down so that the mouth opens. He gazes inside the mouth and throat but sees only blood.

"No Tarot card. Any of the others have anything?"

"Nothing, Detective. No sign of a calling card on these guys," answers an evidence technician.

"Different killers?" Johnny says.

"Hard to say," the Detective answers. "They were basically massacred similar to the guys on the hotel roof. That means it's likely to be the same individuals. But not leaving cards this time? It might mean they didn't have time. We can't be sure until evidence gets done sweeping the place."

"Sir, we have a weapon," the evidence technician announces. With gloved hands, he pulls a bloody throwing star from the throat of a dead mobster. He stands and shows it to the Detective.

"Holy shit," the Detective says, squinting as he visually examines the exotic weapon. "Who uses a goddam throwing star these days?"

Apprehensively, Johnny steps closer to get a look at it. He looks from the bloody star to the Detective's face. His pulse quickens. After a tedious moment of silence passes, he clears his throat. "It could belong to one of the dead. Guys like these can spend a lot of money on special collector items. Antiques. Weapons. Maybe the killer used it against them," he suggests.

A police officer approaches the Detective along with a short mousy looking man with dark beady eyes wearing a red concierge uniform and a gold nametag on his lapel. "Sir, this gentleman is a manager here. He says someone tampered with the speaker system in this room. The maids that found the bodies said there was music playing over and over, like it was set to repeat."

"All right, bag this," he says to the evidence technician. He turns his attention to the officer. "What kind of music?"

"I heard it, Detective," the hotel manager chimes in, visibly proud of himself for being a part of the excitement. "It's Mozart. I would know. I listen to Classical music all the time."

"Mozart?"

"And we found this," the officer says handing him a cell phone inside a plastic police evidence bag. "This was inside the breaker panel, in the wall." He points to the small grey panel in the far wall.

The Detective looks at the cell phone through the plastic bag. "Do we know who this belongs to yet?"

"Negative, sir. There aren't any phone numbers in it, no text messages or pictures. The only thing we can see so far is that it has one song loaded onto it. Probably the song that's been playing in the room."

Johnny keenly observes the evidence and the conversation but remains silent.

The Detective looks up at the hotel manager. "How unusual is it that there's music playing in here?"

"Well we do have clients from time to time request music. However it's usually something my event staff will set up. We don't use cell phones. We bring in other equipment."

"What name was this conference room booked under?"

"It was the secretary of a private company that made the reservation. The only name she left was her first name, and the company name. Apex Associates."

"Apex? Never heard of them. All right. Let's hope someone left us some nice prints on this," the Detective says, handing the bagged cell phone to the evidence technician.

"We'll get it to the lab right away," the technician replies.

"And find out who these guys are, and why they were here!" The Detective takes one last good look at the dead body next to him, then groans as he stands up. "Why the hell would someone play classical music while they're murdering people," he mutters. "What kind of man does this?"

"What kind of man, indeed," Johnny says to himself quietly.

## CHAPTER SEVEN: THE ABDUCTION

After hastily departing the Red Jester's company following the conference room massacre, the Black Jester trailed Antonio Strong to a posh office building not far away. He didn't engage them, but instead scoped things out and observed the entrances and exits they used. He then left only to return at night once more.

The Black Jester plants himself at the exit the men used in the narrow alley behind the building. He leans against the windowless black van and watches them as they exit the building and proceed across the alley into the small parking lot.

"What the hell?" one of the men stammers as he sees the Black Jester leaning against the van they're heading towards. He glances at his partner then draws his handgun, pointing it at the costumed terror.

"Don't you move, you son of a bitch!" the other curses at him. He, too, draws and points his handgun. "We ought to kill you right here. We heard about what you did last night!"

"Don't shoot," the Black Jester says casually as he raises his hands. He straightens and faces the two men.

"I think I will shoot you, you crazy bastard! What are you, some kind of clown?" The other henchman says.

The Black Jester tilts his head. "Not a clown. A Jester," he corrects.

"Whatever! Let's kill this clown!"

"Hold on," the Black Jester says calmly. "I'll make you a deal. If you don't shoot me, I'll surrender. You can even tie me up. Throw me in your van. Take me with you to wherever you're going. And then, turn me into your boss so we can have a nice talk."

"Why should we?"

"I think he may have something to say to me, don't you?" He holds his hands out in an offering of surrender. "Bet your boss will reward you nicely for capturing me."

The two exchange a look. "Let's just do it, Carlisle. We're on a schedule," the first says. "Turn around, you asshole. And if you try anything, I'll put a bullet in your head!"

"Larry, cuff him, we ain't takin' any chances," Carlisle orders.

"Put your hands behind you," Larry says. "If you so much as flinch I'll blow your head off."

The Black Jester complies, turning around and placing his hands behind his back. Larry handcuffs him and shoves him into the back of the van. He laughs. "You know, you're either really stupid, or really crazy," the mafia henchman chides.

The Black Jester rights himself and sits up against the van's wall. The henchmen close the van's back doors and get into the vehicle. He hears them briefly discuss the direction they'll take to find the girl before they drive out of the parking lot.

Across town, Rose White leaves her apartment after scanning the area, looking forward to a cool evening run. She's nervous as usual, but she desperately wants to start running again because it has always helped her feel better. Dressed in a long sleeve, white Lycra running shirt and black jogging pants, she turns on her iPod and slips it inside the pouch on her armband, then pops in the ear buds. She glances around once more, her eyes searching for anyone that might be watching her. Seeing nothing suspicious, she takes off down the sidewalk. The sun has just set and the sky is still softly lit. The air cools quickly. This is always her favorite time of the day to be outside.

After just minutes on her route, Rose spots a rowdy looking group of juveniles ahead of her at an otherwise vacant intersection. Her instincts prompt her to cross the street and cut under the I-10 overpass to get to a more populated neighborhood. The new route leads her directly through a large, abandoned car lot. Feeling uneasy, she stops running and glances around nervously. Daylight is nearly gone and blackness begins to engulf the night. Something doesn't feel right. She begins to think she shouldn't have come this way. Unfamiliar with the area, she debates which direction will take her to a better lit route.

She starts jogging towards the far corner of the car lot towards a neighborhood street. Before reaching the end of the lot, she hears a faint noise over the music playing in her ears. The feeling of imminent danger creeps over her, and she becomes aware that something is behind her. A rush of wind hits her back. Her heart skips a beat. She whirls around just in time to see a hefty man in a dark suit jump out of the passenger door of a black van that slows to a stop. Before she can react, he swings his meaty fist right at her face.

The blow knocks her to the ground, and she hits hard, groaning. Her ear buds are ripped from her ears, and they, along with the iPod, go flying across the roughly paved lot. Before she can move, the man grabs her by the hair and yanks her to her feet. She screams. The driver of the black van, another rough looking man in a suit, runs to the back of the van and prepares to open the doors.

"Someone's been looking for you!" the man holding Rose growls. She recognizes his Brooklyn accent.

In a panic, Rose quickly tries to remembering a few of the basic self-defense moves Michael taught her. She jams her elbow into her attacker's stomach and pivots to deliver a swift kick between his legs. Her attacker grunts and curses. She kicks him again, but he isn't letting go of her. Despite appearing to be an overweight meathead, he's solid as a rock under the suit and her strikes have little effect on him.

"Goddam it!" he snarls. He yanks her head back by her hair. With his free hand, he punches her hard in the face, then delivers a series of crushing blows to her stomach and ribs. She screams until the attack knocks the wind from her lungs. She struggles with all her strength against his hold to no avail. When he sees that she's incapacitated, he wrangles her by her hair and slams her head into the back of the van for insurance. Then he rips her arms down behind her and slaps handcuffs on her.

"Christ, Larry! Don't kill her!" Carlisle chides his violent partner. "He wants us to bring her to him. He didn't say nothin' about killing her."

"He didn't say nothin' about not roughing her up either," Larry retorts. "Open the damn doors!" His partner complies. "Let's see how you like riding with this guy," he coos cruelly in her ear before shoving her into the van in one fluid motion. Her chin hits a wheel well inside and the force dazes her for a few moments. "Hey asshole, we've got you a friend," he teases the Black Jester, witnessing the violent scene. "Play nice."

They slam the van doors closed and bicker loudly with each other as they get back in the front and peel out of the parking lot.

Riding on the metal floor of the van is bumpy and rough. Rose's head is pounding and she feels the fresh warm blood oozing down her face. Intense pain radiates from her stomach and ribs. She struggles to regain her breath and coughs. Spikes of pain shoot through her body. Her emotions betray her, and she cries. She tries to stop, and to hold her breath to avoid the pain, but her efforts fail.

Panicking and disoriented, she struggles to sit up and when she does, she nearly screams at the sight of the masked face staring back at her.

He says nothing but stares at her, studying her condition. Rose goes rigid. She straightens and scoots away from him, pressing her back into the wall of the van in hopes of escaping the costumed man. But her fear of her captive partner is interrupted by the pain overtaking her body.

"Oh, my God," she cries. She grimaces and forces herself to swallow the blood in her mouth, her nose and her busted lip bleeding freely. She closes her eyes, hoping to wake up from the nightmare. But she knows she won't. Her husband has found her and her worst fears are coming true.

She opens her eyes and reluctantly looks at the masked face again. The man is dressed like a Jester, his clothing, eye mask, and hat all black. She peers into his eyes. Where there should be color in his eyes, they're white instead, giving him a demonic appearance. Despite danger literally staring her in the face, all she can think about is that her monster of a husband has found her.

Noticing the costumed man's hands seem to be secured behind his back, she assumes he is a prisoner just as she is.

"Where are they taking me?" she whispers.

The masked face tilts curiously to one side.

"Do you know?"

Remaining silent, the Black Jester still watches her. After a moment of awkward silence, Rose cries out in frustration, then cringes at the pain in her ribs. "I cannot believe this is happening." She shakes her head in disbelief and begins to panic once more. "I can't believe he found me."

"Who?" the Black Jester asks quietly.

Rose looks at him strangely. "Antonio Strong. These are his henchmen. I knew he'd be looking for me."

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter... I'm screwed. He's got me now."

"Does he?" The Black Jester brings his hands from behind his back to reveal that he has picked the lock on his own handcuffs. He drops them on the van's floor.

Rose stares at the cuffs in disbelief. Her sobs subside and a wave of hope sweeps over her. "Can you take mine off, too? Please?"

The Black Jester considers her question but doesn't answer. Instead he scoots over to her until he's too close for her comfort and peers into her eyes. She presses back against the wall of the van and lets out a small groan when the bruised spot on her head hits it. "Ouch," she says with a grimace.

The Black Jester reaches up and carefully takes her head in his hands. She sits paralyzed, unsure of his motives. He moves her head side to side as he inspects the fresh damage. With his large, wide palm hand, he wipes at the streams of blood running from the gouge in her eyebrow and from her nose and lip.

"Oh God... is it bad?" she says.

He doesn't answer but continues to evaluate her wounds. His ghostly eyes peer into hers, sending shivers down her spine.

"Who are you? Why are you in here?" she asks him.

The Black Jester releases her. He looks at her blood on his hands, then folds them and rests them in his lap. The slightest of smiles flashes across his black painted mouth and leaves just as quickly. His lips part as if he wants to say something, but he does not.

His silence makes her all the more uneasy. "Okay, you don't have to tell me," she concedes. "You know what's crazy? I'd rather be in here with you then with that monster."

"Monster?"

"Antonio Strong." She lowers her head as her thoughts drift off to the hell she's been trying to escape. A sudden shooting pain in her abdomen jolts her out of her flashback and she groans.

"Are you sure?" he asks quietly, his tone low.

"About ... what?"

"That you'd rather be in here with me?" His face is stone still with no trace of the ever so slight smile.

Fear rolls around in her stomach, but the situation at hand is by far worse than the white eyed character in front of her. "Can you help me escape?"

The Black Jester brings his hands to her shoulders and rests them there for a moment. Whether he's making an odd attempt to comfort her or trying to creep her out, she can't tell. With his hands, he traces her arms down to the handcuffs, staring at her silently as he manipulates the cuffs behind her. Their faces are only a few inches apart. The slow, warm puffs of his calm, controlled breathing brush past her cheek. She shifts her gaze to the floor of the van as she becomes uncomfortable being the focus of his demonic gaze. The fidgeting behind her back ends, and he pulls out her handcuffs, tossing them next to his on the van's floor.

Rose brings her hands to her ribs and holds them in hopes the touch will help lessen the pain. Unmoving, the Black Jester watches her. He watches her hands run gingerly over her ribs and her stomach, and sees her face cringe with pain. Interested in her wounds, he slides his right hand under hers. She jumps at his touch, still uncertain if the costumed terror is going to hurt her. He runs his hand over her side and gently feels her ribs, surveying the damage underneath the bloodied white running shirt. His eyes examine her ribs as they rise up and down with every strained breath she takes.

"Are my ribs broken?" Rose's question breaks the silence.

He presses more firmly on her ribs. She grimaces and chokes back a groan. "Yes."

"Great," she laments. He continues to stare at her, but before she can say anything else, the van lurches to a stop and they can hear the men talking as the driver and passenger doors open and close. "Oh, no," Rose breathes. She begins to panic and breathe heavily, intermittently wincing in pain.

The Black Jester starts to slide away from her but she grabs his arm in desperation. "Can you get us out of here? "

He presses his index finger against his black painted lips. "Shhhh," he hushes her. He points to the van doors. "Don't move."

Rose nods her head. She holds her breath as they wait, shaking in pain and fear.

The van doors crack open. The Black Jester springs into action, moving with a speed and ferocity that Rose has never before witnessed. He violently kicks one of the doors into Larry, knocking him to the ground. Before Larry can get up, the Black Jester is out of the van attacking Carlisle. He screams and curses as the Black Jester slides behind him, hooking an arm around his neck. With a quick movement, the Black Jester snaps Carlisle's neck, and the lifeless body slumps to the ground.

Larry barely gets back on his feet when the Black Jester pulls a knife from his long coat and plunges the blade into the henchman's throat. Larry's attempted screams come out gurgled as his throat fills with blood. The Black Jester withdraws the knife and repeatedly stabs Larry's throat and chest until the bloody gurgling stops and Larry falls dead onto the hard cement floor.

Rose witnesses the scene through the still-swinging van doors, too terrified by the brutal violence to move. Filled with panic yet remaining quiet and still, she watches the bodies of her abductors fall.

The Black Jester pulls both van doors wide open and holds them until they stop swinging. He peers into the van and stares at Rose's ghastly expression. His breaths are heavy but controlled from the burst of action. He's speckled with blood, his black trench coat shining in spots from the dark red splatters. After what seems to be some consideration on his part, he offers his hand to her. She recoils, but his gesture remains, his outstretched hand unwavering. Reluctantly, she decides to accept his help, keeping her eye on his other hand that still grips the large bloody knife.

Her movements are slow and labored, her body half broken from the brutal assault. Holding onto the masked killer's hand, she carefully climbs out of the van. Once on the ground, she is overwhelmed by the bloody scene at her feet. "Oh, my God," she breathes. She looks up and tries to determine where she is. The henchmen had driven them to a large parking garage, possibly that of a large office building or a hotel.

Bloody knife still in hand, the Black Jester points it towards an exit sign and looks at Rose. "That way. Run!" He orders.

Rose understands that he's helping her get away and she feels relief that she is going to escape this ordeal. The Black Jester still has a hold of her hand. His hand is gentle but strong, and surprisingly warm as it completely engulfs her own. She notices but it doesn't register that it is also covered in both hers and Larry's blood. His gentleness is just as surprising to her as the brutal attack. How could he be the same person that just slaughtered two men?

The Black Jester's gaze follows Rose's eyes down to their enjoined hands. He releases his hold on her. "Go!" he orders again, and tears swiftly away from her in the opposite direction he told her to run.

Terrified and in agony, Rose holds her ribs and laboriously runs in the direction of the exit, stopping only once to look back at the van and its bloody scene. She scans the darkest areas of the parking garage for the Black Jester but doesn't see him.

## CHAPTER EIGHT: THE ROOFTOP SUMMIT

Later that night, the Black Jester is the last to arrive at the meeting with the other vigilante Jesters. High on the skyscraper's rooftop, they have the best view of the city. The black sky glitters with twinkling stars. Stories below them, the city and building lights sparkle. The palm trees lining the streets dance rhythmically in a balmy sea breeze. Aside from a few stray cars and the distant wailing of a police siren, the streets are mostly quiet.

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming," the boisterous voice greets the Black Jester.

As usual, the Black Jester ignores the comment and remains silent as he joins the group. They're a colorful group of Jesters, each with a uniquely designed costume. The Black Jester's costume is the plainest of the group, as he prefers practicality over pompousness. The most ornate member of the group is the Gold Jester, boasting a luxurious golden Venetian-style costume complete with mask and headdress.

The Blue and Red Jesters are equally impressive although not as elaborate. Each Jester blends in perfectly with the constant influx of drunken costumed partiers and tourists in the party areas of the city, as is their intent. However, unlike the vacationing tourists, each Jester costume is also bulletproof and hides an arsenal of weapons.

"Thank you all for meeting here tonight. I felt it was necessary we talk face to face," the Gold Jester says.

"Things are getting out of control," the Blue Jester voices in concern. "They found one of your throwing stars!" he says to the Black Jester.

"Relax, Justice. Everything is under control," the Gold Jester reassures them calmly.

"How can you say that?" the Blue Jester challenges. "Things are going off track. We're pulling in too many outsiders. That defeats our purpose!"

"They are all part of our purpose," the Gold Jester answers, this time more sternly. "By bringing them in, we only speed up our plan. The capital they contribute will only accelerate our efforts."

The Blue Jester snorts. "And by capital you mean the money we steal from them?"

"They give it willingly," the Gold Jester says, slowly pacing the rooftop. "And then, we end them. Two birds with one stone. The plan is pristine."

"Pristine?" the Blue Jester echoes. "The police department is on high alert. With the number of bodies we've been putting down, it's only a matter of time before they tie a piece of evidence to one of us."

"Not if you're careful," the Gold Jester retorts. He turns and looks at the Black Jester. "Which I'm sure you're being careful, right, Vengeance?" he says. "No more breadcrumbs for the police!"

The Black Jester remains still and silent, but the Red and Blue Jesters are visibly anxious.

"All right, so, let's talk Antonio Strong. What's the rest of the plan with him? Do we still need him?" the Red Jester chimes in.

The Gold Jester shakes his head. "Antonio Strong has contributed more than anticipated to the fund. As far as I'm concerned, he's done."

"Fine by me," the Red Jester says. "How and when do we do it?"

"He's mine," the Black Jester murmurs.

The Gold Jester chuckles. "That's what I love about you, Vengeance. You're a machine," he says in admiration. "Well then. It's decided. Strong is done."

"Don't you want help?" the Red Jester says. "Strong still has men with him."

"Like I need help," the Black Jester responds dryly.

The Blue Jester sighs heavily and breaks the circle. He paces to the edge of the rooftop and crosses his arms as he peers down at the brightly lit streets.

"Crisis of conscience again?" the Gold Jester teases him.

The Blue Jester pivots and paces back to the others. "This many people were never supposed to die," he says emphatically, pointing at the Gold Jester. "Since when does saving this city from corruption involve so much killing?"

"This is justice!" the quick-tempered Gold Jester hisses.

"Justice?" the Blue Jester challenges. "You think murder is justice? We're practically terrorists! I didn't agree to all of this to get involved in terrorism. I'm doing this to stop terrorism!"

The Gold Jester rushes the Blue Jester and grabs handfuls of his costume. The Black and Red Jesters jump in to pull them apart, shouting at them to stop.

"There is no court for monsters like these!" the Gold Jester yells. "They have too much money and too much power for the legal system to work on them. Hell, Justice, most of the city government is on our target list! They don't follow the rules, so we have to make new rules for them!"

The Blue Jester has his own crushing handful of the Gold Jester's costume. "When we started this, we had a noble cause. Or doesn't anyone remember that?" he looks around at all the Jesters. "But we're nothing more than murderers!"

The Gold Jester growls in frustration. "Our cause has never been nobler! Everything is going according to plan. Everything! Why can't you see that?"

The Red Jester pulls the Gold Jester away and restrains him. "Stop this! We're all on the same side."

"The same side?" the Blue Jester retorts. "The only side I see here is his." He jerks his head towards the Gold Jester. "Let go of me!" he growls at the Black Jester. "He has the King fooled into thinking this is the best way. But it's not!"

"Calm down!" the Black Jester warns, releasing the ruffled Blue Jester.

"You're becoming just like them," the Blue Jester accuses the Black Jester. "If this ends badly... if this ends with him turning into the next tyrant that oppresses this town, then he and I will have a problem!"

"Be careful threatening me, Justice," the Gold Jester warns. "That's not something you want to do."

Agitated and angry, the Blue Jester throws his hands up in the air. "I'm done with this. I'm out. I'm going straight to the King and telling him it's over." He turns to head for the door to the stairs. But the Gold Jester's words stop him in his tracks.

"Your sister," the Gold Jester calls after him. "Your parents."

The Blue Jester spins around and faces them.

Walking towards the suddenly stoic Blue Jester, the Gold Jester calms his tone. The Black and Red Jesters follow him, prepared to intervene in the case of another scuffle.

"Remember why you're doing this," the Gold Jester says, now standing directly in front of the Blue Jester. He peers into his old friend's eyes, trying to connect with him again. "Remember why all of us are doing this," he adds, holding his hands out and open. "It's not about money, or power. It's about purging evil. It's about restoring justice and order, and it's about doing what's right. For our families, for us, and for them." He points to the sparkling city streets below. "The King wants what's best for them and for us. Remember where your loyalties belong."

The Blue Jester breathes deeply in an effort to calm himself. "I know," he says, his demeanor subdued. "All right. I just need to go." He glances at the Black Jester and then stalks back through the metal door leading to the building's stairway.

"So we're done with Antonio Strong. Who's next?" the Red Jester asks.

The Gold Jester pauses silently then turns to face the remaining Jesters. "Next, the King says we are to go all the way to the top. The stakes are higher. But so are the rewards. Are you two up to the challenge?"

"I'm in this all the way," the Red Jester answers, pommeling his fist into his other palm.

"We'll talk soon," the Gold Jester. "Meanwhile, I want you to help with Strong."

"No," the Black Jester utters. "He's mine!"

"Use your head, Vengeance. You increase the chances of something going wrong by handling it on your own," the Gold Jester objects. "Take Blades with you," he says, pointing to the Red Jester. "You'll need the backup."

Aggravated and angry, the Black Jester storms past the Gold Jester and leaves through the same roof exit the Blue Jester just took.

The Gold Jester's eyes follow him and remain fixed upon the metal roof door as it slams shut. "Watch him. Make sure he doesn't become a liability," he commands the Red Jester.

Storming through dark back alleys on the way back to his home, the Black Jester rounds a corner and jumps, startled by the figure that waits for him. He draws a knife and prepares to decapitate the man.

"Vengeance! It's me," the Blue Jester says hurriedly, throwing his hands up in surrender. He learned a long time ago not to sneak up on his friend, and if by chance he did, to show his surrender as fast as possible to avoid getting his head knocked or sliced off. The Black Jester's inhumanly fast reflexes and his brutality warrant great caution.

Relaxing and lowering the knife, the Black Jester grunts. "What are you doing?"

"Look, don't you think this is all getting out of hand? Blades and the Gold don't ever question the King's motives, but I'm starting to wonder if we aren't being played."

Confused and annoyed by the question, the Black Jester shrugs and begins to pace. He's not one to want to talk about things, but he'll do anything for Justice, including try to listen to his protests. His mind is starting to wander back to the girl.

"The things we've been doing lately go against every grain in my body, Vengeance. I never wanted to be an accessory to murder."

"You don't kill," the Black Jester offers as consolation. He hopes that's enough to end his friend's qualms.

"The police are narrowing in on some leads. I don't know how long I can keep them at bay. And the Detective... he's a good man and he's trying to do the same thing we are. He just wants to do the right thing. Stop the bad guys. I don't want to see him get hurt."

"Keep him out of it," the Black Jester says in a softer tone. "If you want him to live, keep him away." His easily distracted mind becomes flooded with thoughts of Rose White, and he jogs in the direction of the girl, his exit forcing an end to the conversation.

The Blue Jester lingers briefly, resting against the brick building's side to reconcile the meeting with the other Jesters. He contemplates his next moves and can't help but fill with apprehension about the fate of the Jesters and of Detective Jenkins.

The Black Jester finds himself at Rose's apartment building instead of at his own home. He nearly forgets he's still in costume until a resident of the building walks outside, seeing only the Black Jester's fleeting shadow as he ducks out of sight.

What is he doing? He meant to go home. No, he wants to see Rose. Is she okay? How can he see her? He stalks around the building to the back, where he spots her second floor window. The light is still on inside. This is the second time he's been there.

He watches the window for any sign of movement for nearly an hour. Finally, the light goes off, and he imagines her being inside, struggling to sleep with horrendous bruises and broken bones. He silently aches to comfort her. To help her. But not yet. Instead, he spends the entire night guarding the building against any would-be intruders. Only a female resident enters the building the entire night. All else is quiet, save for the Black Jester's thunderous thoughts.

In his mind, he replays the moments in the van with her from earlier. He visualizes her face. She was beautiful. Vulnerable. Her large green eyes were murky with fear. Her soft voice spoke words of terror – but she didn't fear him. It's a first, and the way she looked at him, as if he was a superhero there to save her and not a masked vigilante likely to kill her, sticks with him.

Fear and terror don't belong in her. She shouldn't have to experience them. He'll kill. He'll kill anyone that tries to hurt her again. His chest tightens, and he clenches his teeth as he imagines plunging his knife into Larry and Carlisle over and over again in his mind's movie.

Throughout the night, he seethes, heat flushing his face beneath the mask and face paint. He repeatedly works himself into a frenzy while on duty at Rose's building. When the morning sun yawns, its soft light illuminates his hideout and he becomes aware that he needs to leave before someone sees him.

He glares at the soft pinks and oranges chasing away his beloved dark night. A spritely ray of orange sunlight strikes his left eye, immediately invoking images of the fire that burned his face ten years ago. His head twitches, then jerks violently as he tries to shake the image from memory. It never works. Whenever this happens, he plunges into the tumultuous memories from that day. The storm. The fire. The flood. The murder. His death, then the subsequent awakening as something ... different than he was before.

A neighborhood dog charges the wood plank fence the Black Jester has just crashed into as he battles his violent memories. The dog's aggressive barking snaps him back into the present, to his relief. Tortured by the memory, he still feels the pain of his mind's split resulting from being ripped from death's eternal slumber by adrenaline and electric shock. Filled with an overwhelming, uncomfortable energy, he slams his fist into the wooden fence, knocking the entire plank off its structure into the barking dog's yard.

The violent expulsion of energy brings him some relief, taking the edge off his enraged state. He quickly scans his surroundings for witnesses, then sprints off towards his own home, quickly glancing back at Rose's building in case a rogue attacker happened to materialize while he was venting his rage. One last chance to kill before starting a new day.

Then he'll take his medication and be normal, at least until it's dark again.

## CHAPTER NINE: ALL-POINTS BULLETIN

On the other side of town, a sleepy businessman is the first to arrive at the parking garage of the office building where the Black Jester left Larry and Carlisle dead on the cold cement floor. Shocked and horrified, the businessman makes the grisly discovery of the two dead bodies that still lie next to the still parked black cargo van from the night before.

Soon after, Detective Jenkins gets word of the situation and orders the parking garage to be closed and blocked off until further notice. He rushes to the scene.

Johnny had been on his way in to the police precinct when he gets re-routed to the scene. As one of the first law enforcement officers to arrive, he just finishes the interview with the shaken businessman and releases him from questioning when the Detective arrives.

"What do we have?" the Detective asks him.

"This gentleman found the two bodies, and the van. There was no one else around according to the witness," Johnny answers.

The Detective watches the witness as he reverses out of his parking spot in his grey BMW. Apparently he is too shaken by the scene to go to work. "Is our witness legit?"

"Yes, sir, we've confirmed his identity with his boss. They said he's usually the first to arrive in the morning."

"Did security see anything? Is there video footage?"

Johnny sighs and shakes his head. "We haven't been able to get a hold of the security office yet."

"Dammit. We need to get on this. I need to see some video!"

"Who's in charge here?" a voice demands from the parking garage elevator.

The Detective watches as a dark haired man in a grey suit flanked by two bodyguards marches towards the crime scene. The suited man is visibly angry, his face flushed, and his chest heaving.

"I'm Detective Jenkins, and who are you?" He extends his hand but the grey suit is in no mood to be cordial.

"Detective? Are you gonna tell me what the hell is going on here?" He points to the dead men by the van. "Those are my men. What the hell are my employees doing lying there dead?"

The Detective realizes who the angry man with the Brooklyn accent is.

"You must be Antonio Strong?" he asks.

"You're goddam right I am."

Johnny tenses. He and the Detective exchange a brief look.

"Mr. Strong, these men work for you?"

"Yes, genius, they do," he says with a snort. "Well, they did. They can't really work for me anymore, now can they!"

The Detective ignores the sarcasm. "Mr. Strong, I'm curious. What are you doing in New Orleans?"

"What am I doing in New Orleans? What is every other rich entrepreneur doing in New Orleans right now? I'm here for the business convention. Don't you know what goes on in your own city?"

The Detective stares hard into Antonio's cold, dark eyes. "Mr. Strong, is there any other reason you're here?"

Antonio snorts again. "I'm here on business, Detective. Now, I think you should do your job, and find out who ganked two of my employees!"

"Are you familiar with Apex Associates, Mr. Strong?"

Antonio rolls his eyes and laughs. "If you want to ask me anything else, I'll be referring you to my attorney. Meanwhile you should pull your head out of your ass, and do some real police work! Find out who did this!" he yells. "Let's go," he barks at his bodyguards and snaps his fingers. Antonio and his men storm back into the parking garage elevator.

Johnny sighs after realizing he had been holding his breath. "Man, I don't like that guy," he says. "Do you think he's really here for something else?"

"Of course he is. He may have other business, but he's here to find poor Rose."

Johnny bulks. "Rose?"

"Yeah, his wife. She's on the run from him. Rose White. She came into the station recently. So far all Danny's found on her is that she's fleeing from Brooklyn and 'Rose White' isn't her real name."

"Wow. So even hundreds of miles and a name change weren't enough to keep him from finding her," Johnny murmurs.

Johnny's observation piques the Detective's interest. He rubs his chin, thinking. "So that begs the question Johnny, how did he know she was here?"

"Well, he seems to be a connected guy. Maybe he always knows where she is."

"Yeah," he says, drifting off and theorizing the possibilities.

"We can't arrest him. He hasn't done anything to her that we know of. Maybe we should check in with her? She's obviously afraid of him, Detective. She came in for a self-defense class the other night." Johnny says.

"She did? Ah, she took my advice. You met her?"

"Yeah. Nice girl. Seemed like something was bothering her."

"Okay, John. Why don't you give her a call? Actually, no. I want you to follow her. You and get another team to watch her, take shifts. Let's keep this girl safe. I don't think she stands a chance against Mr. Strong without help."

Johnny claps his hands together. "This is why I became a cop, Detective. To protect people like Rose," Johnny says, pumped about his new assignment to protect the girl.

The Detective nods in agreement. He glances at the elevators, then down at the bodies. "I'm going to find out what kind of business Mr. Strong says he's here for. Keep me in the loop. Let me know how our girl is doing."

"You got it," Johnny says and jogs towards his vehicle.

The Detective takes the elevator that Antonio and his men took to the sixteenth floor of the office building. When the elevator doors open, he sees a receptionist sitting at a large mahogany desk typing away at her computer. The young woman is professionally dressed in a maroon business suit and doesn't look up when the Detective steps out of the elevator. It is only after he clears his throat and raps his fingertips on the desk counter when she gazes up at him over her black-rimmed glasses.

"Can I help you?" she says, then looks back down at her computer screen.

The Detective glances around the reception room. Its only contents besides the reception desk are two plush navy blue chairs and a large fake plant. Behind the receptionist is a closed set of double doors leading to the inner office area of the floor.

"What company is this?"

"This is an office of Apex Associates, sir," she says.

"Apex," he repeats. "Who owns it?"

She stops typing. "Is there something I can help you with?"

The Detective pulls out his badge from the inside pocket of his blazer. He shows it to her and watches as her face remains expressionless.

"I need to speak with Antonio Strong," he says politely.

The receptionist picks up her phone and dials. The Detective can hear a man's voice answer. "There's a police detective here to see Mr. Strong," she says.

He can't make out the words, but the tone on the other end of the phone call is brisk. After a few brief sentences, the receptionist hangs up.

"Mr. Connor will be right with you," she says.

"Connor? Who's he?"

"Harrison Connor is the owner of this building."

"Isn't he the mayoral candidate?"

The receptionist nods.

Harrison Connor's name is plastered all over the city. He's ahead in every poll and is favored to win the mayoral election in the fall. It's nearly impossible to go anywhere in the city without seeing his name or face on a poster, billboard, or newspaper.

The double doors behind the receptionist open, and Harrison Connor's bright smile is the first thing the Detective notices.

"Hello, Detective," he says cheerfully. He extends his hand and they shake.

"Mr. Connor," he replies, studying the mayoral candidate's bright expression and handsome features. He's as tall as the Detective and appears to be in his mid-thirties. His slicked back blonde hair, clear dark green eyes, groomed eyebrows, and whitened teeth give him the likeness of a television actor. He has a powerful yet relaxed presence, and the Detective senses a larger-than-life ego.

"It's hard to go anywhere without seeing your face," the Detective says dryly.

Harrison chuckles. "Yes, but I guess that's the point, if I want to win the election this fall. So, what brings you here?"

"Are you aware of the incident in your parking garage last night?"

"Yes," Harrison says, cheerfulness fading. "I am so saddened and shocked by it. Have you caught the perpetrator yet?"

"Not yet. Actually, we've been trying to get a hold of your security team."

"They aren't answering? Oh goodness. I'm sorry. I just got in and Lucy here filled me in on what happened."

"Mr. Connor, I need to see the surveillance footage from the parking garage. You do have cameras, right?"

"Yes, Detective, and you're in luck because Lucy can bring up surveillance for us right here on her computer." Harrison walks to Lucy and instructs her to bring up the video.

While waiting on Lucy, the Detective asks his burning question. "And there's one more thing. Antonio Strong came in here just a few minutes before me. What is the nature of his business here?"

"Mr. Strong? Oh, well he is a potential business partner that has expressed an interest in investing in a project that my company is working on." Harrison's tone is plastic and innocent. "He's actually one of many business investors I'm working with. And besides the fact that two of his men were senselessly murdered this morning, he seems to be a pretty upstanding gentleman."

"How long have you known Mr. Strong?"

"Well, I just recently met him. We've convened a few times at the business conferences in town. Is there a problem, Detective?"

"Here it is," Lucy interrupts. She angles her computer monitor so both the Detective and Harrison can see it. "This is from last night."

The angle of the camera is such that it shows the black cargo van head-on as it drives into the garage and parks. They can see in the video that Larry and Carlisle get out of the van and go to the back. The van doors open and a third person is partially visible, but only the tops of the men's heads can be seen. There is evidence of a scuffle, but the actual murders are not on the recording. Finally, a woman can be seen staggering quickly away from the van, but the dark, grainy footage is not clear enough to identify her. The third man in the mix runs towards the camera but veers off at an angle and disappears from view.

"What the hell?" the Detective says as he sees the third man. "Is that what I think it is? Go back, and let me see him again," he orders Lucy.

Lucy rewinds the footage and plays it again. It clearly shows the Black Jester.

"Is that a Jester costume? Holy shit," he murmurs.

Harrison gasps. "Detective, did that costumed fellow kill those men?"

The Detective pulls his cell phone from his jacket pocket. "It appears that way," he says. He hastily dials Johnny's number.

"Hello?" Johnny answers.

"Johnny, I've got video," the Detective says. He looks at Lucy. "Can you get me a copy of this?"

Lucy nods. "Yeah, I can actually compress it and email it to you." The Detective nearly throws his business card onto her keyboard. "Do that! As soon as possible," he says. Forgetting about Antonio Strong and his conversation with Harrison, he rushes to the elevator and pushes the button. He's thrilled that the elevator is still at the floor and he doesn't have to wait for it to come back up.

"Johnny, I'm headed to the station, I've got a picture of this son of a bitch." The elevator door opens and he steps in and turns around, vaguely aware of the puzzled look on Harrison's face. "Uh, thank you Mr. Connor, I'll be in touch," he calls out quickly, the doors closing before Harrison can respond.

An hour later, the Detective and Johnny observe their only lead.

"Who's the woman?" Johnny says. He's at his desk watching the video footage from the parking garage, the Detective watching over his shoulder. "Do you think it's Rose?"

"It's too hard to tell for sure. All we see is her leaving. We never see her face from this angle. Have you found her yet?"

"No. Apparently she left her apartment building this morning, and we don't have a new location for her yet."

"If the woman in this video is Rose, she's got some explaining to do. She was in the van with the killer. He murders two of her husband's men, then lets her go. That tells me she's involved."

"Man," Johnny says, sighing as he leans back in his office chair. "That just doesn't make sense. If that's her, what is she doing with this Black Jester guy?"

"I think she's part of this, but our main task now Johnny is to get an APB out on this guy. Let's get his picture plastered all over the place, newspapers, TV, everywhere. I want the public to be on the lookout for this guy. We gotta stop him before he kills again."

"We'll get the word out. And I'll find Rose," Johnny says quietly. He pulls out his cell phone and sends a text before getting to work on the APB.

## CHAPTER TEN: THE COPPER MONKEY

That morning, Rose had turned in her apartment keys to the building manager, packed up her clothes, and drove herself to a small hotel on the other side of town. She didn't seek medical attention for her cuts or broken ribs, afraid that it will only draw unwanted attention to her.

Feeling relatively safe inside the hotel room, but not safe enough to leave it to get pain medicine, she curls up on the bed and places her cell phone next to the pillow. She keeps staring at the Detective's business card she set out on the small table next to the bed, grappling with whether or not she should risk contacting him. By reaching out to him, will she be in trouble for leaving the scene of the brutal murders? What happens if she contacts the police, and her husband will find out? Somehow he already figured out she was in town.

Her safest choice was to stay put and not contact anyone who might drag her into the spotlight.

She drifts in and out of dreams, trying to use sleep as a painkiller. Her whole body hurts. She tried a hot bath earlier but it only agitated the pain. The cuts on her face and lip are swollen and her eye black. She looks and feels like she was hit by a truck.

Truck. Violent angry mobster. Not much of a difference, she thinks bitterly.

She lays in misery on the hotel bed throughout the day and into the evening hours, not eating or drinking, absorbed in pain and wracking her brain about what to do. Finally when she nods off, her cellphone rings, jarring her out of her light dream state. She glances at the alarm clock on the hotel nightstand; it's seven in the evening. The caller's identification reads Krav Maga.

"Oh no," she mumbles to herself, realizing she's supposed to be in class. She considers answering the call, but panics and instead sends it to voicemail. She sighs and tosses the phone back down on the bed, closing her eyes. She jumps when it rings again. It's the same caller.

She sighs and groans when rib pain jolts through her. She curses under her breath. She picks up the phone, thoughts going to the kindness Michael showed her already, and answers it.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other line is familiar. "Hello, Rose?"

"Yes," she says quietly.

"This is Michael, from the Krav Maga school. I just wanted to see if you're coming in tonight, like you were scheduled to?" His voice is deep, soft, and comforting. Almost since meeting him, she'd felt at ease with him.

"Um, I'm sorry, I can't. Something came up and ..." She struggles to sit up and to her dismay, her words are cut short as more sharp pain causes her to groan aloud.

"Are you okay?" Michael asks, concerned.

"Um," she starts, twisting in an effort to get comfortable but her movements only make things worse. She's unable to talk while she struggles to catch her breath and waits for the pain to subside.

"Rose, are you okay?"

"No," she finally answers. New pain, coupled with her difficulty breathing, render her close to crying again. "No, I'm not okay. I'm in trouble."

"What's wrong?"

She opens her mouth to speak and is embarrassed by the sob that emerges. Afraid of showing a stranger how vulnerable she is, she nonetheless is plunging once more into the fear and agony that haven't give her any peace since the incident in the van.

"Do you need help?" Michael asks in a hushed tone. "I can help you, Rose. Just tell me where you are."

No longer able to manage her emotions or the pain, Rose realizes she really needs help. Of everyone she's met in New Orleans, Michael is the one she's felt most comfortable around. He could also beat up anyone else Antonio sends after her, at least until she was able to run again.

She tells Michael the name of her hotel and asks if he can bring pain medicine. He arrives faster than she expects, but she is glad. When she opens the door to let him in, the look of shock on his face makes her feel worse.

"What happened!" he exclaims.

"Come in," she says. She's too distraught to feel embarrassed or shy this time, and his handsome face and warm brown eyes are a welcome sight. She secures the three locks on the door before throwing him a weak smile.

He's already opened the bottle of pain medicine and shakes out three white pills into his hand. He only takes his eyes off her to go to the sink and fill a plastic cup with water. She sits down on the bed. He hands her the pills.

"Here, take these," he says. She puts all three in her mouth and takes the water from him. She swallows them down, desperate for them to kick in fast.

"Thank you," she says. She pushes herself back towards the headboard and leans against it.

He watches her as she grunts and grumbles in pain. He waits for her to get comfortable, then pulls a chair up next to her from the adjacent table and sits down.

"What happened, Rose?" he asks gently.

She chooses her words carefully, still guarded about what to say to whom. "When you asked me if there was a reason I wanted to take self-defense, the answer I gave to you wasn't the truth."

"That's okay."

"The real reason I came in is because of this," she said, pointing to her face.

"Who did this to you? Did you go to the police?"

"No," she answers.

"Why not?"

"I don't know," she says, gazing at the Detective's card on the table behind Michael. "I just don't think it would be a good idea."

"You don't think they can help you?"

"I don't know," she lies, not wanting to discuss the murders she witnessed.

Michael isn't fazed by her unwillingness to go to the police. "You know, it might not be my place to say this, but you don't have to face this alone. Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith and trust someone to help you. It's not always easy to accept help, but you should never be ashamed to ask for it."

Rose considers his advice. He's right, but her fear still gets the best of her and she stays quiet.

Sensing her hesitation, he offers her a reprieve. "Just think about that, okay?'

She nods, appreciating that he's taking the pressure off her to open up, but also disappointed in herself for feeling so fearful. Michael is clearly a good person to be there with her.

"In the meantime, is there anything I can do to help you?"

She gazes around the hotel room. "I need to find somewhere to live. I left my apartment this morning, that's where ... this happened," she cringes internally for telling another lie. "But I can't stay here forever." She looks into his warm brown eyes and feels comfortable asking him for help. "Maybe you could help me find a safe place to live?"

"I definitely can," he says, enthused to have a task to help her with. "I've lived in New Orleans all my life."

"Thank you," she says, relieved. "Thank you for the pain medicine. And for coming here. I really needed to see a friendly face."

"Do you want me to stay for a while?"

Yes, but ... It's not just the physical pain that's hurting her. It's the emotionally violent climate she's had to live in for so many years. Marriage was precious to her. She respected it. Adhered to its rules. Remained faithful and loyal to a sociopathic man who used her talents to his advantage. She expected it to bring her love, happiness, and protection. Instead, it all but destroyed her.

Tired of fighting tears, she lets them well up in her eyes and doesn't care when they roll down her face. She looks into Michael's kind eyes as he watches her with true concern.

"Do you know what the worst thing about this is?" Her voice catches in her throat, and she waits for the hidden sob to retreat before continuing. "It's the embarrassment."

Michael appears puzzled. "What do you have to be embarrassed about?" He rests a hand on her knee. The heat from it warms her cold bones.

"I'm an adult. I should be able to handle things. But all I've done for the past eight years is hide my fear of my husband. And then, I just run away," she says emphatically, flinging her hands up in the air. "I run away and think that's going to solve everything, but it doesn't. It just made things worse."

"Rose, you are not at fault for any of this! You're dealing with some really bad men."

His insight catches her off guard. Men? "How do you know that?"

Michael pauses thoughtfully, then continues. "I mean, you're dealing with a really bad guy. It's pretty obvious from the looks of your injuries. And it sounds like you survived so long with him, I mean, if anything you should be so proud of yourself for making it this far!" He scoots the chair closer to her. "You did the right thing by leaving him. It doesn't matter how you did it, it matters that you did it. You took a huge step towards making your life better. That takes guts!"

She smiles, his encouraging words soothing what is left of her demolished heart. "He was supposed to be the one person in this world that loved me and that would protect me. How stupid was I to think that!"

"No," he says. "There's nothing stupid about you. It was just the wrong guy."

She shakes her head, still silently beating herself up for being a naïve fool.

Michael takes her hand. "There was a monster behind his mask and you were unfortunate enough to see it."

She looks at him, stunned by the accuracy of his words. He pulls his hand back and straightens in his chair. His gaze grows distant, as if he's thinking of something unpleasant, and darkness crosses his features.

"Are you okay?" she asks when the silence stretches on. "It looks like you went somewhere... dark."

He instinctively jerks his head to clear his thoughts and focuses on her. "I'm sorry. Um. Would you like me to hang around for a while? Make sure you're okay?"

She wants to say yes but doesn't. "No, I'll be fine. I'm hoping the pain medicine will help me sleep."

"All right. If there is anything else I can do to help, just let me know. I'm serious, Rose."

She smiles even though it hurts her aching lip. "Okay. I appreciate it."

"You should get as much rest as you can," he says, setting the bottle of painkillers down on the table behind him, next to the Detective's card. He reads the name on it but says nothing.

"Yeah," she says in agreement.

Michael stands up and for the first time appears nervous. He fidgets with his hands but then shoves them in his jeans pockets. "I'll check on some places for rent around here. You should be able to find something pretty fast. There's a lot of open real estate."

"Thanks."

"Let me know if you need me ... I mean, need me to do anything." He backs up to the door and bumps into it. Turning around quickly to unlock and open it, he steps out of the room and flashes a concerned look over his shoulder. "Make sure you lock this!" he says as he closes it behind him.

Returning to his vehicle, Michael sits for a quiet moment staring up at the second floor window of Rose's hotel room. He's lost in thought when his cell phone rings. Reading his friend's name on the incoming call screen, he answers.

"Johnny," he says.

"Hey, did you find her?"

"Yeah. She's at a hotel on the west side."

Johnny sighs on the other end. "Look, I know you feel something for this girl, but this could be a slip-up."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the Detective is hot on her trail. If he finds her, he could find ... others."

"I don't care," Michael says flatly. "I'm helping her. She's got no one else."

"Just be careful, man. Be extra careful. I'll feed you what I can, but I can't always guarantee that I'll be able to head him off before he makes a move."

"Understood, John," Michael says, peering into his rear view mirror at the redness in his left eye. There's always a slight amount of irritation from the contact lens. "I gotta go." He ends the call.

Resolved to help the frightened girl, he decides that finding her a suitable, safe place to live is the first logical step. The city's population is still lighter than its pre-Katrina days and there is no shortage of the need for tenants. But, he already has someone in mind to help him find a place, the man who saved his live during Hurricane Katrina and remains his benevolent protector.

Driving away from the hotel, and from the beautiful girl, he dials his contact and leaves a voicemail. "Doctor Percy, this is Michael. I need a favor."

Four days after the abduction, Rose is up late in the fully furnished rental house. When Michael told her about the immediately available house she was excited by the turn in her luck. The owner asked only for a deposit and the first month's rent payment, which alleviated some of her worry, because she would never have passed a credit or background check under her new identity.

The only thing she doesn't like about this house is all the windows. Even the doors have too many windows on them. Too many windows, and no curtains save for those in the bedroom. The house is older and has no air conditioning, and she has no choice but to leave some of the windows open to let in air. This night's warm, sticky breeze flows through the house.

Rose glances at the television as the news blares. "The so-called Black Jester is the primary suspect in the recent murders of over a dozen businessmen here in New Orleans. News Team Five's Ruth Vega has more."

She clicks the power button on the television remote, her nerves too fried to watch anymore. The pictures and video footage of the Black Jester are everywhere, and she worries it's only a matter of time before the police figure out it's her in the video leaving the scene of the crime.

Rose reaches up into the top cabinet of the kitchen in an attempt to retrieve a lone drinking glass. The house is fully furnished but it has no dishes or silverware, though she discovered one glass while searching the cabinets. She's out of the bottled water Michael had picked up for her and doesn't feel like going to the store. She doesn't want to burden him by asking him to do anything else for her.

Her broken ribs betray her stretch and a searing bolt of pain strikes her. She gasps and grabs her side, holding it while more waves of pain tear through her. Her body doesn't seem to be healing as fast as she thinks it should. It's either that, or the extent of the beating the now-dead goon gave her was a lot worse than she wanted to admit to herself.

Doubled over, Rose stumbles to the kitchen table and slides a wooden chair out to sit on. She lowers herself down into the chair, grunting. Letting out a heavy sign, she feels overwhelmed, and tears well in her eyes. She slumps over the table and buries her head in her arms.

She rests at the table and begins to drift to sleep. A half hour later, a faint noise in the kitchen brings her back to awareness.

Rose twists in her chair until she can see the source of the noise behind her. Sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter is the Black Jester, holding the glass she strained to reach. Rose jumps to her feet, momentarily forgetting her pain. Her heart pounds in her chest.

"Oh, my God!" she cries. "You!"

The Black Jester's white eyes stare at her through his mask. He has the drinking glass in his hand, and is slowly twisting it around. Rose's eyes dart around the kitchen and out the windows. "How did you find me?" she asks, her voice tight with fear. "If you can find me, then so can he ..." She nervously strides to the kitchen door and peers into the darkness. Seeing nothing, she turns her attention back to the silent intruder.

The Black Jester hasn't moved. He studies her without speaking and continues to twist the drinking glass in his hand.

"The police are looking for you. Your picture is all over the place," she says nervously. Rose watches him watch her, her uneasiness growing. "You don't talk much." She waits for him to answer, but he doesn't. "Who are you? Why were you in that van?"

"Because I wanted to be," he finally answers. His voice is low and hushed.

"You wanted to be? Why?"

"Who are you?" The Black Jester asks.

"I'm Rose White."

"Rose," he repeats. "Like the flower."

Silent moments pass. The Black Jester hops off the kitchen counter. He is taller than she remembers from the incident in the van. Taller than her by nearly a foot. He takes a single step towards her and stops when she backpedals. He looks down at her bare feet. To her surprise, he holds the glass out for her to take. She stares at it uncertainly, before accepting it.

From the news reports, he's a serial killer who's likely to kill her. Yet her experience with him is the opposite, and she can't quite grasp why he's here.

"Thank you," she says cautiously. She fiddles with the glass while he studies her in silence, until she can take it no more. She sets the glass down on the kitchen table. "How did you find me? You're not going to kill me, are you?"

The Black Jester steps towards her again, closing the distance between them. She is afraid of him, but at the same time darkly curious about what this costumed terror wants with her. If he wanted her dead, he wouldn't have saved her from the goons.

"Why are you here?"

He ignores her. "What is your involvement with Antonio Strong?"

The question makes her more uncomfortable than the Black Jester's presence. She fidgets and looks away from him, searching for the right words. She's ashamed of herself for wanting to tell this psychotic costumed man her story. But, he did save her.

"I'm his wife." Her own words disgust her, and she senses that even the Black Jester is surprised. "Ex-wife, if I ever make it to court." She looks up at him expecting more questions, or at least another reaction, but he remains still and staring. She clears her throat. "I left him and he's not happy about it."

The Black Jester takes the final step towards her.

Maybe he'll rip my head off, or murder me quickly like he did those men, she thinks to herself. Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing. Maybe it would put me out of my misery.

Instead, he reaches his hand towards her and touches the bruising around her black eye.

She flinches. "I guess I should thank you for helping me," she manages to mumble. The urge to bolt out of the house is growing in intensity. She steps backwards.

"No," he says flatly.

She's confused. "No? I shouldn't thank you?"

He glances down at her bare feet. "Tell me."

"Uh, tell you what?"

"Did you know his occupation, and did you help him? Are you in involved in his business?" He clenches his teeth, the twitch in his muscular jaws visible even beneath the white face paint. In his other hand, the Black Jester is holding a knife.

Rose sees it now. Her heart skips a beat, causing her pulse to pound in her ears. She looks from the knife to his white eyes and back to the knife. "I didn't know who he really was until it was too late." She gasps as he brings the knife to her throat and holds her in place by the back of her neck with his other hand. "Please, I wasn't involved with his work. I just couldn't get away from him soon enough." She starts to cry. "Because I was afraid of him."

He studies her, judging whether or not she's being honest. "Do you see this?" He asks, referring to the way he holds his knife to her throat.

She considers kicking him, as Michael had shown her, but the presence of the knife scares her too much. "What?"

He releases his hold on her neck and grabs her hand. He flips the knife around and puts the handle in her hand, closing her fingers around it.

Paralyzed with fear and puzzlement, she stares down at her hand and tries to comprehend what he's doing and why he just gave her his knife.

"This is what you do to monsters," he states and he wraps his hand around hers. He brings it to his own throat and mimics a cutting movement.

"No! I could never hurt anyone!" She cries, her voice raspy as she fights back tears. "I would never!" She tries to withdraw her hand but he grips it firm.

He repeats the throat slicing motion.

"Why are you showing me this? Who are you?" she whispers hoarsely.

Just then, the reflection of the Black Jester's mask in the large window of the kitchen door draws his eyes upwards. There he sees himself, the white eyes staring back at him and the horror that his costumed image conveys. He cringes and releases her hand, his face contorting in anger beneath the mask.

"Rose," he groans.

Alarmed by his reaction, by how he says her name, she goes rigid. The Black Jester releases her and storms past her, nearly crashing through the kitchen door as he exits. She spins and watches him leave, a flurry of emotions swirling inside her. She slams and locks the door behind him. Her heart pounding, she releases the breath she was holding and finally starts breathing normally. She opens her hand and stares at the knife, then drops it onto the kitchen table as if it were an insect that just bit her.

"What the hell was that?" she asks herself.

She spends the next hour nervously staring at the door through which the Black Jester so savagely exited. She tries to process this second encounter with the mysterious psycho killer, as the news describes him, but ultimately feels more confused. The only conclusion she can make is that he doesn't seem to want to hurt her. Well, at least, after he decided to lower his knife and give it to her. To the contrary, he almost seems concerned for her.

Stir crazy and edgy, and irritated by the warm sticky air inside the house, Rose paces, wanting to get out of there before she goes completely insane. She's tired of being in pain and of being afraid. Her emotions swing violently between fear of Antonio and confusion about the murderous Black Jester's visit. Should she call the Detective? Michael? No, she doesn't want to bother him. He probably thinks she's crazy already.

Rose goes into her bathroom and rinses her face, patting it dry with a towel. "Am I out of my mind?" she asks her reflection. When it doesn't answer, she sighs. "I need a drink." She laughs at herself. "A psycho ex-husband and a psycho killer in a costume are both after you. What is wrong with you?"

Determined to drown her sorrows in alcohol, she leaves out the back door of the house and wanders towards Bourbon Street, hoping the crowd will offer her some protection and distract her from her nightmare. An extra pill has taken the edge off the pain, enabling her to venture out. She doesn't like the party scene, but she's desperate to be around people and life. The pungent smells of alcohol, heavy cigar smoke, garbage, and vomit swirl in the air, and she nearly gags several times. She's ready to dull her senses and decides to pop in to a bar.

The Copper Monkey is busy but not overfull, and there are enough people in it to make her feel comfortable going in.

"What'll it be, hun?" the female bartender shouts over the loud music. Dressed in Gothic clothing and speckled with round silver facial piercings, she flashes a kind smile that fades when she notices the bruises on Rose's face. "Uh, are you all right?"

Rose climbs onto a tall stool and rests her elbows on the bar. "Yeah, I'm fine. Can you give me something that will just numb everything?" she asks. "Something really strong."

The bartender raises an eyebrow and smiles. "Did you get that shiner from a boyfriend or something?"

"Ex-husband," Rose says. "Sort of... long story."

"Ah-ha." The bartender chuckles. "I've got just the thing for you." She combines several different alcohols into a glass and plops down the bright green concoction in front of Rose. "It's called the Jester," she says with a grin.

Rose's heart skips a beat at the word jester. "Um... is it good?"

"It's the world's strongest drink. And it's really hot right now with this Black Jester guy all over the news."

Rose cringes at his name and her eyes dart around the bar.

"If this doesn't straighten your shit out, nothing will," the bartender adds with a wink.

Rose grasps the glass and brings it to her nose, as if smelling it will tell her what's in it. "Thank you," she says.

"No problem." The bartender watches Rose as she takes a small sip.

Rose nods. "It's good. Thanks."

A mere two Jester drinks later, the bartender cuts Rose off. "Okay princess, that's enough for tonight. Time for you to go home. You want me to call you a cab?"

Her senses numb and dulled, Rose giggles. "No. I'll walk," she slurs. "I live here. Well, not here, I live down the road...somewhere." She nearly falls off the bar stool, but a man steadies her and helps her back on. She looks up at the stranger helping her. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I bump into you?" She trails off when she recognizes the man.

Johnny's face is a mix of concern and curiosity. "Hi Rose," he says. "Are you okay?" He appears shocked to see the cuts and bruises on her face, but he doesn't mention them.

"Hi... hi Officer Johnny. Oh yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine," she says in the most sober voice she can muster. "I just decided to come here tonight. You know. For fun."

"Are you having fun?" He's still holding her up.

She shakes her head. "Not really."

He laughs. "So do you come here a lot?"

"Oh, no. See, I don't really drink, so I don't know what..." she trails off. "Um, do you come here? Like, are you here a lot too?"

He smiles, amused by her slurred words. "No, I was just out with some friends. I'm usually the DW... the designated walker," he says with a chuckle. "Um, listen do you want me to help you get home? You seem pretty... Jestered-up."

"I what? Oh yeah, the drinks, yeah... um no, I'm okay, really." She attempts to stand again and wobbles on her feet. He catches her and steadies her. "This is kind of embarrassing, you know, because I don't drink and apparently I can't hold my drink either." She ends with a giggle.

"Let me help you get home. I won't have it any other way, all right?"

"Okay, yeah thanks."

Johnny holds her up with one arm around her waist and slowly walks her through the streets towards her house. Her level of intoxication is high enough to erase her pain and drown out all her other senses. Mission accomplished. She doesn't notice the foul smells in the street this time, nor does she realize that Johnny had been in the bar almost the entire time, watching her get drunk.

Rose starts to nod off while walking and trips. Johnny pulls her back to her feet. She gazes up at his face but her blurred vision and the darkness of the night prevent her from fully seeing his features. Her inebriated mind plays tricks on her and she panics. For a moment she thinks she sees Antonio.

"Antonio? No!" she screams. She beats at Johnny's chest with her fists but she has no strength or coordination, and he easily pins her hands against him.

"It's ok, Rose," Johnny says. "It's Officer Johnny, remember? I'm just walking you home."

Rose squints her eyes in an effort to see him but her eyes are too heavy and her vision too blurred. "I'm sorry... I thought it was him... I must be losing my mind," she says, trailing off.

"You know, you're really bad at lying," Johnny replies.

"What do you mean?"

"Why didn't you come to us after you were abducted? And apparently beaten up," he says as he visually examines the bruises on her face.

"What?"

"We have surveillance video of a woman leaving the scene of a crime with the Black Jester. We think it's you."

"Um ... I don't know what you're talking about."

"Maybe this isn't the best time, but I want you to know that you're going to have to talk to us. We need to know what's going on. It's the only way the police department can protect you. You've got to help us, okay?"

She's still able to feel guilty despite being drunk. "I didn't do anything," she mumbles.

"Was that you in the van with him?"

"Yeah," she answers. "But the Black Jester saved me. They beat me up and kidnapped me ... he was already in the van ... he saved my life."

"The Black Jester was in the van before you were?" Johnny appears puzzled.

"I don't remember anything else," she lies, feeling that she's already said too much.

Both Rose and Johnny are silent during the rest of the walk to her house. He helps her to the front door and waits patiently while she fishes in her handbag for the keys. She fumbles with them and drops them, but he picks them up for her to try again. She finally manages to unlock the door and she steps inside, turning towards him.

"Thank you for helping me get home," she says deliberately annunciating to avoid sounding too much more like a drunkard.

"You're welcome. I want to make sure you are safe." He turns to walk away.

"Johnny? Can I ask you something?"

Johnny turns back to her.

"Am I in trouble?"

"Rose, I'm not going to lie. You might be. But you need to let us help you."

"I didn't do anything," she says. "I promise I didn't do anything."

Johnny sighs. "Look. You're in no shape for this right now. Get some rest. I'm going to come back tomorrow."

"I'm sorry."

"Goodnight, Rose." He says.

***

Rose sits up in the dark and vaguely remembers how she climbed into her bed a few hours before. Almost as suddenly as she remembers Johnny walking her home from the bar, her stomach revolts. She throws herself off the bed, stumbling into the adjacent bathroom. She vomits from the five Jester drinks until her stomach finally settles, and then rinses out her mouth. As she stumbles back to her bed, she remembers Johnny telling her she's in trouble.

"Good job, Rose, you're in trouble with the police now," she mumbles to herself, concerned about her run-in with him. She crawls back into bed and turns onto her side facing away from the bathroom and hallway.

It only takes a few minutes for her to fall asleep again. She did not notice the dark figure standing in the corner of her bedroom, watching her silently. While studying her, his eyes pass over an item of interest. The Black Jester waits until he's sure she is sleeping again to leave the shadows and approach her.

He had been watching her all night. Guarding her. He knew the police officer wouldn't harm her, and he didn't feel compelled to intervene. He was able to hang back and protect her from the shadows.

His purpose now is specific and he moves silently to the nightstand by her bed. He picks up the bottle of prescription pills and examines the label. Even in the darkness of the room, he can still make out the words on the label. Filling with rage, he sets the bottle back down and swiftly leaves her house. He has chosen his next target.

***

Dr. Vance removes his reading glasses and sets them on the client file he's been reviewing. He's notorious for working late most nights, and he's the only one left in his small office building, across town from the police precinct and his secondary office there. The muted glow of his desk lamp illuminates his aged face.

The Black Jester's entrance is neither stealthy nor controlled. He kicks in the front door to the office, and proceeds directly to Dr. Vance's closed office door, kicking it in and sending it flying off its hinges.

"What the hell?" Dr. Vance exclaims. Stunned, he rises from his chair but stays behind his desk.

The Black Jester charges into the room and overturns the brown leather chair in front of the doctor's desk

Holding his hands up, Dr. Vance stares in surprise at the costumed terror. "What do you want? I don't have any money."

The Black Jester grabs the doctor by the collar over the desk and pulls him in close.

"Help me!" he demands.

Terrified, the doctor struggles with his words. "Uh, okay what do you need help with?"

The Black Jester's demonic white eyes peer angrily into the Doctor's. "Help me understand."

"Understand what?

"Rose White."

"Rose White? What do you mean?" he stutters. "I don't know who that is!"

The Black Jester gives him a violent shake. "Don't lie! Help me understand why you told Antonio Strong where she was." His voice is low but strained.

"I'm not able to discuss my patients with-"

"Antonio Strong nearly killed her. Because you lead him to her!"

"Why don't you just calm down, son, and we can talk about this, okay?"

The Black Jester shakes his head and a sinister smile spreads across his lips.

Dr. Vance clears his throat and tries to calm himself. "Whatever you're going through, I can help you. I'm a psychiatrist!"

The Black Jester shakes him again, this time ripping the doctor's shirt collar.

"She was afraid of him, Doctor. She was your patient and you threw her to the wolves. Your time is up!" he hisses through clenched teeth.

"No, please!" the doctor pleads.

The Black Jester delivers his vengeance. He strangles the corrupt doctor with an iron grip, crushing his windpipe with his bare hands. The doctor's face reddens, and the veins in his forehead bulge. He thrashes his arms and attempts to pry his killer's hands from his neck, desperately swiping and clawing at the masked face. The doctor's feet are inches off the floor, kicking aimlessly, his knees and shins bumping up against the desk. The Black Jester squeezes harder and watches as the man's terrified face turns shades from red to purple.

The last signs of life flicker out as the doctor stops struggling and falls limp. The Black Jester releases his death grip and lets the body slump over the mahogany desk. Still on his adrenaline rush, the Black Jester isn't ready to stop his violent attack. He swipes papers and electronics off their tables, overturns furniture, and tears down a bookshelf from the wall. He means to destroy the doctor's office and to leave no sign of normalcy and order.

Breathing hard from the brutal act, he approaches his victim once more, and withdraws the special token from inside his black trench coat. He slowly breathes in its aroma, then sets it on top of Dr. Vance's lifeless body. Satisfied with his actions, he slips silently away into the dark night.

***

"A rose," Johnny says. It's early the next morning. He and the Detective are examining the chaotic crime scene that was once Dr. Vance's office.

"Not just any rose, Johnny. A white rose." The Detective picks up the rose with a gloved hand and smells it for freshness. "And it's recently cut, or purchased. Still fragrant and soft."

"So, we have a white rose, and a Rose White. And we know she was a patient of Dr. Vance, didn't you refer her to him?"

"Yeah. I did." the Detective says. "We gotta find her John. Any luck yet?"

Johnny clears his throat. "I know where she is. I found her last night."

The Detective looks at Johnny with a mix of surprise and excitement. "You did? Did you talk to her? Was that her in the van?"

"Pardon me," an evidence technician says as he slides between Johnny and the Detective to get to the doctor's body.

The Detective and Johnny step to a corner of the small doctor's office, stepping on papers and over the broken furniture on the carpeted floor.

"Yeah, it was her," Johnny says, looking down at the floor.

"All right, all right," the Detective says pensively, scratching his chin. He thinks for a moment, then snaps his fingers. "Johnny, I have an idea. It's not the best, but it might be what we need to do if we want to catch the Black Jester fast."

Johnny's stomach tightens. He's not looking forward to hearing the Detective's plan. Regardless, he maintains his composure. "What's your idea?"

"We set a trap for him." He holds up the white rose and gestures with it. "If there's some connection between Rose White and the Jester, and we know where she is, we set a trap and use her as bait."

The skeptical look on Johnny's face hides the dismay he feels about using poor Rose as bait. "Sir, I don't know if that's a good idea! She could get hurt. I really think this girl is innocent."

"John, we're running out of time. The bodies keep piling up. Look at this poor fool," he says gesturing his head towards the dead doctor. "Murdered in his own office!"

"I know, but you're talking about using an innocent girl to catch a monster!"

"Is she innocent? We don't know the extent of her involvement, John. That video clearly shows the girl and the Black Jester are on the same side. Maybe she hired him to kill her husband or something. Think about it! We don't know her. We just know she's connected to our killer."

Johnny paces a few steps in the small room and rubs his forehead. Seeing the determined look on the Detective's face reminds him of his duty to the force. "What do you have in mind?"

The Detective and Johnny return to the police station to plan the raid. They both settle into the Detective's office but before they can begin, Officer Danny comes in with news.

"Sir, I have some new information about Rose White," he says.

Johnny straightens.

"Great! What?"

"She has a sibling. Here's the info," he says, handing the information to the Detective.

The Detective reads the information, and raises his eyebrows. "This for real?"

Danny nods. "Yes, sir, the identity is confirmed."

"Thanks, Danny," he says. He immediately picks up his office phone and dials the number on the note.

"What is it, Detective?" Johnny asks impatiently. The Detective hands him the paper while the phone rings.

Johnny hears a gruff male voice answer on the other end of the call.

"Is this Captain Fury?" The Detective says. The voice answers him. "This is Detective Jenkins of the New Orleans Police Department." A pause, then the voice asks a question. "Captain, there's someone in New Orleans I need to talk to you about." He looks at Johnny, who is listening intently. Covering the speaker part of the phone, he gestures to him. "Put a call into Connor's office, like we talked about," he whispers.

Johnny nods and stands. He's reluctant to leave and wants to hear the Detective's conversation with Rose's alleged sibling, but the Detective shoos him away. Returning to his own desk in the noisy precinct, he sinks into his chair and stares at the phone for a long moment before picking up the receiver and dialing.

The line rings twice. "Apex Associates," the female voice answers.

"Harrison Connor, please," Johnny says, resigned to the Detective's plan.

## CHAPTER ELEVEN: SHOWDOWN

Antonio Strong and his two bodyguards return to their hotel penthouse suite smelling heavily of cigar smoke and booze from the long night at the casino.

"Damn, they cleaned me out," Antonio groans, complaining about his casino losses.

"Maybe, but that cocktail waitress was something else!" one bodyguard chimes in.

"You got that right," the other says.

Antonio's cell phone rings and he pulls it out of his suit jacket. "Yeah?" he answers gruffly. The news he hears thrills him. "Finally, God damn it! Bring her here!" He hangs up and returns his cell phone to his suit pocket. He stares out window overlooking the sparkling nighttime city. His unusual silence draws attention from his cohorts.

"What's got you so quiet, boss?" one bodyguard asks.

He turns to them both, a maniacal grin spreading across his face. "I found her."

"No shit? How?"

"A tip from a friend of the future mayor."

"It's about time," the other goon says. "What's the plan?"

"They're bringing her here now. Get ready."

Less than an hour later, at midnight, the knocking at the penthouse door fills Antonio Strong with excitement.

"Open it!" he orders a bodyguard. The goon obediently unlocks and opens the door. Two other suited men working for Antonio push a terrified Rose into the room. They had broken into her house and pulled her from her sleep, as evidenced by her matching white T-shirt and sleeping shorts, her bare feet and tousled hair. Her hands are bound behind her and a handkerchief tied around her mouth keeps her from screaming for help. Her bruised face is streaked by tears.

Antonio looks his wife up and down, the arrogant expression on his face turning angry. "Did anyone see you?" he asks the abductors.

"No. We came up the service entrance. No one saw us," a burly henchman answers.

Antonio nods in approval. "Good." He looks at Rose again. "Untie her. Take that shit off." One of the henchmen cuts the zip tie binding her hands and removes the handkerchief around her head.

Rose steps backwards but is met by the solid muscular wall of a henchman standing directly behind her. Her mind is whirling, and she hates herself for letting them get her again. Aware that the five men in the room have guns, she doesn't try to scream or escape.

Antonio runs his hand through his hair and walks to the small bar next to the room's kitchen. He pours himself a glass of bourbon. "So, Rose White, is it? Is that the name you go by now?" He feigns a respectful tone. With bourbon in hand, he walks back over to her. "You have no idea what it took to find you. The resources. The men." He laughs. "But I've got you now, don't I. And, Rose White," he says, mocking her name by making quotation marks in the air with his fingers. He leans in, shoving his cruel ugly face close to hers. "Antonio Strong always gets what he wants."

The whizzing of metal throwing stars slicing through the air around them interrupts Antonio's self-indulgent speech. The sound of blades piercing flesh and the grunting that accompanies their deadly impact causes both Antonio and Rose to glance around them, wondering what is happening.

Two things are immediately clear. The four henchmen in the room are bleeding out from the knives or throwing stars sticking out of their necks. And the Black Jester is the one that threw them. Having hidden in the large closet in the back bedroom of the suite, the Black Jester has been waiting for this since being tipped off.

Antonio curses and stumbles backward, away from the falling bodies of his now dead cohorts. He looks wildly between the Black Jester and Rose, unsure which one he wants to kill first. He rips his .45 mm handgun out from the holster hidden by his suit jacket and pulls back the slide. He aims it first at Rose, then at the Black Jester, who begins to rush him.

The door to the hotel room busts open and the Detective and Johnny storm in, guns drawn. They glance briefly at the four bodies on the floor. Johnny aims his weapon at Antonio, but the Detective aims his at the Black Jester.

In an angry frenzy, Antonio still can't decide who to aim at and shoot, and his gun wavers between his insubordinate wife and the Black Jester.

"Don't you move, you son of a bitch! I've got you now!" the Detective orders the Black Jester.

"Nobody move!" Johnny orders. "Put down your weapon, Mr. Strong!" Johnny demands of Antonio.

In the middle of the chaos, Rose stands frozen in fear.

"Shoot him! He just killed my men!" Antonio screams, pointing his gun at the Black Jester, who stands rigid and ready to pounce.

"Shut up, Mr. Strong, and put your gun down!" The Detective yells at Antonio, keeping his eyes plastered on the Black Jester.

"If you don't shoot him, I will!" Antonio screams.

"Move one muscle and I will shoot you!" Johnny yells. "Put it down!"

Antonio is breathing heavy, his face reddened with rage. He glances at Rose and clenches his teeth, muscles in his jaw flickering violently. "This is all your fault. First I'll kill him, then you!" he vows.

The Black Jester waits no longer. With his near inhuman speed, he rips a knife from his coat and throws it like a dart at a target, hitting the bull's eye. The knife sails over Antonio's gun and outstretched arm, slicing into his throat and knocking him backwards onto the floor.

While the split second execution of Antonio Strong is happening, the Detective screams at the Black Jester to stop, then watches as the knife takes out Antonio. Reacting as quickly as he can, the Detective aims his gun at the Black Jester and squeezes the trigger.

Rose watches Antonio's body fall, and she's aware that she stands between the Detective and the Black Jester. Suddenly, the monster in her nightmare is dead. Everything else is a non-issue. The guns. The danger. Her instinct to protect her protector is absolute. In this moment, Rose White finds her courage.

"No, don't shoot!" she screams while squaring herself with the Detective and jumping directly in front of the Black Jester.

It's too late. Blinded by his obsession to take down the Black Jester, the Detective squeezes the trigger, confident that his bullet will finally end the murder spree plaguing his beloved city.

The impact of the bullet makes a loud thud as it explodes through Rose's flesh and knocks her backwards into the Black Jester. The bullet doesn't lodge in Rose, but continues its deadly path directly into the Black Jester's chest. Both Rose and the Black Jester fall to the floor.

Rose screams in agony and grasps at the bleeding bullet hole just below her right shoulder. The Black Jester, in pain from the impact but protected against its penetration by his Kevlar clothing, scrambles to his knees and crouches by her side, frantically inspecting her wound.

"No!" he cries as he presses the heel of his hand onto her gushing wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

"Jesus!" the Detective cries, realizing he's the reason Rose is on the floor bleeding. He lowers his gun a few inches.

"My God!" Johnny exclaims. He reaches out and forcefully lowers the Detective's arm and gun to neutralize the threat of another rogue shot.

"Johnny, go get help, get an ambulance! Go down and meet them when they get here! Hurry!" the Detective stammers.

"I'm calling for help! Hang on, Rose! Just hang on!" Johnny holsters his weapon and pulls out his cell phone, his hands shaking as he runs out of the room and down the hall towards the elevators.

"Oh, my God," Rose cries as she looks down to see the entire front of her white shirt soaked in her blood. The warm stickiness soaks her torso and drips down around her sides beneath her shirt.

The Black Jester's efforts to stop the bleeding don't seem to be working, and her blood gushes up over his fingers and covers his hands. He looks up at the Detective and screams in a gruff, terse voice. "You did this! This is your fault!" He sees that one of the henchman's guns is laying right next to him. Keeping one hand on Rose's bleeding wound, he picks up the gun with the other and aims it at the Detective.

The Detective raises his gun again, prepared to shoot. But before either makes a move, Rose reaches up and grabs the Black Jester's arm, pulling it down.

"No," she says, weak voice shaking. "No more killing!"

The Detective is surprised to hear the bleeding girl's plea. Perhaps he was wrong about her involvement in the Black Jester's murders.

The Black Jester complies with her plea, and he tosses the gun, turning his full attention back to her.

The Detective keeps his gun aimed at the Black Jester, and takes out his cell phone to call Johnny. "Johnny, where's that ambulance? We need it ASAP. She's losing blood fast." Silence on the other end of the line makes the Detective pull his phone away from his ear to look at it, to be sure he called the right number. It's Johnny's number but Johnny isn't talking on the other end of the call.

"What the hell! Johnny? Can you hear me?"

Distracted by the phone call, the Detective doesn't hear or see the butt of a gun swinging towards his head from behind him. The blow to his head immediately knocks him out and he falls unconscious onto the floor.

The Black Jester scoops Rose up into his arms. The Red Jester, having sneaked into the room avoiding the Detective's eye, tosses the goon's handgun he just used to knock him out.

"You better hurry," he cautions the Black Jester. "Can you handle her?"

"Yes," the Black Jester answers.

"I'll take care of this," the Red Jester says, gesturing towards the Detective.

Labored cries escape Rose's now raspy throat in between her ragged breathing. Her entire body shakes from the blood loss as she slides into shock. The Black Jester holds her tightly against him as he runs towards the service elevator.

Rose is quickly losing awareness of what is going on. "Please don't let me die," she begs him. "Please."

"I won't," he says as she fades into unconsciousness. "I promise."

The last sensations she notices before passing out is a whirling dizziness and the metallic odor of her blood thick inside her nose.

***

The Detective comes to in a dark abandoned warehouse. When his bleary vision clears, he realizes he is sitting on a hard metal chair with his hands tied behind him and his legs bound to the chair. A hot, blinding spotlight shines directly in his face, causing him to squint and preventing him from seeing anything other than the light.

He raises his head and blinks repeatedly from the harsh light. His head is pounding from the knockout blow and he tastes blood in his mouth. He groans and shifts in the chair. "You won't get away with this!" he calls out into the darkness, fishing for a response. "Show yourself!"

A flat, eerie chuckle answers him. "Hello, Detective."

"Who are you?" the Detective demands. He jerks his wrists to test the strength of the rope binding them.

"Wrong question. Now who ... but why."

The Detective shakes his head and tries to blink the blurriness out of his eyes. He fears that the blow to his head is causing the sharp ringing in his ears. "What the hell is going on? I'm a police officer. You'll go to prison for this!"

"Yes," the voice answers. "If I were to get caught, of course."

"What do you want?" The Detective demands.

From the shadows, the Black Jester swiftly grabs another metal chair and drags it over to the Detective's side, the metal scraping the cement floor. He straddles the chair and leans in close, leering at the Detective with his cold white-eyed stare.

"You? What the hell are you doing here?" the Detective says. "What about the girl? Is she-"

"She'll live. No thanks to you!" the Black Jester snarls through clenched teeth.

The Detective looks at the Black Jester's blood-stained hands and realizes he must not have been out for very long.

"Why didn't my men arrest you? What happened back there?"

"Detective. I do apologize for the inconvenience, but it's rather important that we talk." From the shadows the body of the suave voice appears. Dressed in a richly golden Venetian Jester costume, the man who slides from the shadows is just as strangely dressed as the Black Jester.

"There's two of you?" the Detective asks, looking back and forth between the Black and Gold Jesters.

The Red Jester follows the Gold Jester's lead and steps into the light so that the Detective can see him.

"Holy shit!" the Detective exclaims. "This explains a lot. You're working together. A team of murderers!"

The Gold Jester flinches at the word murderers. "Detective, I know how things might look to you, but believe me when I tell you, we're not the bad guys."

The Detective chuckles, but groans when a wave of pain sweeps over him. He drops his head and waits for the pain to subside.

"Sorry about that. We had to take precautions," the Gold Jester says.

"Precautions?" he raises his head. "Just what the hell do you want with me?"

"We're here to give you a chance to help your city."

"Help my city? What do you mean? I help it every day. That's my damn job!"

"Detective, there are things that the NOPD can't do. Things the New Orleans city government can't do. There are threats and injustices that you can't protect it from. And that's where we come in."

The Detective snorts. "What, like you're a group of vigilantes or something?" He laughs and looks at each of the three Jesters' straight faces. "You murder people. I'm going to assume that you are the ones throwing guys off high rise hotels and leaving your calling cards all over the place."

The Gold Jester shakes his head. "That's not us, Detective."

"You're joking, right? There are more sadistic psychos on the loose than you all?"

"Clowns joke, Detective. They are true fools. Jesters, however, must walk a fine line at the King's court. They're sensitive to the political and social needs of their environment."

"What do you mean, King's court?"

The Gold Jester ignores his question. "That wasn't us. Well, not the ones with the calling cards."

"Um, okay, sure. So you do kill people, but it's someone else that kills people and leaves Tarot cards in their mouths. Am I getting this all right so far?" he says sarcastically.

The Gold and Red Jesters exchange a silent look. "Actually, yes," the Gold Jester admits.

He snorts and groans. "Holy shit, what kind of circus is this? Did you kill Doctor Vance?"

"Yes," the Black Jester answers.

He is stunned by the open confession. "Why?"

"Doctor Vance was on the wrong payroll," the Black Jester says.

"Come now, Vengeance. Tell him the real reason," the Gold Jester encourages.

"He tipped Antonio Strong off as to Rose White's location. He's the reason she's in danger."

"So Rose White is involved with you guys?" the Detective asks.

"Not involved. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I helped her, that's all," the Black Jester responds.

"So you went out and murdered a doctor and a handful of mobsters, all to help this girl?" The Detective snorts. "Look, I'm all about protecting innocent people, but what you did is called cold blooded murder. And now, I have everything I need to lock you up forever."

The Black Jester is not in the least bit fazed by the Detective's threats. He continues to coldly study the Detective's heated expression.

The Gold Jester chuckles, breaking the awkward silence. "Detective, there is a lot more going on in New Orleans than meets the eye. There are ... layers... of activity. And we, and our King, only want to do what's best for the city. For its people."

"I find it hard to believe a group of masked killers wants what's best for the city," the Detective says. "Are you going to keep me here all day? 'Cause I got work to do. Work like finding out who the hell you clowns are, who the hell your 'King' is, and taking you all down."

"Jesters, Detective," the Gold Jester laughs and kneels in front of the ruffled law officer. "I assumed this would be your initial reaction. I didn't expect you to ... accept ... the situation right away. So, to show you that we're sincere," he says as he begins to cut the rope binding the Detective's feet, "we're going to let you go and reiterate the fact that we aren't the ones you're looking for."

Fully expecting to meet his demise at the hands of the murderous costumed men, the Detective is stunned but tries to conceal his surprise. The Black Jester stands and pulls a knife from his coat. Instead of using it to cut the Detective's throat, instead he cuts the ropes binding the Detective's hands together. Remaining seated, the Detective rubs his wrists and his aching head. The Black and Red Jesters disappear into the shadows, and he can hear by their heavy footsteps that they're slowly walking away.

The Gold Jester remains only for a moment. "Perhaps you should take a closer look at your city government. Specifically, Judge Dessard."

The Detective crooks his head at the mention of the Judge's name. "Dessard? You're saying he's involved in something?"

"We'll meet again soon. Good night, Detective." The Gold Jester slips out of sight and the sound of his footsteps trail off in a different direction than the others.

The Detective stands, but is overcome with dizziness and he's forced to sit back down. His mind is reeling from the impromptu meeting with the costumed killers. He pats his pockets, feeling for his cell phone, but it must have been lost at the hotel penthouse.

"Christ," he mutters. He stands again, this time slowly, and waits to find his balance before stepping out of the harsh spotlight and shuffling out of the dark warehouse.

## CHAPTER TWELVE: REVELATIONS

Rose is released from the hospital three days later. She's given instructions to restrict all activity to bed rest for at least two weeks. She tried to find out how she got to the hospital, but all the nurses in the emergency room could tell her was that she was found in the waiting room and was bleeding profusely.

She's glad to be back in her house and to change clothes and lay down in her own bed. The emotional fallout from Antonio's demise and from her nearly mortal wound prove too much for her to handle alone, so she decides to call the only person she knows in the city that can't get her into more trouble.

He doesn't answer his cell phone, so she leaves him a voicemail. "Hello, Michael? This is Rose. I was wondering if I could talk to you. Only if you have time. I can't leave my house at the moment, but ... I could use someone to talk to. Okay, let me know. Thanks ... bye." She hangs up and sighs. "That didn't sound desperate," she grumbles to herself.

She tosses the phone on her bed and gingerly sits down on the edge. She looks down at the lump beneath her T-shirt where the thick bandages still cover the stitches of her bullet wound. She reaches over and presses on it, wincing in pain.

Relieved to have a solitary moment after all the violence and chaos, her sluggish mind begins to process it all. This is so unreal. So much has happened! Running away from Antonio should have been the last of my troubles. But no! I end up getting shot! She presses on her wound again, expectant of the pain. "I got shot," she mumbles out loud. The image of Antonio's body falling dead to the floor surfaces. "And he's dead."

She has mixed feelings about her husband's death. Primarily, she feels relief, that justice has been served. But a tender corner of her heart holds some sadness. He was, after all, her husband, and she spent the last decade of her life trying to love the small part of him that wasn't a monster. Did he really deserve to die like that? Does anyone? She recalls that he was prepared to shoot her in his final moments. And that actually brought her the feeling of validation, that yes, she was right to run from him, because at the end of it all, he was prepared to kill her.

"It was either you, or me," she says in conversation with the dead man. Heat creeps up her neck and burns in her cheeks. Anger? She feels anger, instead of fear? How liberating ... "I'm glad it was you," she hisses. Vengeance. Justice. The monster is dead.

After internalizing Antonio's death as being an act of justice, her anger cools and the heat from her face dissipates. She lies down on her bed and stares at the ceiling until the heavy pain medicine in her system knocks her out for several hours. Waking up after dark, the sensation of someone sitting on her bed is what rustles her from her sleep.

Michael sits at the foot of her bed. He is leaning over, elbows resting on his knees. Rose is startled and confused but calms when she realizes it is him. She sits up and scoots towards him. She touches his arm to make sure she's not hallucinating from the heavy medication. He turns his head; his face is stoic.

"I got your message. Are you all right?" he asks quietly.

She shakes her head. They can barely see each other in the moonlit room. "Michael? Um yeah, I'm fine," she says, drowsy from the pain pills and her impromptu nap. She sits up on the bed and hugs a pillow. "How'd you get in here? I'm sorry, I fell asleep. Did you call? Or knock?"

"The police said that you jumped in front of the Black Jester, and took a bullet for him. Why, Rose? Why would you do that?" His words are tinged with desperation, as if he can't fathom what she has done.

Rose sighs, trying to clear the fogginess from her mind. "Well, if I told you ... you would think I'm crazy or something."

He continues to face away from her. His mood seems heavy and dark, a contrast to his usual warm and gentle demeanor. It is similar to the darkness that filled his eyes in the hotel room when he came to check on her the day after her abduction.

"Try me," he challenges.

"Are you going to tell me how you got in my house?" she blurts out. "I'm sorry if that was rude, I'm just ... it's these drugs, I think they're too strong," she says, picking up the prescription drugs on the nightstand.

"Your front door was unlocked. I came in because you didn't answer. I wanted to make sure you were all right," he answers quietly.

"Oh," she says. "Probably the drugs..."

"Rose, why would you take a bullet for a monster?"

"It's complicated, Michael. I know it sounds crazy ... it'll just sound worse if I explain it."

"Tell me!" he whispers. He turns to her and takes her hands in his.

"Please don't judge me."

"Just tell me!"

"It's because he saved my life. Because he wasn't the real monster in that room. Antonio got what he deserved. To me, the Black Jester is a hero."

Michael looks at her. There are traces of tears in his eyes. They glisten even in the low light. "How could you say that? How? He is a monster!"

Rose is bewildered by his unusually emotional outburst. "Are you okay? What's wrong? Why are you so upset about this?" She blinks several times in case it's the painkillers making her think she sees his teary eyes and distressed expression. It's not.

He slides closer to her and pulls one of her hands up underneath his shirt and places it on the palpable wound at the top of his rib cage. Rose gasps when she feels a swollen wound on his bare skin.

"You're hurt! What happened?" She feels around the wound and presses on it, inadvertently making him gasp from the pain. "Sorry!" She takes her hand back, trying to clear her foggy mind so she can comprehend what is happening. He grabs her hand again and lightly presses it to her own gunshot wound. He holds it in place and waits for her to process the information.

"The bullet that hit you ... hit me. It didn't break the skin, but it left a welt. I'm bulletproof. You're not."

She gasps and leans away from him. He lets her hand go. She tries to reconcile what he's saying. Michael is the Black Jester? The Black Jester is Michael? After speechless moments, she begins to cry out of both excitement and frustration. She stretches over and turns on the lamp on the nightstand.

The soft warm light from the lamp illuminates his face. There's something different about it. In her drugged state, she is slow to notice.

"You're him?" she stammers. "How? How can this be?"

"Why did you do it?" His voice is strained, devastated, angry, and thankful all at once. "You shouldn't have done that. You almost died!"

Rose shakes her head. Michael and the Black Jester are two completely different personas, and her mind reels to make the connection seem plausible. The pain and confusion on his face distracts her from her confusion and she senses his extreme remorse. "You saved my life! You helped me. I couldn't let you get killed!"

"But you can overlook what he does?"

"What he does? You mean the Black Jester? You talk like he's someone else."

"He is. He is a monster. He does terrible things!"

"But you are him. Isn't that what you're telling me?"

Michael grabs his head and pulls at his hair with both hands. "Look at me, Rose." He turns to face her head on, leaning in.

"I see you," she says, confused.

"No. Look at me!" He leans in closer, and blinks.

Now she sees it. His eyes are two different colors. One is the soft warm brown that makes her feel comfortable. The other is white, as the Black Jester's are both white beneath the Jester mask.

"Your eyes ... are you wearing a white lens?"

He shakes his head. "No. No lens. The Jester wears a white one. Michael wears a brown one. So they match, depending on who I am."

Rose's stomach flutters, anticipating some bad news. "On who you are?"

"The doctors told me I split apart after it happened. I am two different people. Depending on my mood is who I become. I don't know much about the Jester, except that he destroys things. And he doesn't know much about me, except ... you."

"After what happened? How long have you been doing this?"

He considers her question but doesn't want to answer it. Angling his body, he looks sideways at her and then down at the floor. "But the Jester does bad things, Rose. He kills people without remorse. What does that make me? Am I ... evil? Insane?"

"How could you be evil? You've helped me. You keep saving my life. That's not evil."

"Insane then? I don't feel bad when he kills bad people. I've tried to make myself feel remorse. But I never can."

Resolved to convince him that he is her hero, and not a monster, Rose leans towards him and rests her hand on his arm. "Michael, I don't understand what you're dealing with. Or how you can do the things you do."

"You mean how I can kill?"

She is pained by his tortured expression. "But I do know you do good things, too! You saved me! You showed me more kindness and respect in a short amount of time than my husband did in eight years."

"The men he kills are bad, Rose. They deserve to die. This city is better off without them. But it's so easy for him to do. I think he even likes it."

She shivers as she thinks of him killing. This is so surreal.

"But I've never had a reason to think I should try to stop from becoming him. Until you." He gazes softly at her. "You make me think I should stop him."

"I don't know what to say," she admits. "Maybe I can help you."

Michael composes himself, choosing to suppress his identity crisis for the moment. "What do you want me to do? I'll do anything you need. I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want."

Rose feels both frenzied and numb. She wonders to herself if the drugs are causing her to feel both drowsy and manic, or if her true emotions are responsible and she's finally cracking all the way to crazy. She looks up at his now brooding expression. "I don't know. But ..." Without finishing her thought, she all but dives into his arms and he holds her tightly to him. She feels safe, protected, and loved there in his arms. She closes her eyes and soaks in the endorphin rush from his protective hold. "Thank you."

When they withdraw from the long hug, neither says anything. Michael reaches his hand to the back of her neck and pulls her into a firm kiss. His move surprises her, but also melts the ice she's built up around her heart. She is amazed at how he is both gentle and strong with her. Their kisses deepen and the passion between them ignites.

After what seems like an eternity of silently enjoying the physical affection, they separate only to gaze into each other's eyes in the softly lit room.

"Maybe I should call the cops on you," Rose jokes, trying to lighten his mood.

Michael smiles. "Maybe you should. I would go willingly, if you wanted me to."

Rose shakes her head and returns the soft smile. "No."

She can't help but think about their situation, about the killings he has committed, including those she's been witness to. She whispers her concern. "What do we do now?" She questions herself more than him. A long silence follows.

"Michael?" she repeats. She reaches her hand up to his cheek and caresses it gently, feeling the roughness of the flesh colored scars. "Were you in an accident? Or a fire?" she asks about the scars.

A violent memory of the flood and the fire rips through his mind, and he jerks his head in an effort to make it stop. "Yes," he answers, his voice distant. The memory plays again and he tenses and slides away from her.

"Michael?" Rose's voice sounds distant to him as if it were coming from across the room and not directly in front of him. "Are you okay?"

He's rising from the bed, the memory burning in his mind and in his eyes.

"Michael?"

He flinches as if her words are physically striking him. Anger assaults his mind and he scrambles to his feet. "No!" he yells at himself, his emotions working into a frenzy.

"What? What's wrong?" Rose holds the pillow against her and she stands alert next to the bed. Her heart is racing, and fear rolls in her stomach again. Before she can say anything more, he holds up a hand that silently orders her to stop. Behind his attempt to hide behind his hands, sees the tortured expression on his face. It's a mix of pain and anger, and his eyes beg her not to follow him.

"I'm sorry," he manages to say. "It's just ... you mentioned the scars and ..."

She doesn't follow him as he rages out of the room, fighting an invisible foe as he crashes into the walls of the hallway and through the kitchen. Her mind races and she is filled with dread as the heavy realization hits her that Michael is admittedly bipolar, seems extremely unstable, and has demonstrated how dangerous he can be. She hears him curse and groan to himself. "No!"

Rose sinks down on her bed, drugged, puzzled, and emotionally exhausted. She begins thinking to herself, Is he really safe to be around? I don't want to go from one monster to another ... I will not ...

Moments later, Michael reenters the room silently and startles Rose as she realizes he is standing by her. His breathing is labored but he tries to calm himself. He sits on the bed next to her and takes her head in his hands.

"It was ... Katrina," he says with effort.

"The hurricane?"

He nods. "We were with several families. All members of city government. They insisted it was a shelter. My mother and my. My friends, their parents. The storm was starting to tear the place up, but they said ... stay. It's safe. They lied. And then, the shooting started."

"Wait, someone was shooting? Inside the shelter?"

"A planned execution of the last city council members that were opposing corruption. Mafia was integrating and our parents were the last obstacle."

"What happened then?"

Michael unwittingly rubs his left eye as he recounts the story. "Men in suits. Came in from out of the storm. And they just ... opened fire. My mother was one of the first hit. Shot in the head. She just fell over ..."

Rose waits as he struggles to pull himself from the nightmarish memory.

"Then there was screaming. I couldn't move, I was ... shocked. They levelled the parents first, then, they aimed their guns on us. We scattered. I ran up the stairs into the second floor. Others, my friends, ran out. My friend Johnny's sister was shot, killed. Two of the shooters chased me upstairs. Hunting me down. Fire broke out on the floor and the waters began flooding the first floor. I was hiding in an office while the fire consumed the hallway, creeping towards the office. I started choking on the smoke when I heard one of the gunmen say to the other one, He's dead. He'll burn or drown. Let's get out of here."

Rose tries to relax her death grip on the pillow in her lap and forces herself to breathe as he tells the frightening story.

"The fire nearly killed me. I don't know how I got down the stairs. The water was so cold. It was so dark. I kicked and swam to get out, but I ended up drowning. My friends had dragged me out of the flood and took me to the hospital. When I woke up, things felt weird. And about a year later after lots of ... problems ... the doctor told me I had split into two people. I developed Dissociative Identity Disorder."

Rose exhales, moved to tears hearing of his horrendous experience. "My God, I can't believe it," she says, gently squeezing his arm in an effort to comfort him.

Michael shakes his head and lets out a defeated grunt. "That's why we're doing this, Rose, that's why we're all doing this."

"What do you mean by all? There are others?"

He nods. "Yes. Jesters. Kings. The players of the game are everywhere."

Sensing the need for a mass quantity of details in order for her to fully comprehend, Rose realizes that Michael, and possibly even herself, are involved in something of grave enormity.

"Michael, I'm so sorry about your mother. But I don't understand what you're telling me. What exactly is going on around here?"

Forcing the memories out of his mind, Michael grabs her hands and squeezes them.

"I should stop now," he says.

"Stop what?" she asks.

"Stop everything. Stop the Black Jester. I should stop him. The mission, my friends don't need me." He smiles at his own words, and he sighs in great relief. "You made me realize I shouldn't let him kill anymore."

Nodding, Rose realizes the irony of the situation. Her previous nightmare ended when the Black Jester killed Antonio. And now, sitting on her bed with her, is the Black Jester unmasked, ready to change his life and stop killing. Although unsure of the full scope of details that motivate his actions, his murders, Rose doesn't feel the urge to distance herself from him or to call the police. On the contrary, she feels strongly drawn to him.

"I'm sorry," Michael laments, bringing a hand to her face and brushing it over her cheek. "I'm supposed to be here to help you, not the other way around."

"You are helping me. And you have been all along. This is all just ... insane!"

Michael's phone buzzes in his pocket. The expression on his face turns serious, and he takes the phone out to read the text message. "There's something I need to do," he says, looking at her, concerned. "Will you be all right for tonight?"

"Yes, I'm still really drugged up, I'll probably just fall asleep again," she says with an uncomfortable chuckle.

"Tomorrow morning I'm bringing you breakfast. And we can talk more!" For the first time since she's known him, he exudes an air of relaxation.

"Um, okay ... Breakfast is nice," she says, still confused.

He stands up but before releasing her hands, he squeezes them. "Thank you," he says.

"For what?"

"For showing me what I need to do."

***

Michael becomes the Black Jester once more so that, together, they can tell the others that the Black Jester won't be killing anymore. A little over an hour after leaving Rose, he arrives at their usual rooftop meeting spot expecting to meet the other Jesters. He climbs the stairs and steps through the metal door leading to the roof.

The sky above him rumbles with thunder and pulses with flashes of lightening from the approaching storm. The wind is balmy and increasing in intensity, the smell of rain saturating the air.

The Black Jester approaches the Red and Gold Jesters as they wait for him, but stops when he spots three other Jesters, all dressed in plain black clothing but fitted with white masks and black Jester hats. The new Jesters surround someone sitting in a chair with hands tied behind them. The person's is identity masked by black clothing and a black hood over their head. The Black Jester stares at the small framed person in the chair, then looks to the others.

"Thanks for meeting us on such short notice," the Gold Jester says cordially. He gazes at the hooded figure, then looks back to the Black Jester.

The Black Jester glances around, looking for the Blue Jester. "Where is Justice?"

"Justice was not notified of this meeting, Vengeance," the Gold Jester replies.

"What is this?" the Black Jester asks suspiciously, pointing to the seated mystery person.

"Take off the hood," the Gold Jester orders.

One of the new Jesters pulls the hood off the prisoner's head to reveal her identity.

The Black Jester is unmoving, his mouth open as if he's seen a ghost. From behind white eyes, the Black Jester sees the last thing he wants to see on this rooftop.

"I'm sorry, Vengeance," the Gold Jester says. "I had to."

From the chair, Rose watches the Black Jester with angry eyes, her mouth covered with duct tape. Instead of appearing afraid as he would expect, she actually appears pissed off.

Rage consumes him. "If you hurt her I will end you!" he yells. He is familiar with the fact that his alter ego – Michael – recently talked to her, but the Black Jester does not remember all the details.

"You should actually be proud of her, Vengeance. She put up quite a fight, even broke this poor guy's nose," he says, gesturing to one of the masked Jesters.

Rose glares at the Gold Jester, silently seething.

"Good!" the Black Jester growls through gritted teeth. "I'll do more than break bones!"

"I know what she's been through. No one wants to hurt her," the Gold Jester assures him. "But I'm sure you can understand the urgency."

"What are you talking about?" the Black Jester demands, flustered that the girl is in harm's way again. He starts to approach Rose but the three new Jesters line up in front of her. Quietly poised by the Gold Jester's side, the Red Jester watches the scene. The Black Jester wonders why the Blue Jester wasn't called, but he already presumes to know the answer. This has to be a coup.

"The mission isn't over. It's only begun." The Gold Jester walks out from behind the line of Jesters and approaches the seething Black Jester. "You know, when the King recruited us, he knew right away you were exactly what he needed to help accomplish this mission. We can't afford to lose you, Vengeance," he says quietly. "Lose our best weapon when things are starting to heat up? Not a chance."

"I am not your weapon!"

The Gold Jester's mad temper boils over. "You are and you will remain so until the King says this is over!" he yells, stomping the rooftop. "You are in this whether you like it or not. There is no way out of this, except as a corpse!"

"I will kill you if you hurt the girl!" The Black Jester clenches his fists, his chest heaving as he struggles to suppress his rage.

The Gold Jester chuckles and claps his hands together. "Yes! That's exactly what I want to hear. Until now, Vengeance, you were the only one of us without an identifiable pressure point. That made you dangerous to even us. Now that we have identified one," he sweeps his arm out indicating Rose, "we can make sure you stay with us, on our side. You see, I'm going to keep her nice and safe for you. That way, you'll do what the King needs us to do, and no one gets hurt. See how easy this is? Here's the thing, Vengeance. We always know where she is. We always know where you are. That's part of what I do. This is why the King enlists my services. I know things about you and about her that might actually frighten you! There is no hiding from me. Am I clear?"

The Gold Jester is within arm's reach and the Black Jester takes advantage. In a split second he is holding a knife to the Gold Jester's throat. But, it has the wrong effect.

"Kill her!" the Gold Jester calls to his subordinates.

A new Jester withdraws a handgun and aims it at Rose's head.

"No!" the Black Jester shouts as he releases the Gold Jester from his deadly grip.

"Wait!" the Gold Jester commands. The new Jester lowers his weapon. The Gold Jester backs away from the prized killer and smiles. "I think we've come to an agreement."

From behind the killer's costume, from inside the Black Jester's mind, Michael looks at his beautiful Rose and aches with remorse seeing the fearful expression on her still-bruised face.

The thunderstorm is now overhead. The rain pours down, soaking the members of the hostile rooftop gathering.

The wind gains strength and gusts, whipping the Black Jester's long black trench coat around his legs. Rose's wet hair lifts and falls in the wind, and her eyes remain fixed on him. She shakes her head. No.

"I'm sorry," the half of him that is Michael says to her softly.

Inside his killer's mind, the Black Jester shoves Michael's aching heart aside. His vengeful rage flares and he glares at Rose's captors. He stomps towards the Gold Jester and leers in his face. "I'll do what you want. Then, before this is over, I'm going to kill you."

The Gold Jester grins. "Vengeance, my friend. Before this is over, you'll change your mind." He chuckles jovially and claps his hands together again. "Excellent," he exclaims as he spins and walks towards Rose, studying her thoughtfully. Then, his expression and his words turn sinister.

"What is that old saying? Oh yes, it goes a little something like this..." He spins back around to face the Black Jester once more. "Vengeance is MINE!"

Continued in "The Silver Jester," Episode Two in the "Kings of New Orleans" Series.

## ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emily Ford lives in the desert hotness of southern Arizona. She writes dark hero crime thrillers & horror novellas. Her dark hero crime thrillers include the books in the "Kings of New Orleans" Series. Her horrors include books in "The Rachel Payne Horror Series," and the standalone novella "Hell Town."

Connect with Emily Ford

www.emilyfordworld.com

Twitter.com/EmilyFordWorld

Facebook.com/EmilyFordWorld

Pinterest.com/EmilyFordWorld

Amazon Book Links

"Hell Town"

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009M5P1N0

"The Demon Train"

(Book #1 in the Rachel Payne Horror Series)

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MKCWDJW

Connect with Best-Selling Author Lizzy Ford (Emily's sister!)

www.lizzyford.com

Twitter.com/LizzyFord2010

Facebook.com/LizzyFordBooks

Pinterest.com/LizzyFordAuthor

