Intercessor

By John Robert Still

Jim Hampton arrived in New Orleans, eager to escape the stress of quitting a lucrative law practice. Instead, he finds a city on edge as a tropical depression brews in the Gulf. The storm appears to be dredging up the odd and unusual like shells from the ocean floor. Shadowy figures appear in alleyways; mysterious voices seem to come from nowhere. Jim is skeptical of the locals' claims that these are warnings from victims of past storms. He had all but given up on belief in the supernatural. That is until he meets Myriam, who begins to restore the faith of his childhood. As the storm-turned-hurricane bears down on the city, Jim relies on that faith to counter a murderous cult chasing him through the darkest corners of the French Quarter. After a twisted journey of terror and revelation, Jim makes discoveries that will change his life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685260392

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

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Intercessor

John Robert Still

ISBN 978-1-68526-038-5 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88644-716-3 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-68526-039-2 (Digital)

Copyright © 2022 John Robert Still

All rights reserved

First Edition

Cover art by Louis Guidetti.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

For

my wife, Sherly,

family,

including dozens of cousins,

and wonderful godson, Hayes.

In memory of:

George Snellings, IV

The comfort of having a friend may be taken away,

but not that of having had one.—Seneca

Chapter 1

I got drunk once for eleven years, said the man in the chef's outfit.

The few remaining regulars in the cigar shop laughed.

I hear ya, Chef, said the shop owner with a knowing grin. They tell me the nineties was a pretty decent decade.

Jim Hampton appreciated the humor, having just walked into the middle of it, although he suspected the reality was far more painful than funny. But what's done is done, and as he heard somewhere, laughter heals all wounds, assuming these two were, in fact, done. After all, it was no small feat to abstain from drinking in a city whose lifeblood is alcohol. Jim knew it well. Arriving in New Orleans only hours ago, he was still in the fresh phase of his return, experiencing things as if it were his first time—cool bourbon-soaked air spilling out of bars onto sidewalks, light from gas lanterns dancing on weathered brick. It was always this way at first, before alcohol and the inevitable hangover, like cataracts, clouded his perception of the city and turned his focus inward.

Jim loved coming back, although he couldn't quite grasp the words to adequately describe the city's allure. There was a mysteriousness about New Orleans, as if it existed in a constant shadow or a perpetual state of dusk, a blue-gray murkiness of feeling, appealing in the same way a good ghost story commands rapt attention. Maybe its relationship with water set the mood. Straddling sea level, New Orleans thrived on the fringes, quite alive yet constantly toying with the dead, which were literally buried aboveground in its famous cemeteries.

It all changed with Hurricane Katrina. When she breached the levees, she obliterated the line separating the romantic from the real. Swept away like tarot cards was the entertainingly morbid; in its place lay the stark and indifferent reality of death. But time had dulled the sharpest edges of Katrina memories. Tourists slowly returned, and the merriment began again. Jim had experienced all of it, pre and post Katrina, visiting New Orleans routinely throughout the years since. He saw no reason to think this trip would be any different than the others, willfully ignoring the fact that his purpose for being here now was entirely different.

Hey, friend, how's the legal profession? the shop owner asked Jim.

Fine, he replied. How you doing, Carlos?

Good. When was the last time you were in New Orleans?

Couple of months, I guess.

Well, I had a hip replacement since I seen you last.

Oh yeah? How's it working for you?

Great! No more hobbling in pain.

I can see that. That's great.

Truth is, Jim never noticed either way, but truth is sometimes worthily sacrificed on the altar of agreeable conversation. Applying flame to cigar, he thought about what a strange turn his life had taken. Over the last fifteen years of his practice, Jim had spent a great deal of time in South Louisiana, working on chemical spills, barge crashes, and other disasters regularly litigated in this part of the world. But despite his representation to Carlos, he was no longer in the legal profession, having officially left his firm in North Carolina three days ago. He'd had enough of it, here or anywhere, for that matter, finally taking the leap from lucrative complacency and removing Attorney-at-Law from his name. From now on, it was simply James Hampton, although he knew lawyer was indelibly stamped on him the minute he passed the bar exam. He returned to New Orleans now to escape the initial stress of exiting his career. A law school classmate offered him his house on Dauphine Street while he was out of the country and Jim didn't see a reason to turn it down. In fact, he jumped at the chance once he thought about it. Back home, he was out of work. Here, he was simply on vacation.

Jim knew he was a little long in the tooth for such a dramatic career change. At forty-five, he was a midlife crisis in the making, and those who watched him leave said exactly that. But Jim wasn't yearning for younger days. He had regrets, but regrets are different from the attempted reenactment of something that never was. He was fine with his age, as much as anyone can be at forty-five, in relatively good shape with a full head of hair, a tinge of gray mixed in with the light brown. If anything, Jim experienced an ongoing crisis throughout life, adulthood anyway, of dissatisfaction with the present, tempered by optimism in the near future. He had lowered his expectations, however. At this point, he just wanted to feel something, anything, in what had become a beige existence. The seminal events of life had approached and passed quickly, depositing themselves into the waste can of memory. There was only an empty horizon now getting closer by the day. Perhaps this seismic shift in his day in, day out could bring better clarity to his perspective on life. It would have to work itself out, he conceded to himself, as he sighed his way up from the depths of useless introspection.

Where are you a chef? Jim asked the man, assuming that was his profession based on his attire.

Smitty's on Bienville. Half owner, actually.

Really? I just had dinner there. The food was fantastic.

You can make anything taste good with enough butter and cream.

Jim was a bit irritated by the unappreciative response. He quickly realized, though, that this was not the place for niceties, much like the dressing room of a theater or, perhaps more appropriately, a break room at a theme park, where actors spoke freely out of character.

I could use a drink, said a man in a police uniform dejectedly.

What's wrong, Dave? asked Carlos.

I got a bad feeling, like Katrina all over again, responded the cop in an accent that betrayed his New Orleans upbringing.

They call the accent yat, as in where y'at? The first time Jim heard it, he thought he was talking to a resident of the Bronx. The occasional y'all gave it away. New Orleans. Everything about this city exuded Deep South like swamp water wrung from a dishrag. Yet natives spoke with a modified Yankee accent, just another example of this city giving the middle finger to the rest of the country and its made-for-TV expectations.

It's only a tropical depression, Dave, responded Chef. Katrina was a pain in the ass. The mold on my living room wall looked like a Jackson Pollack painting, but this ain't Katrina, Dave, not even close, so relax. Don't you have enough stress from your daily beat already? I hear one of the nutria is willing to turn state's evidence.

A burst of laughter followed. The reference was to the giant rodent originally imported from South America for its fur. Instead, the large river rats ran wild and wreaked havoc on the levees, feebly kept under control by nightly sharpshooters known as the Nutria Patrol.

How do you know, Chef? Dave countered. Did one try to cop a plea before you dropped it in the pot?

Despite the lighthearted banter, a sense of dread affected the city residents who were paying attention. It was late June, early in the hurricane season, but at this time of year, the Gulf of Mexico was a favored area for storm formation. There was no need to worry yet. It was only a tropical depression that would weaken or head well east of New Orleans based on the latest projections from rational minds. But rationality and PTSD rarely go together, and you couldn't blame the citizens who survived Katrina for being a bit fidgety when the winds picked up.

I'm telling you, it's getting ready to hit the fan, said Dave. I heard that strange laughter again over on Rampart. Looked for it, but nothin' there. Raised the hairs on the back of my damn neck. A guy on the force saw something, a shadowy character up to no good. He took out after him down an alley but found no sign of him, like he disappeared into thin air. Same stuff happened before Katrina.

Oh, here we go, Chef blurted out in feigned exasperation. You're not gonna start on that again, are you? You been shaking that Magic 8 Ball again, Dave? Signs point to yes or without a doubt, which is it?

Screw you, Chef. You ain't lived here your whole life to know how it is.

Alleged signs of imminent disaster are not uncommon in certain parts of the country. Jim was aware of the Moth Man in West Virginia and the Gray Man ghost of coastal South Carolina. He'd since learned that New Orleans had its own mysterious warning signs—voices emanating from nowhere, shadows appearing in alleyways leading to hidden courtyards. Perhaps it was restless spirits repeating their futile attempts to escape storms from long ago.

Seriously, Dave, you put too much stock into hunches, mojo, or whatever the hell you call it. You're not exactly instilling confidence in New Orleans' finest, you know.

You see some of the stuff I seen, Chef, and you learn to rely on it. You ain't been where I been. I shoulda been a cop in Baton Rouge, anywhere but here. Got all them run of the mill crimes plus the crazy shit that only happens in New Orleans. Remember that couple who lived above that voodoo shop after Katrina? Crime scene got body parts all over. A leg was in an aluminum pan in the oven, covered with seasoning. That type of stuff stays with you. And the suicide note? You don't forget shit like that, and that's just the tip of the damn iceberg.

From what Jim knew about Dave, he was a good police officer, by the book and a straight shooter. He didn't seem the type to let superstition dictate his job. In Dave's defense, it was generally accepted that New Orleans was engaged in a longstanding mystical battle between good and evil, the latter winning, based on the looks of things. Voodoo shops, strip clubs, stumbling, vomiting drunks, and depravity of all kinds thrived in the Quarter. Crime was off the charts in the rest of the city, the really strange ones too voluminous to list.

I can't deny this city's got a ghoulish history, said Chef. I'm just saying it's of the human variety.

Ask yourself what's behind all of that, responded Dave. And how come there's such a history of it here? New Orleans' finest can only do so much, and it ain't like it just started happening either. The Axeman was a hundred years ago. Never caught him.

Yeah, but that was just some serial killer asshole, not an evil specter, replied Chef.

He claimed to be one, said Dave.

And I can claim to be Huey Long. Doesn't make it so, replied Chef.

Who is this you're talking about? asked Jim.

The Axeman, a serial killer back around 1918, answered Dave. This dude claimed to be a dark spirit. He also loved Dixieland jazz. He promised to spare anyone who played jazz in their homes on a particular night.

And the city prudently complied, added Chef, laughing. So much so that a local musician wrote a song about it called ‘The Mysterious Axeman's Jazz' or something like that. Very popular song at the time.

So what happened? asked Jim. Did anyone die that night?

Not according to the legend, answered Chef.

It's not a legend, said Dave. It's verifiable. You can read newspapers articles at that time about it.

Jim could see how an event such as this could create a breeding ground for superstition, where it was easy to believe in warning signs of the paranormal kind. He also knew that the city had its bright spots scattered about. Beautiful old churches populated the area. Louisiana was steeped in Catholicism. Even the counties are called parishes. Jim was raised Catholic himself, and though he sometimes fulfilled his Sunday Mass obligation, his faith was running drier by the day. It was a struggle. He went through the motions of belief, his upbringing hanging on by a thread and at times pulling him back in. He needed that glimmer of hope, weak as it was, as the alternative was dismal, the possible senselessness of life just plain scary. But the idea that there was a God often seemed more times than he cared to admit, frankly, ridiculous. Jim wasn't completely closed off to things otherworldly. The fun mystical side of New Orleans was appealing, as long as it stayed at that level. No need to stir things up, so to speak. He thought about how fear of the bad invisible trumped belief in the good, but that's the way it was in the age of ghost hunters and horror movies.

As if right on cue, the local news advertised its nightly broadcast. Tropical depression intensifies. Details after the game. A shot of the radar revealed a blob of weather taking on a discrete form heading farther out in the Gulf.

See? Dave gloated. I been around long enough to know when somethin's up. I told you I got a bad feeling. This is one time I'd rather be wrong, all the crap I gotta deal with. Not so worried about the wind as I am the looters. Man, I hate hurricanes.

It's not even a tropical storm, Dave, responded Carlos. When the winds hit seventy-five and it sets its sights on New Orleans, talk to me then. In the meantime, stop with all the Katrina stuff, especially if any customers come in. It's bad for business. Plus, Jim's our guest. He's probably stressed out enough as it is. Show me a lawyer who's not.

You know how quickly that can change. It don't take much to get up to a hurricane out in the Gulf like that. And Jim's not a guest. He's one of the fellas. He can handle it. But I'll respect your wishes, Carlos.

Yeah. No worries over here, but I appreciate y'all thinking of me, said Jim, feeling good about being accepted by the locals.

Well, hell, said Chef. He's right about those storms picking up steam once they're out in open water like that. Radar didn't look too good either. Shit. I might as well start taking inventory of the food I'm going to lose when the power goes out.

Dude, talk about a one-eighty, said Carlos. What the hell happened to that carefree attitude? It ain't like it's a sure thing yet. Take it easy.

True, but you never owned a restaurant, Carlos, and unlike Dave and all that voodoo nonsense, my pessimism's based on science. When the power goes out, the food spoils. That's a fact. And my generators can barely power a handheld fan let alone a restaurant fridge and freezer. I knew I should've replaced them, damn it. And don't forget it's me. It'll hit us, all right.

Come on, man, power of positive thinking, replied Carlos.

Screw that. Tried it once. It withered in the face of my self-loathing. I'm the Norman Vincent Peale of negative outcomes, except I get results without all that thinking bullshit. And that's another thing, Carlos. It's easy to think good thoughts when you're a tobacconist in this sauna they call a city. Hell, all you have to do is leave the door open to attain the ideal humidity. I always wondered why you ran that humidor in the summer.

Carlos waved a dismissive hand as Chef headed for the exit. Is there anything you don't ridicule or laugh at?

Chef paused for a moment as if he were mulling over the question. Morgues are funny, he responded before bidding goodbye and closing the door behind him.

See you later, followed Dave. Good to see you again, Counselor. You picked a helluva time to be here, that's for sure.

All right, Dave. Be safe. I'm headed out myself. Jim had nowhere to go but sensed that Carlos wanted to close up early.

Okay, Jim. Have a good one. Great to see you again. Oh, and Jim, I know you know your way around here, but be careful. Not agreeing with all that Dave said, but something seems a little off kilter tonight.

Okay, Carlos, Jim replied without inquiring as an inexplicable shiver ran down his spine.

Chapter 2

Jim stepped out of the shop into a sweltering heat, not at all surprised that a passing shower had actually increased the temperature. Such is the irony of a brief rain on a New Orleans summer night. The wet streets reflected neon and incandescence, bringing a Hollywood richness to the scene as if it were sprayed down for the next take.

Now what? he asked himself out loud as he adjusted to the steamy conditions. Normally, he would walk back to his hotel and watch TV before falling asleep, waking up the next morning for a meeting of some kind. He hadn't thought it through when he decided to fly down here, now suddenly struck with a sense of loneliness as if he had been dropped off on a rural two-lane highway with no money and no phone. He started walking, aimlessly, venturing onto residential streets, despite Carlos's strange warning to be careful. Away from the commercial areas, the rippling flames of gas lanterns both accentuated and softened the darkness. Muted lightning flashed on the horizon as storms raged far enough away to be of concern anytime soon, he hoped.

The old houses seemed to shimmer with an energy from centuries of sheltering eccentric occupants, their lives absorbed into the woodwork. There was one house that appeared nearly dead, empty of all life except for a faint glow from a third-floor dormer window. Jim wondered what kind of effort was required to reach such a room. Was it a small journey through a maze of quirky hallways and staircases? And what kind of person would live there? Upon closer inspection, Jim thought he saw a silhouette, one he felt was staring at him, although he couldn't make out a face. There was movement, an arm appearing to motion him in. Startled, Jim took two steps back quickly before an abrupt stop.

Something or someone was blocking his way. He turned around to see a tall man wearing nineteenth-century clothing, his face pallid with dark circles under his eyes. Had the stranger in the window somehow transported himself down to what Jim now realized was a dark and empty street? A sinister smile spread across the man's face, followed by laughter, but not just his laughter. It was as if a crowd of ghouls were joining in as Jim took three awkward steps back, stumbling and almost falling. He let out a constrained scream, his arms raised instinctively, choosing fight over flight, as there was nowhere to run. Just then, his head cleared, and he saw the whole scene before him. In addition to the ghoulish man was a small crowd of normal-looking people, whom Jim quickly realized was a haunted tour group led by a costumed guide. In an attempt to cover his embarrassment, he laughed awkwardly before stepping out of the way.

Sorry, man, said the tour guide. I thought you saw us. Didn't mean to sneak up on you.

No. It's okay. I don't know how I didn't hear you. Sorry to disrupt the show. I'll get out of your way.

No worries, man. I have to say, that was quite entertaining. Sorry it had to be at your expense.

A few laughs continued from the small crowd before dying down as Jim walked away, hoping it was too dark for anyone to get a good look at him. He didn't want to be recognized later as the fool who got spooked by a haunted tour guide. Along with Hurricane glasses and T-shirts, his ridiculous story would no doubt accompany the tourists back to their hometowns, it's comedic value leading to the telling and retelling. The spike and crash of adrenaline left Jim disoriented as he looked back up at the now dark and empty third floor window. Maybe what he had seen was simply a shadow, the product of a nervous mindset caused by Dave and Carlos's talk of the strange and supernatural. But the guide was pointing to the same window, his small audience spellbound by whatever story he attributed to it, Jim being too far away to hear. From Jim's vantage point, it still appeared to be dark and empty, free of the potential specter. Was there a story there? Some kind of famous ghost of which Jim had gotten a glimpse? Maybe it was nothing more than a prop, put there by the tour company. If so, it seemed unethical, if there were such a code of ethics among haunted tour companies. People didn't need a haunted house production in New Orleans. It was easier and far more intriguing to use your imagination here.

Attempting to shrug off the odd and frightening encounter, Jim continued his walk, although with a little more caution. At least the scare provided a temporary break from obsessing over his current situation. He quickly picked up where he left off. Although Jim had a restless soul, he struggled with change, which until now was an unresolvable conflict between wanting to move on but being afraid to do so. Now that he had moved on, he found it too easy to back slide, especially in vulnerable moments. Whatever confidence he built up during the day abandoned him in the dead of night, when negative thoughts darted about in the skeptical darkness. But there was a momentum building behind his decision, one that had the upper hand over fear and doubt, telling him the status quo was dangerous, that what he sought could not be attained from the comfort of an office and steady income.

The problem is where he had landed in the aftermath. Unlike the decision to leave the firm, the choice to come to New Orleans now was made in haste, helped along by George Rousseau, the friend from law school who offered his place on Dauphine. George always told Jim he could stay in his guest bedroom when he was here on business, and Jim had always declined, preferring the treatment he received at a five-star hotel. Now that he was footing the bill, Jim willingly accepted George's offer, which worked out well for George since the house would not sit unoccupied for weeks at a time while he was overseas. But maybe he accepted the offer too quickly, not even checking the weather before he left. While he agreed with Carlos that the storm posed little if any threat to New Orleans, he had no need to take even the slightest risk, owning no property here. At this point, he was willing to stick around, though. He was here, after all, and had little desire to return home so soon in the wake of leaving his job.

New Orleans had always pulled him in. It had since his very first visit, when he and his father made a last-minute diversion during a tour of prospective southern colleges. Stepping onto Bourbon Street for the first time at twilight was a life-changing experience. He didn't care that the uptown locals scoffed at the Quarter and its tourists. It would always hold a special place for him. He often thought about that first trip with his father, who had long since passed away. His mind drifted to a place it shouldn't.

Why wasn't I a better son? he lamented. He wasn't necessarily a bad son; it's just that he could have been better. Where did all those years go? I should've had a family of my own by now. The what could have been was always lurking in the background, drowned out by short-term experience but recognized in the silence like a ringing in the ears. He'd had plenty of chances, relationships crashing on the brink of marriage from fear of permanence and the feeling that something was missing. There was one that stood out, brief as it was, but that was a crushing failure doomed from the start, his heart finally healing to a chronic bruise. That one experience left him with a kind of poisonous empathy. He became more sensitive to the pain of the jilted. But while he never wanted to cause another's suffering, he quickly learned that waiting for the right time to end a relationship is a fool's errand, the work of an unintended assassin.

Jim realized then that he was becoming trapped in an emotional eddy, one leading deeper into despair. He reached out for something positive, grabbing onto the sudden realization that he didn't have to work tomorrow, as if the thought had never occurred to him. It had, but in concept only. Such is the condition of an overworked soul, especially one imprisoned in billable time, staring out at the world through bars made of tenth-of-an-hour increments.

Time to celebrate, damn it, he resolved. Live in the moment for a change.

He immediately thought of the Belle Maison Hotel bar. It had the best atmosphere in the city, dark but inviting, a Dixieland jazz band playing in the corner; it was quintessential New Orleans. He set out for the bar with a newfound sense of freedom, moving with