So I now had an identity for the devastatingly handsome young man whose police portrait I’d uncovered in the rubble earlier. I wasn’t sure why, but my discovery made me inordinately pleased. In learning his name, maybe I’d somehow opened a door to the past—a door that was, for all intents and purposes, buried in time and hidden by myriad whitewashed boards.
With renewed fervor, I shifted my gaze to another article, just below the one regarding the Charity Hospital Gala. The Times-Picayune was displayed across the top of the page in bold Edwardian script. Beneath it were the words: “New Orleans, Friday, May 24, 1918.”
“1918! Aha!” I said out loud, not exactly sure why I felt the need to speak, considering the only ears listening were my own. “Scene of the Latest New Orleans Murder,” I read as my eyes skimmed the image of a rustic one-story house. The words “Grocery and Bar. Joe Maggio” were painted on the fascia board along the top of one wall. Just beneath the image of the store and bar was a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Maggio. Mr. Maggio’s suit was complete with a vest, and he had a handlebar moustache. Mrs. Maggio’s updo and high-necked black dress made the picture look as if it dated from the late nineteenth century.
“Joseph Maggio and his wife, from a photograph taken on their wedding day fifteen years ago, and the house in which they were killed while asleep in their bed.” I read the caption appearing just below the image of the Maggios. Above the caption was a picture of the layout of the Maggios’ home, showing how the killer entered the home by way of the back door, apparently, chiseling out a panel of it. A dotted line revealed the trajectory the killer took, showing how he traveled through the kitchen and the hall before executing his grisly task in the Maggios’ bedroom.
I couldn’t help but wonder if the handsome policeman were involved in the crime, so I read the lengthy article, only to discover that the unfortunate Maggios were hacked to death by their own ax before having their throats slit with a razor. Apparently, the brother of Joseph Maggio was charged with the murder, but nowhere was there mention of Drake Montague. I took a deep breath and realized my heart was racing. I could definitely recognize the fact that I was intrigued by the story but there was something else lurking just below my fascination and that felt very much like fear.
I quickly turned my attention to the article at the left of this one and read the title: “Another Hatchet Mystery; Man and Wife Near Death.” This article also managed to make the front page of the Times-Picayune, and judging by the date, occurred roughly a month after the Maggio murder. I scanned the next newspaper clipping, which appeared just below that one, and noticed it, too, dealt with what appeared to be a spree of ax-related crimes. The title of this article was: “Police Believe Axeman May Be Active in City,” the byline reading, “One Explanation of Murderous Assault on Mrs. Edward Schneider.” This article was dated August 6, 1918, just three months after the Maggios’ murders.
Now faced with a mystery, I was only too excited to uncover why these articles had been pasted all over the room. I immediately turned my attention to the clippings appearing at the bottom of the wall. All three had ties to the ax murders, the third referring to the killer as the “Axeman.” My heart strumming in my chest, I hurried past the pile of debris beside me and skimmed the subject lines of the various articles still remaining on the wall.
“Victim of Axeman Is Near Death After Operation,” I read out loud. I skimmed through five more articles, which all named additional victims of the Axeman’s wrath. When I reached the headline farthest from me, at the bottom of the wall, I stopped short. The date read March 10, 1919, and, beneath the title “Three Gretna Victims of Ax Murderer,” there was an image of a child dressed in a long white nightgown. Although her hair was cut short, it was obvious she was a little girl by her outfit, as well as her large, innocent eyes. I imagined she must have been about two or three years old at the time the photograph was taken. Below her picture was the portrait of a couple I supposed were her parents—a man and woman on their wedding day—and beside them, an image of their home, which also happened to serve as a store. Above that image was another map detailing the dotted-line route the Axeman took from his point of entry at the back door to their bedroom. The depiction of three bodies sprawled atop the bed made my heart sink. I read the caption: “These photographs show the Cortimiglia family, victims of the latest axeman mystery, and their Gretna home. The child, Mary, aged two years, was slain outright. Charles Cortimiglia is dying in Charity Hospital. His wife’s condition is serious.”
I took a step back and felt my shoulders droop. Any excitement I previously felt with the discovery of Drake Montague and my curiosity regarding why these articles were glued to the walls dissipated instantly. Instead, I was left with an overwhelming sense of grief. Even though the death of this child occurred nearly one hundred years ago, I couldn’t suppress the overwhelming tide of heartache that surged through me.
I couldn’t focus on my sorrow long, however, because I was suddenly covered in goose bumps from head to toe. I rubbed my arms to ward off the sudden arctic chill in the air and glanced around myself, searching for an open window that might explain the sudden plunge in temperature. Finding both of the windows latched and secure, I turned around and started for the door, wondering if maybe there was an open window in the hallway? Fear was already burrowing its way into my gut, and I took a deep breath, all the while asking myself why I felt so afraid of a simple chill in the air? I exhaled and saw the cloud of my hot breath directly in front of me. That was, in one word…strange.
I stopped short as the thud of heavy footsteps filled my ears. It sounded as if they were directly above me, as the ceiling creaked just above my head. My heart pounding in my ears, I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I felt light-headed. I exhaled, only to inhale once more as I stayed stock-still and listened for more footsteps. I couldn’t help wondering if I’d simply imagined the first set. But I knew better. I hadn’t imagined them. I’d heard them as clearly as if someone walked up right beside me.
If someone was in the room directly above me, that meant he or she was in the master bedroom, the bedroom I’d been sleeping in up until I moved to the Omni hotel. I exhaled again, still able to see my breath on the air in a frosty display dissipating into the ether. The heavy footfalls started up again. This time, it sounded as if someone was walking to the far side of the room, as if to look out the window.
Now convinced it wasn’t my imagination and that someone was in my house, I seemed to go into autopilot, reaching into my jeans pocket and producing my cell phone. I immediately turned to Ryan’s contact info and clicked the “Text” icon.
At my house. I think someone broke in. I hear footsteps above me, I typed. I hit “Send” and then gulped while straining to hear more footsteps that might give some sort of indication as to where the intruder was. Nothing but the still Southern air responded.
How could there be someone upstairs, Peyton? I asked myself. You never heard anyone go upstairs in the first place! What’s more, wouldn’t you have heard them breaking in?
I couldn’t answer my questions because I hadn’t heard the front door open, nor any windows breaking; and it was true, I never heard any footsteps going up the stairs in the first place. The guest bedroom I was currently standing in was located down the short hallway from the foyer, which meant I would definitely have heard something if someone came through the front door. So how was it possible for someone to be upstairs? Maybe they broke in earlier and just waited around for everyone to leave? That seemed to be the most plausible explanation.
It doesn’t matter how he got in, Peyton! I chided myself. All that matters is there’s someone in your house now!
When my phone vibrated in my hand, I nearly dropped it. My next thought was that my heart was pounding so hard, I could be experiencing cardiac arrest. But realizing the buzz was a simple text notification, I unlocked the screen and read: Try to get out. Either front door or window. If you can’t get out, hide and be quiet. I’m on m
y way.
I glanced down the hallway to the front door, glimpsing the staircase off to the left side. Could I make it to the front door without the intruder seeing me? And if the front door was locked, how long would it take me to unlock it before the guy was on me? More importantly, did he have a gun? Would he just shoot me if he saw me? And, really, who could say he was even still upstairs? I hadn’t heard anything in a while so maybe he’d sneaked downstairs and in my attempt to flee, maybe I would run right into him?
I turned around and spied the only two windows in the room, which were maybe three feet wide by three feet tall. Figuring they were a better option than the front door, I started tiptoeing forward. Even though I was already halfway across the room when I started back toward the wall, it seemed like it took an eternity to reach the other side. And in the mere seconds it truly took to reach the wall, I didn’t hear so much as a peep from upstairs. Nervous that the intruder was either listening for me or on his way downstairs, I attempted to push the windowpane up and open. But it wouldn’t budge. I tried again, this time throwing my entire body into it, but the thing just sat there, defying me. Cursing beneath my breath, I didn’t waste any time and moved to the other window. But just like its neighbor, this one was also painted shut.
Okay, so getting out is not an option, I said to myself. Plan B…Hide.
I released a pent-up breath and turned to the task of finding somewhere to hide. The closet would have been a good choice, but Ryan’s guys already pulled off the doors and stripped off the drywall. My only alternative was to hide behind the bedroom door. My heart in my throat, I began to tiptoe toward the door. As soon as my toes touched the hardwood floors, however, I heard heavy footsteps again. This time, it sounded as if the person was running toward the door upstairs, in pursuit of or running from someone. I froze. Then, remembering Ryan’s instructions, I hurried the remaining ten feet and edged the door wider so I could fit behind it.
That was when I realized the footsteps didn’t continue beyond the periphery of the doorway upstairs. It was as if the person stopped short before entering the hallway—as if he were listening for something or waiting for it. I grabbed my phone and texted Ryan again: I’m in the guest bedroom where we found the newspaper articles. I’m behind the door. Please hurry.
Then I clutched the phone in my hand while I tried to figure out what the person was doing upstairs. But he didn’t make a peep. I bit my lower lip to keep it from trembling as I realized whoever had broken in had to know I was in this bedroom because it was the only room with a light on! That meant whoever was inside my house knew I was down here. So why wasn’t he coming for me? I shook my head against the thought, a new wave of fear spiraling through me. Maybe he didn’t want a run-in. Maybe he just wanted to scope out the house and grab whatever he could and run. But there wasn’t anything in the house to take. It was empty…
The footsteps sounded again. This time, they were softer, and from what I could hear, the intruder was now walking back toward the window again. He seemed to pause once he reached the wall; and then I heard the very obvious sounds of him walking back toward the hallway again. Then he turned around and started for the window again. I shook my head, trying to understand why he was pacing back and forth. It just didn’t make any sense. Usually, break-and-enterers were quick—get in and get out.
Then there was complete silence. I held my breath, trying to peek through the tiny gap in the hinge side of the door. I couldn’t make out much—just the corner of the hallway leading into the foyer. Pulling my attention back from the gap in the door, I heard footsteps again, only this time, they were much closer. They sounded as if they were coming down the hallway, toward me. I held stock-still, my heart pounding in my chest as I tried to figure out how I was going to protect myself if the intruder walked into my room. Figuring one of the discarded wooden boards was my only option, I carefully reached down and grabbed the one closest to me. Then I stood up and held the board above my head, baseball bat–style, waiting for the trespasser to make his move.
Another few heavy footfalls and I could tell he was right beside the doorway. He paused as if hesitating before entering the room. I looked through the gap in the door, but could only make out a white T-shirt. He was so close to me now, just on the other side of the door! I gripped the board as tightly as I could and promised myself that as soon as he walked into the room, I would bash him over the head with it.
“Peyton!” Ryan whispered. “Are you in here?”
Relief suffused my entire being and I dropped my arms, allowing the board to rest against the floor.
“Yes, I’m behind here,” I said, pushing the door away and stepping into the room. Ryan spun on his toes so quickly that, moments later, I was up close and personal with the end of his gun.
“Jesus, Peyton!” he breathed out at the same time that he dropped the gun. “You should have warned me it was you! I could have blown your head off!”
I was still in so much shock at nearly meeting my maker, I didn’t even know how to respond and managed to say nothing.
“Are you all right?” he asked in a much softer tone as he tipped my chin up and appeared to inspect me.
“I’m fine,” I said at last, accepting his outstretched hand when he offered it. “Thank you.”
He immediately tucked me in beside him, wrapping his arm around me. He held his gun arm straight out before him as we started down the hallway, toward the foyer. “I already called the cops so they can deal with whoever is in your house,” he continued, moving as quickly as he could in the direction of the front door. “We just need to get outside.”
I didn’t say anything, brooking no argument with him. When we reached the front door, I felt relief already washing over me. He pulled me closer beside him, opened the door, and we were suddenly blinded by headlights. I shielded my eyes with my arms against the garish attack as I heard a man yell.
“Drop the gun!”
Completely confused and still unable to see clearly, I heard the sound of Ryan dropping his gun as he yelled, “I’m the one who called you!”
“Get down on the ground!” the officer responded, apparently not hearing him or not caring.
“What’s going on?” I asked Ryan, turning to face him as I tried to understand why they seemed to think he was the intruder. But Ryan’s attention was completely on the three patrol cars, each of which had two officers, all of whom were aiming their guns at Ryan. He held his hands up behind his head and stepped away from me, dropping down to his knees.
“Get down on the ground completely!” the officer yelled.
“He isn’t the one you’re looking for!” I called out to the man, but no one seemed to care what I said. I don’t even think they bothered to glance in my direction.
“Spread your legs and put your hands out to your sides,” the officer continued barking at Ryan. I turned my attention back to Ryan and watched as he obeyed the officer, spread-eagling his body, face down against the grass.
When I felt a strong hand wrapping around my upper arm, my first instinct was to try to free myself.
“Easy,” I heard the officer say in a deep voice as he glanced down at me and smiled warmly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
He was clean-shaven and handsome with dark-green eyes and black hair. He looked like he was in his mid-thirties and was nearly as tall as Ryan, maybe six-four, if I had to guess. He escorted me to the far side of my house, away from the lights of the squad cars and the other officers. I glanced over my shoulder to watch an officer cuffing Ryan while another one searched him, presumably for more weapons.
“He isn’t the one you’re looking for,” I said again, my voice sounding more desperate. “He’s my friend from down the street. I asked him to help me.”
“It’s okay, ma’am,” the officer answered, his green eyes as warm as his smile. “This is just protocol—he’s not under arrest.”
“But,” I started, shaking my head. “Why are they…?”
“We?
??re just detaining him for questions. Once we check out the house and he answers all our questions, we will let him go.” I studied his honest expression for a few seconds until I felt convinced he was telling me the truth. Then I simply nodded. “Now would you mind answering some questions for me?” he asked, his voice much softer. His smile lent him a boyish, charming quality. I was more than sure he was playing the part of “good cop,” but I couldn’t say it bothered me.
I glanced over to make sure Ryan was okay and noticed he’d been placed in the back of the car. “Are you sure they aren’t arresting him?” I asked the handsome officer, seeing “Officer Gunner” on his nameplate.
“No, like I told you, they just want to ask him some questions,” Officer Gunner responded, offering me another heartfelt smile. “Now, can you tell me if anyone else is still in your house?”
I shook my head, and then nodded. “I mean, I don’t know. I heard footsteps on the second floor, just above me, and I texted Ryan and now here we are.”
“So you never saw anyone enter or leave your house?” he asked, his eyes piercing beneath their deep green. I shook my head as he continued, “Are there any garages or sheds, anything like that on the property where someone might be hiding?” I shook my head again as he smiled down at me. “And you’re sure you heard footsteps?”
I frowned at him, even going so far as to raise one brow. “Yes, I’m sure.”
We were interrupted by the appearance of another officer. Officer Gunner smiled down at me and excused himself. The two of them spoke for a few seconds before he returned and announced they were going to check the house to make sure it was clear. He led me to the patrol car where Ryan was still handcuffed, seated in the back, and looking decidedly annoyed. “When are you goin’ to release me?” he demanded.