Jane Jensen - Gabriel Knight 1 - Sins of the Fathers
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2024-12-18
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Chapter 1
/ dreamt of blood upon the shore, of eyes that spoke of
sin.
The lake was smooth and deep and black as was her
scented skin.
June 18,1993
New Orleans
Dawn was barely perceptible, bleeding a diffused
golden pink into the night sky. It was a tremulous
light that merged, mistlike, with the darkness.
Out in the bayous on the edge of town, there were
one or two old men that, had they been awake
and watching, could have accurately predicted an
unusually hot, unusually humid summer's day.
But they were not awake and neither was Gabriel
Knight. He was sprawled naked under a thin
sheet that badly needed washing, and into his
sleeping mind something crept. Its invasion was
not nearly as shy as the dawn's.
A dream. The dream. Unfortunately, Gabriel's
unconscious mind did not recognize that it was
the dream and was therefore as vulnerable as a
child squatting in the middle of the road. If only
he were able to anticipate, he'd often thought
upon waking, if his sleeping self could only recog-
nize the tang of it coming, he might be able to
steel himself. Dread wears thin, images lose their
power. He writes horror. He knows this. But no
matter what his conscious mind did to prepare,
the images hit him square in the face as though he
had never seen them before, nor even imagined
their existence. This being the case the dream
always was—that bad.
He moans. He pushes down the sheet that
covers him, as though trying to push away his
sleep, but there is no one lying beside him to see
his distress, no one there to waken him, not on
this particular morning, and so it goes on.
He sees a gathering in the distance and ap-
proaches it, curious. A group of people are clus-
tered together—men, women. There's a bonfire. It
isn't until he draws near that he notices some-
thing odd about the people. Their clothes. They're
wearing old-fashioned clothes.
Then his eyes fix upon a single man. He is not
part of the crowd. He stands to one side, but that's
not what sets him apart. His hair is worn long,
most of it covered by a large, square black hat.
Thick blond locks lay on the shoulders of the
man's black cloak and those locks gleam like real
gold in the firelight. Beneath the cloak is a flash of
white collar. But it's the man's face that draws the
eye. He's staring at something, face pale, eyes
wide. He trembles and weeps. Fear and loathing
are stamped indelibly on his features as if the
hand of God had put them there.
And then, just as if it were the very first time,
Gabriel's dream eye turns to follow the man's
gaze. At first he only notices the fire. The pile of
wood that fuels the flames is high and broad, an
enormous bonfire. The flames rear up over the
heads of the crowd. Then he sees that there is
something in the flames, some matter, tall and
dark, and it takes him a moment to categorize it in
his mind because, really, he's never seen anything
like this before and the image will not register.
It's a woman. They're burning a woman.
It punches into him: shock, horror, guilt. He
feels a terrible guilt, although he does not know
why. He's afraid, too, as he looks at her. He feels
helpless and nasty—like a child caught stealing—
but it's a thousand times worse, as if what he'd
stolen was . . .
Her life.
The woman's head is thrown back in the flames,
a mute scream of agony driven to the sky. He
doesn't want to watch, but he does. She slowly
lowers her head and looks at him. Her face is
unmarred yet by the flames, and it is a beautiful
face. He can see now that she is dark-skinned.
And she is young, oh, yes, but powerful and
piercing. She knows such things. She laughs at
him, her cracked lips parting, her white teeth
gleam. Her disgust at his nasty ways is in her
laugh, as though she had spit on him instead of
laughed, and she might have, had he been closer.
Then her face begins to melt and he moans with
repulsion. He doesn't want to see this! Doesn't
want to watch as her body is consumed! But it
isn't the fire, and her face is not being consumed.
It is being transformed. The face in the flames
restructures itself into the head of a leopard. It
screams at him in fury.
And he runs, his dream self. Runs away, not over
the ground, but into the air. He plows through the
black night sky, higher and higher, toward the
stars. He only wants to get away, but after a
moment that mindlessness fades and he feels com-
pelled. He must turn, must look.
Far below he sees the circle of fire, though he
can no longer see the woman. The circle spreads
out into a large open hoop of flames, a burning
wheel, then another circle springs up inside the
first, two wheels of fire, spinning. And from the
center something spins out, coming toward him,
rolling in the air like a slow-motion bullet. He
tries to get out of the way, but as the object
approaches he sees that it is only a medallion. The
gold surface bears the images of a lion and a
snake gripping each other in mortal combat.
The medallion stops in the air in front of him
and hangs there. Something about the medallion
is magical, hypnotic. He stretches forth his fingers
to take the device, but before he can touch it, the
medallion begins to ooze blood, black blood
welling up as if from golden pores. He withdraws
his hand in disgust.
Three drops of blood fall into the blackness
below. He follows them, down, down. Far below
him is a cobblestone street, just like the streets in
New Orleans. The three drops of blood hit the
cobblestones.
Drip, drip, drip. And the black blood, making
contact with the stones, hisses and elongates. It is
not three drops of blood at all, but snakes, three
snakes, black and small and slick. The snakes split
apart and wriggle away into the night.
And then it is dark again. No light. No street.
Nothing at all, until lightning splits the sky in the
distance. By its light he can see a hill far off—a
peaked hill silhouetted against the sky. The light-
ning fades and the blackness returns. He rushes
straight ahead, to where his mind fixed the loca-
tion of the hill. Something is there, he thinks.
Lightning flashes again and he can see that he's
closer this time, much closer. And now more of the
hill's silhouette is detailed and on the peak of
the hill is a tree, black against the sky, and from
the tree dangles a rope, black against the sky, and
from the end of the rope hangs a body. The light
goes. He rushes toward the hill still, because
now he knows why the hill is important. He must
see. Who?
And the lightning flashes again and he is close
to the figure now, can make out... a black cloak, a
collar, long blond hair. And then it is dark and still
he rushes forward. It's the man, the man from the...
And the lightning comes again, purple and
white splitting the blackness with a power and
brilliance no Con Edison man could ever hope to
generate. And he's so close now he can see the
strands of hair, the weave of the cloak, the face.
But it isn't the man, isn't the man from the bonfire
at all, is it? The face at the end of the rope, purple,
swelling, dead. It's his own.
It was nearly ten A.M. when Gabriel stumbled
from the back room of St. George's Books into the
shop front. The place was predictably devoid of
customers, but his shop manager, Grace, was sit-
ting behind the desk. He was glad to see her, and
the creamy bit of leg sticking out from under her
gauzy skirt wasn't even the reason why. He was
glad to see anyone at all after the night he'd had,
but Grace was busy on the phone and Gabriel
made a beeline for the coffeepot.
"Mmmm-hmmm. I bet. Just a minute."
Grace covered the receiver with her hand.
"Do you want to speak with 'Bunny'?" she
asked him sweetly, blinking her lashes in a
remarkable imitation of the "B" herself.
Gabriel made an urgent canceling gesture.
Grace returned to the phone.
"I'm sorry, but Gabriel is a lout ... I mean,
he's out."
He picked up the coffeepot and poured out a
cup with his usual morning semiconsciousness.
Bunny was obviously not about to retire peace-
fully, and Grace rolled her eyes at him and agreed
wholeheartedly with the receiver. He studied her
from across the room. It was almost as rejuve-
nating as the Java.
Grace Nakimura was twenty-six years old, and
about as foreign a species to him as a goldfish is to
a trout. She was from the East, in the first place.
New Hampshire or some blue-blooded place like
that, and he was a N'Orleaner born and raised.
The differences in their accents was only the
beginning. The East/South thing seemed to extend
deep into their subatomic cell structure. Grace was
always in a hurry, always thought something
ought to be done about something, and was at a loss
to handle only one thing—free time. When she
wasn't working here she was taking classes like tai
chi and oil painting. And this summer was sup-
posed to be her break from school. Gabriel, on the
other hand, preferred to watch life, as if from a
rocking chair on the porch in the middle of
August. He figured if something really interesting
went past (and if he felt up to it at the moment), he
could always get up and jump in.
But Gabriel had met Easterners before, and
there was a lot more to it than that. Grace was also
smart, really smart. She was the kind of person
that you knew had probably never gotten any-
thing less than an "A" in school in her entire life.
She could whip through the Times Picayune cross-
word puzzle in about six minutes (he'd actually
seen her do this, and had promptly left for the
gym). She knew all the things about history and
geography and world events that Europeans were
always ragging on Americans for being too dumb
to know, and she made you feel a couple of cents
short of a dollar yourself if you spoke to her for
over thirty seconds. Gabriel had never spent
much time with smart women. Quite the opposite.
He made sure that the women he went out with
were . . . uncomplicated. He preferred to keep
things light, as a rule. Grace wouldn't know light
if she stumbled across it in a blackout.
And beyond all that, Grace was Japanese or,
rather, Japanese-American. Although she spoke
and acted as American as a native (well, she was a
native), there were subtle things about her that
Gabriel found incomprehensible. Her loyalty to
her parents, for example. She called them daily
and they still seemed to run her life to an extent
that Gabriel could not comprehend any grown
person putting up with. Hell, his gran had never
been that bad, and he'd still moved out when
he was sixteen. And Grace was so clean-cut.
She didn't drink or smoke. As far as he knew, she
didn't even date.
For any or all of those reasons, or perhaps
because of something else even less tangible,
Grace reminded him of the old science fiction
pulps he used to read where the scientist would
explain to the politician that even if they did run
across an alien life-form, that life-form was likely
to be so different from our own that we wouldn't
even know it was a life-form. And yet, life-form or
not, he liked Grace. He was damn lucky to get her
to run the shop this summer, and he knew it.
"Yeah, if he ever comes back, I'll tell him,"
Grace was saying. "You know, you could do
better. I know I don't know you, but you could
do better."
Grace hung up the phone and turned to him
with a wide-awake cheerfulness that made him
feel exceptionally unkempt.
"So, I see you've decided to join the land of the
living. It's about time. The phone's been ringing
off the hook all morning."
Gabriel grunted, uhhhn.
Grace looked at him with interest. "Did you
have another nightmare last night?"
"More or less/' Gabriel managed to croak. He
quickly drank another gulp of coffee.
Grace shook her head in her half-concerned,
half-annoyed way. "I'm telling you, it's that
Voodoo book you're researching. No wonder you
get the night sweats."
"I've been having that dream since I was thir-
teen, Grace. I don't think it's the Voodoo book."
"Have you ever had it so often? You've looked
like crap every morning this week."
It had been bad lately. He used to have the
dream once, maybe twice a year. It started going
up when he hit thirty, but in the past month it had
been as relentless as a pack of piranhas. It was one
thing to go to bed knowing you probably wouldn't
have the dream. It was an entirely different kettle
of fish convincing yourself to close your eyes
when you knew you probably would.
"You're too kind," he replied, giving her his
most charming smile. "If you're truly concerned,
you could offer to sleep with me. I never have it
when there's someone else in my bed."
Grace raised a thin brow. "Well. That explains a
lot," she said, dismissing the subject. "I checked
the city for Voodoo references. I found two.
There's a shop called the Dixieland Drugstore on
Dauphine and The Historical Museum of Voodoo
on Chartres and Ursulines."
Gabriel put down his empty cup and stretched.
He was starting to feel vaguely human. "Great. So
who else called this morning?"
Grace picked up her notepad. "Your grand-
mother. Wanted me to remind you that you still
need to go through your father's things before the
charity sale next weekend."
"Damn! That's the third time she's asked me
to do that."
"Fourth. Don't worry, she already knows
you're completely unreliable."
"I'm sure you reminded her anyway," he said
calmly. "What else?"
"You also got a call from Germany—a guy
named Wolfgang Ritter. He wants you to call
back. Says it's important."
Gabriel snorted. "Like hell."
Grace peered at him over the pad. "Aren't you
even curious?"
"Not enough to pay long distance. What else?"
Grace muttered something under her breath
and turned the page on her notepad.
"Your pal Detective Mosely called," she recited
dully. "And called, and called."
Gabriel grinned. "He has a crush on you,
Gracie. What'd he say?"
"He wanted me to tell you that his mother's
maiden name is Humphrey, and that he left some
photos for you at the front desk at the station."
"Good."
Grace looked at him suspiciously. "You want to
fill me in on this one?"
"Not especially," Gabriel said warmly.
Grace gave him an acidic smile in reply and
turned delicately back to the account books
spread out on the desk. She'd been trying to make
heads or tails of the shop's records for weeks.
Gabriel, whistling cheerfully, headed for the
shower.
It was a little past eleven when he arrived at the
police station on Royal and Conti. He managed to
leave his motorcycle curved between two badly
parked cars, avoiding a meter. He brushed the
front of his black leather biker's jacket (his prize
possession), ran a hand through his unkempt
blond hair (a style that Grace referred to as "James
Dean sticking his finger in a light socket"), and
walked to the front door. In the reflective glass of
the station's windows he saw a teenaged girl
watching him from across the street. He smiled.
He was thirty-three, but, if he did say so himself,
he'd never looked better.
The station's air-conditioning was a relief after
the hot mugginess outside. At the front counter
was an older man, gray-haired and beefy, with a
gut that displayed a Southern delight in fried
chicken, beignets, and beer. Gabriel strolled to the
long, polished wooden barrier and asked for
Detective Mosely.
"He's not here," the man said shortly. The name
tag on his chest read Frick.
"Do you know when he'll be back, uh, Officer
Frick? He's expectin' me."
"That may be," the man said, his tone implying
that it might well not be, "but he's been called to a
crime scene. Don't know when he'll be back."
"A crime scene?" Gabriel said with interest.
"Near here?"
Officer Frick scowled. "You with the press or
somethin'?"
"That's a distinct possibility."
"Look, I know you guys are all hot on this
Voodoo Murders shit, but crime scences're police
confidential."
"So it is a new Voodoo Murders then?"
The man's scowl deepened. "I never said that.
There's gonna be a crime scene right here if you
don't mind your P's and Q's."
"Sorry. Really." Gabriel looked awfully sincere.
The man glared at him a second longer, then
looked back down at his register.
"One more teensy thing?" Gabriel drawled.
"Detective Mosely said he'd leave somethin' for
me at the front desk. The name is Knight?"
Officer Frick looked Gabriel up and down skep-
tically as if he might, by looking at him, ascertain
whether he was really Mr. Knight or not. He
decided in Gabriel's favor, reached beneath the
counter, and brought out a manila envelope.
Gabriel took it with a charming smile.
Although he preferred the air-conditioning,
Gabriel went outside before opening the enve-
lope. He didn't want Officer Frick to see what was
in it, and he didn't guess Mosely would either.
Inside were two photographs. One showed a
young Mosely at his police-academy graduation
(he had hair then). Gabriel stuffed it back in the
envelope carelessly. The second image had his full
interest. It was taken at one of the Voodoo Mur-
ders crime scenes. It centered on the corpse of a
young man who had once been good-looking, but
was now carved up like a Halloween pumpkin.
The man's chest was covered with matted blood,
but Gabriel thought he could make out a gaping
hole where the heart had been. Symbols, equally
obscured, were carved into the flesh of the face
and stomach. Around the man's body were traces
of a white powdery substance and something
else . . . feathers.
* * *
Gabriel headed out from the police station,
grinning. The boys down at the Picayune would
slice off their balls and present them on a silver
platter for the photograph he now had in his back
pocket. The police had been very tight-lipped
about this case. The most significant facts the
newspaper could report was that Voodoo para-
phernalia was found around the bodies and that
the victims, six at last count (maybe seven by now
if Prick's slipup meant anything), were all out-
of-towners. "The general public of New Orleans
is in no danger," so quoth the N.O.P.D. Hell, the
mayor was probably pissed off that even that had
leaked out. It might soothe the natives, but it had
to play havoc with the convention crowd.
Voodoo paraphernalia my ass. The bastard's heart is
missing.
At last, he was on his way with the new book.
His last two, Fire in the Hills and The Stalker, had
barely brought in five grand apiece and were no
longer on the shelves of even the best-stocked
horror sections in the city. Gabriel had to call his
agent five or six times before he even got a call
back. But not for long. Gabriel was determined
that his Voodoo book would hit the big time, and
damn Knight bad luck.
He contemplated a direction at the corner and
the car behind him honked in irritation. Gabriel
ignored it. He had those leads of Grace's to check
out, the shop and museum. But those were inter-
views and background only. Right now, he
wanted to be at that crime scene. But where was
it? Gabriel decided on his usual course of action.
He'd go to the park, have lunch, and see what
came up.
* * *
Jackson Square was a tourist-ridden spot natives
avoided in the summer, but it was one of Gabriel's
favorite hangouts. For one thing, there was always
a band or two playing (free music). For another, he
knew most of the vendors (free food). Besides,
there was inevitably a lot of women running
around in minimal summer garb and, well, that
made the scenery pretty unbeatable.
He parked and locked his bike, passed the
artists that surrounded the park, and went in to sit
on the grass. A brass band was on the lawn, doing
"Saints" for the tourists, and Joe, the band leader,
nodded to Gabriel and gave him a wink. Gabriel
winked back.
The park wasn't big on shade and was therefore
lightly populated in the midday heat. For a park,
it had a curious history. It had once been an army
parade ground, way back in the days of the
French (it was called La Plaza d'Armas then).
Public executions had taken place here—hang-
ings, beheadings. Gabriel wondered if mothers
ever thought about that as their kiddies played on
the grass. Even the name, Jackson Square, was a
bit of a contradiction. The park was actually laid
out in a circle. A broad sidewalk circled the park's
rim, and in the center a smaller circular sidewalk
surrounded the bronze statue of Andrew Jackson
on his horse. Across the street to the south lay the
Mississippi, and to the north of the square was St.
Louis Cathedral.
The day felt lazy. Even the band's rhythm
seemed to drag. Gabriel got up again after a minute
and went for a stroll, hoping to see a familiar
vendor. A hot dog would taste good about now.
Hell, even a cup of coffee wouldn't hurt. He passed
a motorcycle cop who had pulled his bike up on
the lawn. I'd get a ticket if I did that, Gabriel thought.
The helmeted officer stood next to the bike, osten-
sibly maintaining the peace, but probably just
taking in the babes. As Gabriel passed him, the
radio on the cop's bike hissed.
"Coroner requests assistance at... hiss, pop."
Gabriel paused. He stood there listening, trying
to look incongruous.
"Car eleven, attend . . . crack."
Gabriel looked at the policeman. The police-
man looked back pointedly. Gabriel gave him a
sheepish grin and kept walking.
On the other side of the park, Gabriel hesitated.
He was drawing close to a mime. He'd seen this
guy before and he was bad news. The mime was
dressed in black, his face painted white. He was
following the pedestrians as they strolled by, mim-
icking their walk, exaggerating their manners. He
had gathered a small audience—a few people
stood watching with amusement so tame it was
just this side of boredom. The objects of the mime's
attentions clearly did not appreciate his act.
"Buzz off," a girl was saying angrily. She tossed
her braids and stomped away.
The mime tossed his imaginary braids and
minced back to his platform.
Gabriel turned to walk back the other way, then
he thought about that radio.
He first made sure there was no one he knew in
the park. There was Joe, but Gabriel could live
with that. Playing dumb, Gabriel strolled past the
mime, exaggerating his natural macho strut in a
way he thought would be irresistible (Grace, he
knew, would say that it hardly needed exagger-
ating). He heard titters behind him and gritted his
teeth. He did not turn around.
He passed halfway around the square with his
parasite in tow. Joe looked at him with raised eye-
brows from around the mouthpiece of his
trumpet. Gabriel gritted his teeth harder and kept
strutting.
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