The Jar of Nephren-Ka

Lacombe

New Orleans, Louisiana: 11:51 AM, Wednesday, June 6th, 1984

We took my cruiser. I cleared out all the junk in my front passenger seat for Oleg, and he became the first person to sit there since I bought the car.

On the way, Oleg was a chatterbox of nervous energy, pointing out every landmark in the city until I let him know I had lived here for over a decade.

We crossed Lake Pontchartrain on the Twin-Span bridge, dual ribbons of concrete suspended above the brackish dark green water, joints at each span providing rhythmic thumps as we crossed.

It was peaceful, and I started to say as much when I heard Oleg snore. He was leaning against his door, head resting on the window, wobbling a bit with each thump of the road.

I woke Oleg when we finished crossing and were in Slidell. He had very little to say about Slidell, a fact I was immensely grateful for.

We merged onto I-12, then got off on LA-434 headed north. At some point, we must have entered Lacombe, but I'd be damned if I could tell you when. After leaving the Interstate, I could count the number of freestanding buildings I saw on one hand. Marshland and woods encroached on the highway from both sides, tall cypress trees swaying in the wind a hundred feet overhead.

After a few more miles, Oleg spoke up.

"Slowly, slowly," he said. "Is around here somewhere, on left side."

I slowed down, scanning the left side of the road until I saw it.

"There," I said, pointing with my right hand to an overgrown drive.

"Da, yes, that is the place," Oleg confirmed, relief in his voice.

The drive was blocked by a formidable wrought-iron gate closed with a heavy, rusted chain. An open, battered mailbox sat off to the side.

I estimated that there was just enough room for the car to squeeze onto the drive between the highway and the gate. I drove past, made an illegal U-turn, and pulled the car into the drive, easing forward until the bumper barely nudged the gate. It swung gently in, then rebounded as the chain went taut. I put the cruiser in park, swung my leg out the door, and began massaging my knee.

"Your knee, something hurt it?" Oleg asked.

"Injured it in the service," I said, not wanting to elaborate.

Oleg nodded, seeming satisfied. When the knee released, I got out of the cruiser and approached the gate.

The sun was baking down from almost directly overhead, but it felt cool in the shade of the cypresses. The swamp smelled of decay and stagnant water, a scent of fungus and bacteria and sulfur.

The gate terminated in two thick columns, eight feet tall and made from mortared stone in a style that was more reminiscent of Europe than here. A stone fence, seven feet tall and topped with iron spikes, faded off into the vegetation in each direction.

Behind the gate, a rutted and overgrown dirt track meandered through the wood, muddy red puddles filling the potholes. Far in the distance, I could just make out a faded Victorian gable peeking out over the treetops, light blue paint chipped and flaking.

I walked over to the mailbox and looked inside. There was no mail, but an enormous spider had made a web inside. Several small, silk-covered bundles were testament to his skill.

I wiped away the dust and grime from the outside of the mailbox until I could see the street number, then wrote that down in my notebook.

I backed away and inspected the chain. It was run through several bars in the gate and strung around behind it. An old, rusty padlock connected the ends of the chain. Whoever had locked it, presumably Kinsey, had done so from the inside.