Wolfsbane

by William W. Johnstone

  There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Janette’s stomach. She wondered if she’d come all this way for nothing? But Lyle had said Pat was a good man. And that’s all she had to go on.

  “I still need to see him,” she insisted.

  Sheriff Bradshaw sighed, then nodded his head. He drew a red line on a county map, showing her how to get to Pat’s place.

  Janette left, after promising the sheriff she would not try to locate Pat’s house until morning.

  “Now, what the hell would a classy woman like that want with Pat Strange?” the deputy who had giggled asked.

  “I’d like to know that myself,” Sheriff Bradshaw said. “You ’member her license number?”

  The deputy nodded.

  “Run it. Request all the information you can get on her. Hell! Maybe Pat’s joined the Mafia or something. I wouldn’t put anything past that son-of-a-bitch!”

  The Jeddo County Sheriffs Department was small but highly efficient, equipped with very modern equipment and trained men and women. It did not take long to gain information on Janette Bauterre Simmons.

  “Well, now.” Sheriff Bradshaw leaned back in his chair. “She’s not just rich, she’s filthy rich. Husband a former Green Beret. That’s the tie-in. Strange was one of those crazy people. Eats snakes. But I still can’t imagine why a woman like that would even want to be seen with a troublemaker like Strange.”

  “You want to tail her?”

  Sheriff Bradshaw shook his head. “Nope. It’s none of our business.”

  After more than two months of no booze, no cigarettes, regular meals, and hard exercise, Pat was beginning to resemble the man he once had been. He had honed his flabby 240 down to a hard 205. He was doing a hundred pushups a day, Lord only knew—which He did—how many sit-ups and deep knee bends, and was running more than ten miles each day. He spent at least three hours a day with an axe, cleaning the growth from around the house, chopping and splitting wood. He felt better than he had in years.

  But with his rapid return to health, another problem was occurring: Pat was beginning to feel strong urges for a woman. He did not want to go to the redneck joints in the county, for if he did, some boozed-up ’neck was sure to mouth off with a smart-ass remark, and Pat would feel obliged to bust his mouth for him. And he did not need trouble at this so-far good point in his life.

  He had scrubbed and mopped his house, dusting and rubbing until it shone like an army barracks before an IG inspection. He had also painted his house. With his continued sobriety had returned the good humor he had been known for over the years.

  He painted the house olive drab, installed a rock walkway, and painted the rocks white, chuckling as he did so.

  Make-work projects.

  Pat took very cool showers, several times a day, under a fifty-five gallon drum, suspended over a shower stall behind the house. The showers cooled his cravings for a woman, but not much.

  Pat was cooling off from a hard five-hundred-yard run when he heard the car groaning up the rutted road. “Gonna get stuck,” he muttered, for there had been several hard rains during the past week, and the road was treacherous even in good weather.

  Then he heard the back tires spinning, grabbing at mud, sinking into the mire.

  “Shit!” he said. He had not had company for months, and was not desirous of company at this time. Unless, he smiled, it was a good-looking woman coming out to give him some. Or even a bad-looking woman.

  Either one of which he doubted.

  Clad only in a pair of cut-off jeans and old raggedy tennis shoes, Pat walked down the road, toward the sounds of spinning tires. Passing by his Jeep, he gave it a friendly pat on the fender. The Jeep was thirty years old, but Pat had been working on engines for most of his life, and he kept the Jeep humming like a well-oiled sewing machine.

  The roaring of the engine and the whining of tires in mud ceased. The morning was quiet and beginning to get hot, although with the approach of autumn, the temperature had abated somewhat. Pat rounded the bend in the road and suddenly came face to face with one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

  And he knew he’d seen her before. Some place.

  The woman was tall, with a sensational figure, high, full breasts, dark complexion, hair shining black as night. Dressed in jeans, a blouse she filled amply, low boots.

  Where had he seen her? Damn! Was she a movie star? Maybe coming to see him about filming a movie of the life and times of ex-hero Pat Strange? Present occupation: unemployed; recovering from alcoholism. Yeah. That should fill the movie houses with crushing throngs.

  Pat realized he must look like the proverbial wild man. Dark by nature—with some Indian blood in him, so he’d been told—the South Carolina sun had burned him even darker. But the sun did not tan his scars . . . and he had more than his share on his hide. And his pale eyes were startling to many people. Hunter’s eyes, they had been called. Killer’s eyes, others had said.

  “I’m looking for a Mr. Pat Strange,” she said. “Are you Mr. Strange?”

  Pat smiled. “That depends entirely upon what you’re selling, lady.” He knew he’d seen this woman somewhere, but he couldn’t remember where.

  She flushed, catching the sexual implication of the question. She pointed down the muddy road. “My car is stuck.”

  “Your problem. I didn’t invite you out here.”

  “You, sir, are not a very nice man.”

  “That’s quite true, ma’am,” Pat agreed with her. “Lots of people feel that way about me. I don’t lose a lot of sleep over it. What do you want, lady?”

  “I told you: I’m looking for Pat Strange. And you are Pat Strange.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because I recognize you from your picture.”

  “What picture?”

  “The one you made with my husband in Vietnam.” A soft, subtle whiff of perfume drifted to him. The scent aroused the male animal in him.

  “I soldiered with your husband in Nam?” He shrugged. “I soldiered with lots of guys in Nam.”

  “I have a business proposition for you, Mr. Strange. My name is Janette Simmons.”

  Sure. There it was. The image of that photo came drifting back to Pat. If anything, she was more beautiful than in the picture, more mature, more womanly.

  “Captain Simmons’ wife?”

  “Yes. Is there a place we can talk?”

  “How is the captain?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man. How?”

  “Car accident.” Her dark eyes touched his, and he sensed she had regained any lost composure and had gotten over her initial fright at seeing him.

  Pat was a man who either liked or disliked people, instantly and intensely, and his hunches were usually correct. He decided he liked this woman.

  “Mrs. Simmons, or Janette?”

  “Janette.” She stuck out her hand and Pat took it. Soft, but firm. Nice.

  “You wait here, lady. I’ll get my Jeep and pull your car out of the mud. We can talk on the porch of my hooch.”

  She smiled. “Your what?”

  “My hooch. House. Shack. Home. Bunker. Whatever.”

  “I see.”

  “I doubt it, lady. Wait here.”

  She watched him walk away. Very erect step. His arms, shoulders, and legs were heavily muscled, his neck thick. His hand, when he had taken hers, was calloused, but the grip had been gentle, as if he were afraid of hurting her. His body was scarred. Had it not been for the gray in his close-cropped hair, she would have guessed him to be in his mid- or late thirties. But would now have to place him in his early forties. And, she concluded, he does look dangerous. But he is not white trash. The sheriff was wrong in his assumption.

  Janette also felt something she had not felt in years: she was slightly sexually aroused in his presence. And she sensed something in this man that few men possess: worldliness and control. And something else: bravery. She did not think Pat
Strange was afraid of anything or anybody. Lyle had possessed those same qualities.

  Be careful, she cautioned her mind. And her heart.

  She followed Pat’s Jeep to the house, the rear wheels of the Cadillac kicking up mud that clung stubbornly to the tires. She parked her car behind the Jeep and got out, looking with some dismay at the house painted olive drab. She wondered why anybody would ever paint anything that awful color? Her eyes took in the foreboding-looking swamp that sided the cleared land; the river flowing a few hundred yards from the house. The house was built up on huge pilings. When the river floods, she concluded.

  Magnolia trees in the front yard, huge, lovely trees, obviously very old. She said as much aloud.

  “Yes,” Pat agreed, then caught the direction of her eyes as she gazed at the swamp. “Yes, those cypress trees are very old, too. Three, four hundred years old. My daddy said they were that size when he was born. The magnolias are called bull bays.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Dead. Years back. I live here alone.” He smiled. “That frighten you?”

  She met his amused gaze. “Should it?”

  Pat lifted his heavy shoulders. “Guess not.”

  He walked her to the steps of the house, up on the porch, and motioned her to sit in a rickety-looking chair. “If you’re thirsty, I can offer you a glass of water. No ice, but it’s cool. Keep it in the well by the side of the house. I don’t have any electricity.” He was not defensive in stating that. “No booze. I’m off the booze.”

  “Water will be just fine,” Janette said, questions in her mind about this man with the scars of battle peppering his skin. She could not imagine how anyone could live without electricity. How in the world did he cook? Cool his house? Keep his food fresh?

  He returned with a clay jug of water, pouring her a glass. She resisted an impulse to check the glass for dirt.

  “The well’s deep,” Pat said. “Keeps things almost cold.”

  She tasted the water. It was good, and very cool. Her eyes drifted over the glass. Clean.

  She looked up to meet his eyes. He was smiling. “Yes, ma’am—I do wash dishes.”

  She flushed, coloring her skin tone. “I apologize. I meant nothing by it.”

  “I know it. You’ve probably never seen anything like the way I live—except in the movies or on TV. Those rings on your fingers are worth thousands of dollars, lady. You took a chance, coming here. Suppose I wasn’t the man you were looking for? What you did was foolish. Very foolish. I’m surprised Sheriff Bradshaw didn’t warn you about me.”

  “He did. He said you were white trash. Unstable. Ornery.”

  Pat grinned roguishly. “Sheriff Bradshaw means well—runs a good office. Tough one. Got some rough ole boys in this county. But he doesn’t like me very much.”

  “Why?”

  “Lots of reasons, I guess. Most cops are a little leery of guys who spent much time in a special unit. They read and hear so much claptrap about what we’ve done, what we’ve been through; they’re afraid we’ll go off our bean and start wasting civilians.” Again, the shrug. “Then, too, I spent some time as a mercenary. Soldiers of fortune have a bad name hung on them; not all of it deserved.” He grinned. “But I guess what really teed him off was me whipping the shi . . . crap out of two of his deputies about five years ago.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “One of them was a real smart-mouth. He’d been putting the needle to me ever since I came back. Anyway—” Pat paused for a second, not understanding why he was telling part of his life’s story to a person he’d only just met—“they came out here on my property and accused me of stealing something. In Bradshaw’s defense, he didn’t know they were doing this. And he fired both of them. But it still irritated him . . . what I did, I mean. I’ve been a lot of things in my life, but I’ve never been a thief, and don’t believe I ever will be. Anyway, I whipped both of them. Broke one of the smart-ass’s arms at the elbow.” He smiled grimly. “I believe he had to undergo two operations to correct that. Pretty well busted up the other deputy’s face with my fists. What really got the sheriff upset was my not bringing them into town for medical treatment.”

  “What did you do with them?”

  That shrug. “I didn’t do anything with them. Just left them where they lay and went on about my business. Hell with them. They started the trouble, not me. Sheriff really couldn’t do anything, even had he pushed it. They had no warrants; I wasn’t even on the suspect list. It’s over. They haven’t been back.”

  “What if they had only been trying to do their job?”

  “There are ways to do a job and ways not to do it. Sheriffs got a good department, now. But he still doesn’t like me.”

  “My husband wrote me about you. That’s how I was able to find you. He spoke highly of you.”

  “We got drunk together a few times. He showed me your picture. Captain Simmons was a good man. We thought a lot alike about most things.”

  Yes, you do, Janette thought. Lyle would have done the same thing with the deputies, even though your worlds are totally different. Were, she corrected her thinking. Lyle’s dead.

  And you’re here.

  Pat sat down on a small stool and fixed his pale eyes on her: expressionless eyes. Janette sensed power in the man, and something else, controlled violence. That was what had attracted her to Lyle, years ago. Son of a wealthy doctor in St. Louis, Master’s degree in history, working on his Ph.D. when the war first broke out. Just had to go. Loved his country. Loved the underdog. Died in a stupid car accident.

  Janette fixed her gaze on Pat. She felt he had been either working or exercising just prior to her arrival, for there had been a faint sheen of perspiration on his body when he first approached her on the road. She could see no tools about, so she guessed exercise.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Strange?”

  “Pat.”

  “All right, Pat. What do you do for a living?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Must get boring.”

  “Not when you’re drunk.”

  “I see.”

  “I doubt it.”

  His eyes were traveling up and down her body, lingering here and there. She felt as though she was being mentally undressed.

  She was.

  She felt she was being physically loved.

  Yep.

  “I wish you would stop that,” she said.

  “How long’s Captain Simmons been dead?”

  “Five years.”

  “That’s about how long I was drunk.”

  “Odd coincidence.”

  “No boyfriends?”

  “No.”

  “None?” Surprise in his voice.

  “No.”

  “Why—don’t you like it?”

  “Don’t you think this is becoming just a bit personal?”

  “You can always leave.”

  She abruptly rose from the chair to stand over Pat, still sitting on the stool.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  “I’m not one of your cheap little honky-tonk girls!” she said, heat in her voice. “And you’ll find I don’t take orders worth a damn!”

  Then he said something to her no man had ever said to her. No man in the social circle she whirled round and round in would dare say it. Not to Janette Bauterre Simmons.

  “What did you say?” Her words were no louder than a whisper.

  “I said,” Pat repeated, “I’d sure like to fuck you.”

  High color rose to her face, then drained, leaving her trembly. She felt hot anger, then cold rage. She swung a balled fist that would have floored him had it connected.

  Her fist hit warm air and she felt a hand clamp viselike on her wrist.

  Suddenly, she was on her knees on the floor. The hold he had applied had forced her to her knees. He released his grip and looked at her. His expression had not changed.

  “That’s called applied judo,” he said.

  “I
s that right?” she asked. “Well . . . this is called a punch in the mouth.” Then she knocked him off the stool with a hard right hook.

  And then she was afraid. But it was a curious combination of fear and quick desire that filled her as she watched him bounce to his feet and move toward her, his mouth bloody.

  She rose to her feet.

  “The captain was right,” she heard him say. There was a strange roaring in her head and her heart was pounding. “You are one hell of a woman.”

  He reached out, arrogantly, and cupped a full breast. She slapped his hand away. “You touch me again and I’ll knock you clear out to the river,” she warned, her voice low and menacing. She wondered how convincing her words were. She found out with his next move.

  He jerked her to him and his hands stroked her buttocks. He stood smiling down at her as his hands pulled her blouse from her jeans and then went exploring, tracing fingertips across her belly, around to her back. He slipped his hand upward, searching for the clasp to her bra. He grunted when he did not find it.

  “Something new’s been added,” he said. Then he broke the strap.

  His hands slipped around and under the bra, cupping her breasts, feeling the nipple tighten and swell in his palm. She struggled briefly, turning in his arms, but his hands never left her breasts.

  Pushing against her, she could feel the hardness of him, thick and long, filling and straining against his cutoffs. Then his fingers began lightly touching her nipples as the hardness of him pushed against the cleft of her buttocks. Despite herself, she moved her hips and groaned, the hardness of him now threatening to burst free of the denim.

  “I’m not a damned bar girl!” she hissed.

  “You sure work your ass like one,” he said, kissing her neck.

  “I’m sure you’ve had a lot of experience screwing honky-tonk girls.” Why don’t I just tell him to leave me alone? she thought.

  Because I don’t want him to leave me alone! The reply did not surprise her.

  “Ever been screwed while watching a river flow by?” he asked.