“Son-of-a-bitch!” Chief Deputy Andrus balled up the paper and tossed it at a trash can in the sheriffs office. The paper bounced off the wall and landed on the floor. “I just don’t like that bastard. Never have.”
“Why is that, Blaine?” Edan inquired.
The deputy shook his head. “That whole family is weird. There’s something about all of them that’s . . . I don’t know—unhealthy. That’s not the right word.”
“Sneaky?”
“Yeah! That, and something else: evil. And don’t ask me to explain that. I can’t.”
“Where do they go to church, Blaine?”
“They don’t. None of them. Eli’s youngest told my Sally it was stupid to worship God. She asked him what he worshipped, and he said: something a lot more fun. Then he clammed up and wouldn’t say anymore about it. Sally said the next day when he came to school, he had black-and-blue marks all over him; one of his parents really whipped him.” The deputy shook his head. “Man that’d do that ought to be horsewhipped—in public.”
“When was this?”
“Two weeks ago. Kids are all gone now.”
“All gone? What do you mean?”
“Left over the weekend with their grandpa Daily. Eli just jerked ’em out of school and that was that.”
“That’s odd.”
“Wonder how many of us still believe in any part of the old ways?” Blaine suddenly changed the subject.
“By ‘us’ I assume you mean the French-speaking people of Ducros. Probably about one percent, maybe two percent. None of the young people. Of the eight people on this department—that is, right here in Joyeux—you and me are the only ones who even suspect what is going on—really going on. Who even dare to talk about it to each other. We’re in a box, Blaine. We can’t ask for any outside help without looking like a couple of idiots.”
“Edan?”
“Yeah?”
“My granddad was one of them that helped kill old man Bauterre back in ’34.”
“You can’t know that for sure, Blaine. All records went up in the courthouse fire, years ago. Newspaper accounts are missing.”
The deputy shook his head and pulled a yellowing newspaper clipping from his shirt pocket. He handed it to Edan. “I remembered my grandmother saying something about it, and remembered she had saved the clipping. I got to thinking about it and went through an old trunk of hers we kept up in the attic. Those are the men that formed the posse that night, Edan. You’ll find an Andrus and a Vallot included among them. Also a Daily.”
But, Edan thought, his eyes scanning the yellow paper, Annie said no Daily was on the list. “Yeah, I see. Had to have been my grandad; he was up in this part of the country working at the time. But he’s buried back in Vermillion.”
“Your father?”
“Beside mother, back in Vermillion. This Daily on the list bugs me, though.”
“Yeah, you said Annie told you no Daily was there.”
“That’s what she said. And if she said it, I’ll bet she’s right.”
“But the clipping . . .”
“What paper is this out of, Blaine?”
“The Register. ”
Edan smiled. “Sure. Where else?”
“What have you two been doing with yourselves lately?” Madame Bauterre asked over dinner. “I haven’t seen either of you for days.”
Pat said nothing, content to savor the delicious meal in front of him: mutton chops arlésienne.
Here I sit, Pat thought, eating this elegantly prepared meal, under a chandelier that’s probably worth thousands of dollars, and I’ve got a bag around my neck filled up with dog shit. He sighed, almost audibly. When in Rome.
Janette smiled sweetly. “We visited all the old gravesites of the Bauterre family, grand’mère.”
“How interesting!” Victoria returned the sickeningly sweet curving of lips. “But how did you know where to find them? I certainly never told you.”
“I just knew, grand’mère. Perhaps the power has been passed to me without your knowledge?”
Victoria’s fork dropped from her fingers to clatter on the floor. Her face paled. “Where did you hear that expression?” she asked, her voice harsh.
Janette again smiled, the smile containing no hint of humor. “Why, from your niece, of course. Oh, yes, you wouldn’t know about our visit there, would you? I suspect her powers are equal to yours . . . in a completely different way.”
Victoria’s face was ugly with hate. “My niece! I have no niece in this wretched place!”
Sylvia served dessert: pain d’epice. Pat looked up at her. “Heating up some in here,” he said, smiling. Her smile was not friendly; more a silent snarl. Getting long in the tooth, Pat thought. Damn teeth of hers look like fangs.
“Who told you she was my niece?” Victoria demanded.
“Why, Annie Metrejean, of course. She was a Strahan, wasn’t she? Weren’t you?”
Victoria stiffened in her chair, her face pale and hard-looking. She glared at Janette. “You went to see her?” She carefully enunciated each word.
“Oh?” Janette said, enjoying every second of this confrontation. “Then you remember her?”
“Vaguely,” the matriarch of the Bauterre family said, her lips compressed in ill-concealed rage. “Her side of the family and mine never really got along well. So . . . how is my niece?”
“Quite well, thank you. I had a long chat with her. Seems like a very nice person . . . in a quaint way.”
Pat finished his dessert and said, “I wonder if I may have some more coffee?”
“Shut up!” Victoria told him. “You may be excused. This is family business.”
Pat grinned, hooking a leg over one arm of his chair. He lit a cigarette. “I think I’ll stay. You two might decide to talk about me.”
Victoria’s gaze would have frozen hell. “You’re making a very bad mistake playing games with me, Strange.”
Pat’s smile faded. “I assure you, Madame: I am not playing games. Like the little game you played yesterday morning outside my bedroom door.”
“What do you mean, Strange?”
“The salt in the form of a cross. Come on, Madame Bauterre, you know about it.”
A puzzled look came over the woman’s face. “No Strange, I did not know about that. But that information is very interesting, nonetheless.”
“I don’t understand,” Pat said.
“What you don’t understand, Strange, would fill volumes. But that is beside the point. Salt in the form of a cross, eh?” She smiled a nasty smile. “Well, I probably know who placed it there. It’s Creole voodoo. Was the salt dry or damp?”
“Damp.”
“Misfortune coming your way, Strange.”
“So I’ve been told. But I think I’ll stick around—take my chances.”
“No doubt.” She cut her gaze to Janette. “Where is your gris-gris, child? The old woman must have give you all one to wear?”
“I have it.”
“It won’t help you—any of you.” She rose from the table and walked away, her back stiff. She stopped, turning about. “Remember this, young people, should you decide to stay, and I’ve asked you both nicely to leave: her magic is weak compared to mine.” She looked upward, raised her hand, then brought it sharply to her side.
The elegant chandelier suspended over the table, worth a small fortune, suddenly ripped from its chains and crashed onto the table plunging the dining room into darkness.
Janette screamed as the chandelier plummeted to the table.
Victoria laughed. “You see?” she said, then walked away.
“Crap!” Pat said, looking sadly at Janette’s dessert, now buried under broken china, bent silver, and a mound of sparkling cut glass. “I was gonna eat that.”
“Claude Bauterre,” Edan told them, minutes after calling Amour House and asking them to meet him in the drive, “was killed on the last day of October, 1934.” He told them of Blaine’s clipping, and of the inclusion of the D
aily name.
“And today is the twenty-first,” Pat said. “You really think things are gonna start popping around the last of the month, don’t you, Edan?”
“Yes, I do.” The sheriff looked up at the huge old mansion, looming white against the night. He shuddered. “I wouldn’t stay in that house for any amount of money.” His eyes touched the dark form of Victoria Bauterre, watching them from the upper gallery. “Look at her,” he whispered. “Like a vulture, waiting for the last death kicks.”
Her laughter rang out over the lawn, a taunting cackle. “A vulture, Sheriff Vallot? Pity. And I thought you were such a nice young man. Get off this property, Vallot—now. And until and unless you have the proper papers authorizing you to trespass, stay off!” She turned and melted into the shadows of the porch.
“Part of this property is mine, Edan,” Janette told him. “You’re welcome here anytime.”
“Why tempt the gods?” Edan answered. “From whatever kingdom. I’ve been a lawman all my life. Never held any other full-time job. But I’ve never been in a bind like this one. I can see me callin’ Colonel Desormeaux of the Highway Patrol and requesting help on this. I can just hear him laughing when I tell him I’ve got a bunch of werewolves prowling around the parish, sucking the blood out of people.”
Pat laughed in the night. “Yeah, they’d reserve a room for you in the funny farm.”
“You got that right. I mean, there it is. Who can I turn to for help?”
“For one thing,” Pat said, “we can all start pulling together in harness. For another, if you believe—and it’s obvious you both do—that these . . . gaboos exist, let’s figure a way to call them out of hiding and kill them. Stop, as a British fellow I once soldiered with would say, mucking about and get on with it.”
“You still don’t believe any of this, do you, Pat?” Edan asked.
Pat shook his head. “No, I don’t guess I do.”
“I don’t blame you,” Edan said. “I wish to God I didn’t.”
Without another word, the sheriff walked to his car and drove away.
Pat said, “Your grandmother is watching me. I can feel her eyes.”
“I’m frightened, Pat.”
“Go to bed, Janette. Go on.” He gently pushed her toward the house.
“What are you going to do?”
He smiled. “Tempt fate. Anger the gods. Piss-off the woolly buggers.”
“Pat, you’re insanel”
“Come on, I’ll walk you back to the house and tuck you in. I need to change clothes.”
Pat sat by her bed until she was asleep, then went into his room, changing into old faded field clothes. He checked his shotgun, filling the tube with three-inch magnum shells, double ought buckshot. He belted his .41 mag around his waist, in a leather holster, then clipped on two speed-loaders. He slung a bandoleer of shotgun shells around his shoulders, bandit style, then secured a dark bandana around his head, to keep the sweat out of his eyes. He stepped out into the hall.
“Okay, roogooboos,” he said. “If you won’t come to daddy . . . then daddy will just have to come to you.”
“Going hunting, Strange?” Victoria Bauterre’s voice cut through the dimness of the hall, from behind him.
Pat did not look around. “That’s right, ma’am. Hunting woolly bears.”
“I could kill you now, Strange. This instant. You know that, don’t you?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t know that.”
The answering laugh was evil. “But I think I’ll let you play your game, Strange.” Do you have a choice? Another older, colder voice ripped through her head. You will not intimidate this one, Victoria. He has chosen well. “Perhaps,” Victoria said, “you will be victorious.”
“But you don’t think so?” Pat asked.
There was no reply. Pat turned slowly to look down the hall.
A small black dog sat on the carpet, gazing at him through dark eyes.
“I’m still waiting to see what you do for an encore,” Pat said, then walked down the hall. He walked down the curving steps, past the portraits that hung in the hall, and stepped outside, into the humid darkness.
And from windows in the great house, eyes watched his every move.
Chapter Seventeen
But nothing approached him that night. No creatures, no beasts, nothing he could not readily identify by its bark, its call, its chirp, or its snort.
Pat walked the grounds until the first tints of pink began to color the east. He was standing by the huge wrought-iron gates that opened onto the road when Sheriff Vallot drove past, spotted him, and backed up his cruiser.
He parked his patrol car by the side of the road and walked up to Pat, his gaze sweeping over the riot gun. “I really doubt the legality of that weapon,” he said.
“Going to arrest me?” Pat smiled.
Edan sighed. “You know better. How long have you been out here?”
“All night. Patrolling the grounds.”
“You saw nothing? Heard nothing?”
“No boogeymen, Sheriff. No hairy monster. No vampires with dripping fangs. No howling creatures in the night, coming for my blood.”
“How do I convince you, Pat? How do I punch through all that cynicism you’ve got wrapped around you? Tell me, how do you account for the fact none of the bodies had a drop of blood left in them?”
“I don’t,” Pat replied honestly. “Some sort of phenomenon, I would imagine. Just like what Madame Bauterre does with the dog trick. And get your mind out of the gutter.”
“My mind wasn’t in the gutter. What dog trick?”
“The little black dog bit. You saw it the other night.”
Edan said nothing.
“You really believe that old woman changes into a dog, Edan?”
“Pat, I don’t know what to believe. But I’ll tell you this: I just spent several hours reading a book Doctor Lormand gave me. A book about a disease called lycanthropy. Frankly, it scared the hell out of me.”
“The people who suffer from this . . . whatever you called it—do they rise from the grave? Are they vampires? Are they pawns of the devil?”
“No,” the sheriff replied wearily. “None of that. Pat? Can I depend on you to help me in this . . . matter?”
“Sure, Edan. Hell! I’ll help you hunt your bugger-boos. Right now, though, I think I’ll get in some sacktime. ’Way you look, maybe you ought to do the same?”
“I don’t have time. See you ’bout six o’clock?”
“I’ll be here, listening for the sounds of the night creatures.”
“If you weren’t such a smart-ass, Strange, you’d be a pretty nice guy!”
“I tried being a nice guy. All it got me was drunk.” Pat turned, walking back to the house.
“Someday we’ll have to sit down over a couple of beers and you can explain that,” Edan called. “Like most of what you say, that had a ring of sarcasm to it.”
“Make it coffee. I’m off the booze.”
Phillip Duchesne was known throughout Ducros Parish as sans souci. Happy-go-lucky. Always had a smile for everyone. Never said a bad word about anybody. Of course, the fact that he was drunk most of the time might have had something to do with his jovial mood. But even when he was sober, which was rare, twice a year, as a matter of fact, Phillip was a nice fellow. Really, Phillip had spent only 57 sober days out of the last twenty-eight years, the odd number being when he got married, that blessed event being the main reason for his staying swacked 363 days out of each year. The exception being Leap Year.
Phillip drew $158.37 a month from the government, for being shot in the ass during the Korean War. The bullet rummaged around his buttocks, both of them, glanced off his hipbone, the right one, and traveled down his right leg to exit out his big toe, taking part of the toe as the lead departed his body, and leaving him with a slight limp.
What made matters so embarrassing was that he was shot by an American—a dead American.
Phillip was working with Graves Reg
istration, sorting out canvas-covered bodies, behind the lines, when a frozen corpse thawed. Unfortunately, the corpse was holding a .45 caliber automatic pistol in its rigid hand, on full cock. When the body handler dropped the canvas-covered body off the truck, the finger pulled the trigger, the gun went off, and Phillip was knocked into a half-filled latrine.
Phillip received a Purple Heart, a discharge, and a small disability for the rest of his life, the discharge being the most valued of the three, as anyone who has ever served in Korea—in war or peace—would readily agree. The disability was, as Phillip put it, “shit.” But he also owned several working oil wells and that’s what kept him going. And drunk.
But Phillip was only moments from sobriety. And a week from joining AA. One day from becoming the most sincere member of his church. And about five minutes away from getting the shit scared out of him. Literally.
On this, the evening after Pat’s fruitless all-night vigil on the grounds of Amour, Phillip was leaving his favorite bar about the same time Pat was making another round with Sheriff Vallot. Phillip decided to cut across the Eternal Rest Cemetery (perpetual care) on his way home. He often went this way, for the graveyard was on the edge of town, not too far from Phillip’s house, and besides, Phillip liked to speak to old friends on the way back to his house. And his wife. Phillip really didn’t like his wife, but he figured he was stuck with her. Thinking of his wife made him depressed, so Phillip reached into his back pocket and took out what remained of a half pint of Old Charter. He drained the bottle, set it on the tombstone of a man he disliked most intensely urinated on the grave, then walked on.
Phillip was happy now, his snoot refilled. He walked through the graveyard, singing “Jole Blon,” pausing every now and then to speak to the headstone or crypt of some poor departed soul he had known in better days. Better days for the fellow in the ground, that is.
“How you is dis fine evenin’, Theriot?” Phillip spoke to the shining headstone. “Ah! ’At’s good. And you, Sistrunk, how you is dis balmy evenin’?”
Phillip talked to a few more friends—departed—walked on, sang a few bars of “Alligator Man,” stopped and did the Cajun two-step . . . and then he heard a moaning. Phillip stopped in the middle of the graveyard and listened.
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