He looked at her, read the message in her eyes, and felt something gentle tug at his heart. “Yes, dear,” he said.
Chapter Twenty
“Tell me ever’ting that happen at Amour House las night.” Annie leaned forward, listening intently as Pat related the events of the previous evening.
Marie Latour, still a beautiful woman, sat quietly on the porch, listening, saying nothing.
“So,” Annie leaned back in her chair, a grim smile on her face, “old witch-woman gonna bring her revenge on us all, eh? Got to happen on the date of her husband’s death. And you got a plan, child?” She looked at Stella. “Hokay, let’s hear it.”
“We wear her down,” Stella said simply.
“Hah?” the grandmother said.
“These are the names on the list Blaine gave Edan.” Stell tried to hand the list to her grandmother. The old woman waved it away.
“I know the names, child.”
“Not all of them,” Pat said.
Marie shifted her gaze to him. “What you mean, boy?”
“Eli Daily’s name is on that list. That’s one you didn’t mention. Also Edan’s grandfather and Blaine’s grandfather.”
“I knowed ’bout Edan and Blaine’s grand-pères. But what’s dat ’bout a Daily. Wasn’t no Daily on dat posse.”
“His name was included in the paper as being there,” Edan spoke.
She nodded. “I had troubles concentratin’ when dat was goin’ on. I ’mit dat. But if a Daily was dere, he was a bad one, and he done all de talkin’ and started de shootin’. I betcha. ’Cause I heard Claude Bauterre laughin’ jes ’fore dey shot him. Never could understand dat.”
“Why was he laughing?” Janette asked.
“Big joke on somebody, I guess. Maybe hisself. Tink he wanted to die.”
Pat said nothing about seeing the man at the mansion.
“So we include Eli Daily in the names?” Stella asked.
Annie shrugged her indifference. “Don’t know you plan.”
“Pat said she told him she’s been here for three centuries—more, probably. Her powers have to be weakening. She’s dying.”
“Hokay—’at’s probably rat,” Annie agreed. “So what?”
“We get all the people on this list together, explain what is going on. I don’t think it will take much to convince them. Then we start working in teams, day and night, harassing her, forcing her to use her powers constantly, anything to keep her awake, to wear her out.”
Marie spoke for the first time. “She’ll soon figure out what you’re doing. Then it will get dangerous for those not protected with the power.”
“Your husband’s on that list.” Annie looked at her daughter.
“Earl and I have not exchanged a word in ten years, momma.”
“Still you husband. No divorce.”
“You may include him if you wish. But don’t depend on him for anything. He’s weak, and he’s a coward.” She was silent for a few seconds. “The three of us, momma, Stella, and me, will have to work together, very close to the Amour grounds.”
“Hokay,” Annie agreed.
“And we’ll get Father Huval,” Stella said.
Annie laughed and her daughter joined in, the laughter almost derisive. Marie said, “Black magic and prayer . . . momma, you think the priest will go along with that?”
“He got no choice. His name’s on de list, too, ’member?” She winked at her daughter. “ ’Sides, it was me what caught him wit dat Montespan gal back when he was almost a priest Cooo! What dem two was doin!’ ”
“Grandmother!” Stella giggled. “You’d blackmail a priest?”
“Shore. But it won’t come to dat, believe me. For now, I put some tings together—come into town wit you all. But”—she held up one gnarled finger—“someting you need to know: dis probably gonna kill me. I’m old woman. I figure I live out dis year, maybe ’nother—but no more dan dat. But dis all rat. I kin go out doin’ good tings; I shore been ’cused of doin’ ’nuff bad tings in ma life.”
“Grandmomma.” Stella leaned forward and put her hand on her grandmother’s knee.
“She knows what she knows, Stella,” Marie said. “And I know what she knows. So leave her be. Her time is not far off.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” Pat bitched.
“You ain’t ’pose to,” Annie smiled. “But I gonna tale you someting, mercenaire: nighttime, you put a board ’tween you and Janette till dis over. She ripe dis time of the month. Don wants no evil child come from your faire l’amour.”
“How do you know about . . .?” Janette blushed.
Annie laughed. “Lady, was I forty year younger, I’d give you a run for dat man.” She winked at Pat. “Les go. I gets ma tings.”
“You can’t be serious!” Eli Daily said. “Werewolves. Aw, come on, people.”
Sinclair Charlevoix leaned over and whispered something in Ruth’s ear.
Jeff Bethencourt, the son and sole heir of the Bethencourt fortune, yawned. “Ridiculous!”
Bares, Lejeune, and Trahan sat quite still. They did not belittle Edan’s words. Neither did Blanchet.
Ken Sheppard’s hands were shaking and his head pounding from a party he had attended the night before, breaking up just at dawn. “You got any aspirin, Edan? Jesus, my head hurts.”
Father Huval crossed himself, then silently wished he had not done so. There were no such things as werewolves. Everybody knew that.
“It’s true.” Stella said, rising and facing the doubters. Her eyes found the wife of Nick Vincent. “Where is your husband, Betty Jane?”
She put her face in her hands and began crying. “I don’t know, Stella. He didn’t come home last night.”
Doctor Lormand moved to her side and put his arms around her.
“Nick . . ,” she stammered. “We had a big fight. Said he was going to spend some time out at his camp.”
Edan looked at his chief deputy and nodded. Blaine left the room. “We’ll check it out, Betty. Meanwhile, where are your kids?”
“At their grandparents’. I don’t believe any of this, Edan. I wanna go home. Take me home, Don.”
“I am going home,” Bethencourt said, rising to his feet. “Werewolves!” he snorted.
“Sit down, sonny,” Trahan said. “What the sheriff be sayin’ is true. You in as much danger as the res of us.”
The young man swung his eyes to the older man. “Are you serious, Louie? Come on, now, you knew my father. Are you saying my father helped kill a man forty years ago?”
“He shoot into Claude Bauterre lak the res of us, yeah.”
“Guilbeau, Campbell, and Callier?” Doctor Lormand asked. “They were there as well?”
“Them or their daddies or granddaddies, yeah. I tought dis all done pass away into history.” He shrugged. “I was wrong. Knew I was wrong when Eddie call me to home couple months ago—tell me a Mississippi fisherman seen at crazy boy of mine in de swamps. I had heard all dem Bauterres done come back to Amour House. I knew it was startin’ up all over again. Den dey found Eddie’s fodder-in-law . . . all de blood sucked out of his body.” He shuddered.
“He didn’t die in his house fire?” Edan asked.
“Non,” Tony Lejeune said, looking around the room. “But the evil ain never really quit. When ma boy was kidnap back in the forties—I knew what it was. We all did. Beth was attack in de fifties and give burth to a crazy wolf-boy—me and Trahan knew what attack her and why. Bares’ boy was kilt on the grounds of Amour House back in the sixties. So it ain never really stop.”
“So either everyone here had a direct hand in what happened back in ’34, or some relative did?” Doctor Lormand asked.
All nodded their heads in agreement.
Bethencourt sighed in disgust. “I still maintain this is ridiculous.”
“How did your fodder die, Jeff?” Trahan asked.
The younger man’s face reddened. “We don’t know how he died, or what happened. You know that.
The body was never recovered.”
“He was attack,” Annie Metrejean said. She sat alone in a straight-backed kitchen chair, apart from the others.
“What do you mean?” Jeff asked. “What do you know about how my father died?”
“Jes what I said. He was attack. I seen him dat day. Early. Tole him not to go into de swamp; not to go no futter into Blind Bayou. Turn ’round, go back. Said he wasn’t ’fraid. I tole him bein ’fraid had nuttin to do wit it. But common sense oughtta tale him to stay ’way. He din listen to me. He never come out neither.”
“How did you know something was going to happen to my father?”
She sighed and shook her head. “’Cause a cauchemar done tole me, ’at’s why.”
“A what?” Sinclair asked. “A catch-ee-who?”
“A spirit,” Ruth said. “Can be good or evil. My grandmother used to tell me about them—when I wouldn’t go to bed without kicking up a fuss.”
Sinclair’s expression was pained. “Kicking up a fuss? How quaint, dear.”
His girlfriend looked at him. “How’d you like to have a punch on the snoot?”
Sinclair shut his mouth.
Annie gazed at Ruth. “You believe in de cauchemar?”
“I . . . yes! Yes, I do. I think there might be something to many of the old ways and beliefs.”
“You might make it,” Annie replied. “Him”—she looked at Sinclair—“I don know.”
“To quote William,” Sinclair said, “it maketh not a damn to me.”
“There was not a drop of blood left in any of the bodies,” Edan said, putting an end to the bantering.
Silence in the den.
“I thought only vampires drank the blood?” Sheppard asked.
“Not according to what I’ve been able to read,” Doctor Lormand said. “They both are reported to drink the blood of their victims.”
Jeff Bethencourt walked to the door. “Ladies, gentlemen, I refuse to take part in any more of this ridiculous nonsense. I do not believe in black magic. I do not believe in werewolves or in vampires or in warlocks or witches. I am leaving. Rest assured, I will say nothing of this foolish gathering. I would be laughed out of town.”
Bethencourt took his arrogance and his royal bearing and marched out the door, into the late afternoon. He got in his car and drove away. But when he reached the tumoff to his street, he could not turn the steering wheel. He tried, but the wheel would not turn. His car gathered more speed. He put his foot on the brake: the pedal went all the way to the floor. The last thing he remembered was a huge oak tree. The speedometer needle was on sixty when he smashed into the tree.
When the police and firemen reached the scene, they found only an empty car, with blood on the seat.
Bethencourt was gone.
Split up into teams of three, the men and women put Stella’s plan into action.
Those who held regular jobs asked for time off. If it was not given, they quit.
Suddenly, as if on cue, the townspeople began avoiding them. If they were spoken to, it was barely civil. Usually, the townspeople acted as if they were not visible.
“What’s happening?” Edan asked Annie.
“Her power workin’. Jes look at dem peoples in town, walkin’ ’round lak zombies. When dis over, Edan, dey wont ’member a ting ’bout it.”
“She’s got that much power?”
Annie nodded. “She got hep, boy—don forgot dat.”
“Why,” Don asked, “if the devil is helping her, doesn’t he just grab us all up in this possession, or whatever the hell it is?”
“Takes two teams to play a game,” Annie said.
“Game?” Edan questioned.
“Shore. God and devil fight all de time, boy. I ain’t sayin’ God lak it, but what He gonna do—jes sit back and not play? Devil win all de time if He do dat.”
Don looked at Father Huval. “Do you go along with that?”
“It’s an oversimplification, of course, but basically correct. It is a game to Satan; very serious to Madame Bauterre.” The priest sighed. “Obviously, if all this is true, Victoria Bauterre is one of his most valued people, or he would not allow this to happen.” Again, he sighed. “And I suppose it is true.”
“Believe it,” Pat said.
“You’re an odd choice, Mr. Strange,” the priest said. He then smiled. “But I must bear in mind that God moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform. But I also must urge you to exercise a bit of caution. I understand that Madame Bauterre has more than a passing interest in you. Be very cautious and be prepared for anything.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Pat assured him. “Padre, how often does this happen? And why doesn’t it come to the public’s attention?”
The priest shrugged. “How often? Only God could reply to that. I would not even venture an opinion except to say that Good and Evil have been battling since the beginnings of time. As to why something like what is occurring in Joyeux does not come to the attention of the press . . . Annie Metrejean answered that. She has. . . powers; don’t ask me to explain them . . . I’m confused enough. I’m just a country priest, and probably not a very good one, at that. I will admit, Pat, that at this point in my life, I am troubled.” He walked away, back to his church, his sanctuary.
Sheriff Vallot’s radio began squawking. Edan answered the call, talked for a few moments, then returned to the group, standing in front of the Catholic Church.
“That was Blaine,” he informed them. “He’s found what was left of Nick about two miles from his camp. Dead. You know the rest of the story.”
The afternoon shadows were deepening, pockets of darkness touching the town, battling the light for supremacy. This was the end of the second day of their vigil, and none felt they were any closer to beating the powers of Victoria Bauterre. To a passerby, life in the small town would seem to be normal, but the small group that had banded together knew differently. They were ostracized without the citizens even knowing of it. The small group was as alone as if stranded on an island, surrounded by sharks.
They had all talked of running to escape the horror that awaited them, but to a person, had rejected the idea. That evening, at the home of Sheriff Vallot, it came up again.
“What would it accomplish?” Edan asked.
“It might save your life,” Pat replied. “I’m the one who has to do . . . battle with those things. And I guess I’ve agreed to do just that. I’m here,” he said sourly.
“Save our lives for what?” Sinclair asked. “If this woman—and her master—can reach us in Joyeux, and she obviously can, what would prevent her from reaching us elsewhere?”
“It would buy you some time,” Pat said. “You don’t know that Victoria will kill you if you try to leave.”
“Be that as it may”—Sinclair stuck out what passed for his chin—“that creature out of Macbeth is not going to drive me from my home.” He held up his hand for silence. “Be still,” he commanded them all, a ring of authority in his voice.
Ruth looked at him lovingly.
“Yes,” Sinclair said softly. “I’m remembering what my grandmother told me, years ago, when I was just a lad down in Chauvin.”
“And what is that, dear?” Ruth asked. Since the trouble, the mismatched pair had been inseparable.
Sinclair rose to his feet and drew himself up to his full height: five feet, four inches. “ ’Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog.’ ”
“Wow!” Ruth clapped her hands. “That’s beautiful, Sinclair. Waylon Jennings couldn’t do no better.”
Sinclair gave her a look that would have frozen a steel furnace during full production. “Your comparison is profoundly absurd, dear heart, but I do thank you for your efforts at praise.”
“Your grandmother really say all that?” Ruth plunged onward.
“Please, Ruth—no! Bill Shakespeare wrote that.”
“I ain’t familiar with him. He the one thing sings so purty on ”Hee Haw”?”
“Dear God in Your majestic firmament.” Sinclair rolled his eyes heavenward. “Enlighten this poor woman—please?”
“What about that line from Macbeth?” Doctor Lormand asked.
“These bags we are all wearing about our necks”—Sinclair touched the leather thong on his neck—“the ones Annie made for us. They contain frog, do they not?”
“Yes,” Stella said.
And dried dog shit, Pat thought.
“My grandmother,” Sinclair said, a smile on his lips as he remembered, “said that roo-garous are afraid of frogs. If that is true, then our only fear is from Victoria Bauterre, not from the creatures she commands.”
You stick with frogs, Pat grimaced. I’ll stay with a twelve-gauge, double-ought buckshot.
But he did not remove the gris-gris from around his neck.
Janette said, “You are all aware that my grandmother might be listening to every word we’re saying here.”
“ ‘Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under’t,’ ” Sinclair said, still standing.
“Wonderful!” Ruth applauded. “The Killer oughtta record that.”
“The who?” Sinclair asked.
“Jerry Lee Lewis.”
Sinclair sat down and folded his arms across his chest. “I have said all I am going to say on the matter.”
“If we have nothing to fear,” Edan said. “Then let’s go hunt them.”
With a frog? Pat thought. Wonderful idea, Sheriff.
“How many days until the date of Claude Bauterre’s death,” Doctor Lormand asked.
“Four.”
Pat stood up and picked up his riot gun.
“Where are you going?” Janette asked, alarm in her voice.
“To see your grandmother.”
“Why, for God’s sake, Pat?”
That’s part of it, Pat thought. “To make her mad. Burn up her powers. It might work.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Pat looked at her. “Then I probably won’t be back,” he said softly.
He walked out of the house and into the night. On the sidewalk, he looked at the Cadillac, then shook his head and walked up the street. He wanted to see just how strong her powers were; how much of a hold she had on the townspeople. He found she had more than enough.
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