Wolfsbane

by William W. Johnstone

  He passed people, speaking to them, but they seemed not to see him. He walked down the main street of the small town, carrying the sawed-off shotgun. No one looked at him. A police car drove slowly by; the cop did not even glance his way.

  Edan had told him that at his office, the deputies and office workers took orders from him as usual, were not unfriendly, but seemed distant, as if they were walking around half asleep.

  The same with Stella at the lawyer’s office where she had worked.

  Doctor Lormand had said his patient load had dropped to zero.

  All the others had similiar stories.

  They were alone in this fight; could expect no help.

  Except, Pat thought, from me . . . and that Big Top Sergeant.

  When Pat had passed the town proper, and was on the blacktop to Amour House, he sensed Victoria’s presence and steeled himself against whatever games she might be in the mood to play this evening.

  And she was in a playful mood. In a very macabre sort of way.

  Pat’s mother and father suddenly appeared before him in the middle of the road. But they were not as Pat remembered them. They had seemingly been snatched from the graves. Their faces were little more than rotting bits of flesh; their clothing—tattered rags—stank of the tomb. Their hands were pale white where the bones showed. They held out their arms, beckoning to him, calling out to Pat to come to them, let them embrace him, kiss him, welcome him.

  Pat walked closer to the skeletal remains of his parents, floating in the air just above the road.

  He drew nearer, then walked through them.

  They vanished.

  “You’re a low down, no-good whore, Victoria,” Pat said to the night.

  Lightning licked across the sky. The wind picked up, holding a sour, almost sulfurlike odor.

  “I’m going to finish this very soon, bitch,” Pat told her.

  A flash of lightning seared the ground near him, and Pat felt a surge of voltage through the soles of his boots.

  Pat knew the next shift would begin at nine o’clock: a fresh team working at harassing Victoria. Annie and Marie’s powers against Victoria’s hold on the town. He had checked the time just before leaving the house; it would be time for them to start in a few minutes. He did not dare glance at his watch; did not dwell on what he was going to do for fear the old woman would read his thoughts. He would have to guess at the time.

  Pat slowed his step, borrowing time as he walked.

  “What are you thinking, Strange?” The voice cut into his mind. “What are you doing? I don’t trust you.”

  Pat began humming a marching song.

  “Stop that and think of what you’re planning!” she screamed at him.

  Pat hummed louder.

  An eerie greenish light enveloped him, each corner of the light containing some bloody horror Pat had encountered during his life. Just to see what would happen, Pat began humming “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

  Victoria screamed her outrage and the greenish cloud began fading.

  Pat began singing the church song and he heard profanity roll out of the sky: Victoria was cursing him for his choice of songs.

  Pat laughed at her.

  The greenish cloud vanished.

  A mile from the mansion, Pat felt her presence leave him. He dived for the ditch and ran up the embankment and into the timber. There, he glanced at the luminous hands of his watch. Nine o’clock. Annie and Marie had begun working against Victoria, and several members of the team would be endangering their lives, exposing themselves in the night, harassing the woman from several points around the town.

  Pat heard Victoria calling him; but it was a very faint call: she had guessed wrongly and was searching for him on the other side of the road, looking for him in the timber. He had bought a little time.

  He made his way slowly and furtively toward the mansion, hoping he would not encounter any of the creatures. The roaring of the shotgun would surely bring Victoria’s mental searching straight to his location. He could still hear her calling for him, cursing him, belittling him, but the sound of her voice was growing steadily weaker as she attempted to cover all areas of the town with her mind.

  The mansion came almost too quickly into view, looming up ghostly white out of the darkness, an ancient apparition enduring from out of the past. The air had cooled during the last hour, and a mist hung over the bayou, clinging to the land surrounding Amour House. Pat at first sensed more than felt the wind coming toward him. He fell to the cool, damp earth and made himself as small as possible. As he did so, he could not help remembering a buddy of his in Nam who, at the start of a mortar attack, had answered his CO’s call to “Get down! Get down.” Pat’s buddy had looked at the CO and calmly replied, “I can’t get down no further, Captain—my buttons is in the way.”

  Pat felt the stinking wind approach him, the searching fingers turning the mist into tentacles, touching the ground all around him, exploring the land. The mist hovered for a few moments, then moved on, toward the bayou running behind Amour House.

  Pat jumped to his feet and raced for the house, leaping for the darkness created by the second floor gallery. The searching mist drifted past him.

  Pat found an unlocked window and stepped into the darkness of the mansion.

  The stench hit him a hammer blow, violating his nostrils with a sickening odor.

  It was the odor of death: an open, stinking grave filled with rotting bodies. He fought back waves of nausea as he gripped the riot gun.

  “Thought you fooled me, eh, Strange?” Her voice rolled to him across the carpet.

  Pat froze, the darkness of his clothing blending in with the dark, heavy drapes. He watched as a thin finger of mist crept in through an open door across the room. Pat wondered if the game were over? Wondered if he’d been caught—trapped? The finger of mist paused, its blunt head poised as a snake, then turned and moved across the room, toward another open door.

  Pat smiled realizing then that Victoria had only guessed he was in the house and was attempting a sucker play. Pat remained as still as the live oaks in the yard; as stationary as the trunks.

  “Damn him!” her voice whispered from another part of the home. She was thinking aloud. “Where is he? What is he doing?”

  Pat’s breathing was shallow and silent. He kept his mind as clear as possible, considering the circumstances. He kept his eyes and his mind concentrating on a dark spot on a far wall.

  The mist swept through the house and traveled out a window, rejoining the shapeless gray that clung to the bayou. A small black dog leaped from the mist to stand on the bank, looking all around, its eyes a dark glow in the filmy haze.

  Pat shifted his eyes from the animal and once more concentrated on the dark spot on the wall. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the animal run toward the road, disappearing from view.

  He had no idea how long Victoria would be gone; five minutes minimum, ten minutes maximum. But, he cautioned his mind, I have Sylvia to deal with. He eased the shotgun off safety. Pat had taken an immediate dislike to that bitch from the moment he had met her.

  Pat slipped from room to room, hugging the walls, stopping every few seconds to listen. Then, in the huge downstairs hall that opened off the small foyer, he saw Sylvia. She stood by the entrance to the kitchen, her arms folded across her skinny chest.

  On guard, Pat thought, guarding the door to the basement. That’s where the beasts hide.

  “Sylvia!” Victoria’s voice cut through the house. “Careful, Strange is in the house.”

  Pat froze. The voice had come from behind and to the left of Sylvia. Victoria had doubled back, coming up from the rear of the mansion. No chance to get to the basement now.

  Pat threw up the riot gun and pumped it three times, the roaring enormous in the quiet house. The double-ought buckshot splattered Sylvia all over the wall.

  The shot had taken her in the belly and chest, and her intestines dangled from the gaping hole in her belly; blood,
thick and stinking, clung in globs to the wall. Still she came at Pat, her arms extended in front of her, her filthy breath fouling the room.

  Pat jerked the shotgun to his shoulder.

  “Nooo!” Victoria’s screaming jarred him and he spun just as Sylvia’s hands touched his shoulders.

  Pat shoved the muzzle of the shotgun hard into the woman’s stomach and pulled the trigger. The force of the magnum load lifted her off her feet and flung her backward. Still she would not die.

  She grinned at him, and her eyes burned like the coals of hell. She sprang at him and Pat fired again, knocking one leg out from under her. She rolled on the floor, amid her own stinking gore and leaking, flapping intestines.

  Pat spun again. This time he came face to face with Jeff Bethencourt. Or what used to be the man.

  He seemed to have grown larger in death—or in his state of living dead. His skull, from the top of his head to just under his left eye socket—which was empty—had been split. Pat could see the shine of the brain. His one eye was burning with the same glow that Sylvia’s eyes contained.

  “Mine!” Bethencourt said, and lunged at Pat.

  Pat sidestepped as Victoria’s wild laughter ripped through the house. He brought the muzzle of the shotgun up and shot Bethencourt in the hip, slamming the man . . . thing . . . to the floor. Bethencourt screamed his outrage and struggled to his feet, howling insanely. He seemed oblivious to the wound in his leg and hip.

  Pat leaped for the window and hit the ground running. He raced across the yard, toward the narrow spit of land between the road and the bayou.

  He just made it out of the house. Victoria’s screaming filled the yard, and the yard filled with creatures out of hell, snarling and slobbering and howling. Pat spun, charging to his left as his way was blocked by a beast. He lifted his shotgun and fired twice, at almost point-blank range, the slugs hitting the creature in the belly, physically lifting the beast off its feet and hurling it backward.

  He ran across the yard, cutting away from the bayou as he spotted more creatures splashing out of the waters. Headlights suddenly burst onto the yard, illuminating the horror. Car doors clunking and footsteps on the damp grass.

  Sinclair and Ruth stood in the glare of the lights, the woman a full head taller than the English professor. They held something in their hands.

  Pat looked closer, straining his eyes, not believing what he saw.

  Frogs.

  Squirmy, wiggly, croaking frogs.

  Pat groaned as he raced to their side. Someone had to protect these ninnies.

  The beasts stood a hundred feet away, the headlights making them cautious. They snarled and stamped their feet, not knowing what to do.

  Sinclair stuck out his chest and announced, “ ‘I dare do all that may become a man;/Who dares do more is none.’”

  “Oh, Sinclair!” Ruth cried. “I do love you when you’re all brave and manly. You’re so . . . so . . . Clint Eastwoodish. Say something else pretty.”

  Pat’s fingers fumbled as he reloaded the shotgun.

  “Whhooo!” Sinclair yelled, shaking the frogs at the creatures. “Shake your frogs, Ruth!” he yelled.

  “Whhooo!” Ruth yelled, shaking her frogs.

  Gribbet, the frogs joined in.

  Pat felt like weeping.

  The beasts looked at one another, puzzled, then, on an unspoken cue, charged.

  “Holy shit!” Sinclair momentarily departed from Shakespeare’s eloquent verse. “Look at the size of those mother-fuckers!”

  Pat pulled his .41 mag from leather. “Can you fire a gun?” he yelled at Sinclair.

  “Heavens, no!”

  “Give me that mammy-jammer!” Ruth called, catching the pistol out of mid-air. She jacked back the hammer and put two holes in a charging creature.

  Pat’s shotgun boomed. Another beast went down. Then the trio was racing for the car. Pat jumped behind the wheel. Sinclair had left the lights on, but had taken the keys out of the ignition.

  “Gimmie the friggin’ keys!” Pat hollered.

  “I lost them!” Sinclair wailef from the back seat. “Run for your lives.”

  “What am I suppose to do with this?” Ruth yelled, holding up a squirmy bullfrog.

  “Fuck the frog!” Sinclair squalled.

  Gribbet.

  The trio made it out of the car just two yards ahead of the rampaging creatures. They headed for the blacktop, Sinclair’s short legs pumping, pulling away from Ruth and Pat.

  Pat looked behind him, slowed, then stopped. He looked all around him. The beasts were gone.

  “All right!” he yelled. “Hold it. They’re gone.” He caught up with Ruth and Sinclair. The small man was sitting on the side of the road, puffing.

  “I failed miserably,” he announced.

  “But you tried,” Pat said. “And it was a good try.”

  Ruth handed Pat his .41 and then helped Sinclair to his feet.

  “You mean that?” Sinclair asked.

  “Sure,” Pat said. “Hell, not everyone can be John Wayne, Sinclair. And don’t forget: I ran just as hard and fast as you did.”

  Sinclair pulled a frog out of his pocket and tossed it into a ditch. “You were wrong, grandmother,” he said. He looked toward the dark mansion and shook his fist. “I’ll be back, you Godless heathens.”

  “Isn’t he the brave one?” Ruth said, her arm around Sinclair’s shoulders.

  “Yeah,” Pat said dryly, remembering the peace and quiet of South Carolina.

  When he was drunk.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Such a silly, silly, vain little man.” Victoria’s voice rang in Pat’s head. “He will be a great source of amusement to me when his time comes to die. I think I shall see just how much pain he can tolerate.”

  Pat knew neither Ruth nor Sinclair could hear her.

  Don’t sell him too short, Pat projected his reply. He may look like a sissy, but he’s long on guts.

  “Sylvia was my good and dear friend and companion—for years. I cannot forgive what you have done. ”

  Screw you!

  “You are a profane, vile man, Pat Strange. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

  You’re going to lose, Victoria. And you know it.

  Pat smiled when she did not reply.

  After a hundred yards of silence, she asked, “How do you know I won’t call on my Master for help?”

  I don’t think that’s in the rules, Victoria. I think your master is watching all this and laughing. And I don’t believe he can do a thing about it—more than he’s already done. If he could, he would wave his hand or spout some mumbo jumbo and have the entire town, the parish, under his control. But you know what, Victoria: God won’t let your master do that, will He?

  Her reply was one of rage as a tree by the side of the road suddenly burst into flames from a jarring bolt of lightning.

  Sinclair jumped about a foot off the blacktop.

  Pat laughed at Victoria’s frustration.

  Sinclair gave him a sharp look. “You find that amusing, you great, lumbering oaf?”

  “Relax, Sinclair,” Pat said, “I wasn’t laughing at you. So you-all just keep on truckin’.”

  “You better not laugh at Sinclair,” Ruth warned him. “This here is my man. Laugh at him and I’ll come back there and tweak your nose.” She slapped Sinclair on the back, almost knocking him off his feet.

  “Don’t be so physical, Ruth,” Sinclair muttered.

  “You can all forget about wearing Victoria down,” Pat told the group, assembled at Doctor Lormand’s ranch style home on the outskirts of Joyeux. “You might distract her, but you’re not going to wear her out. So you”—Pat looked at Annie, Marie, Stella, and the priest—“can turn off your afterburners and save your strength. I think as long as you all stay together, all she can do is harass you mentally. I’ve been able to fight that off; so should you people. She wants you people, yes—but she wants me more.”

  “Everybody can stay
here,” Don said. “You’re all welcome. But Pat, aren’t you working on merely an assumption, not facts?”

  “No,” Pat shook his head, “I don’t think so. When she did all that with my brother and sister . . . I accepted that as fact. Then I got to thinking: it would have been much more convincing—to me—if she had hurt one of them. An arm broken, a leg, a finger. But she didn’t. Didn’t because she couldn’t. None of those people had in any way harmed her or her family. And had she tried to hurt one of them, God would have somehow intervened.” He looked at Father Huval. “Right, Padre?”

  “Perhaps. As I told you: God works in mysterious ways.” The priest looked puzzled for a moment. “You think you’ve been chosen to carry the banner of righteousness in this.. . . conflict, don’t you?”

  “That’s the way I see it.”

  “Then tell me this: if God would intervene to help your family, why would He not help us?” The priest indicated the room full of people.

  “Oh, He is—now that you’re helping yourselves by pulling together. Don’t ask me to explain the rules under which Light and Darkness operate. Or why this is a game to them . . . if indeed it is that. I think there are lots of things mortals will not understand until after death—maybe not even then. But I think Victoria got away with what she was doing for as long as she did . . . because you people—or your ancestors—wronged Claude Bauterre. I think.”

  Annie Metrejean smiled and patted Janette on the knee. “Your man got plenty smarts, girl.”

  Trahan jumped to his feet. “But that’s not true! He was a roo-garou. He killed Sheriff Cargol.”

  “No, he didn’t. I bet you all he didn’t. Go back and reread what he wrote in those journals. He was a sick man and knew he was sick—cursed—and wanted to die to free himself. Victoria knew he was the weak link in the devil’s chain; I’ll bet you all Claude Bauterre wanted Christ, not the devil, but he knew that could never be. We might never know for sure, but I’ll bet you his own wife set him up for that killing, and I’ll bet you she killed Sheriff Cargol, or had it done so it would look like Claude did it. But she had help.” His eyes touched Annie. “Didn’t she, Annie?”