Wolfsbane

by William W. Johnstone

  “Cooo, boy! You too smart for dis old woman. Oui, I tink maybe you rat. I been tinkin’ ’bout what we talk about las time you to the shack.” She winked at Pat. “I tink you know who hep her, don you?”

  “I think so, Annie.” He picked up his shotgun. “We can’t get to him, but we can get to his son.” He swung the barrel of the riot gun toward Eli Daily. “Stand up, Eli, and take off your shirt.”

  Eli knew he was going to die . . . but only for a time. He was not afraid. He would be back. In some form. Perhaps not here in Joyeux, but he would be back. And he knew many things the people in this room did not know about the Dark One, and how the Master worked. Eli still had sons. “How did you put it together, Strange?”

  “The other night when Edan and Doctor Lormand dropped me off at the mansion. I saw a man running from the rear of the house, toward the bayou. You. Then there is this: all of the people in this room have been frightened half out of their wits. All but one. You. I asked Sheriff Vallot where your family was. He told me they had gone with your father on a trip. Convenient time to take a trip.”

  Eli’s smile was nothing more than an evil grimace.

  Those nearest him edged away. The others sat in shocked silence.

  “Stand up and take off your shirt.”

  Eli rose and calmly removed his shirt. The dark pentagram was burned into the flesh of his chest.

  Pat jerked his head toward the back door. “Move it.”

  “Pat . . .?” Sheriff Vallot said.

  Pat’s gaze froze the man silent. “You want to do it, Edan?”

  “God, no!”

  Eli laughed.

  “Out the rear of the house,” Pat ordered.

  The people in the large den sat quietly after Pat and Eli left the room, sat tensely, anticipating the boom of gunfire. All jumped when Pat’s shotgun roared three times. He walked back into the den.

  “One less,” Pat said.

  The waiting seemed the hardest. Even though it was a large house, and the people tried to stay out of the others’ way, the time passed slowly and nerves began to fray.

  Only Pat could, or would, move freely outside the house. He had dragged the body of Eli to Doctor Lormand’s pickup truck and driven to the mansion, dumping the body unceremoniously just inside the gate. He returned a half-hour later. The body was gone.

  Pat had a funny sensation in the pit of his stomach that he would be seeing Eli again . . . soon.

  Pat had not sensed Victoria’s presence since the night he had killed Sylvia, but he had not lulled into carelessness by that fact: he knew she had something up her sleeve; knew she had to be pulling some trick out of the dark bag.

  “Pat?” Edan approached him on the eve of Claude Bauterre’s death. “Deputy Andrus is gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  Edan shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s been restless all day. Told me he was going to find a way to stop her. Said he was going to think about it, then tell me his plan. That was just about noon.”

  “Why would he do a damn fool thing like that?”

  Sheriff Vallot shook his head. “I don’t know. Pat? Have you . . . have you felt anything today?”

  Pat grinned. “I haven’t been near Janette all day.”

  The sheriff did not share in his humor. “A power, Pat. Some kind of invisible force is what I’m talking about. I’ve been experiencing something . . . odd all day.”

  Pat shook his head, but knew exactly what Edan was saying. It figures, he thought sourly: Victoria’s bypassing me, working on the others.

  Janette approached the men. “Pat? Something’s wrong with Earl.”

  Inside the house, a screaming began. The three of them raced to the den. Earl Latour was holding his hands over his ears.

  “Make it stop!” he screamed. “I can’t stand it. Make it go away.”

  Marie stood by his side. She looked helplessly at the men. “I don’t know what it is,” she confessed. “If I knew, maybe I could help.”

  “Non!” Annie said shortly.

  “Roaring!” Earl screamed. “Pulling. Roaring. Oh, God—make it stop.”

  Earl ran out of the house, into the yard, his hands still over his ears. Several men tried to restrain him, but he fought free of their hands and ran down the blacktop, screaming. He ran toward Amour House.

  In the west, the sun was a hot, red ball, casting bloodylike shadows over the bayous.

  “Let him go,” Annie commanded. “He’s under old witch-woman’s power. Don want to lose no more.” She looked at Pat. “You know who she want, don you, mercenaire?”

  “Yes. Just like I told you all the other night: me.”

  Janette moved to his side and put her arms around him. Pat touched her face; a gentle touch. “She’s trying to force her will on anybody she can. That’s what you felt, Edan.”

  “Everyone resisted but Earl, ” Marie said. “Just like always, he was weak.”

  The dwindling group had gathered on the front lawn of Doctor Lormand’s house.

  “Then let’s all band together and kill Victoria!” Sinclair said. “I know, I know.” He waved his hand impatiently. “I realize you all think I’m not much of a man, and perhaps in your eyes, I’m not.”

  “I never tought that, Mr. Charlevoix,” Bares said. “I jes din understand you ’at’s all. Mos of us ’round here, we work ver’ hard, wit our hands. Maybe we don talk so good, neither. But you took us wrong. What we felt was admiration for you; the way you talk and know so much. Make us feel a little foolish. But jes cause you know how to talk real good—propre—that don make you les a man. Look what you done the other night. You had the courage to go—we din.”

  Both Sinclair and Bares were embarrassed. “Thank you, Mr. Bares,” Sinclair said.

  “Aint nuttin. Jes the truth, ’at’s all.”

  “Ain’t he just a hell of a man, Frank?” Ruth slapped Sinclair on the back, knocking the wind from him and almost dumping him on the lawn.

  Sinclair recovered, glared at her, and said, “And that will be quite enough physical abuse from you! The very next time you strike me, I shall take a stick and blister your derrière. Now be silent and allow the men to discuss this dilemma confronting us all. Go make yourself useful. Make me a cup of coffee. Now!” he roared.

  “Yes, dear,” Ruth replied meekly, and trotted off to the kitchen.

  Pat smiled despite the situation. “Sinclair? You ought to marry that lady. When this is over,” he added.

  “I believe I shall,” Sinclair said. “Smashingly good idea, Mr. Strange. Of course, there is the small problem of her husband, but that is not an insurmountable obstacle. Now then . . . how may we be of assistance this night? We must destroy Madame Bauterre.”

  “No, Sinclair,” Pat shook his head. “Not we—just me. I’ve been the fly in the ointment ever since I got here. She’s tried to bribe me into leaving; tried to threaten me into leaving. So it’s up to me to kill her.” He smiled. “I’m . . . I won’t be alone. I have some very good backup.”

  “I been tinkin,’ ” Annie said. “For several day, now. Where your daddy come from, Strange?”

  “South Carolina.”

  “No, no. I mean: where your family come from—long time ago?”

  “A long time ago, from France. I think.”

  Annie looked at her daughter and both women smiled. “Uh-huh,” she said. “But your name wasn’t Strange in France. Bet your boots on dat, Big Man.”

  Pat shrugged. “Then you tell me what it was and what difference it makes now?”

  “I betcha your name—long time ago—was Strahan.”

  A hot wind suddenly picked up, blowing hard across the bayou in back of the house.

  Annie cackled. “See! I rat. I knew it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Pat said. But he felt the force of Victoria hard on him.

  “Boy!” Annie said. “Don’t you ’member me tellin’ you all at ma shack ’bout de Strahan family? Old Victoria caint kill you—you blood kin to
her! She desire you; want you for her lover—jes lak she done all dem others over hundreds of years. But she caint kill you. And she aint gonna ’low dem beasts to kill you, neither. But dey can take you ’live. So watch out.”

  Someone—or something—began laughing from the depths of the dark waters of the bayou. Father Huval crossed himself, and the others quickly did the same.

  The laughter was profane—evil. The howling mirth increased in volume, startling the birds, sending them flapping into the sky.

  “What . . . ?” Pat looked at the dark waters behind the house. He felt a force, but he knew it was not Victoria. This was . . . much different. The force pulled at him, urging him to come to the water’s edge. He walked away from the group, to the bayou bank.

  “Pat!” Janette called after him.

  “No, girl,” Annie put a hand on her arm. “It be allrat. Dey gonna talk ’bout the rules of de game, ’at’s all.”

  “GAME?” Janette screamed at her, trying to pull away.

  Annie slapped her across the face, then held her as Janette began to cry. “It’s allrat, child. He be back. It’s one good Strahan ’gainst one bad one. He be back.” But deep within her, she wasn’t sure.

  Don’t trust the Dark One, she wanted to call out to Pat. But she held her tongue. She was not invited to play in this game.

  And for that, she was very thankful.

  “Who is he talking with?” Janette sobbed.

  “The Dark One,” Annie replied.

  “Well, Mr. Strange,” the voice bubbled from the waters. “We finally meet. Tell me, have you returned to right a wrong?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t even know who you are.”

  “Moloch, Mephistopheles, the Tempter, the Prince of Darkness. I’m known by many names. And very few—if any of them—complimentary. And I don’t understand why. I’m really not that bad a fellow.”

  “The devil.”

  “That, too, unfortunately.”

  “What wrong?” Pat asked the waters. He did not feel at all foolish speaking to a bayou.

  “Much to the chagrin of your ancestors, Mr. Strange/Strahan, the people in the village persecuted the wrong family of Strahans . . . centuries ago. Killed most of them. In a very unpleasant manner, I might add. You know how it is: certain types of mortals become so . . . well, emotional about some things.” The voice seemed to sigh. “I suppose I knew it would someday come to this moment. Very well, please allow me to lay the ground rules and chalk out the foul lines.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Oh, yes, my dear fellow. I’m quite serious. I assure you of that.”

  “Foul lines?”

  “As in every game, Mr. Strange.”

  “The rules are simple and the hell . . . ah . . . heaven with your foul lines. I’m going to kill Victoria Bauterre and put an end to this nightmare.”

  The waters bubbled with laughter. “She’s already been thought to be dead three times, Mr. Strange. Rather an active corpse, wouldn’t you say? No, Mr. Strange, you may succeed in removing her from this community of ninnies and dolts, but you shall not kill her—unless I am badly mistaken, and I doubt I am. However . . . and this is your last chance to back out before my batters knock you off the mound—no pun intended. She can do you irreparable harm.”

  “Don’t stop now. I’m all fired up with anticipation—no pun intended.”

  “I do so love a man with a sense of humor. We’re going to get along so well. I can just see it. Well . . . she may succeed in . . . ah . . . this is so crude, biting you on the neck, and of course, you know what happens next. It’s really nauseating.”

  “No way.”

  “Don’t speak too quickly, sir. Granted, you do have some help from . . . that Person . . . but He can’t help you all that much.”

  “The rules?”

  “Very simple. If you live through the next thirty-four hours—that is to say, through midnight next—you win. I leave, more or less. As much as I ever leave any community. But Victoria and her friends will be gone; the community will return to all its abysmal normality; beasts will no longer prowl the bayous . . . etcetera, etcetera. However . . .”

  “. . . Should I not survive the game . . . ?” Pat finished it.

  The waters bubbled and boiled. A foul smell permeated the growing darkness. “There will be no joy in Mudville.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mr. Strange—you disappoint me. Surely you’ve read Thayer’s Casey at the Bat?”

  “I will strike out.” Not a question.

  “Exactly. Oh, Mr. Strange, I have such plans for you. And,” the waters chuckled, “so does Victoria. What an addition you will make on my team. Why . . . we’ll be the Yankees of the . . . ah . . . nether regions, so to speak. Do you enjoy baseball, Mr. Strange? I love it. I just love it. I attend every game. Why, I was in New York the year the Babe . . .”

  “Don’t get carried away,” Pat said. “Let’s finish this.”

  “Oh. Yes. Please accept my apologies. I do so enjoy the sport. Well. There isn’t that much left to talk about. Do get a good night’s sleep, Mr. Strange. Your ordeal begins at noon tomorrow. I’ll grant you a few hours free of Victoria, since you seem to be a rather good sport about all this. So, good night, sir.”

  The waters bubbled, then were silent.

  Pat walked back to the small group, gathered now in the rear of the house.

  “What were you discussing?” Edan asked.

  Pat looked at him and smiled. “Baseball.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  It was unusually humid for late October; clouds were boiling in from the west, casting a false darkness over the bayou country. The few drops of rain that fell were of the pregnant kind. Pat glanced at his watch: nine o’clock. He drank his coffee and wondered who was to start the dance this day.

  “You,” Victoria’s voice said to him. “Whenever you are ready to become mine.”

  Pat projected his thoughts: I’ll never become yours. Is this more rules of the game?

  “No, merely conversation.” Her voice was firm and very confident. “The rules remain the same.”

  Where do I start?

  “You know where, darling.”

  I’ll be along shortly. But first, may I have a few moments alone with Janette? And I mean really alone.

  A short pause. “Yes, I suppose so. I owe you both that much—since you will not be returning to her.”

  I’ll see you in an hour or so.

  “I shall certainly be waiting, my precious one.”

  Silence. Pat felt her presence drift away.

  Janette came to his side, sitting by him on the picnic table in the back yard. “I was watching your face. Victoria was talking with you, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes. We were chatting about this and that. I love you, Janette. I really mean that.”

  “And I love you, Pat. I’ll see you later tonight?”

  “I don’t know.” He was honest with her.

  They talked for a time and he asked her for something of hers to carry with him into battle. She gave him what he requested and he tucked it into a shirt pocket.

  He kissed her and said, “Go into the house, Janette. I need to be alone for a few minutes.”

  And she understood.

  Pat had carefully cleaned and oiled his riot gun and his .41 mag. He had filled three bandoleers and a belt with shells for the shotgun, a full belt with cartridges for the pistol. In addition, using small medical bottles, he now had six small molotov cocktails: homemade bombs filled with gasoline and a small amount of flour; the flour would act as napalm, sticking to the surface and burning. The bottles were packed carefully in cotton and placed in a small knapsack. He had a canteen of water, a sandwich Janette had fixed for him, a sharp knife, and a surprise—he hoped—for Victoria.

  He knew he could kill the beasts, the roo-garous—whatever the hell they were—but he wasn’t sure if what he had fixed would kill Victoria. True, he had blown out Sylvi
a’s guts but he knew he had not killed her, or Bethencourt. He felt he would see her this day . . . or at least see pieces of the old bag.

  No one in the house had spoken to him since he and Janette had met at the picnic table. They all sensed he wanted no conversation. They knew—and all were ashamed of it—that Pat did not have to do this thing. He could, if he so desired, just walk away from it and let them sink or swim on their own.

  And all wondered if they would have the courage to do what Pat was about to do.

  Most of them had reached the conclusion they would not have the courage. But had they spoken to Pat about that low opinion of themselves, he would have told them they were wrong. He would have told them they did not have the training for it; the hard discipline that comes only after hundreds and hundreds of hours of brutal training, and hundreds of hours of actual combat; that they did not possess the state of mind needed to walk into the unknown; that their concept of heroes and warriors was, in truth, 180 degrees away from reality.

  But they did not ask, and Pat did not volunteer any opinions. He simply picked up his weapons and then did what true heroes and warriors have been doing for thousands of years: his duty.

  He drove through the storm and the winds to Amour House; a lonely drive. He parked the car by the side of the road, left the keys in it, and walked the last five hundred yards. He paused only briefly at the gates of the estate and smiled at what he saw: it was not raining inside the grounds of Amour House. There, all seemed very peaceful, very serene, very lovely.

  He felt eyes on him . . . from all directions.

  Laughter from the dark waters of the bayou surrounding the grounds.

  Pat pushed open the gates and walked into hell.

  At a gazebo by the north side of the mansion, under a huge tree, Pat stepped in and rested for a moment. He unwrapped the sandwich Janette had fixed for him and slowly ate it, savoring each bite. He saw movement from the house, and watched Earl Latour and Blaine Andrus walk toward the small gazebo.