A Crying Shame

by William W. Johnstone

  Terse, but reasonably accurate,” Jon said, lighting a slim cigar. Reports tend to delete all the truly interesting aspects of a man’s life, don’t you agree, Sheriff Saucier?”

  Mike had no comment on that. But he felt he had never before met a man with so much control. Quite a change from being a hired gun, Badon.”

  Quite, Saucier,” Badon replied.

  Mike took note of the man’s smile. It was not at all pleasant. Mike had the impression the man seated in front of his desk was a warrior through and through, and held nothing but contempt for those who had never seen combat.

  To a degree, he was correct in that assumption, although not to the extent he believed.

  You’re quite a character,” Mike admitted, softening the atmosphere verbally.

  Badon’s ugly smile vanished; he had shifted into yet another of his personalities. Thank you.” His tone was almost modest. I do what I can.”

  I’m sure.” The reply was dry. What are you doing in Fountain Parish, Badon?”

  I told you, Saucier.”

  I have a short attention span, Badon. Humor me. Tell me again.”

  The cat-and-mouse game all good lawmen learn; or they never become good lawmen. But this time it was being played with some humor in it, the game changed to fit the man under the invisible lamp of interrogation.

  I was sent for, by Mr. Paul Breaux.”

  How did he get in touch with a man like you? It’s rather doubtful you and he run in the same social circles, correct?”

  Jon shrugged. Through a mutual acquaintance, shall we say.”

  Of course you wouldn’t care to name that ‘mutual acquaintance.’ ”

  Of course.”

  All right, Badon. Now the sixty-four dollar question: What did a man of Breaux’s wealth want with a mercenary? Excuse me—a soldier of fortune.”

  I’ll answer that with no hesitation, and with the truth. Paul Breaux wanted me to capture two or three of these creatures—Links, as he called them—that Mr. Breaux suspected had been living in the Crying Swamp for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. Then he wanted me to dispose of—kill—the rest of them.”

  Interesting,” Mike softly mused, rolling the word from his mouth. What was Mr. Breaux going to do with the ... Links you captured? And I assume there are a number of them?” God, let my assumption be wrong.

  There are many of them, Sheriff. He didn’t know just how many. As to your first question ... I don’t know what he planned to do with them. And that is the truth. I really do not know.”

  You ever heard of a PSE test, Badon?”

  You ever heard of reading a man his constitutional rights, Saucier?”

  The two men exchanged knowing glances; slight movements of their lips would have to pass as smiles. They suddenly knew each other very well. The air in the small office seemed to change, becoming more relaxed.

  Why,” Mike ruminated softly, not really directing the question at Badon, with all the land and homes around the swamp, would the creatures single out the Breaux home?”

  Jon said nothing, letting the lawman talk. He knew what Sheriff Saucier asked, knew the answer he wanted to hear, but kept his mouth shut for the present. There would be ample time for that—later.

  ... Almost as if they somehow knew Breaux was going to try to capture or kill them.” Mike hit the truth without knowing it. Or at least part of the truth.

  Sheriff?” Jon cut into Mike’s mental meanderings. I am not ignorant of police work. As a matter of fact, a member of Interpol once told me I was quite good at it. So, let me make this proposition, if I may: I have been paid a handsome sum of money from Paul Breaux, half of our agreed-upon sum in advance, the other half in a Swiss bank; I will receive that when I offer adequate proof to a ... middle man ... that I have indeed completed my assignment. And”—he put startlingly pale gray eyes on the Sheriff—I will capture a few of them. So let us work together. In return for your cooperation, let us say, I will see to it you get whatever ... shall we say ... equipment your office might be lacking.”

  Mike smiled. Bribing an officer of the law, Mr. Badon?”

  Ah, but not at all, Sheriff. I simply offered a bargain between gentlemen.”

  I’d like to see my men get a badly needed raise.”

  Talk to the local police jury or take it to the people of the parish,” Badon countered.

  Shit!”

  Both men laughed, and more ice was broken between them.

  Mike said, But you could arrange my choice of weapons, I should imagine.” Not phrased as a question.

  Oh, quite easily.”

  Or highly sophisticated electronic equipment.”

  Certainly. Name it.”

  Mike sighed. It’s a temptation, Jon. But I’d have to explain how I got it—if any evidence gathered by it came to court—and you know it. No. I’ll pass. Keep your guns and equipment. We’ll work together. I think, on this case, I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

  You might need even more help than I can offer.” Jon’s reply was spoken seriously.

  The sheriff’s assenting nod of the head was barely discernible. Perhaps. My chief deputy is talking with Linda Breaux; it’s standard procedure. Just seeing if she left anything out when she talked to me. She’ll tell the story a few more times before we’re through.”

  I spoke with her for about fifteen minutes ... waiting for you. She seems like a very intelligent woman. I should imagine she told it all the first time.”

  Yes.” Mike studied the mercenary more closely. Yes, she probably did. Anyway, you want to ride out to the plantation house with me. I’d like to pick up those journals.”

  Jon arched an eyebrow. Mike started to tell him about the journals, then paused. Son of a bitch probably knows about them anyway, he thought. He’s been two or three steps ahead of any of us around here from the outset. You’re not curious about the journals, Badon?”

  Not particularly.”

  Mike sighed and waved Jon on ahead of him, out the door. The men got only as far as the outer-office door before running into Blackwell, red-faced, his blood pressure soaring. He pointed a finger at Sheriff Saucier.

  Mike resisted an impulse to break the digit.

  I’ve had it with the run-around I’ve been receiving,” Blackwell said, almost at a shouting level. Now what the hell is going on?”

  Jon immediately picked up the dislike between the two men. He wondered if it was professional or personal, or a combination of both.

  There has been a murder, Mr. Blackwell,” Mike said. Somewhere about ten, last evening. Mr. Paul Breaux was killed. Shots were fired at the murderer by Paul’s sister, Linda. She hit at least one of the intruders. We know that by the blood trails.”

  Jon stood by impassively, listening to the sheriff stomp through and around the truth.

  Why was I kept away from the crime scene for so long?” The editor flapped his arms like a big ugly bird preparing for takeoff. What are you people trying to hide? How many intruders were there? Was Ms. Breaux hurt?”

  You were kept away from the scene because of the large amount of physical evidence scattered around the grounds of Despair Plantation. We are not attempting to hide anything, Mr. Blackwell. As for the intruders ... two or more, at least. Ms. Breaux was not injured. We still have not concluded our evidence-gathering at the plantation, so the grounds will remained closed for a time longer. I’m sure you have file photos of the home you can use.”

  Got to be a master politician to be a sheriff nowadays, Jon thought, listening to Mike—and a practiced liar. His smile was slight. One and the same, he concluded.

  Don’t tell me what I have or have not,” Blackwell snapped. Do you have any suspects in custody?”

  Not at this time.”

  Blackwell snorted. Why don’t you pick up a few local kids?” he suggested. Blame it on them. That’s about your speed.” He stalked off, his back stiff with anger.

  Lesson number one on how to win friends and influence people,” Jon
said.

  Blackwell is an insufferable prick,” Mike said.

  Jon laughed. I never would have guessed.”

  Chapter Three

  Outside, Jon paused at his car long enough to take a small travel bag out of the trunk and place it on the front seat of Saucier’s patrol car, between them.

  What’s in the bag?” Mike asked.

  Two weapons.” He was tersely informed.

  Are they legal?”

  Jon grinned, his teeth flashing against the very dark tan of his face. One of them is.”

  Mike grunted. You probably have a damned arsenal in the trunk of your car.”

  Quite,” Jon agreed.

  Is that car yours?”

  In a manner of speaking?”

  Mike decided not to push for a more definite answer; he wasn’t all that sure he wanted to know more about the car. Damned thing might well be stolen.

  The men were silent for a few moments, Jon breaking the silence by saying, The automobile is mine. I keep it in New Orleans.”

  Then you live in New Orleans?”

  No.”

  More silence.

  Well, damn it, man! Where do you live!”

  France. A small village just outside Paris. When I’m home, that is.”

  You’re a well of information, you know that?”

  Merci.”

  Mike gritted his teeth. He calmed himself, saying, If Paul Breaux did research on the ... creatures, he must have told you enough to pique your interest. It’s a long drive out to Despair—I’d like to hear your theories on the matter.”

  You won’t like them.”

  I don’t like anything about this case.”

  Very well. If you insist.”

  Jon’s theory brought the sheriff up short, stomping on the brake pedal, the patrol car slewing to one side, onto the shoulder. Sheriff Saucier’s mouth worked silently, like a fish out of water. Finally he blurted, What in the name of God did you say, Badon?”

  Jon smiled at Saucier’s reaction. I said: ‘The Links are after selected women of the parish—a few at a time—for breeding purposes.’ ”

  Good jumping Christ! Are you serious, man?”

  Yes. My slight surprise when you spoke of the journals was simply that you even knew of them. Linda must have told you. Paul did more than a few months’ research on this parish. Two or three years. Maybe more. The subject—for whatever reason or reasons—fascinated him; became an obsession with him. What he put together was ... gruesome, to say the least.” Jon waggled his fingers toward the road. May we continue on our way?” The sheriff rolled back on the blacktop. Thank you,” Jon said politely.

  Mike wondered if the man had any nerves at all. How could any person be so calm when discussing something so ... disgusting as monsters breeding with human women?

  Jon said, If you will check old records in your office, Mike, I think you will find—if they haven’t been destroyed, and there is a good chance they have—that every twelve to fifteen years, beginning about 1840 or 1850, women began vanishing, mysteriously, from this area. Back then, it probably was no big mysterious event; people disappeared for a number of reasons: bandits, sickness, lost in the swamps and bayous, or suddenly pulled out, heading west. I would imagine, as did Paul, that back then it was one woman at a time, once a year. Maybe even a longer time space than that. And bear this in mind: back then there were Indians and slaves in this area; no one paid much attention to what happened to them.

  But Paul began checking more recent records. Now it’s four or five women at a time, usually over a six-month to one-year period. Many of them tourists—not local women. This led Paul to believe the Links have help. Local people.”

  Mike paled under his tan. Good God!”

  Paul’s major in college—and he kept changing, trying to get into the proper field—was animal husbandry, then genetics, that type of thing. His conclusion was that the Links can produce only male offspring. Some ... genetic malfunction over the years. Paul believes ... believed ... that recently the chemicals from upriver, chemicals used in this area, farming, crop-dusting, and so forth, were responsible for the total breakdown in the Links’s genes. That’s only one of his many theories, however. Another is some kind of brain disease. Disease may not be the right word; I’m not a doctor or scientist. My theory—probably grossly incorrect—is much more basic?”

  And that is?” Mike practically whispered the question, having difficulty mentally digesting all that had been said in just a few moments.

  The Links got a taste of human pussy. They like it.”

  Add crude to suave and violent, the sheriff mentally amended the FBI report. Then, if that is true, why not more attacks?”

  Paul believed the leaders won’t—wouldn’t—permit it. They use the women they take for breeding until they die, go mad, or kill themselves. They try, at all costs, to avoid killing. After the women ... wear out, so to speak, then they seek others.”

  Or become too old to ... breed.” Mike stumbled over the word.

  That is correct.”

  Mon Dieu!” Mike slipped back into the language of his boyhood. But . . . how did they get here in the first place?”

  Paul believed they have been here since the beginnings of time. Or at least since man evolved into walking upright. These creatures, for some reason, stopped evolving. That’s why Paul called them Links.”

  Getting back to something you said. Why—strictly for the sake of argument—would a perfectly normal human being want to help these ... monsters?”

  Jon smiled, cutting his hunter’s eyes to the sheriff. Because the human—or, as is more likely the case—humans are related to them.”

  Jesus! No. I can’t believe that, Jon. Won’t believe it, I suppose. All this is ... impossible.”

  Not according to Paul’s studies, and they are extensive... you’ll see. The ... shall we say, make-up of the Links, over the years, a hundred or so, probably more than that, since this area was populated by Indians for hundreds, maybe thousands of years before the white man arrived, has been altered ... diluted, literally bastardized by their breeding with humans. So it’s entirely possible that a human baby was birthed. One might lead to another. Probably has. So you have, in this parish, and probably in the surrounding parishes as well, a family—or families as is the case—who are the offspring of Links. Human in appearance, human in their thinking, behavior, but who are genetically related to the Links.” He glanced at Mike and smiled. You are perspiring quite heavily, Sheriff.”

  Really?” he said sarcastically. No kidding! How the hell can you sit there so fucking calmly and spout all that ... crap? Jesus God, man! What do you have in your veins, ice water?”

  Jon’s reply was delivered unruffled. Sheriff? May I call you Mike?”

  Lord, man! I don’t care what you call me!”

  Mike, I’ve seen most of what this world has to offer: the good, the bad, the beautiful, the ugly, the indifferent, the dedicated—the entire spectrum. It has been said, and I agree with the personal analysis, that I have been disillusioned by ninety-five percent of what I’ve seen. What is happening in this parish, or parishes, is really no big deal—nothing of monumental proportions. It doesn’t fill me with outrage. Most of the people around here probably aren’t worth a bucket of puke to begin with.

  The Links have been here for hundreds of years—thousands, probably—making no attempt to leave. They have bred with ... perhaps two hundred human females in the past one hundred and fifty years. I’m guessing at that. If this genetic malfunction had not occurred—if that is what really happened—in another 75-100 years they would probably have bred themselves right into the human race. And, when they had accomplished that dubious distinction, they would probably have looked back with great longing toward the swamps, wishing to God they were back in there, picking fleas off one another in a ritual of grooming.”

  Mike was shocked at the mercenary’s blunt statement.

  You can’t be that unfeeling toward the
human race.”

  Only toward the adults. And I assure you, I am.”

  All right, I’ll accept your ... outrage, if that is the right word. Disgust. Whatever. Perhaps ... no, I’m sure you’ve seen enough to make you ... jaundiced. But now, assuming all this ... bullshit you’ve been spouting is true, the Links have killed. Why?”

  Paul stood in the way of a woman they wanted.” The mercenary smiled. Whatever else they may be, they certainly have good taste in women.”

  I don’t find that amusing, Jon. And I agree with you: you don’t have much use for the human race.”

  Only the adults,” Jon corrected. For a moment, the adventurer’s thoughts were flung back in time: to Africa, southeast Asia, Algiers, many other ports of call. He recalled the suffering of the homeless, the starving kids, the pitiful elderly, the ruined countryside, the broken dreams and the broken bodies. Like many meres, Jon Badon had, on more than one occasion, fought for nothing of any monetary value—just for what he thought was fair and right. And he felt nothing but contempt for the petty, grasping, greedy, selfish, self-centered, and comfortable people of all races who allowed another human being to starve to death in a filthy ditch while they sought dubious self-gratification with expensive toys and country clubs, giving their snot-nosed brats everything they wanted—except discipline and a set of honorable values.

  Jon looked at the sheriff. He said nothing. He didn’t have to say anything. The cold look in those pale gray eyes spoke volumes.

  Sheriff Mike Saucier got the accurate impression that the conversation was over for a time.

  Deep in the darkness of the Crying Swamp, hidden by cleverly constructed living plants and shrubs, a father mourned for his dead son. He mourned silently, his tears his only sign that he felt any emotion at all. The huge adult Link wept with his face turned from the others of his kind. Even though his son had been one of those that had mysteriously turned savage, killing and raping at random, he nevertheless felt a keen sense of loss, sharp and cutting. The father was a third generation—let us call them what Badon and Paul Breaux called them—Link. He was very humanlike in many ways. It took five generations for the Links to produce—through their human mates—a Link that would pass for human. A human link to the past. A living, breathing, bleeding chain to history.