He ran one scenario after another through his head, searched the ground for something to cut his hands free, then closed his eyes when a pounding headache shut down his capacity to think clearly.
Would they call the police, or was this just a game?
His mind drifted, plotting ways out of his predicament, the blackened ruins around him as silent as a tomb. A howl rang through the night and alarm heightened his senses. He became attuned to every creak and groan inside the structure.
Another howl, this one closer. He renewed his attempts to free his hands. When another howl sounded right outside the church, panic quickened his breathing.
Something glimmered at the entrance. White and flowing, it glided toward him. He thought the candlelight was playing a trick on his eyes, but then a figure in a long cloak appeared.
“It’s you.” He rested his head against the cold ground, the stench of ash and burnt wood in his nose. “Are you done having your fun, whoever you are?”
The cloak concealed the slender shape of a woman. He couldn’t quite make out her features beneath the hood, but he knew she was real.
“I’ll hunt you down and kill you ... slowly.”
A low growl rose from a shadowy portion of the ruins. Followed by another, and another. Out of the gloomy corners of The Abbey, dogs appeared, the whites of their eyes shining against their matted coats. The snarling dogs gathered around the hooded figure.
She drifted closer, coming into the candlelight.
“You’re the one who will die tonight,” she whispered.
A black dog slinked up to her, resting its head under her hand.
Beau didn’t like this. The dog had the oddest look in its eye—an almost human, vengeful glint.
“I don’t scare easily, and you would never—”
The dog trotted up to him, its teeth bared in a grotesque snarl.
“Scared now?” She patted the dog. “You were right about the pack living here. But they’re not wild, just very hungry. And they never forgive … like me.”
The dog frightened the crap out of him, but not the girl. He recognized her face as she dipped into the light.
“I’m gonna give you a night you’ll never forget.” She backed away, and the pack closed in.
Frantic, Beau wriggled in his chair, desperate to escape. Several of the creatures stood around him, their bared teeth gleaming in the candlelight.
“No!” His muscles quivered with fear. “Get away!”
The black dog drew closer to his face.
He stared into the fiendish black eyes, and the cold tentacles of abject terror slithered through his body, paralyzing him.
The dog opened its mouth—the stench of rot and death on its breath.
Beau screamed. The high-pitched sound echoed throughout the crumbling abbey.
And the candles went out.
Epilogue
A black body bag closed over the pale face of Beau Devereaux. God, he hated that sound. Kent Davis removed his Stetson from his head and wiped his brow. Around him, several officers combed the beach for clues as to how the kid had ended up there.
Two men in tan jumpsuits from the St. Tammany Parish Coroner’s Office lifted the body bag and carried it across the beach toward the parking lot.
“Did you see those bites?” one of the officers on the beach asked Kent. “I’ve never seen a person chewed up like that.”
Kent put his hat back on, disgusted. “The bites didn’t kill him, Phil. Something else did.”
A heavyset man with black glasses approached. “I’ll get to his autopsy as soon as possible.”
“Did you note the zip tie burns on his wrists, Bill? Looks like he was tied up somewhere.” Kent needed another coffee to get him through this. “See if you can get me any fibers. We have to figure out what happened.”
“What happened?” Bill repeated and removed his glasses. “You get a look at that kid’s face? Whatever killed him, he was terrified by it. I’ve seen a lot of shit as coroner of this parish, but never that.”
“Fear isn’t a cause of death,” Kent insisted.
The coroner returned his glasses to his nose. “No, but it’s a clue as to what killed him. Or who killed him.” Bill shook his head. “I’ll have a preliminary report for you in the morning.”
Kent stifled his urge to get the hell away from the creepy crime scene. He hated the nasty ones.
“What are you going to tell his old man?” Phil questioned.
He shook his head, sick at the prospect. “I have no idea. This is going to kill Gage. He had big plans for his son.”
“Just goes to show no one is invincible,” Phil professed. “Not even a Devereaux.”
Kent studied the rushing waters of the Bogue Falaya River. “I guess someone forgot to tell that to Beau.”
“He knew, Sheriff.” Phil glanced back across the treetops to the remains of The Abbey’s charred steeple. “By the look on that kid’s face when he died, I’d say he got the message.”
* * *
The cold November air streamed through Leslie’s open car window as she eased into a parking spot outside the gray clapboard, two-story office building.
She cut the engine and turned to the duffel bag on the seat next to her. Memories of that night came rushing back. Memories she wanted to forget but knew she never could.
Bag in hand, she climbed from the car and headed for the straight wooden staircase alongside the building. On the second floor, she opened the dark glass door and stepped inside.
She peered down a hallway decorated with framed posters of beer bottles. She’d never look at a bottle of Benedict Beer again without thinking of the animal who killed her sister.
Leslie checked the secretary’s desk down the hallway, not surprised to find it empty on a Saturday.
She slipped inside the open door to her right. The office had certificates of merit, awards, and commendations touting the excellence of the brewery. She found the décor distinctively masculine and a reflection of the man who sat behind the carved mahogany desk across the room.
Gage Devereaux never looked up, busily writing something as she walked across the Oriental rug.
Leslie dropped the black duffel bag on top of his desk. “I’m returning this.”
Gage put his pen aside and glanced at it but never acknowledged her.
He stood, unzipped the bag and pulled back the edges to inspect the contents.
Leslie watched him, seeing flashes of Beau in his face and his movements.
Gage reached inside and lifted the hem of a white cloak. His face a mask of stone, he leveled his dark eyes at her but said nothing.
She didn’t expect him to.
He stuffed the cloak back into the bag and zipped it shut.
“When you came to me for help, and we planned that night.” His voice had a cold, hard edge. “I promised he would never hurt you again.”
Gage turned to the window behind him.
“And now, he never will.”
A Note from Alexandrea Weis
Since writing this YA Thriller about a psychotic man and the depraved acts he commits on young women, I’m often asked how could I help pen such a violent and abusive storyline? It’s a good question, but in a culture saturated with the #MeToo movement and pro-women agendas, we have to realize that no matter how much we think we’re progressing, we haven’t accomplished a whole hell of a lot where violence against women is concerned.
In the State of Louisiana, where Death by the River is set, 600 to 700 acts of sexual assault in high schools are reported annually (Bale, L. 2018). Many mental health counselors feel the actual amount is three to four times that number. In a small state like Louisiana, that is a huge problem. And archaic laws in the state make it impossible for the CDC to track sexual violence among minors (Bale, L. 2018). So we may never know the true extent of the horror.
Put those numbers on a national or international scale, and the image is horrendous. What does that say about how we regard wom
en, not as a culture or nation but as a world? Women make up half the planet but are bullied and suppressed, beaten, and raped every minute across the globe. So why aren’t all these women reporting these crimes? For the same reason women have kept quiet for centuries—threats, intimidation, shame, and no one to listen to them.
In Death by the River, the victims of Beau Devereaux’s debauchery keep quiet for the same reasons many young women in high school do today—fear of reprisals, humiliation, peer pressure, and lack of trust in “the system.” When high school counselors and teachers don’t listen or believe a young woman’s reports, she will more than likely never seek help. These girls will withdraw, change their appearance, live in dread of being discovered, and feel shame over what occurred. Before strides can be made to stop the abuse against women, we have to embrace a perspective of not assigning guilt to any victim and stop blaming women for being women. Their sex, personality, behavior, or clothes did not lead to the attack—the disturbed individual and their twisted disregard is the culprit. Sexual assault was the choice he made, not her.
What saddens me is how little things have changed since I was in high school. In the eighties, there was less education, no counseling, and only whispers shared in the halls about sexual assault. Despite the millions of dollars schools pour into programs today, the numbers and experiences have not turned around. I remember watching firsthand a schoolmate suffer the aftermath of her sexual assault, but no one knew what was happening at the time. No one spoke about such atrocities.
Popular, beautiful, a cheerleader, and a kind person, Lady L was admired by the girls in my class and got noticed by all the boys. When she scored a hot date with a popular, wealthy boy from another school, rumors swirled in the halls. Especially about this guy’s penchant for date-rape. But no one told Lady L about it. Weeks after her date, everyone noticed the change in her. A young woman who had once dressed well and took pride in her burgeoning social calendar was seen in baggy clothes and withdrew from all activities. I remember noticing, having others mention it to me, but I never put the signs together because no one had taught us what it meant.
Thirty-five years later, this high school classmate finally told her family, husband, children, and friends what happened to her. She lost her virginity to a man who had drugged and raped her. He never paid for his crime. His wife and children do not know what he did. But I remember after reading her post on social media how sad I was I didn’t recognize the signs to reach out to help her. If I had, I often wonder what I would have done.
Part of me wanted to write Death by the River for her, my Lady L. To open the eyes of YA readers and young people about what can happen, even in the smallest of small towns. Books and movies can reach a large audience and educate individuals faster than word of mouth, social media, or the news. Perhaps more attention needs to be paid to this taboo subject by literary and motion picture companies. A truthful depiction can open the door for discussions, let victims know they are not alone, and spread the word that nothing justifies sexual assault—NOTHING! And like the girls victimized by Beau Devereaux, women can band together, fight back, and get justice. We have a voice.
Find your voice. Speak up and speak out against any form of sexual harassment, assault, or violence. If it happens to you, please seek help. Talk to officials, friends, family, and never keep quiet. If you know someone who has been a victim, stand beside them, support them, and believe what they tell you. Having someone listen is the first step to getting help. Talk to everyone you can, be an advocate for change. Get loud, get angry, and fight back against antiquated judicial systems and state and federal laws that protect the guilty and hurt the innocent. Individually, we may be regarded as just women, but together, we make up half the planet and are a force that no man can ignore.
So, to answer the question of why I helped write such a dark and sinister tale about sexual assault, let me say this, until we confront the ugliness we keep hidden beneath the surface, the suffering of women in our society will continue to be the impetus for novels like Death by the River. Change isn’t easy, but it is possible, even if we have to tackle it one book at a time.
Bale, L. (2018, 18 September). High school sexual assault a common problem across America. Retrieved from https://www.wwltv.com.
About the Authors
Alexandrea Weis, RN-CS, Ph.D., is a multi-award-winning author of over twenty-seven novels, a screenwriter, advanced practice registered nurse, and historian who was born and raised in the French Quarter of New Orleans. She has worked in nursing for thirty years and has dealt with victims of sexual assault, abuse, and mental illness at many New Orleans area hospitals. Brought up in the motion picture industry as the daughter of a director, she learned to tell stories from a different perspective and began writing at the age of eight. Infusing the rich tapestry of her hometown into her novels, she believes that creating vivid characters makes a story moving and memorable.
A permitted/certified wildlife rehabber with the Louisiana Wildlife and Fisheries, Weis rescues orphaned and injured animals. She lives with her husband and pets in New Orleans. Weis writes paranormal, suspense, thrillers, horror, crime fiction, and romance.
www.AlexandreaWeis.com
Lucas Astor is from New York, has resided in Central America and the Middle East, and traveled through Europe. He lives a very private, virtually reclusive lifestyle, preferring to spend time with a close-knit group of friends than be in the spotlight.
He is an author and poet with a penchant for telling stories that delve into the dark side of the human psyche. He likes to explore the evil that exists, not just in the world, but right next door behind a smiling face.
Archery, photography, making wine, listening to jazz, blues, and classical music, and helping endangered species are some of his interests.
www.LucasAstor.com
DeathbytheRiver.com
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