Walt was helped to a bed in a small clinic and was asleep a minute after his head hit the pillow.
It was still early, and Tony was keyed up. He asked Don to step into the small lounge. Over coffee, they talked.
"Now, about this monster he thinks he saw? …" Tony said.
"I don't know, Tony," Don replied. "I'm having a hard enough time accepting his story about cats attacking him."
"I think that much is true. I've treated dozens of kids and adults for cat clawing. But this was a very vicious attack. You noticed the spot where the flesh was torn out?"
"Yes. What about it?"
"That animal tore that out with its teeth. Now cats claw and bite, yes. But this appears to be an attack for food."
Don sat his coffee mug down on the table. "You're serious?"
"Very."
Don told Tony what R. M. had said about the people panicking if the story got out.
"What were R. M. and Romy doing out that way?" Tony asked.
"I don't know. I was heading out that way because of that nut who busted out of that private bug house other side of Alex."
"What nut?"
Don shrugged. "All I got is his name, Jack Dorg. And the message that he's very dangerous. And maybe heading this way. Why would he be heading this way, Tony? I don't know of any family named Dorg in this area, do you?"
"Not … by that name, no."
Why did the doc hesitate? Don silently questioned. Why did his face suddenly change into a con mask? Or was that just my imagination?
"Tony? If you know something I should know, please level with me."
Tony sighed. He rose from the table and pushed back his chair. "Stick around for a few minutes, Don. Let me make a call. I … uh … I've been going over some of my father's old papers. Throwing away a lot of case histories that I have no use for. The families have all moved away, or died . . . whatever. I'll be back in a minute."
"OK."
What the hell was going on? Don mulled over many things during his short wait. Dorg? He didn't know a single person in the parish named Dorg. He'd never known of anybody named Dorg.
He sipped his coffee and waited. He looked up as Tony reentered the lounge.
"All right, Don. I called Chief Passon, asked him to meet us over here. I'll wait until he gets here, then I'll tell you what I know about this man called Jack Dorg."
"It's Jack," R. M. said.
Romy reached under his seat and took out a .38 caliber pistol. As R. M. watched, his eyes horror-filled, Romy checked the loads and clicked the cylinder closed.
"My God, son!" R. M. said. "What are you going to do?"
'I'm going to do what you and the others did not do," Romy replied. He met the man's eyes. "I'm going to kill him!"
"Son, listen to me, listen for just a moment. Why do you think we had Jack confined in that institution? Why do you think we didn't let the sheriffs department handle the deaths of your real mother and father? Have you ever thought about that?"
"Many times, Dad."
Both men sat in the car, looking at each other, while the wild, insanely evil laughter rolled in waves from the dark-timbered swamp.
"You can't kill him, Romy." R. M.'s words were softly offered. "And I don't mean can not in any moral way. I mean you cannot kill him. You cannot, I cannot, the deputy cannot, the law cannot. Are you beginning to see?"
"I don't believe you! It's … you're just making that up."
R. M. shook his head. "No, son, I am not making anything up. You could empty that pistol into your brother's chest; you could tear his flesh and fire directly into his heart. But you cannot kill him. He will not die."
"Talk to him, old man!" Jack's voice ripped from the hot darkness. "Your time is near. It's time, old man. It's time, baby brother. My Master is near. Very, very near." He laughed and laughed.
Somewhere very close, a wild yowling began.
"Listen to my little friends!" Jack yelled. "Would you like to see some of them?"
"I've handled him before, Dad," Romy said. "He's broken out before and always returned here. And I've taken his hand and he's followed me as docilely as a lamb."
"He wasn't following you, Romy. He was listening to his Master; not you. As he just said, now is the time. The time was not right before."
Both men jerked in surprised fright as a cat leaped onto the hood of the parked car. The cat stared at the men through the windshield.
"Get off!" Romy yelled.
The cat sat and stared.
R. M. sighed and shook his head. "I could talk to no one," he said, speaking as much to the hot air as to Romy. "No one would have believed me. They would have put me in some institution. I've lived with this … horror all my life. Just as my father did, and his father before him, and his before him. As I am sure the others did, in France."
The cat on the hood of the car extended one paw, the claw out. The cat dragged its claws down the glass, producing a noise very similar to fingernails on a blackboard. The rasping noise invisibly cut the psyche of the men.
"Put up the windows, son," R. M. said. "Right now."
Romy pressed the power button; the windows closed. "Now what?" Romy asked, his voice filled with a mixture of emotions: awe, disbelief, horror.
"Drive on until we find a place to turn around. Then return home and pray."
"Pray for what?" Romy screamed. A half dozen more cats leaped onto the hood of the car. They sat and stared through the windshield.
"Forgiveness. Compassion. Understanding."
"Are you telling me we don't go to the police with this?"
"Would they believe you? Me? I can answer that. No, they would not."
"Is there no one to turn to?"
"Oh, yes, son."
Romy waited for some explanation. When none came, he blurted, "Well, dammit, Dad … who?"
"God," R. M. said softly.
"Jack Dorg is really Jackson Dorgenois. He …" Tony sighed, paused, then shook his head. "Men, I don't know how much of this is true. But you both knew my father. He was a very level-headed, pragmatic man. And he kept quite an extensive journal about this man now called Dorg."
"Jesus, this is macabre. Anyway," he said, clearing his throat. "Sonny, you're old enough to remember Romy's parents, right?"
"Sure. I went to school with Jackson. Romy was an accident. I think he's . . . oh, fifteen or so years younger than Jackson. I was one of the pallbearers at Jackson's funeral. What is this bullshit about Jackson being alive?"
"It isn't bullshit, Sonny. That casket was, is, empty. Jackson killed both his parents when he was about … oh, twenty years old, I believe it was. The chief of police here in Becancour back then was Borley. I remember him, but very vaguely."
"Jackson's parents drowned, Tony," Sonny said, protest and disbelief in his voice. "Their bodies were never found."
"What was left of them was found. It was a cover-up. You exhume those so-called empty caskets, and you'll find bones."
"What do you mean, Tony—what was left of the bodies?"
"Jackson ate his parents." Tony spoke the hideousness softly.
Sonny spilled his coffee on the table. He sat in stunned silence as the dark liquid rolled off the table and dripped to the floor.
"Ate them?" Don blurted, breaking the silence. "You mean like a cannibal?"
"Something like that."
"I do not … I absolutely refuse to accept, nor do I believe any of this!" Sonny said, considerable heat in his statement. "None of this can be true."
"It's all true," Tony defended his father's writing. "The chief of police back then, Borley, and the sheriff went along with it. Both of them are dead, and if you'll both remember, they died under, well, strange conditions."
"True," Sonny said.
"R. M. Dorgenois and my father, working with both those men, put a lid on the matter and had Jackson committed to a private institution. Jackson is supposedly suffering from what is called lycanthrophy. That is a form of insanity in which a hu
man being imagines himself to be a wolf or other wild beast. In Jackson's case, be imagines himself a great cat. And from looking at the sudden changes in both your facial expressions, I think I know what just crossed your minds. Don't make any more of it than is there, please."
"Sure is a bunch of cats in town," Sonny said.
"Pure coincidence," the doctor said.
"And a drifter gets attacked by a pack of cats," Don added.
"A freak accident," Tony said.
Rita Dantin was one of those working the night shift that evening. She walked into the doctor's lounge. "Been looking for you, Tony," she said. "Need you in the emergency room." She cut her dark eyes to Sonny. "Frank Lovern just belted his wife. Busted her mouth. I say 'just.' Probably happened about an hour ago. Then she got up and conked him on the head with a lamp. Then they really started fighting. Tore up one room at the motel, then spilled over to the cafe. Busted tables and chairs all over the place. Both of them are bleeding all over the place."
Sonny looked down at Rita's uniform trousers. One leg was shredded near the cuff. "What happened to you?"
"Darndest thing, Chief," she said. "A cat attacked me. Just came right out of an alley, hissing and clawing. I popped it on the head with my stick and it ran off. I don't ever remember being attacked by a cat before."
Tony exchanged glances with Don and Sonny. "Coincidence," the doctor said. "Just stay calm, everybody."
"Why, Tony?" Sonny questioned. "You think things are gonna get worse?"
"Yes," the doctor said. "I do."
And because of his earlier statements about coincidence, the words popping out of his mouth surprised even Tony.
7
Don went back to the sheriffs department's substation, arriving just a few seconds ahead of R. M. and Romy.
"We couldn't find the suitcase, Deputy," R. M. said. "How is that poor man?"
"He's all right. Clawed up and scared, but he'll make it."
"Well," R. M. said. "I suppose we'd best be getting on home."
"No, I think it best if we talk," Don said.
Both men understood that his words constituted an order, not a request.
"Oh?" R. M. said. "About what, sir?"
"Jackson Dorgenois." Don turned and unlocked the door to the trailer. He stepped back and motioned both men inside. "I think we have a lot to discuss, so let's get started."
Don noticed that neither man bothered to say that Jackson was dead, as the townspeople all believed.
"You're not going to believe what I have to say, sir," R. M. told him.
"I don't know what to believe, Mr. Dorgenois," Don replied. "But a lot of things—this is my opinion—seem to be slightly out of whack around this town. Now I don't claim to be a genius, gentlemen. I'm just a deputy sheriff in one of the biggest parishes in this state. Now, I can't speak for the rest of the parish, but I know, without being able to prove it, that something is very wrong in this part of the parish. And I'm going to find out what the hell it is."
Inside the coolness of the trailer, Don motioned the men to chairs in front of a long table. He hung up his summer straw hat and sat down opposite the men.
"You are, Mr. R. M. Dorgenois, among other things, an attorney. How do you want to handle this?"
The elder Dorgenois shrugged his shoulders. "Neither my son nor I have broken any laws, Deputy …"
"That's bullshit!" Don flared. "You covered up a double murder, you aided and abetted the murderer, you have given that murderer aid and comfort for years, you falsified official court records, you have perjured yourself countless times over the years. Now do not hand me any crap about your innocence."
"My son is innocent," R. M. said quietly.
"You talking about Romy, your grandson?"
"That is correct. I call him my son, he calls me father."
"I understand that, sir. Do you want an attorney present?"
"I have been charged with nothing, Deputy. And to be perfectly honest and frank with you, I doubt that you, or anyone else, could charge me with anything. And make it stick," he added. "After all these years …" Again he shrugged. "A grandfather protecting the family's good name. You will not, cannot, prove that Jackson killed his mother and father. And even if you could, what would it matter now? Besides, it will all be over in a very short time anyway."
"What will be over, sir?" Don asked.
"A way of life. All hope," he added softly. "Tony found some of his father's old records, did he not?"
"Yes. What do you mean, sir, all hope?"
R. M. rose from his seat and began pacing the room. Back and forth, like a convict pacing his small cell. He stopped and looked at Don. "I remember you growing up, Don. You were a good boy. You and Frances have been married … how long now?"
"Two years."
"You have no children?"
"No, sir."
"Take your wife and get out, Don. Leave this town. If you wait much longer, leaving will be impossible."
Don sighed. The interview was not going as planned. And Don was beginning to think the old man was nuts. Maybe it ran in the family?
"Mr. Dorgenois, would you please sit down and tell me what in the hell you're talking about?"
R. M. ceased his restless pacing and sat down. "It's a very long story, Don. And one that I don't particularly care to discuss at this moment."
The deputy sat and stared in astonishment at the old man. "Well, I beg your pardon, Monsieur Dorgenois. Je regrette d'avoir a dire que …" Don lost his temper and banged his balled fist on the table. "I don't give a good goddamn whether you care to discuss it or not. I got a raving lunatic running around this side of the parish—he might well be in Becancour this minute—and you sit there cool as hell and tell me you're not going to discuss it! The hell you say!"
"Don, Don," Romy spoke. "Please. I can probably answer a great many questions for you if R. M. chooses not to cooperate."
"Romy," R. M. warned. "I must ask you to hush. You don't know what you're getting into here."
Don hated to be disrespectful to the elder Dorgenois, but one way or the other, he was going to get to the bottom of this … mess. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the front door opened and Patrolwoman Dantin walked in.
"Sorry, Don," she said, eyeballing the two men sitting before the deputy. "I got a call while driving by here and pulled in. I might need your help on this one."
The city police were all deputized and could work outside the city limits, but when available, they preferred Don to come with them.
"What's up, Rita?" Don asked.
She cut her eyes to the civilians and Don picked it up.
Now he didn't know what to do.
"I beg you, Don," R. M. said. "Give us a few hours to … handle the matter. If we can't—God help us all."
Rita was looking first at Don, then at Mr. Dorgenois. She had no idea what was going on, and since R. M. Dorgenois not only owned damn near all of Becancour, but about fifteen thousand acres of land in the parish and adjoining parishes, she wasn't about to stick her mouth into it.
Besides, she'd heard stories about the Dorgenois family since a little girl. Besides being one of the most powerfully influential families in this part of the state— if not the whole damn state—some old folks said the Dorgenois's could walk on either side of the boundaries separating God and Satan.
Of course, Rita didn't believe any of that last bit.
Well … maybe a little of it.
"This going to take long, Rita?" Don asked.
"Hour at the most."
Don nodded. He looked first at Romy, then R. M. "I'll be at your house by eleven. I hope you have … ah, taken care of it by then."
"We'll do our best, Don," R. M. said, standing up and extending his hand across the table.
Don shook it. "I'll see you in an hour or so."
"Go with God," R. M. said gently.
When the door closed behind the two men, Don looked at Rita. "What'd you get?"
"A dead body.
About five miles south of town. A few hundred yards north of Lovern's rent house on the bayou."
"We'll take my car. Let's go."
Heading out, Don asked, "Do you know who it is, Rita?"
"No. Old Man Fontenot found the body. 'Bout scared the crap out of him. He drove back to Lovern's place to use the phone, but they haven't had it hooked up yet. Tomorrow, they said. Mrs. Balon got Fontenot settled down and Sam Balon, the husband, drove into town and reported it." She smiled. "He sure is a handsome, rugged-lookin' guy."
Don grinned. Rita was a looker herself, and married to a mighty jealous man. Burt Dantin was, according to the stories, about to ruin a real good marriage with his jealousy.
"What are you grinnin' about, Don?"
"Just thinking, Rita."
"How you and Frances makin' it?"
"Still honeymooning."
"Stay at that as long as you can, boy." She sighed. "Me and Burt split the sheets this morning."
"I hadn't heard. I'm sorry, Rita."
"I'm not," she said flatly, and Don knew she meant it. "Burt's accused me of making out with everybody in Becancour that wears pants. It got so bad I couldn't even go out with the girls for a few hours. He tried to slap me around last week—again."
"Did he hit you, Rita?"
"He got one good pop in before I judoed his ass and damn near broke his arm. Hurt his pride more than anything else. Then he came back scratchin' at the door, beggin' for me to take him back. And like a fool, I did."
"You think it's done for good this time?"
"I saw my lawyer this morning," she said in summary.
"What's the condition of the body? Did this Balon see it, or did he say?"
"He saw it. He's a cool one, Don. I think I'd want him on my side if push come to shove. He told me it was hard to tell age or even sex. Said the body looked like it'd been attacked by lions."
"Lions?"
"That's what he said. He said it looked to him like the body had been clawed to death and then part of it eaten."
Don took that time to tell Rita about the drifter who claimed he'd been attacked by cats. He did not tell her anything about the sighted monster—yet.
"Cats, Don?"
"That's what the man said. And Tony stuck by the man's story."
"Might be some connection?"
The Devil's Cat Page 5