The Devil's Cat

by William W. Johnstone

She lifted her beautiful head and stuck out her chin in a defiant gesture. She had obeyed the Master, following all instructions and procedures to the letter. She did not feel that she, or any of her immediate followers, could have possibly done any better.

  But that was not for her to say. She lowered her chin.

  Tonight would test that thought of hers.

  "You know the kids, Sonny?" Sam asked.

  "Most of them. Some of them told me they were here visiting relatives; the ones under school age."

  Sam hid a sigh. Neither he nor Nydia had the ability to know for sure which child was the demon-child.

  But …

  … there was someone who might.

  "He is just a child, Sam," Nydia's thoughts pushed into his brain. "Just a little boy."

  "Blessed by God," Sam returned the mental push. "To do God's work."

  Nydia was silent.

  Sam thought: "Get everything you'll need from the house. Bring my .41 mag and the ammo belt with you. It's time to go to work."

  "Dog will never leave Little Sam's side," she reminded her husband.

  "I don't plan on him leaving."

  At their rent house by the bayou, Nydia began hurriedly packing. She put Sam's big .41 magnum, with a six-inch barrel, into a bag, along with a full ammo belt and half a dozen boxes of ammunition. She finished her packing and looked around the house.

  Dog was looking at her.

  "Stay with him." She spoke softly.

  Dog blinked.

  Little Sam walked into the room and looked at his mother. "I'm not afraid, Mother," he said. "I know what I have to do."

  "You're very brave."

  "No." The little boy shook his head. "I'm just a soldier in a war, that's all."

  Nydia took her son's hand and the three of them walked out of the house. Nydia closed and locked the front door.

  "I liked it here," Little Sam said.

  "So did I, Son."

  "Will we ever come back?"

  "I don't think so, Sam."

  "I don't think we will, either."

  Ben Ballatin knew nothing of the troubles in Becancour. Ben Ballatin knew very little of the goings-on in the outside world. He lived deep in the swamps and came to town only when he ran out of essentials: sugar, salt, flour, things of that nature. The swamp was his home, as it had been his father's home and his father before him. Ben did not like the outside world and kept contact with it to a minimum. Only his brother, Maurice, had ever attempted to make his way in that English-speaking world … and look what that had gotten him.

  Drowned, when he took them northerners out into the bayous to fish. How many years had it been? Ben pondered, drifting along in his pirogue . . . must have been … Damn! almost forty years ago. Maurice and their cousin Charles was never seen again no more.

  Ben always felt there was something odd about that whole thing. Maurice and Charles knew these bayous like they knew the back of their hands. Ben remembered that day well. There had been no wind, no storms, no bad weather of any type.

  Maurice and Charles and them Yankees had just plain ol' vanished. And that didn't make no sense a-tall.

  Ben reached for his paddle, then paused as a slight noise reached his ears.

  Ben sat very still, for the noise was not something normally heard in the swamps. That was no 'gator or bear; no bird takin' off or divin' for food.

  Ben listened. Damn! he thought. That sounds like somebody swimmin'.

  But not out here. Not in these waters. Take a damn fool to swim in these dark waters.

  But there it was. Sure enough was somebody swimmin'.

  Then a low moan came to Ben's ears.

  "Qu'est-ce que c'est?" he called.

  Ben almost swallowed his dentures when he heard his name spoken, the word floating across the dark waters on the hot, still bayou air.

  " 'Ay!" Ben called. "Qui est-ce?"

  His name was once more repeated.

  " 'Ay, boy! You better talk to me. Damn fool swimmin' out here. You los', boy?"

  Then Ben heard splashing coming from the other side if his pirogue. Two people swimmin' out here? he thought. Hell, no! No way. Somebody was playin' tricks on Ben. That somebody pro'bly that damn crazy Billy Carmouche. Fool never did have no sense.

  "Billy! Billy Carmouche! You crazy son of a bitch! Get outta them waters 'fore a 'gator done took your leg."

  The pirogue rocked side to side. Ben grabbed hold of both sides to maintain balance.

  He howled in fright and shock as something wet and slimy and rotten-feeling grabbed his right hand. Ben cut his eyes to see what kind of thing had grabbed him.

  He looked into the white, dead eyes of his cousin Charles.

  Ben's screaming ripped through the swamp, startling the birds. The birds flapped upward, breaking free of the trees, filled with Spanish moss.

  "Git away from me!" Ben screamed. He tried to pull his hand free from the slimy grasp of the thing in the water.

  Then the pirogue tilted dangerously toward the other side. Something equally cold and slimy and rotten-feeling grabbed Ben's thigh. Ben's squalling intensified.

  "Turn me a-loose!" he screamed.

  He dared to look at what had him by the leg. He began shaking as total fear numbed his very being.

  It was his brother, Maurice.

  Maurice looked at him through dead white eyes. His flesh was fish-belly white and wrinkled. When Maurice opened his mouth, death odors from the rotting cavity surrounded Ben.

  A splash came from the front of the pirogue, left and right. Ben lifted his horror-filled eyes. Two kids, a boy and a girl, naked, now clung to either side of the homemade canoe.

  They motioned for Ben to join them. A splash right behind him jerked Ben's head around. He was nose to nose, eyeball to eyeball with a naked man. And he knew who it was, even though he felt what he was seeing was impossible.

  It was that Yankee woman who had drowned. And them was her kids hangin' onto the front of the pirogue.

  Ben started praying.

  The woman threw her arms around his neck and jerked his head back. She kissed him, plunging her slimy tongue deep into his mouth.

  Ben's screaming prayers were abruptly silenced by the man's cold, wet, stinking mouth.

  The front of the pirogue dipped and Ben's left leg erupted in a hot spasm of pain. He felt his blood gush from his leg. He managed to look down.

  The girl was eating his leg.

  Pain ripped through him as the woman began gnawing his face. His blood gushed and flowed and dripped as swamp-stained teeth ripped and tore his flesh. Ben felt sharp teeth hook onto the flesh just below his eye and the woman's head twist and jerk. The flesh peeled away from his skull as easily as someone peeling an orange.

  Ben Ballatin screamed just once more. When his mouth opened and the shrieking rolled over his tongue, the woman's teeth clamped down on his tongue and bit deeply. His mouth filled with hot blood and his head exploded in pain.

  Ben flailed his arms and tried to kick out with his pain-filled and gnawed-on legs. The other kid was now in the pirogue, chewing at Ben's legs. Water slopped into the pirogue, mixing with Ben's blood. His brother Maurice reached up with fishy-smelling, ghostly white arms and pulled Ben into the dark waters.

  The last thing Ben remembered was his brother tearing at his throat.

  "Do they know the entire story?" Romy asked Colter.

  "Yes," the old woman replied. "Do you now believe?"

  Romy nodded his head. Julie stood off to one side, their children close beside her. Her face was white from fear and shock and disbelief.

  "It would not be wise for you to return to your home," Colter told the grandson she had helped raise as her own son. "Strength in numbers is not something to be merely spoken of—in our case, it's very true. This bit with the children was a smart move on the part of the other side. They've managed to split our forces and weaken us."

  When Romy spoke, there was a bitterness to his tone that cut the old woman. "
R. M. could have prevented this. If he'd just had the courage to come forward and admit what he was born to be."

  "Yes," Colter agreed. "But the mortal side of him prevailed."

  "How do you mean?"

  "He wanted to live, Son. Like everyone else. And, Son, who would have believed him?"

  "The Church would have believed him." Romy stood his verbal ground.

  "And you believe a priest would have killed him?"

  "If the exorcism had failed, yes, I do."

  Colter knew there was no point in continuing the discussion. Romy was right, to a degree. But there was still much he did not understand, and probably never would.

  She wound it up by saying, "Well, Son, you'll probably have your chance to destroy him, and your brother, too. I only hope you are up to the task when the moment arrives."

  "I will be," Romy said, a hard grimness in his voice. He met her eyes. "But I don't have to like what I do."

  The old woman inwardly relaxed at that. Now she was ninety-nine percent sure that Romy was free of the curse.

  But that one percent would nag at her until it was over.

  If they lived through it, that is.

  "There ain't no school no more, Brother Lester," one of Cliff's flock breathlessly informed him. "And Sonny Passon and Don Lenoir done stole some of the buses and tooken all the missing kids over to the clinic and to Missus Dorgenois's mansion."

  The messenger picked up a piece of fried chicken and gnawed at it.

  A guitar's thumping and voices raised in song drifted to the two men.

  "T like the old time preachin', prayin', singin', shoutin','" rose the voices.

  "The law is in it with all the rest," Brother Lester said, his mouth full of potato salad. "It figures, though. The law didn't do nothin' when the drinkin' and whorin' and other sinnin' jumped up around here. They probably been doin' sinful things in them cells at the jail. No tellin' what-all's been goin' on over there."

  The messenger stopped chewing the chicken leg. He leaned forward, closer to Brother Lester, his eyes shining. "What do you reckon it was?"

  "Haw?"

  "What they was doin' over in them cells?"

  "Lustful things," Brother Lester said.

  "Have mercy!" the messenger said.

  "Gimme some more of that chicken over there. Thanks. We got to make plans this afternoon. It's up to us, Elmer. Ain't nobody else gonna do it. We're all alone in this fight."

  "We'll stand firm, Brother Lester," he was assured.

  "I know you will. Gimme some of that cornhread over yonder. Thanks. We're all alone, Elmer. All alone."

  "How about them that's supposed to be gatherin' to fight the devil?"

  Brother Lester laughed. "Now, Elmer. You don't really believe in werewolves and vampires and all that other nonsense, do you?"

  Elmer grinned. "Heck no, Brother Lester. But we're mighty few agin so many in this town. That's all I was sayin'."

  "I hate to say this, Elmer, but I think we're gonna have to arm ourselves.

  "Hot damn!" Elmer blurted.

  Brother Lester gave him a reproachful look.

  "Sorry," Elmer muttered. "I got carried away a bit."

  "We're all human, Elmer. The Lord forgives you, I'm sure."

  "Guns, Brother Lester? But who are we goin' be fightin'?"

  "The purveyors of filth, Elmer. Them folks who have failed to heed the Good Book. Them folks who continue to wallow amid the fleshy pleasures of lustful sin."

  Elmer just loved it when Brother Lester got to talkin' like that. Made him feel all gooey inside. "I'm ready, Brother Lester!"

  "I know you are, Elmer. But we got to preach and pray and sing and shout and stomp some more. We all got to look for a sign. When it comes, then we'll know it's time to move."

  "Amen, Brother Lester!"

  9

  Delivery trucks from out of the parish made their usual runs into Becancour, servicing all the stores with milk and butter and canned goods and shoes and underwear. Everything appeared normal.

  Except … the shopkeepers and clerks and so forth seemed, well, odd-acting. They weren't rude or anything like that. They were just, well, sort of distant.

  The delivery men and women were, although they didn't know why, relieved when they drove out of Becancour, breathing a sigh of relief when they put the city limits sign behind them.

  Then they all, to a person, forgot all about the strange behavior of those they'd met in Becancour. They just completely forgot all about being in Becancour that day.

  Sam left Nydia and Little Sam at the clinic. He borrowed a pickup truck from Tony for the duration, leaving Nydia the car and returning the borrowed car to Colter. Sam felt more comfortable in a pickup. He put his sawed-off shotgun in the rear window gun rack, laid his big .41 mag on the seat beside him, and stowed his .22 autoloader in a front pocket of the seat covers.

  He tossed a dozen sharpened stakes and a heavy mallet onto the floorboards.

  "You want to take a ride?" he asked Father Javotte. The priest eyeballed the stakes and the mallet. "You feel it's time for that?"

  "If I know for sure who they are," Sam said, "I'll finish them."

  Javotte nodded his head and climbed into the truck. Sam drove the circle drive and pulled out onto the street, pointing the truck toward Becancour. "What are your plans, Sam? Today, I mean?"

  "Well, Padre," Sam said with a grin. "It's a hot day, and I'd kind of like to have a cool one. How about you?"

  The exorcist returned the grin. "I could stand a brew. Drive on."

  They drove to Lula's Love-Inn and parked by the side. Sam slipped the light .22 caliber autoloader behind his belt, covering it with his shirt. He slipped a fully loaded spare into his back pocket. "You ready, Padre?"

  The priest smiled and reached under his shirt. He produced a short-barreled .38 revolver. "Love will conquer all, Sam. But sometimes it helps to keep an ace in the hole."

  The men laughed and got out of the truck, walking to the front door. Sam pushed it open and stepped into the beery, murky barroom, Javotte right behind him. They stood for a moment, giving their eyes time to adjust to the sudden darkness.

  Several tables were occupied by smelly men and women; the place reeked of unwashed human flesh. One table was occupied by a group of teenagers. Lula stood behind the bar. Jules Nahan sat on a bar stool. Walt Davis stood at the end of the bar, wearing a T-shirt and faded jeans. His feet were bare. A large cat lay on the bar before him.

  Humans and animal stared at Sam and Javotte. Sam closed the door.

  Sam and Javotte walked to the bar and took stools close to the front door. Lula walked stiffly toward the men. Sam studied her as she walked. Her eyes were dead, and she shuffled more than walked. And she was filthy, her hair matted. When she opened her mouth to speak, her breath fouled the already stinking air of the barroom.

  "What'd you guys want?"

  Sam met her gaze and saw a touch of fear in those dead eyes. "Two beers, in cans, unopened."

  She nodded her head and flipped open the lid to a cooler. She placed two cans of beer on the bar.

  Sam tossed a couple of dollars onto the bar.

  Lula pushed the money back to him. "On the house, boys. Drink up and haul your asses outta here. You're not welcome."

  "Do we offend you, miss?" Javotte asked gently.

  Lula laughed. "That's one way of puttin' it, asshole.

  "Bear this in mind, Father," Sam whispered to Javotte "They accepted the Dark One willingly. They were not forced into anything. Whatever happens to them, they brought it on themselves."

  "I have colleagues who would argue that, Sam," the priest returned the whisper.

  "They're wrong. I don't have to tell you the devil preys on hypocrites and the morally weak. These people are lost, Padre. Lost forever. You can't—no one can—exorcise an entire town."

  "What now, Sam?"

  "They want Satan. Let's send a few of them to meet him."

  Javotte's eyes flicked around
the room. "Two against twenty or so? You like to play dangerously, don't you?"

  "Coming to this town was not my choice, Padre. I am what God told me to be."

  "And you're not afraid?" Javotte whispered.

  "Hell, no."

  Javotte chuckled grimly. "Very well. I'm with you."

  "Stay loose, Padre." Sam opened his beer and took a pull. He looked around the room. Kick ass and take name-time, he thought.

  "Which one of you bastards would like to be the first one to try something?" Sam challenged.

  A young man rose from his chair.

  "Don Hemming," Javotte whispered. "He's a tough kid, believe me."

  "I'm tougher," Sam said.

  Javotte smiled and shook his head. He genuinely liked this brash young Sam Balon.

  "I'll not only try it," Don said, balling his hands into fists. "But I'll do it."

  "Bring your ass over here, hot-shot," Sam said, taking another pull of the cold beer.

  Don ran toward the two men, kicking tables and chairs out of the way.

  Sam slipped from the bar stool, ducked under the wildly thrown right fist, and slipped under the young man's arm. Sam grabbed Don's belt and tossed him across the barroom floor. Don's butt and back slid across the floor. He came to rest against a wail, by the silent jukebox. Sam reached him before he could gather his senses and get up. His right boot lashed out, catching the punk in the mouth with the toe of leather. Blood spurted and teeth broke off, falling to the floor, glistening wetly as they rolled and clicked.

  Don was out of it for a while.

  Sam grabbed up a long neck and smashed the half-full beer bottle into the face of the girl who had initiated the confrontation. The girl screamed as the busted glass ripped her flesh. She fell from her chair, both hands to her bloody face. She lay on the dirty floor, sobbing.

  The cat on the bar hissed and snarled and sprang at Sam. Javotte's .38 roared in the close air of the barroom. A huge hole appeared in the cat's left side as the hollow nosed lead exited. The cat was slung to the far side of the room, dead.

  The barroom was suddenly very quiet. Those who had chosen the pitted path of the Prince of Darkness sat in shocked silence. Everyone had said this was going to be easy.

  Somebody lied.

  Don's crying and moaning and the girl's sobbing and blubbering was the only sound.