Abominations of Desire

by Vince Liaguno

  “It's all right,” whispered the porter, “I don't need to know. Come and help me clean up, and then we'll find a place for you.”

  He put a hand on Martin's shoulder.

  “You're hardly a guest. Not any longer.”

  9

  The club car began to fill up in the middle afternoon. Two young women who looked nearly enough alike to be twins had been idling there since the noon-hour, sipping at whiskey sodas. Then others came in: the Italians, soon joined by the gentleman the porter identified as Mr. Rakes, and his entourage, and the Texan, who sat by himself smoking an antique ceramic pipe and making the rear-ward portion of the car all but uninhabitable. Finally, the man of the hour arrived.

  Gone were the camouflage trousers. In their place, silk pajamas and a robe, colored with a fabric that shone like burnished gold. His long hair had been combed and washed and pulled back in a ponytail. His beard was freshly-waxed and shone in the afternoon light.

  The porter led the room in light applause. The two women, well into their cups, let out war-whoops before realizing it was too much, and the gentleman took his seat at the bar.

  “Good to see y'all,” he said, smiling, and the porter put a hand on Martin's shoulder.

  Martin drew the satchel from where it sat in the refrigerator behind the bar, and handed it over.

  “Thank you son,” said the gentleman, as he undid the leather laces that held it shut, and took hold of the first trophy he'd brought to show, by one tiny finger.

  “Let me tell y' how it went,” he said.

  There was another round of applause, and Martin joined perfunctorily, but his attention was just then drawn elsewhere—out the window, where at the edge of vision, squatted the darkened towers of a great city, still and bright and empty in the hot afternoon sun.

  Rougarou

  Greg Herren

  The old woman was babbling excitedly, her toothless gums moving up and down as she gesticulated wildly with her arms. Spittle flew from her wrinkled lips, wisps of her thin gray hair floating around her head as it moved back and forth and side to side. Old is an understatement, Special Agent Tom Washburn thought, unable to understand a word she was saying. She looked ancient, like one of those unwrapped Egyptian mummies on that show he watched last night.

  It was a struggle to keep his revulsion from showing on his face.

  Despite the oppressive heat, she had a white shawl wrapped around her bony shoulders as she rocked in her worn, wooden rocking chair. Her feet were bare and dirty, her toenails long and yellowed. Blue veins spider-webbed over the tops of her feet, making them look like complicated road maps. She was wearing a shapeless white cotton dress with yellow stains in the armpits. The brown, wrinkled flesh hung from her bony arms. Her fingernails were long, grown out so far they’d started curving back in on themselves. They were painted a bright red, contrasting with the brown skin and the dark liver spots on her hands. Her face was more wrinkled than he’d thought it possible for any human to be—her entire face seemed to be nothing more than folds of hanging, sun-browned skin. An enormous mole on her pointed chin had a few white hairs sprouting out of it. Her eyes were a startling blue, but seemed filmy and unfocused. A wooden cane with a brass alligator head leaned against her rocking chair, and on the table next to her a glass ashtray was overflowing with gray ash and cigarette butts.

  She’s like something out of a really bad nightmare, he thought.

  Tom couldn’t understand a word she was saying—she might as well have been speaking a foreign language as far as he was concerned. Every once in a while he caught an identifiable English word in her sing-song Cajun dialect that almost sounded like chanting. He closed his eyes and wished again he was anywhere but this rotting houseboat on the edge of a swamp. This is, he thought angrily, without a doubt the stupidest call I’ve ever gone out on. If I’d known how this day was going to turn out I’d have called in sick this morning.

  He wiped sweat from his forehead with his already damp sleeve. It was stiflingly hot in the houseboat, which stank of collard greens, stale sweat and cigarette smoke. The ceiling fan was turning but all it seemed to do was push the heavy damp air around. The living room—if you could call the tiny space that—was crammed full of strange objects arranged with no apparent rhyme or reason. He picked up a snow globe with the Empire State Building inside and shook it. He set it back down where it had been—next to a shellacked baby alligator head, some polished sea shells, a small rusting Matchbox car, and what appeared to be a copper head of John F. Kennedy. There was a thin coat of dust on everything. Cobwebs danced from the ceiling. He slapped at a mosquito and stepped closer to one of the windows, hoping for a breeze. He glanced back over at his partner.

  Rafe Fontenot was from this part of Louisiana, born and raised in this little podunk town. Sitting on a footstool, he was giving the old woman his full attention. He occasionally responded to her gibberish with nonsensical sounds of his own. His gaze never left the old woman’s face, not even to look down at his notepad. There were beads of sweat along his hairline and circles of damp at his armpits. He was good-looking, with that olive skin, thick bluish-black hair, and bright blue eyes peculiar to the descendants of the French who’d been thrown out of Acadia centuries earlier. His broad shoulders strained the white button-down shirt he was wearing, and there was a big wet spot on it between his shoulder blades. He wasn’t wearing a T-shirt underneath. He’d rolled up his sleeves all the way up to his thick biceps, exposing the damp hairs on his muscular forearms. As he leaned forward, Tom could see Rafe had tucked his shirt into the waistband of his white Hanes underwear.

  He’s really sexy, Tom thought, looking at the curve of Rafe’s hard ass, I wonder if he’s gay? He shook his head regretfully. Even if he is, you don’t shit where you eat.

  Rafe was maybe five or six years younger than Tom—still eager, still devoted to the job, still thinking he might have a career-path of raises and promotions ahead of him. He hadn’t made a mistake yet, the kind of mistake that killed one’s future, the kind that convinced the higher-ups to move your file from “up-and-comer’ to the ‘dead-career-going-nowhere-slowly’ pile.

  An alligator silently swam by in the murky water of the bayou, and Tom watched its unblinking yellow eyes through the rusty screen. Something rustled in the long marsh grass on the other side of the water. Probably a snake, he thought bitterly. Hurry the fuck up, Rafe, so we can get the hell off this fucking boat.

  He turned back around, leaning against the wall, looking around again with distaste. Why would anyone want to live on a boat? he wondered. The bayou stank, for one thing. Rotting fish was the strongest smell, with mold and mildew mixed in for good measure. Unable to stand it anymore, he walked over to the warped screen door leading out to the back porch of the floating house and pushed it open. He stepped out onto the covered porch. The air was just as thick on the outside as it was on the inside, but he didn’t feel quite as claustrophobic out there. He rubbed his eyes, wishing for the thousandth time he hadn’t quit smoking. He could hear them still talking as he looked out over the stagnant water of the bayou. The alligator was just drifting now, not moving, his unblinking yellow eye fixed on the side of the houseboat.

  Are you the gator that killed a man? Tom gave it a sour smile. Are you why we’re here, wasting our time with this crazy old bitch?

  He was starting to get a massive headache behind his right eye.

  I can’t believe they actually sent us out here to look into this stupidity, he thought, momentarily resisting the urge to put his service revolver to his head and pull the trigger. This was the kind of stupid case that killed careers in the bureau and made the investigating agents laughing-stocks. His career was already on life-support, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to pull the plug and get the hell out. There was a part of him still holding out hope that something would happen to change his Washington superiors’ minds about him, something that would bring his career back out of the coma it had slipped into si
nce the big fuck-up three years ago.

  And being sent out here to swamp country to look into—he couldn’t even bring himself to say it, even to himself. This is even more evidence no one takes you seriously, he thought, gripping the wooden railing until his knuckles turned white.

  If you had half a brain, you’d turn in your resignation when you get back to the city.

  The assignment to the New Orleans office was as close to a death sentence as a career could get without being terminated. New Orleans was a backwater, where pretty much every investigation was into local corruption—the police department, City Hall, the state legislature, the Governor’s mansion, the levee boards, the school board—pretty much anyone in Louisiana who drew a paycheck from the state was probably corrupt. Finding corruption in Louisiana was about as hard as breathing—it was so ingrained in the culture that most of the time they couldn’t even be bothered to cover their tracks.

  Sending him to the Louisiana field office was his superiors’ passive-aggressive way of saying, “Sorry, Tom, you had potential and we thought you’d go far—but we’re sending you down there where you can’t fuck up any more big operations, where you can’t do the Bureau any harm. If you keep your head down and your ducks in a row, we just might give you another chance in about five years or so. Maybe. But don’t hold your breath, okay?”

  The sun was sinking in the western sky. He sighed. It was at least a three-hour drive back to New Orleans, and the way things were going it looked like they were going to have to spend the night out here in the middle of nowhere. He closed his eyes. The pain behind his right eye was going from a dull ache to a pulsing throb. His stomach growled—he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and that had just been a couple of doughnuts he’d picked up at a gas station on his way into the office. He’d been sitting in his cubicle, trying to trace some suspected credit card fraud back to the primary suspect when he’d gotten called in by his superior, paired up with Rafe Fontenot, and sent out into the middle of fucking nowhere on a stupid dead-end case that was just going to bury his career even deeper.

  The sheriff of the little town of Bayou Shadows, Dante Lincoln, had requested the Bureau’s help on an unusual murder case. Murders weren’t completely uncommon in the little town on the edge of a swamp out of the middle of nowhere—but the murders Sheriff Lincoln was used to handling usually happened on the spur of the moment and involved too much alcohol, raw tempers, and firearms.

  Finding a torso with no limbs or head floating in the bayou in the center of town was just not the kind of thing Sheriff Lincoln was comfortable handling on his own. A tall rangy black man in his mid-forties, Tom’s first thought when he saw him was how the hell did a black man get elected sheriff out here in Klan country?

  But as the sheriff talked to them, Tom began to understand. He was competent and smart. “Ordinarily, I’d rule this as the work of a gator,” he said, leaning across his desk. “But it just doesn’t feel right to me. Arms, legs and head gone?” He shook his head. “Doesn’t sit right.”

  “You don’t seriously think this was a—what did you call it? A rougarou?” Tom replied, glancing at Rafe out of the corners of his eyes.

  Sheriff Lincoln leaned back in his chair. “You go on out and talk to Maman Couchon,” he replied. “And then tell me what you think.”

  “He’s a good man.” Rafe remarked as they got back into the car. “He’s gotten elected sheriff a couple of times, and everyone respects him—and it wasn’t easy for him to earn people’s respect, if you know what I mean.”

  “He doesn’t really believe this old woman’s story.” Tom replied, watching the little town pass by his car window. It really wasn’t much more than a one-horse town. Bayou Shadows wasn’t even mentioned on the exit sign on the off-ramp they’d taken from I-10 West. The courthouse was on one corner of the only intersection with a traffic light—and it hung from wires over the center of the intersection, blinking red in all four directions. Another corner was a combination grocery store and gas station with rusty old-fashioned pumps and a big old Coke machine next to the screen door. The post office sat on another corner, and the other corner was a park. The bayou ran alongside the road. “Must have been quite a shock this morning.”

  “People respect Dante because he treats everyone with respect,” Rafe had replied a little sharply. “He wouldn’t last long around here if he didn’t. And Maman Couchon—if he disrespected her, he might as well just pack his bags and get out of town.”

  And this old woman is some kind of big deal out here in Bumfuck, he thought angrily. Hurry up, Rafe—I don’t want to spend the night out here in the middle of nowhere.

  He wondered if he should just walk up the road to the little service station/bait shop they’d passed and buy a goddamned pack of cigarettes when he heard Rafe’s footsteps heading toward the door.

  The sinking sun was turning the sky into brilliant shades of violet and blue and orange and red and purple.

  The screen door squeaked as it opened. Rafe stepped out, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. His navy blue suit jacket was draped over his arm. “She’s pretty certain what she saw was a rougarou,” Rafe said, slipping his notepad into his shirt pocket.

  “Thanks, Agent Mulder.” Tom replied, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

  “Just because you don’t believe—“

  Tom cut him off. “You’re telling me you believe there’s a man out there who turns into an alligator when the moon is full, and he ate another man?”

  Rafe flushed. “She believes it.” He gave Tom a sidelong glance. “Just because you don’t believe doesn’t make it impossible, you know.”

  “We go back to New Orleans and tell people this kind of shit and we’re done with the Bureau,” Tom went on, struggling to keep his temper under control. The pounding behind his eye was getting worse. “You want to be known as Mulder and Scully around the office? Is that what you want, Rafe? You want to get assigned to every crazy dumbass case that comes along? Because that’s what’s going to happen if we don’t figure out what really happened to that man, bub.” He walked over to the gangplank. “And I don’t know about you, coon-ass, but I’m not taking another hit in the fucking career.”

  Tom counted to ten before continuing. He blew out his breath. Rafe wasn’t a bad guy—he was young and eager, determined to get somewhere in the Bureau, smart and ambitious and not afraid of hard work. He was also hot-headed and stubborn—two qualities Tom knew from personal experience the Bureau frowned on. “Rafe,” he said softly, “I know you’re from around here. I get it, really I do. But we need evidence—hard evidence.” He jerked his head back towards the cabin. “She’s an old woman. And her story is—well, it’s not exactly the kind of thing we can just take her word for, you know what I mean? I’m not saying she didn’t see what she says she did—“ although she couldn’t possibly have seen such a thing “—but it sounds crazy.”

  “Just don’t dismiss her story out of hand,” Rafe replied. “I’ve known her my whole life, and people around here got a pretty high opinion of her. They respect her and they listen to her. If Maman Couchon says it was a rougarou—that’s what everyone around here is going to believe.”

  “A rougarou.” Tom closed his eyes. “A man who can turn himself into an alligator…take me now, Lord.”

  Rafe walked down the gangplank to shore, waiting for Tom to cross over and join him. “Not a man who turns into an alligator,” he corrected Tom as they walked back to the car, “a man who can take on some of the features of an alligator. It’s not the same thing.”

  Tom tossed the car keys to Rafe. I might as well just do it now, put my gun to the right temple and pull the fucking trigger. “You drive,” he instructed as he walked to the passenger side of the car. Fortunately, there was a bottle of aspirin in the glove compartment. He chewed two tablets as Rafe started the car and turned it around on the dirt road, heading back into the little town. “So, he takes on the features of a gator,” he said aloud, thinking, I can’t be
lieve I am having this fucking conversation. “Ok. Which ones?”

  Rafe glanced at the him out of the corner of his eye. “People around here believe in rougarous, Tom, and if you’re going to act like they’re all idiots, we aren’t going to get anywhere.” He sighed. “We’re going to have to play along. Can you do that?”

  Tom took another deep breath and leaned his aching head against the car window. “I can’t promise, but I’ll try, okay?”

  Rafe turned right when they reached the paved county road. “The scales—a rougarou has alligator skin. And the head becomes like a gator’s. But they still walk upright on two legs, still have the two arms—just scaly.”

  “I’m trying to picture it.” Tom closed his eyes and tried picturing Rafe as a rougarou. “I can’t.” he said finally. “It’s the stupidest damned thing I’ve ever heard of.”

  “You hungry? Let’s get some food, start asking around.” Rafe swung into the other lane and passed a rusty old pick-up truck. “And maybe you should just let me do all the talking.” He replied. “I know these people—they don’t trust outsiders.”

  “Great, you do that.” Tom replied sourly. The aspirin wasn’t working yet. “Maybe I’ll just stay in the car and take a nap.”

  Rafe turned the car into a Shell parking lot just inside the city limits sign. The building was little more than a shack, weathered wood with a slanted, rusted tin roof. There was a big white locker with ICE $1.99 written on the side in big blue letters to the left of the glass front door. A big neon sign over the tin roof announced CATFISH BAR AND GRILL in glowing red letters. There were several battered old cars in the parking lot, and Rafe turned off the engine. “This is my folks’ place,” he said as he opened his door. “The food’s good, the beer’s cold, and it’s as good a place as any to start.”

  Tom didn’t say anything—he just got out of the car. The smell of grease hanging in the thick damp air made his stomach growl. The oyster shells crunched under his shoes as he crossed the parking lot. Rafe held the door open, and the cool inside was a welcome, refreshing change from the oppressive humidity. There was an old style bubble jukebox in a corner, a long bar with tired-looking stools perched in front of it, and a series of battle-scarred formica tables with cigarette burns set up in rows. The floor was bare cement, with a drain in the center of the room.