“They hanged one of the cult members?”
“No, people say it was one of the men who came down from Abbeville. The townspeople caught him and hanged him in a tree. But that’s just a rumor, like I said.” He paused. “I shouldn’t have told you that. Don’t go around town saying Catfish said something about a lynching. I got enough problems already.”
“Don’t worry; I’ll keep quiet. So, the vigilantes didn’t murder anybody that night?”
“Boy, you sure ask a lot of questions. Why don’t you read some more of them old articles instead of prying everything out of me? You’re gonna get me in trouble.”
“What are you talking about? How could you get in trouble for something that happened ages ago? So you told me about a lynching in 1880. That was a bad thing, but it’s old news.”
He fidgeted in his seat, took the last beer without offering it to Landry, and downed it in one long series of swallows. “Old news to you, but it still matters, trust me. You gotta promise you won’t tell anybody what I said, okay?”
Why is he so nervous? “Okay. I just don’t get it.”
“You know how stories start out, then they get changed and people add stuff, and they get bigger and bigger and scarier and scarier? No way to know now what’s truth and what isn’t. Some say even worse things than a lynching happened that night.” He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs. “Why the hell did I say that? We started out talkin’ about Billy Whistler and that’s what we’re gonna talk about.”
“Hang on a second. What do people say happened that night?”
He pondered the empty beer bottle in his hand, and Landry knew the thing he wanted more than anything right now was another one.
“I shouldn’t have told you any of that. Asher’s gone. The cult could have burned it themselves, for all anybody knows. There’s no proof that vigilantes went down there, or someone got killed, or hanged in a tree, or anything else. So I should keep my mouth shut like I was told.”
Landry looked him in the eyes. “Like you were told? By whom? Who’s keeping the secrets?”
Beginning to sweat, he picked up a dirty rag and wiped his brow. “Quit pushing, mister! ’Tween your million questions and the beer, I’m gettin’ frazzled. Let it go. If you want to hear about Billy, I’ll tell you. If you don’t, we can just sit here ’til we get back to my dock. It ain’t far anyways.”
“I don’t mean to pry. The story’s fascinating and it just left me with a lot of questions. But I do want to hear about Billy Whistler.”
“Okay. Nothin’ wrong with telling you about him. Keep in mind it’s just a story, somethin’ people made up to scare little kids. No truth to it.”
This guy’s trying hard to convince me these stories aren’t true.
He explained that Billy Whistler had been depicted in many ways over the years. Sometimes he was an apelike creature, or a werewolf, or a ghoul who roamed the earth killing humans. He might have been around before 1880, but the sightings and the fanciful stories about him heated up afterwards. Catfish figured the Sons of Jehovah used an existing legend to make people afraid of them. They incorporated the horrible things the deformed monster did into their own stories. If outsiders thought the cult had power over Billy Whistler, they’d stay away from them.
Landry pushed a little harder. “Have you heard about girls from Abbeville disappearing over the years? I heard they found three. Some people say Billy Whistler did that.”
The guide pulled the boat up to his dock. “Okay, mister. What’s this all about? What were you doing down at Asher? You’ve been nosin’ around town, haven’t you? You was full of questions with me, but you know a lot more. I ain’t talkin’ about no girls, and I ain’t talkin’ any more about anything else. It’s been a pleasure workin’ with you, and I’m happy to take you again if you ever need me to. For now, let’s call it a day.”
Landry returned to the hotel, where he found Darlene and the Texas guests having a glass of wine in the parlor. He unpacked and joined them. She had revealed who their fellow lodger was, and over the next hour they peppered him with questions about his work and his shows. At last he begged off, saying he was meeting someone for dinner.
The dinner meeting was a white lie, but he was tired and ready for some good food and a beer or two. He drove to Cajun Claws and looked for Catfish, but the guide wasn’t there. It was for the best; he had pushed the man hard, maybe too hard. The bar was noisy and packed solid, and he didn’t want the conversation tonight anyway. He wanted time alone to process everything.
Caldwell House’s dining room was abuzz with conversation when he came downstairs the next morning. The couple across the hall from Landry had awakened several times to the sound of bumps and scratches, but after his long day, Landry had slept straight through.
He helped himself to scrambled eggs, bacon, and French toast as Darlene told her new guests the same fascinating stories about the old house’s history. At eight thirty he returned to New Orleans, his mind overflowing with questions about Catfish’s tales and the belligerent attitudes of the sheriff and the undertaker.
CHAPTER TEN
A guard stepped out of a gatehouse and checked the sheriff’s name off on a sheet on his clipboard. “Welcome to Baton Rouge. You’re the first to arrive,” he said as the massive iron gates swung open. “I think you know the way by now.”
The sheriff drove along a paved driveway and around a corner, where a second guard directed him to a portico with massive Greek columns. Conreco had made this trip three times in the past twenty years. Every fourth time the Conclave met, this man hosted the group, and the ostentation always pissed Junior off.
A man in a dark suit opened his car door, welcomed him, took his keys, and drove away. Who the hell has people park their cars for them? It reminded him of the valet at Ruth’s Chris in Lafayette, but that was a restaurant, not a man’s home.
I don’t care who he is, all this is too pompous for me. If I lived here, I wouldn’t have all these lackeys running around. But deep inside he knew that was a lie. If he had money and power, he’d do it the same way. He’d want everyone to see that he could afford it and how important he was.
You never had to knock on the massive door; a man inside opened it just as you walked up. Of course he did. We wouldn’t want people to have to ring a doorbell, would we? A butler escorted the sheriff to the back of the house and out onto the patio. It was a beautiful evening and the setting sun cast long shadows on dozens of beautifully manicured shrubs and trees.
I want this. It always happened, this sense of jealousy when he visited the homes of wealthy, powerful people. It would never be more than a dream. A lack of education, family connections and money stymied him. He could do nothing about it, but still it ate at him until he forced the thoughts away.
A waiter took his order for a Black Jack and Coke, and Junior sat by himself until the others arrived and their host joined them.
Once everyone had been served, the waiter left them. Now four men sat around a table, each of them between fifty and seventy years of age and from vastly different backgrounds. The sheriff knew them all. Two lived in his parish — the chairman, a timber magnate named Joel Morin, and David Hebert, a funeral director. He saw them now and then around town, but they weren’t friends.
The fourth was Waymon Ferrara, in whose home they were meeting. Junior saw his face frequently on TV, but the only time they met face-to-face was at these meetings. The others wouldn’t have given him the time of day if they weren’t forced to. They came together for Conclave meetings and then they went their own ways. Rich, successful men didn’t mingle socially with a sheriff.
The job of host was rotated, and every fourth time it was Junior’s turn. He never invited them to his modest house because he was ashamed. Instead he rented the back room of the Elks Lodge in Abbeville. They all came and nobody said anything, but he believed they secretly mocked him for being poor.
These four men could not have been more dissimilar except
for the one commonality that bound their lives together.
The secrets of the past.
As was the custom, a fifth chair sat at the foot of the table, honoring a comrade who died long ago. An empty chair, an unspoken reason, and before the meeting began, a toast to Auguste Dauphin, a brave, loyal soldier who gave his life for the cause. They stood and raised their glasses in a moment of silent tribute.
Joel Morin, their self-appointed chairman, called the group to order and said David Hebert had requested the meeting. He yielded the floor to the funeral director and took a seat as Hebert stood to address the group.
“I asked Joel to bring us together to discuss the sensationalist television personality Landry Drake.” Hebert spent a few minutes on the background of the person his fans had nicknamed the “ghost hunter” and his television series called the Bayou Hauntings.
Waymon Ferrara couldn’t believe his ears. “You brought us together to talk about a ghost hunter? I don’t know about Joel, but my time’s more valuable than that.”
As soon as he heard Landry’s name, Junior understood why they were here. He’d ordered Landry to leave town, but he wouldn’t mention that right now. They might praise him for that move, or not. Better to see how things go. Sometimes the meetings turned nasty, and he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of a load of shit.
The undertaker assured their host that the meeting was necessary. “Landry Drake came to my funeral home the day before yesterday. I was at my Kiwanis Club meeting, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he timed his visit for when I might be out to lunch. He met with one of my young men, and I returned in time to put a stop to things. My associate promises me he gave the reporter nothing.”
Morin tapped his fingers on the table. “Get to the point. Why did Drake come?”
“He wanted information about the seven Sons of Jehovah who died in Asher that night. He claimed one was a relative, even though he didn’t have a name. That should have been clue enough, but in fairness, my young novice is new at this. He didn’t know Landry Drake. Luckily I returned and took care of the matter.”
Like their host, the chairman was irritated that Hebert had convened the Conclave over this. “And? And then what, David? Is there a point to all this?”
Intimidated, Hebert stumbled on his words and his hands began to shake. Junior kept his own hands folded in his lap, thankful he wasn’t in the hot seat. He relished David getting his comeuppance. Maybe he wouldn’t be so high and mighty now.
“Well, uh, that was it. I thought it important that we discuss this in person —”
Morin slammed his fist on the table. “How did you leave things with Mr. Drake, David? That’s my question.”
“Yes, sir, I apologize. I’m getting there. I gave the fellow a stern warning to stay away from Asher. I said it’s an evil place. I told him the buildings were gone, but that’s not the whole story. After the horrific picture I painted, I imagine he turned tail and drove back to New Orleans as fast as he could.”
The chairman stared at him in disbelief. Dear God, can the man really be this stupid? Two of our members are idiots. The sheriff doesn’t have enough sense to know up from down, but at least he keeps his mouth shut most of the time. Hebert’s another thing entirely; he’s so pompous he’s about to explode, and he hasn’t the intelligence of an ass. But we four are linked by fate, and it is my unfortunate responsibility to shepherd the flock.
“Sit down, David,” he said calmly. He took a long drink and paused to gather his thoughts while the others waited in silence for Joel to castigate the undertaker. At last he stood, tented his fingers in front of him, and cleared his throat. He was a formidable man, accustomed to deference and a sense of reverence from other people because of his family’s vast wealth and power. David shrank into his chair as Morin began to speak.
“On the surface you appear to be a capable man, a businessman who is a pillar of the community and a person to whom others look for guidance and advice. But in reality you inherited a respectable, profitable operation that any imbecile off the street could run, because your business requires nothing but dead bodies to be a success. You’re neither a businessman nor an entrepreneur. You’re a fourth-generation undertaker of average intelligence who had a gold mine dropped in his lap by your father. And him by his, I might add.”
Keeping his eyes focused straight ahead, the sheriff forced himself not to smile.
Morin continued his tirade. “Your naivety never ceases to astound me. It seems at every Conclave you manage to prove yet again how little you know about dealing with people. Landry Drake’s work is about searching for eerie supernatural things in the bayou parishes. You gave this man — who is an investigative reporter from a New Orleans television station — a stern warning to stay away from Asher. You told him it was an evil place, that there was more to the story than people knew, and in your own words, you painted a horrific picture.” The chairman sighed. “Mr. Hebert, I must disagree with your assessment of Landry Drake’s departure. After the tantalizing scenario you painted, I imagine going back to New Orleans was the furthest thing from his mind. You whetted the appetite of a hungry man. You tossed gasoline on a burning ember. You single-handedly stirred the passion in Landry Drake’s soul. If he didn’t go straight to Asher after your revelation, he’s not much of an investigator. Can you possibly comprehend what I’m saying?”
Beads of sweat formed on Junior’s brow. Damn, I’m glad I kept quiet. He’d have crucified me too.
David cried, “That’s not fair!”
“Shut up, you fool! You’ve done enough. Thank God you got one thing right. We did need to meet, because we have to control the damage you’ve done.
Morin turned to their host. “Waymon, I may need help later to diffuse this situation. For now, Sheriff, I want to know if Landry Drake visited Asher. If he did, go there yourself and find out what he was looking for. Get on this first thing in the morning and give me a report by the end of the day.”
Junior raised his hand. “Sir, with all respect, how can I find out if he went there?”
The chairman barely maintained his composure. The stupidity of people was almost more than he could tolerate. He exhaled and spoke as if explaining the ABCs to a child. “Unless one walks through the bayou for miles, there’s only one way to get to Asher, and that’s by boat. How about checking with people along the river to learn if he rented a boat? That seems logical. I’m no sheriff, and it’s obvious you don’t process things as quickly as other people, but I’ve given you a good place to start. If you need any more guidance on how to do your job, you have my number.”
Junior nodded and looked down again, wishing to God the Conclave wasn’t part of his life. He hated these condescending asses and everything they stood for. He felt less of a man around them, and he hated that even more.
Joel Morin declared the meeting adjourned, and Ferrara asked whose turn it was to host next time.
“Mine,” Morin said. “Next time we’ll meet at my cottage on Vermilion Bay.”
“Who knows how long that will be?” someone asked. “Our last meeting was two years ago.”
“Mark my words, we will see each other soon, because our friend David here has ensured that we haven’t heard the last of Landry Drake.”
Waymon Ferrara, their host, stood at the door and bid each of them goodbye.
Joel shook Waymon’s hand and said, “Good night, Governor. It’s always good to see you, and thanks for hosting the Conclave. Frankly, David and Junior drive me insane.”
Governor Ferrara slapped his friend’s back and agreed. He walked Joel out, and they chatted with one of the governor’s security staff until Morin’s driver brought the car around.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sheriff Conreco turned on his light bar for the trip back to Abbeville and pushed the speed up to eighty. Tired from the ordeal, he wanted to get home.
The last thing he wanted was to go to Asher, and it was wrong to ask another Conclave member to do this. He
could run into something that would compromise everything they stood for. He could send a deputy instead of putting himself at risk.
Joel Morin despised him. Junior felt it every time he opened his mouth. He’d get a roll of the eyes, a sneer and a condescending answer just like tonight. At least he wasn’t the only one. David Hebert got his dressing-down too. Damn if the old man didn’t castrate him right in front of everyone, and Junior had enjoyed every minute. Hebert had money, but nothing like Joel and Waymon had. Still, he acted uppity to everybody, and he got his tonight. Junior wished the chairman would get his too, but the super-rich never seemed to get what was coming to them.
Tomorrow he’d talk to the guides on the river. Landry Drake was a familiar figure; if he rented a boat, people would know. Junior hoped he hadn’t. Maybe he had gone back to New Orleans like David told him to. It would make things a lot simpler, but it wouldn’t be that easy. Landry was like a dog on a hunt; the undertaker put him on the scent and he was off and running.
It didn’t take long to learn that the reporter actually did go to Asher. He might have known Catfish Guidry would be the one who took him. The sheriff knew Catfish, like everyone else in town. He’d been in the drunk tank more times than Junior could recall. How he made a living was anybody’s guess, but he seemed fine with his situation. He lived in a back room of the shack that doubled as his office, and he had an old boat. Junior bet he was also debt-free. It didn’t take many charters to buy longnecks by the case, probably his largest expense.
At first Catfish didn’t know who the sheriff was asking about. He hadn’t recognized Landry, but when Junior described him as a reporter from New Orleans, Catfish nodded.
Once Catfish confirmed he’d taken the reporter, it was easy to get his tongue loosened up. It didn’t take much — one “get out of jail free” card did the trick. He had a pass the next time he ended up drunk and disorderly, and there would be a next time. There always was for guys like Catfish.
Billy Whistler Page 6