Wolfsbane (17 page)

But nothing approached him that night. No creatures, no beasts, nothing he could not readily identify by its bark, its call, its chirp, or its snort.

Pat walked the grounds until the first tints of pink began to color the east. He was standing by the huge wrought-iron gates that opened onto the road when Sheriff Vallot drove past, spotted him, and backed up his cruiser.

He parked his patrol car by the side of the road and walked up to Pat, his gaze sweeping over the riot gun. “I really doubt the legality of that weapon,” he said.

“Going to arrest me?” Pat smiled.

Edan sighed. “You know better. How long have you been out here?”

“All night. Patrolling the grounds.”

“You saw nothing? Heard nothing?”

“No boogeymen, Sheriff. No hairy monster. No vampires with dripping fangs. No howling creatures in the night, coming for my blood.”

“How do I convince you, Pat? How do I punch through all that cynicism you've got wrapped around you? Tell me, how do you account for the fact none of the bodies had a drop of blood left in them?”

“I don't,” Pat replied honestly. “Some sort of phenomenon, I would imagine. Just like what Madame Bauterre does with the dog trick. And get your mind out of the gutter.”

“My mind wasn't in the gutter. What dog trick?”

“The little black dog bit. You saw it the other night.”

Edan said nothing.

“You really believe that old woman changes into a dog, Edan?”

“Pat, I don't know what to believe. But I'll tell you this: I just spent several hours reading a book Doctor Lormand gave me. A book about a disease called lycanthropy. Frankly, it scared the hell out of me.”

“The people who suffer from this . . . whatever you called it—do they rise from the grave? Are they vampires? Are they pawns of the devil?”

“No,” the sheriff replied wearily. “None of that. Pat? Can I depend on you to help me in this . . . matter?”

“Sure, Edan. Hell! I'll help you hunt your bugger-boos. Right now, though, I think I'll get in some sacktime. 'Way you look, maybe you ought to do the same?”

“I don't have time. See you 'bout six o'clock?”

“I'll be here, listening for the sounds of the night creatures.”

“If you weren't such a smart-ass, Strange, you'd be a pretty nice guy!”

“I tried being a nice guy. All it got me was drunk.” Pat turned, walking back to the house.

“Someday we'll have to sit down over a couple of beers and you can explain that,” Edan called. “Like most of what you say, that had a ring of sarcasm to it.”

“Make it coffee. I'm off the booze.”

 

Phillip Duchesne was known throughout Ducros Parish as
sans souci.
Happy-go-lucky. Always had a smile for everyone. Never said a bad word about anybody. Of course, the fact that he was drunk most of the time might have had something to do with his jovial mood. But even when he was sober, which was rare, twice a year, as a matter of fact, Phillip was a nice fellow. Really, Phillip had spent only 57 sober days out of the last twenty-eight years, the odd number being when he got married, that blessed event being the main reason for his staying swacked 363 days out of each year. The exception being Leap Year.

Phillip drew $158.37 a month from the government, for being shot in the ass during the Korean War. The bullet rummaged around his buttocks, both of them, glanced off his hipbone, the right one, and traveled down his right leg to exit out his big toe, taking part of the toe as the lead departed his body, and leaving him with a slight limp.

What made matters so embarrassing was that he was shot by an American—a dead American.

Phillip was working with Graves Registration, sorting out canvas-covered bodies, behind the lines, when a frozen corpse thawed. Unfortunately, the corpse was holding a .45 caliber automatic pistol in its rigid hand, on full cock. When the body handler dropped the canvas-covered body off the truck, the finger pulled the trigger, the gun went off, and Phillip was knocked into a half-filled latrine.

Phillip received a Purple Heart, a discharge, and a small disability for the rest of his life, the discharge being the most valued of the three, as anyone who has ever served in Korea—in war or peace—would readily agree. The disability was, as Phillip put it, “shit.” But he also owned several working oil wells and that's what kept him going. And drunk.

But Phillip was only moments from sobriety. And a week from joining AA. One day from becoming the most sincere member of his church. And about five minutes away from getting the shit scared out of him. Literally.

On this, the evening after Pat's fruitless all-night vigil on the grounds of Amour, Phillip was leaving his favorite bar about the same time Pat was making another round with Sheriff Vallot. Phillip decided to cut across the Eternal Rest Cemetery (perpetual care) on his way home. He often went this way, for the graveyard was on the edge of town, not too far from Phillip's house, and besides, Phillip liked to speak to old friends on the way back to his house. And his wife. Phillip really didn't like his wife, but he figured he was stuck with her. Thinking of his wife made him depressed, so Phillip reached into his back pocket and took out what remained of a half pint of Old Charter. He drained the bottle, set it on the tombstone of a man he disliked most intensely urinated on the grave, then walked on.

Phillip was happy now, his snoot refilled. He walked through the graveyard, singing “Jole Blon,” pausing every now and then to speak to the headstone or crypt of some poor departed soul he had known in better days. Better days for the fellow in the ground, that is.

“How you is dis fine evenin', Theriot?” Phillip spoke to the shining headstone. “Ah! 'At's good. And you, Sistrunk, how you is dis balmy evenin'?”

Phillip talked to a few more friends—departed—walked on, sang a few bars of “Alligator Man,” stopped and did the Cajun two-step . . . and then he heard a moaning. Phillip stopped in the middle of the graveyard and listened.

Yeah, definitely a moaning.

“Cooo!” he said. “I believe somebody's done buried you 'fore you was ready. Don blame you: I be moanin', too.” He looked around, spotting a huge mound of earth that he did not remember being there the last time he took this shortcut . . . which was the previous evening.

Phillip decided to take a look. He walked (staggered) toward the mound of earth, stopping as he heard a snarling sound. It was muffled, as if it came from the grave itself.

“Now, jes a minute,” Phillip spoke to the snarling. “Don get mad wit me. I din have nuttin to do wit your being in the ground. Wasn't ma fault. But,” his face brightened far past its usual state of beet red, “I hep get you
out!
”

He staggered on, stopping at the mound of fresh dirt. The dirt was scattered all about. “Messy damn gravediggers,” he said. A foul odor sprang from the open pit. Phillip drew back, his nose wrinkling. “Cooo, boy! You rank. You need to wash your ass!”

A moaning cry drifted from the hole, almost a cry for help, so it seemed to Phillip. It sounded, to his alcohol-soaked brain, like the man was saying, “Cold. Cold.”

“Shore, you be cold, boy. Hell! You done kick all the dirt off you.”

Then, as a few sober gray cells struggled out of the brine in his brain, Phillip squatted back on his heels and pondered what he had just uttered.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Dirt off, eh? If dirt off, 'at means dirt musta been on 'fore it was off—is 'at rat?”

Phillip clawed his way up the mound of damp earth and peered over the top, his glasses sitting firmly on the end of his nose. He came face to face with the most God-awful sight he had ever witnessed in his entire life. Drunk or sober.

A hairy face was staring back at him, eyes red-rimmed and animal-like. The mouth was huge, with fangs bared, drool leaking from both corners of the aperture. One large hairy hand came out of the hole to land squarely on Phillip's shoulder.

Mr. Phillip Duchesne, now well on his way to total sobriety and having just deposited a load in his pants, summed up his predicament with one simple sentence: “Oh, shit!”

Then Phillip screamed louder than on the night he had physically discovered the difference between boys and girls. He screamed so loud the creature jumped, lost its footing, and fell backward into the hole.

That was all the time Phillip needed.

He was off and running, war wound forgotten, no sign of any limp whatsoever. Had a VA officer seen this display of tombstone dodging and leaping, Phillip would have lost all his disability money.

“Haallpp!” Phillip hollered into the night, his voice bouncing off the silent stones. “Whoooo!”

Sheriff Vallot, with Pat riding shotgun, picked that time to cruise past the cemetery. “Did you hear something, Pat?”

“Somebody hollering, I think.” Pat rolled down his window.

“Whoooo! Haallpp!”

“In the graveyard!” Edan spun the wheel and roared past the gates of Eternal Rest (perpetual care) cemetery, the car lights on high beam.

Phillip looked behind him; the thing seemed to be gaining on him, loping effortlessly across the ground. “Leave me be, you ugly son-of-a-bitch!” Phillip yelled. “Whooo!”

The roo-garou snarled its reply, holding out its hairy arms, as if beckoning Phillip to stop his running away and come to him.

“'At'll be the day!” Phillip yelled, then cut in his afterburners, the soles of his shoes kicking up pebbles as he ran toward the lights of a fast-approaching car roaring down the cemetery road. Phillip jumped on the hood, managed to stay on the slick metal, and grabbed a spotlight in each hand. “Whooo!” he hollered, his face pressed grotesquely against the glass.

“Phillip!” Edan yelled. “Get off—I can't see.”

“Your ass!” Phillip yelled. “Whooo, I ain't fixin' to get offl”

“Hard left!” Pat shouted above Phillip's hollering. “Then stop.”

Edan spun the wheel and jammed on the brakes. Phillip went over the top of the prowl car and slid onto the trunk, grabbing onto the twin antennas mounted on the rear fenders.

The high beams caught the creature in harsh light, momentarily blinding, confusing, and seeming to paralyze the beast.

“Mother of Godl” Edan crossed himself. “Look at the size of that thing.”

“You look at it,” Pat said. “'Cause I'm going to see if I can kill it.” He jumped from the car, jacking a round into the riot gun. He stepped into the glare of lights, centered the beast with the shotgun, and began firing. He emptied the 12 gauge, rocking the night with heavy booming.

Pat began at the beast's belly; by the time he had finished, the shotgun had climbed up to the head, the slugs tearing away part of the creature's face.

After the roaring of the shotgun, the night was abnormally quiet. The beast was still, its blood splattering the marble around the scene of the carnage.

Pat walked back to the car and helped Edan pry Phillip loose from the trunk and get him into the car. The man was numb from shock and seemed unable to speak.

“You better take him home,” Pat said, pointing to Phillip. “Then go get Doctor Lormand. I imagine he'll want to examine what's left of that creature.”

“You'll stay here?” Edan almost shouted the words. “By yourself?”

“The thing is dead. Go on. Get Phillip out of here. He smells.”

“You're either the bravest man I've ever met, or else you're a damned fool.”

“Probably a combination of both. Go on. Just leave me your flashlight.”

He watched the taillights vanish into the soft night.

Sheriff Vallot had commented that he doubted Phillip would say anything about this night; he probably could not remember it. Or would not remember it.

Pat shone the narrow beam of light from the flashlight onto the body of the beast. The carcass seemed smaller in death, as most things do.

“Ugly son-of-a-bitch,” Pat remarked.

“Happy now, Strange?” The voice seemed to drift out of the night. Madame Bauterre's voice.

Pat did not look around; something told him there would be nothing there.

“Not particularly,” he said, feeling the low that always follows the nervous high of combat. “But I did satisfy my mind.”

“Oh?”

“Your . . . friends can be stopped.”

“So you are now a believer?”

“Not entirely,” The words popped from his mouth. “But I can see the ugly thing with my own eyes.”

“You puzzle me, Strange. I will admit that. I have seen mortals through the ages—three centuries of watching people, witnessing their behavior—yet you are not afraid. There was one in France, two hundred years ago, just like you. His name was Duralde. A relative, perhaps?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Pity. Had you been it would have made a much more interesting game.”

“Game?”

“My . . . family succeeded in terrorizing him to the point of insanity. We finally broke him, Strange. Just as I shall break you.”

“Don't count on it, lady.”

Her laugh was evil.

“Don't you want to know how I can do all these things, Strange? Appear and disappear? Work my magic? Explain how I have lived for centuries? Talk to you without form or shape? Aren't you a bit curious?”

“Would I understand it if you told me?”

“Ah! The mark of an intelligent man. Your physical appearance belies your mind, Strange.”

“I'm just an ex-soldier, lady. Hard-headed. Just plow ahead and damn the consequences.”