Wolfsbane (3 page)

Janette had seen no knife, and doubted if the creature who attacked her had one. She remained silent.

“The knife is standard issue for French Foreign Legionnaires,” Polchet said, his eyes shifting to Louviere. “I believe you spent some time with the FFL, did you not, Louviere? Under an assumed name, of course.”

“All Legionnaires have an assumed name, Polchet,” he replied, neither admitting nor denying his involvement with the FFL, since it is against the law for a French citizen to belong to the FFL. Only the officers are French.

Polchet grunted, then smiled. “Well, in any case, it is over. Your
grand'mère
left the house—the intruder probably had watched for several days and knew this. He found an entrance, hoping to rob the villa. You surprised him by your return. He attacked you, your guards shot him. Several times. I have a statement, so it probably will not be necessary for you to appear in court, Madame Simmons.”

“I was planning to go to the States tomorrow,” Janette said, the words popping out of her mouth.

When did I decide that? she thought.

Polchet shrugged, the thing he did best of all. “I don't see why you should change your plans. Just leave word where you can be reached. I am sorry this happened, Madame. Good night.”

When the door had closed behind the policeman, Janette rose from the couch. “Louviere, you and Beaullieu come with me. We're going to find that passageway and see where it leads.”

“Is that wise, Madame?” Louviere asked. “You've been injured.”

“A bump on the head, a bruise on the shoulder. Nothing serious. Get fresh batteries for your lights and I'll get some candles, just in case. Come on.”

In her
grand'mère's
room, Janette picked up the journals and tucked them under her arm, watching while Louviere broke open the closet door.

“Clever,” he said, inspecting the sliding oak panels in the side of the closet. “Beautifully made, perfectly aligned.” He stuck his head out of the closet. “I will enter first,” he said to Janette. “You will not enter until you hear my call. Understood, Madame?”

She nodded.

A minute skipped by. “Come on,” Louviere called. “But don't be shocked by what you see.”

Janette stepped into the narrow walkway and was immediately seized by a feeling of claustrophobia. She played the beam of her flashlight in front of her and hissed at what she saw.

“My God!” Janette said. “Someone lived in here.”

“Oui,
Madame,” Louviere agreed, adding. “For years, it appears.”

The stench was sickening.

“Not a very hygienic type,” Beaullieu observed, his nose wrinkling at the smell.

“Are you the one who shot the . . . intruder?” Janette glanced at him.

Beaullieu nodded.
“Oui,
Madame.”

“How did he appear to you?”

The guard wore a confused look. “I . . . don't understand, Madame.”

“When you found him, what did he look like?”

“He looked dead, Madame Simmons. Just dead.”

“He fell instantly when he was struck by the bullets?”

“Oh, no, Madame. I see what you mean. No, he ran for perhaps two hundred more yards, then ducked, or fell, into the shrubbery at the rear of the house. It took us perhaps . . . five minutes to find him.”

Louviere's eyes were noncommittal.

“Ah,” Janette said. “I see.” What is it I see? she thought. This is insane. Then her grandmother's words came to her. The old woman had written: “When I feel my days—
in this form
. . .”!

The creature who attacked her had obviously changed forms.

But how?

Louviere had found a light switch in the quarters. The small living area was lined with shelves, the shelves full of books. Piles of newspapers littered the floor.

Janette caught Louviere's eyes; the man was staring at her curiously.

“Something, Louviere?”

“I . . . don't know how to say this without offending you, Madame.”

“Just say it, Louviere; I'm probably thinking the same thought—or have thought it.”

“There is no way that man could have lived in here this long without Madame Bauterre knowing of it.”

“I agree.”

“Then . . . who was he?”

Janette shook her head. “I don't know.”

“Camardelle,” Beaullieu whispered, the whisper rasping in the enclosure.

“Who?” Janette questioned.

“This villa once belonged to the Camardelle family,” Louviere said. “Two centuries ago, at least that long ago.” He shook his head as if rejecting his own thoughts. “Impossible,” he said.

Janette thought of the huge letter “C” embossed on the leather of the diaries. She said nothing about them. But Louviere had seen her pick them up from the floor.

“What about the Camardelle family?” she asked.

“This particular branch of the family was driven out of France,” Louviere said.

“Why?”

“Because . . . the people in the village just to the east of here thought they were . . .
loups-garous.
”

“Werewolves!”

“Oui,
Madame. Madame?”

“Yes?”

“If I may make a suggestion . . .”

“Of course.”

“I would remove these books, the bed, all of this. Leave the cobwebs and the dust. If Polchet should find this passageway—and he might, although I doubt it—he might make an issue of it. But if we remove all this . . . mess, Polchet won't pursue it. I know him; he's lazy. There would be entirely too much paperwork involved. Much simpler for him just to close the case.”

Their eyes met. “You've worked for my
grand'mère
a long time, have you not, Louviere?”

“Oui,
Madame. More than ten years.”

She nodded. “All right, Louviere, you probably know best.” She looked at Beaullieu. “Trace this corridor to its end,” she instructed him. “Remove anything that is recent. Burn it.”

He nodded and left, walking down the corridor, his shoulders brushing both sides.

“Those were to have been my orders to him, Madame,” Louviere said. “You wanted him gone. Something, Madame?”

“You tell me, Louviere. Tell me why
grand'mère's
chief security officer would be on duty on a Saturday, after six o'clock, guarding a supposedly empty house?”

The big ex-Legionnaire smiled knowingly. “Because your
grand'mère
said you would be returning on this day.”

“How could she know that?” Janette questioned. “I didn't know it until yesterday.”

He shrugged. “Your
grand'mère
knows many things that would astonish and confuse—and anger—those with less insight.”

Janette laughed. “Eloquently put, Louviere, and does not tell me a thing. All right, then, tell me this, if you can, or will: what were your instructions from
mygrand'mère?”

“To prevent you—if I could—from following her to Louisiana.”

Janette's smile was grim. “And how did you propose to do that?”

“I . . . cannot say, Madame.”

“Won't!”

“Perhaps that is part of it. Your
grand'mère
pays me well for my position. Silence is part of that responsibility.”

“I can understand that, Louviere. All right: the man who was killed here tonight . . . who was he?”

“That I can be open about. I do not know. I was not aware he lived here. I have only been in these quarters twice before in my life.”

“But you believe my
grand'mère
knew of his . . . its. . . existence?”

“Absolutely, Madame.”

“She almost never left the villa,” Janette said, speaking more to herself than to Louviere. “Not in years. Why, then, would she leave a . . . a madman, a monster alone?”

“I do not know, Madame.”

“He was a beast, Louviere. And I mean that literally.”

“Yes, Madame. I know. I saw the mark on the man's chest. Near the throat.”

“What mark?”

“The five-pointed star. The pentagram. The mark of the human/beast.”

“Human/beast, Louviere? Do you believe in such things? Tell me about them.”

“Do I believe in them? Yes. Only a person of very narrow vision would disbelieve. Can I prove they exist? No. As to the telling . . . so much is folklore it is difficult to separate the fact from the fiction. Every country has its stories of beasts that prowl the night. Near the Russian border they are called
vulkodlak.
In Germany,
der werwolf.
In Romania,
vircolac.
Here in France, of course, the
loup-garou.
America has its Big Foot. In some men it is a disease which befalls them . . . a very tragic illness.”

“You seem to know quite a lot about it, Louviere,” she said as she studied his face in the dim light.

“I enjoy reading, Madame. I was only a year away from finishing my higher education at the university when my . . . ah . . . trouble occurred.”

“I thought you were an educated man. Since you volunteered it, Louviere, what trouble?”

The man laughed. “I killed a man over a woman. I was young and in love. I ran. Needlessly, as it later turned out, but any hopes of continuing my education had flown. I served in the Paras for a time, found I enjoyed the action of sudden combat, and when my time was up, I changed my name and joined the FFL. And, for the past ten years, here I am.” He grinned. “Now you know the uninspiring history of Franchot Louviere.”

“Well . . . at least that part he wanted known,” she returned his smile.

“That is very true, Madame.” He was silent for a few seconds. “I will tell you this much, Madame: your
grand'mere
tried to have a rider attached to her will—I believe that is what they are called. It would have cut you out of everything had you followed her to Louisiana.

Janette laughed. “Then I believe I know how she would keep me from following her.” Her eyes touched his. “But I'm not a stupid woman, Louviere.”

Louviere sighed. “It was to be a bluff, Madame. The
mandataire
told her he would have no part in such a will. Told her you already own half of everything international. And further told Madame Bauterre that her holdings in Louisiana would be exempt from such a rider. Something about Louisiana law.”

“I go where I choose to go, Louviere; I have never taken orders well. I am puzzled, though. My
grand'mère
has spoken frequently of her almost rabid hatred of Louisiana—especially of Ducros Parish. Now the servants tell me she has not only gone to that state, but to Ducros Parish. I have to ask: why?”

“I do not know, Madame.”

“Then tell me this, for I know you are, for whatever reason, a confidant of my
grand'mère:
has there ever been any member of the Bauterre family afflicted with this . . . disease you spoke of a few moments ago?”

Louviere hesitated for only a few seconds.
“Oui,
Madame.” His eyes touched the journals under her arm. “You must have read them?”

Janette nodded.

“Then you have your answer under your arm.”

“I don't believe it, Louviere. Not a word of it. But I can't tell you why it was written.”

“Believe it, Madame.” He changed the subject. “I must get this place cleaned out should that fat fool Polchet return here in the morning.”

“One moment, Louviere. My
grand'mère:
was she born in France?”

“Non.
She was born in Louisiana.”

“What was her maiden name? Do you know?”

A perplexed look crossed the man's face.
“Non.
I don't recall her ever saying it. And that is the truth.”

“Book me passage on tomorrow's flight out to Dulles,” she instructed him. “I see no point in waiting around here.”

Louviere nodded. “Madame? Your
grand'mère
. . . is dying, I believe. And I think she realizes it. That may have some bearing on why she went back to Louisiana.”

“You've heard something from the old doctor?”

“Oui.
But I do not know exactly what is wrong with Madame Bauterre. But it is said in the village that she will soon die. Rumors, perhaps.”

“Her present form will die,” the words tumbled from her mouth.

Louviere's smile was wan. “I thought you did not believe a word in those journals, Madame.”

“I . . . don't know what to believe, Louviere.”

“If you go to Louisiana, you might discover something best kept from you.”

Was that a warning? “I am still a Bauterre, Louviere. It is my right to know.”

“Oui,”
was his reply.

The storm once more picked up its fury, battering the countryside with rain, wind, lightning, and rolling thunder.

“The man Beaullieu killed tonight—the creature. He was a relative of mine, wasn't he, Louviere?”

The ex-Legionnaire looked at her for some time before speaking. “Probably,” he said, then turned and walked down the narrow corridor, leaving her standing alone.

That night, unknown to Janette, Louviere stood a lonely guard outside her bedroom door.

Thousands of miles away, in South Carolina, set back from the Savannah River, stood the house. Only a few painted boards prevented it from being called a shack. Most people in the area did call it a shack. The nearest town was miles away. No close neighbors. There was a gravel/dirt road, of sorts, leading to the house that was passable in a conventional vehicle in good weather. A four-wheel drive was best in bad weather.

Summer sun touched the tin roof of the house and began heating the interior. The man kicked off the sheet, groaned, and sat on the side of the bed, holding his head in his hands. An empty whiskey bottle lay on the floor, on its side. The man pushed it away with a bare foot.

A dirty foot, he observed.

He looked at his hands in the dim light fighting to punch through the crud-covered windows of the small bedroom. His hands were dirty, too. The man grimaced in distaste.

“I have hit rock bottom,” he said hoarsely.

Rising from the bed, he swayed for a few seconds, the cheap alcohol still in his blood, his brain. “Got to stop this drinking,” he said, for at least the fiftieth time that month. He suddenly grinned. Sure I will, he thought. Of course I will. I have so much to live for.

He staggered into the kitchen, lurching as he went, knocking over a chair and banging his toe on the leg of the rickety table. He sat down at the table and cursed, waiting for the pain in his foot to at least dull to the level of the ache in his head.

The house was quiet.

Got to quit this drinking, the words again rushed to his brain. This time they held more conviction, and the fact they did puzzled him.

He was a big man, once a powerful man, with huge, scarred hands. But the muscles in his arms and shoulders were flabby, his face puffy from years of hard drinking and no exercise. His belly hung over his belt. His close-cropped hair, which he cut himself whenever he felt it needed it, was peppered with gray among the brown. His eyes were pale blue.

A warm wind blew against the house, pushing through the cracks. The man chuckled with absolutely no mirth in the sound, thinking: thought I'd never live through another winter. Thought the booze would have killed me by now.

Wish it had, he summed up his mood, his life, and his future expectations.

The pain in his toe blunted to only a small ache, he rose from the chair and fixed a small pot of coffee, using the last of the strong, chicory-laced coffee. He had no electricity, so he stoked the small wood-burning stove to flame, putting on the coffee pot to boil. From habit, he opened a can of beans for breakfast. Habit, because a professional warrior must eat when he can, sleep when he can—because the distance between meals or rest might be long.

The man laughed aloud. “Professional warrior!” he spat the words. “Crap!”

He looked at his hands, knowing he was a long way from being the man he once was. He wondered if he could still field-strip an AK-47.

He closed his eyes and allowed his hands to work at the invisible weapon.

Yes, he concluded. I can still do that.

For a moment, while he ate his cold beans and waited for his coffee to boil, he allowed his thoughts to drift back in time, to past battles and old friends. The battlegrounds were now silent and most of his friends were dead.

Like I should be, he reflected with no small degree of bitterness in his thoughts. The good Lord sure wasted a bunch of fine opportunities to have me knocked off.

And he wondered, as he had often done so the past several weeks, what the Lord was saving him for.

He tossed the empty bean can into a paper sack and then removed the coffee pot from the stove, pouring a mug of the dark brew. He sat back down, big hands on the table, waiting for the coffee to cool.

The man's torso was dimpled with scars, front and back, from bullets, mortar fragments, and a knife scar picked up in a barroom brawl in Mexico, down on the Baja. His legs carried the scars of battle: a long scar on his upper thigh, right leg, where a piece of hot metal had sliced him in Vietnam. He had almost lost his leg from infection, for he had been in North Vietnam at the time, on a search-and-destroy mission, and it had been days before he received proper medical attention. His left knee had been torn apart by a grenade sometime later, and after the doctors put a pin in his knee, the army decided they no longer required his services.

He drew 365 tax-free dollars a month from the government, in disability and for being awarded a Medal of Honor. He lived—existed—mostly on the fish he caught and the game he hunted and trapped.

And booze.

And bitter memories.

His coffee cool enough to drink, Pat Strange walked out onto his front porch and sat down in a battered chair. His thoughts this morning were, oddly enough, reflective, and sober.

If a man doesn't have a reason to live, Pat thought, gazing over the timber and swamp around his house. . . why continue breathing? Going on? Existing?

But Pat knew he could never take his own life . . . not the quick way. He would have to continue breathing until life left him by some other means than by his own hand. He could not kill himself. He had tried, several times, but he just could not pull the trigger.

He leaned back in the chair and listened to the ever-changing but always familiar sounds of raw nature: the birds that wheeled and soared and sang above and around him; the wild animals that prowled the swamp; the flop and smash of a fish in the river.

The house and 175 acres around it were his; had been in the family for generations, so his daddy had told him. Big deal, he thought. The land was sorry . . . worthless. Pat had once opined to his father—as a boy—that a man would have to sit on a sack of fertilizer to raise an umbrella on this land.

That had gotten him a smack on the ass with a leather belt.

“Maybe it is worthless,” his father had said. “But God only made so much land—and no more. And it's paid for. I'd remember that were I you, smart-mouth.” Then his father had softened his words and the stinging belt with a smile and a pat on the head.

Pat's parents were long gone, dead almost ten years now. His father of a heart attack, his mother a year later, from grief and years of hard, backbreaking work.

Pat's only sister was married to a CPA and lived in Miami; she had not been back to South Carolina in more than twenty years. Did not even return for the funerals. Pat's brother was up North. Chicago. A good, steady, stable family man. Executive with some advertising firm. Pat had seen him at the funerals: big pus-gutted, red-faced man who would probably drop dead from a heart attack long before his time. They had exchanged a few words, a greeting of sorts, talked about their boyhood in South Carolina, then run out of things to say. They had nothing in common. Indeed, Pat had felt, with a touch of amusement, that his brother was uncomfortable around him. His brother showed all the signs of soft living, while Pat was dark from years in the sun and hard, both mentally and physically.

Unlike my present condition, he thought sourly.

Pat had asked about the land, the house, and after a call to their sister, was told he could have it. Papers had been signed, the goodbyes between the brothers cursory. That had been ten years back, and Pat had not seen his brother or spoken to his sister in those years.

There is, Pat thought, nothing more worthless than an aging, worn-out warrior, with no more youth in him to carry him through the battles he still longed to fight.

“No,” he muttered. “Forty-two is not old. I just gave up, that's all. I just let the mileage get next to me.”

After ten years' service to his country, and five years as a mercenary, working over much of central and south Africa (part of the time still in the service of his country, clandestinely, through the Agency), Pat hung up his combat boots and returned stateside to try to settle down . . . make a new life. He found a job, worked hard at it, and married. Married well, but not wisely. The marriage lasted through three stormy years and half a dozen jobs. Then he began getting into trouble: barroom brawls. The fights he entered were not the good-ole-American-way cum redneck type of fights, for Pat was not trained to fight fairly; indeed, knew there was no such thing as a “fair fight.” He went in for the kill or cripple, and more than a few good ole boys found themselves quickly outclassed when going up against this quiet, scarred ex-warrior.

Pat landed in jail several times, came very close to pulling some hard time after whipping the crap out of a local football “hero” type, and then, finally, listened to the words of a judge who felt a great deal of empathy for the ex-soldier standing in front of his bench. The judge had been a Marine Raider during the Second World War, and knew exactly the contempt Pat Strange felt for men who wore the label “hero” but who had never served their country; never heard a shot fired in anger; never known the horror of combat; and never experienced the gut-wrenching emotion of watching men he called friends carried away in rubber bags.

“If you appear before this bench again, Mr. Strange,” the judge had spoken, the words bitter on his tongue, “I will order you committed to a state hospital for psychiatric observation. The choice is yours entirely.”

Pat bowed his neck to no man. He met the judge's gaze straight on. “I never started a one of those fights, judge. Not one. They all came to me. All I did was defend myself.”

“Mr. Strange,” the judge said, peering down at him from the bench. “This is not Vietnam, nor is it Africa. This is not a combat situation.” Liar! he railed at himself. Our streets after dark are becoming cesspools of crime. I'd like to take that old .45 of mine and shove it up the ass of some of these punks that appear before me; watch their expression when I pull the trigger. He sighed, hauling his emotions back under control. You're a judge, he reminded himself. Just follow the letter of the law. “As long as there are men, sir, I realize there will be fist fights, but you do not fight fairly, sir.” What a laugh, your honor! Remember that time in New York, right after the war, when you gouged one man's eyes out and kicked the balls of another up into his belly? Sure you remember, your honor. His stomach rumbled and he wished he could think of a dignified manner in which to chew some Maalox. “The manner in which you defend yourself, Mr. Strange, is unacceptable in this society.”

“I fight to survive, judge. I fight the only way I know how to fight. What am I supposed to do—let the men who assault me beat hell out of me? All for the sake of a quote/unquote ‘fair fight'?”

The judge's stomach continued to rumble. He wished to God he had stayed in the Marine Corps, where he would not have to associate with half-ass, prissy little pussies who called themselves men and hollered “Sue!” everytime they felt physically threatened—which was most of the time, the judge felt.

A man runs off at the mouth, insults someone, and gets popped in the mouth and knocked on his butt and then wants to sue the man who was, in all probability, in the right to begin with.

The senator was right: we are becoming a nation of sheep.

The judge looked at Pat for a long time, so long the court stenographer stirred restlessly. The judge felt—knew—that the man standing proudly in front of him was the kind of man who helped settle this nation: proud, tough, unyielding, and bowing to no man. But, he once more sighed, time and the preponderantly complex maze of laws—and lawyers—had caused this man to become an anachronism.

“I'm not going to argue with you, Mr. Strange. Don't appear in my court again.” And the next time you want to whip somebody, take him out in the swamps, kick the shit out of him, and stuff what's left up under a cypress tree.

Pat returnd to the place of his boyhood and bunkered himself in, with his memories, his medals, his bitterness, and his booze.

Pat Strange became a shadow figure, seen only occasionally, lurching drunkenly through the swamp.

But on this day, as he sat on the porch, a strong, solid resolution filled him. He rose, and for the first time in years, walked a few hundred yards from the house and stood before the graves of his parents. As he stood there, he remembered the preacher's words—at least part of them—from that dark afternoon his mother had been buried.

“A time to be born, a time to die. A time to kill, and a time to heal. A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.”

Odd emotions filled Pat as he struggled to remember what else had been said that afternoon.

He could not recall another word of the service. But that verse had stayed with him all these years. And he recalled that when the preacher said it, he was looking straight at Pat.

Pat turned away from the graves and walked back to the house, thinking: crazy Baptist preachers.