Wolfsbane (9 page)

She jerked the nipple from his mouth and planted her lips against his, her breath stinking with the foulness of the grave. She shuddered in climax, then pulled herself from his shaft, working her ancient nakedness up his chest, placing the now bloody lips of her soul to his mouth. He fought to breathe, struggled to break away from the stench of her, but clawed hands forced him to kiss the gaping lips; hands at his throat extended his tongue, licking at a thousand years of evil. Her juices began to flow, covering his face with a slime that contained the filth of hell, dripping onto his chest.

The hag screamed once as an orgasm shook her; then she pulled away, closing her dress, covering her vileness. She knelt down and put her mouth to his neck, licking his flesh. He felt her teeth become fangs on his skin while her hand pumped his blood-engorged penis toward ejaculation. With a quickness that belied her age, she shifted positions and took his penis in her mouth, sucking at his spurting semen.

Then she sank her teeth into the organ and he tried to scream. But no sound passed his lips as he felt himself grow soft and felt her teeth sink deeper into the sensitive penis. Blood leaked from both corners of her mouth as she slurped at him, pulling his life from him, swallowing the crimson.

She lay on the dirty floor for long moments, leeching him as his struggles grew weaker and weaker and his world began to dim, taking on a grayness just before death. His body grew pale as the blood that at first poured from him became no more than a red trickle. He sighed once; then his head lolled to one side as life winged away.

She rose, looked down at him, the blood covering her face and mouth. She seemed to grow stronger. She turned and walked into the night, toward the house.

The next day, Harold Callier was reported missing to the sheriffs office.

 

Janette did not sleep well the rest of that night, her mind busy attempting to sort out fact from fiction, wondering what she should do.

If she went to Sheriff Vallot, what proof did she have other than the pictures? And those pictures could be passed off as trick photography.

Did she really see a body this night? She could not be certain of that.

Finally, she slept, fitfully at best.

After a very late breakfast (Janette deliberately avoided dining with her grandmother, knowing it would irritate her and taking a perverse pleasure in doing that), she returned to her room and locked the door, leaving the key in the old lock so it could not be unlocked from the outside.

She carefully removed the film in the semidarkness of the draped room and placed the roll in a metal container. She went to her bureau and removed a packet of letters she always carried with her when she traveled. They were the last letters he had written to her while he was in Vietnam—the most personal—and she felt closer to Lyle with the letters near her.

She selected one and carefully opened the worn envelope, reading his words . . .

There was more, but Janette had all his words committed to memory. She put all the letters back in the bureau, except the one she had just read, then sat at her desk and studied the photograph.

Yes, she smiled. Both of them were definitely plastered. But even drunk they still maintained that cocky look of the special troop.

She rose and packed a few things, tucking the letter and picture into a side pocket of her expensive luggage, along with the metal container of film. She looked around the room, checking. Then, after snapping and belting her luggage, she walked to the door.

Someone was waiting on the other side. She could hear the breathing. A raspy breathing.

Someone had been listening at the door.

Angry, she unlocked the door and threw it open.

Madame Bauterre stood staring at her, her black eyes fierce as an eagle.

“I don't like locked doors at Amour House,” her grandmother said.

“Seems we have quite a few of them, though,” Janette retorted, her explosive temper surfacing. “Locked doors; locked fences; dark secrets no one will discuss.”

The old woman brushed away the accusations with a wave of one expensively ringed hand. Her eyes took in the luggage. “Going away?” There was a hopeful tone to her voice.

“Yes. For a time. I've decided to visit some friends.”

“Oh? Where?”

“Shreveport,” she lied. “Friends of Lyle's.”

“Their names?”

Janette smiled, not liking the inquisition. “Smith.”

“I am not familiar with that name.”

“You wouldn't be.”

“Yes.” Her grandmother's face suddenly broke into a broad smile. “Perhaps it's best you go for a time. Stay the autumn if you wish. By that time it should all be . . .” She stopped in mid-sentence.

“What should all be . . . what,
grand'mère
?”

“Nothing. Don't interfere in something you do not understand.”

“Then tell me
grand'mère.”

The old woman shook her head.

“What is going on around here?”
Janette almost screamed the words.

Madame Bauterre stiffened, her face losing the smile. “Be careful how you speak to me, child,” she cautioned her. “You could have a great deal to lose.”

“You mean all this?” Janette waved her hand. “You forget,
grand'mère:
I already own half of all this.”

“Oh, no, my child—I was not referring to material possessions.” She walked away, down the dim hall. She paused, then slowly turned around. “Oh . . . Janette? Have a good time, won't you? Be discreet about it, but do find yourself a man for companionship. For a time. Your disposition of late, at best, has been most surly.”

For the first time in her life—and
Grand'mère
Bauterre had raised Janette—she clenched her fist and extended the middle finger toward the old woman's retreating back.

Without turning around; without breaking stride, the old woman said, “I saw that gesture, Janette. How crude. How totally unfeminine!”

“How . . . ?” Janette muttered, cutting off her sentence when she felt a stirring at her side.

“How, Miss?” Phoebe said, her round, black face wearing an unfriendly look. “Dat old woman know eberting. Maybe time you lam someting? Don you know what her name be 'fore she marry your
grand-père?”

Janette shook her head.

“Strahan,” the maid said. “And de Strahan be relate to de Metrejean.”

“I don't understand, Phoebe.”

“Bunches you don understand. I tale you dis: de Strahans was run out of France long, long time 'go. Same time was de Camardelles. Now you cain't lam from dat, I feels sorrow for
you!”

“You know what is going on around here, don't you, Phoebe?”

“I done say too much as is. Why don you jist leave and not come back for a time?”

“Because I am a Bauterre and I have a right to know what is happening here.”

“Non!
You be Bauterre, awrat . . . but you not the same kind Bauterre.”

“I don't understand.”

“Den I feels sorrow for you.”

Phoebe turned and walked away.

“I do not like what is happening here,” Madame Bauterre spoke to the upside-down cross. “Janette is lying to me about her trip.”

She has gone to meet His warrior, the voice rose in her head. That unlikely candidate for a place behind the Pearly Gates.

“Unless I can convince them to leave. . . .” she let the sentence trail off into silence.

They will have to be disposed of. Yes. The voice chuckled with black mirth.

“You know something I need to know?”

I know many things. But as you well know, the rules have been set. I cannot violate them. Good luck.

 

Janette drove her Cadillac to New Orleans and checked in at a downtown hotel. A small hotel, just a few blocks off Canal. She shopped for a time, buying a few clothes she thought she might need, and dropped the film off to be developed. She consulted the yellow pages, and found a nationally known detective agency. She called for an appointment.

Come right over, ma'am.

The offices were very pleasant, not at all like what she expected. And the man behind the desk did not look like a Mike Hammer or Shell Scott: he looked like ten million other people. One would have a great deal of difficulty identifying him an hour after seeing him.

Average, she concluded.

“My problem is not one of great secrecy, Mr. Carlson,” she told the man behind the desk. “There are no divorces in the offing—I'm a widow. No keyhole peeping involved in this.” She showed him the photo of her husband and Pat Strange, and told him when it was taken. “The man's name is Pat Strange. He may still be in the service. Green Berets. He saved my husband's life in Vietnam. I feel we—the family—owe the man something. But we don't know where he is.”

“It won't be hard to find out, ma'am. We charge two hundred and fifty dollars a day, plus expenses.”

She told him where she was staying. “If you can find him within two days, there is a thousand-dollar bonus in it, for you.”

The PI's eyes lifted a bit. “Cash?”

She smiled. “Twenties, fifties, or hundreds?”

“A little of each, if you don't mind, ma'am.”

“I'll have it ready for you.”

He called the next day.

“Please come to my room,” she told him.

He was there in fifteen minutes. “I'll tell you how we do these things, ma'am,” Mr. Carlson said, tucking the envelope she had given him in an inside pocket of his suit coat. He had not bothered to count it. This woman had the look of sophistication and class stamped on her every move, and he knew from years of experience, those types pay for what they get.

“Most of us are retired cops, retired military security people, whatever . . . you get the drift. We have friends all over: government and civilian. You said he was from South Carolina. He . . .”

She waved him silent. “I see, Mr. Carlson. And I thank you.”

He smiled. Her attitude was what he had expected. “There are things I feel obligated to tell you, ma'am. He is no longer in the military. He . . . his background is rather unsavory, at best.”

If he was waiting for some awful reaction from her, Janette disappointed him. “Just tell me where he lives, Mr. Carlson.”

“Jeddo County, South Carolina. Lives out in a swamp's been in his family for years. Just go to the sheriffs office at the county seat. They'll direct you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carlson.”

A dismissal if Carlson had ever heard one. He rose to his feet and stood for a few seconds looking down at her. Janette's eyes widened as he pulled a .38 snub-nose from behind his belt and tossed it on the bed. She breathed easier.

“War hero or not, ma'am, Pat Strange is an ex-mercenary. Some of those boys are not known for their level-headed, subtle dispositions . . . or habits toward women. You know how to use that pistol, ma'am?”

“Yes, I do,” Janette smiled at him. “Also a rifle and a shotgun. And I can hold my own with an
épée.”

“A what?”

“A sword.”

He chuckled. “Yes, ma'am, that wouldn't surprise me at all. The pistol's loaded.” He tossed a handful of cartridges on the bed. “There's some extra.”

“Let me pay you for the gun.”

He shook his head. “No charge, ma'am. The gun's clean, too, by the way. But when this is over, I would like for you to come back to New Orleans and tell me what you really want with Mr. Strange.”

Sharp, Janette thought. He's very intelligent. “The weapon must have cost you something,” she said, momentarily evading his question.

“No, ma'am. Man tried to use it on me one night, 'bout five years ago. I took it away from him and pistol-whipped him with it. There's a little-bitty dent in the trigger guard. Man had a hard head.”

She looked at him. At second glance, Mr. Carlson did not appear so ordinary after all. Or average. He was solidly built. Looked like he worked out daily.

“I want to find Pat Strange so he can help me kill some werewolves,” Janette said with a straight face.

Carlson stared at her, then began laughing. He laughed for a full minute, then took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes. He sighed, shook his head, and walked to the door.

“After all the years in this business, I have heard some stories, ma'am. You wouldn't believe the stories and excuses people have used as to why they're hiring me. But that one, ma'am . . . that takes the cake.”

He was still chuckling as he walked out of the room and down the hall. “Werewolves,” she heard him say. “Jesus!”

Janette smiled grimly and picked up the .38, expertly checked the loads in the cylinder, then snapped the cylinder closed. She picked up the extra ammunition and dropped them into her purse. She called to see if her pictures were ready. They were. She began packing.

 

The Sheriff of Jeddo County, South Carolina, studied the woman sitting in front of his desk. High class, he concluded. Manners and most importantly: breeding. And that new Cadillac she came up in must have cost a bundle. Ten, twelve thousand, at least. Maybe more.

Sheriff Bradshaw guessed at the price tag of the Caddy; he really had no idea what one would cost, since he could not even envision himself ever owning one.

This woman's got money piled all around her, and some educated, to boot, he summed up his thoughts. Now, why in the world would a woman like this want to mess around with a ne'er-do-well drifter and boozer like Pat Strange?

Come to think of it, Sheriff Bradshaw mused, I hadn't seen or heard of Pat in about two months. Maybe more than that. Maybe, he thought, with a muted feeling of high relief, I got lucky and Pat moved out of my county.

“Ma'am,” Sheriff Bradshaw said, “I don't mean to pry into your private affairs, and please don't take offense at what I'm about to say. But it's easy to see you're a woman of some means. Pat Strange is nothing but white trash. You're from Louisiana, you know what I mean when I say that.”

“I know exactly what you mean, Sheriff Bradshaw,” Janette replied. “And I do thank you for your concern. But it is imperative I speak with Mr. Strange.”

Imperative, Sheriff Bradshaw rolled that word around in his mind. Urgent, pressing, exigent. Bradshaw liked to work the crossword puzzle in the paper over his morning coffee.

“I see.” His reply was soft.

“I doubt it,” Janette said. “But I do need to speak with Mr. Strange. Now, will you tell me where I can find him, or do I have to stand on the corner asking every passerby?”

Bradshaw smiled as a mental picture of that came into his mind. She'd do it, too. “You have a car?”

“You know I do, Sheriff. Since I didn't tell you I was from Louisiana, you must have had someone check my license plates.”

A deputy in the room smothered a giggle.

He got a grim look from the sheriff for his giggle. Bradshaw thought: she is a sharp one. “Well, ma'am. . . it's gettin' late, and I would really rather not see you try to find Pat's shack this late in the day. There isn't a thing out that way 'cept cottonmouths, rattlers, and gators. He lives way out in the country. It'd be dark long before you ever got close to his shack. So I'll draw you a map if you'll promise you won't try to find his place 'fore morning.” He gave her his best smile.

“His shack?” Janette questioned.

“Yes, ma'am. Ma'am? I don't know what you know about Pat Strange—or what you've been told—but Pat's been drunk off and on—mostly on—for more than five years, now.”

“Drunk!?”

“Yes, ma'am. And he's not the most stable fellow I've ever seen when he's sober. Which is rare. Pat can be downright ornery when he sets his mind to it. He whipped three pretty good ole boys one night here 'bout four years ago. Tossed 'em around like they were rag dolls. Broke one of 'urn's hip in three places. Feller still walks with a limp.” He smiled. “ 'Course he leaves Strange alone, now. Joined the church, too.”

There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Janette's stomach. She wondered if she'd come all this way for nothing? But Lyle had said Pat was a good man. And that's all she had to go on.

“I still need to see him,” she insisted.

Sheriff Bradshaw sighed, then nodded his head. He drew a red line on a county map, showing her how to get to Pat's place.

Janette left, after promising the sheriff she would not try to locate Pat's house until morning.

“Now, what the hell would a classy woman like that want with Pat Strange?” the deputy who had giggled asked.

“I'd like to know that myself,” Sheriff Bradshaw said. “You 'member her license number?”

The deputy nodded.

“Run it. Request all the information you can get on her. Hell! Maybe Pat's joined the Mafia or something. I wouldn't put anything past that son-of-a-bitch!”

The Jeddo County Sheriffs Department was small but highly efficient, equipped with very modern equipment and trained men and women. It did not take long to gain information on Janette Bauterre Simmons.

“Well, now.” Sheriff Bradshaw leaned back in his chair. “She's not just rich, she's filthy rich. Husband a former Green Beret. That's the tie-in. Strange was one of those crazy people. Eats snakes. But I still can't imagine why a woman like that would even want to be seen with a troublemaker like Strange.”

“You want to tail her?”

Sheriff Bradshaw shook his head. “Nope. It's none of our business.”

 

After more than two months of no booze, no cigarettes, regular meals, and hard exercise, Pat was beginning to resemble the man he once had been. He had honed his flabby 240 down to a hard 205. He was doing a hundred pushups a day, Lord only knew—which He did—how many sit-ups and deep knee bends, and was running more than ten miles each day. He spent at least three hours a day with an axe, cleaning the growth from around the house, chopping and splitting wood. He felt better than he had in years.

But with his rapid return to health, another problem was occurring: Pat was beginning to feel strong urges for a woman. He did not want to go to the redneck joints in the county, for if he did, some boozed-up 'neck was sure to mouth off with a smart-ass remark, and Pat would feel obliged to bust his mouth for him. And he did not need trouble at this so-far good point in his life.

He had scrubbed and mopped his house, dusting and rubbing until it shone like an army barracks before an IG inspection. He had also painted his house. With his continued sobriety had returned the good humor he had been known for over the years.

He painted the house olive drab, installed a rock walkway, and painted the rocks white, chuckling as he did so.

Make-work projects.

Pat took very cool showers, several times a day, under a fifty-five gallon drum, suspended over a shower stall behind the house. The showers cooled his cravings for a woman, but not much.

Pat was cooling off from a hard five-hundred-yard run when he heard the car groaning up the rutted road. “Gonna get stuck,” he muttered, for there had been several hard rains during the past week, and the road was treacherous even in good weather.

Then he heard the back tires spinning, grabbing at mud, sinking into the mire.

“Shit!” he said. He had not had company for months, and was not desirous of company at this time. Unless, he smiled, it was a good-looking woman coming out to give him some. Or even a bad-looking woman.

Either one of which he doubted.

Clad only in a pair of cut-off jeans and old raggedy tennis shoes, Pat walked down the road, toward the sounds of spinning tires. Passing by his Jeep, he gave it a friendly pat on the fender. The Jeep was thirty years old, but Pat had been working on engines for most of his life, and he kept the Jeep humming like a well-oiled sewing machine.

The roaring of the engine and the whining of tires in mud ceased. The morning was quiet and beginning to get hot, although with the approach of autumn, the temperature had abated somewhat. Pat rounded the bend in the road and suddenly came face to face with one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen.

And he knew he'd seen her before. Some place.

The woman was tall, with a sensational figure, high, full breasts, dark complexion, hair shining black as night. Dressed in jeans, a blouse she filled amply, low boots.

Where had he seen her? Damn! Was she a movie star? Maybe coming to see him about filming a movie of the life and times of ex-hero Pat Strange? Present occupation: unemployed; recovering from alcoholism. Yeah. That should fill the movie houses with crushing throngs.