Wolfsbane

by William W. Johnstone

  “He would be under the Bauterre name?”

  “I’m sure he would.”

  “Well, let’s take a run up there and see about him. Maybe we can solve one mystery, at least.”

  A faint smile was her only reply.

  They chatted of small things until Savannah. There, she went with him to buy a few things at a nice men’s store in a shopping mall. The few things turned out to be a trunk load of clothes. She insisted upon buying him several suits, choosing those while Pat picked out his slacks, shirts, and shoes. The suits were right off the rack and did not have to be altered: Pat was the kind of man that would look good in a suit bought off the rack. They were back on the road in just over an hour, heading for Atlanta.

  “Janette? You said my weapons wouldn’t stop these”—he could not bring himself to say werewolf—“things. Whatever they are. All right, then: what will stop them?”

  “No, Pat. I didn’t say they wouldn’t stop them. I said they wouldn’t kill them; but I’m not certain about that. The guards at the villa are all expert marksmen. I would say at least a dozen shots were fired that night—perhaps more. Beaullieu said the man was riddled. Yet the monster was gone when Louviere got to the scene. It had transformed . . . regressed, into its human shape.”

  Memories of old horror movies from his childhood rushed into Pat’s brain. He brushed them away as a hundred questions leaped into his mind. But he did not know which to ask first. “They burned your grandfather, but you think he’s back. Your guards kill a monster, then discover the monster is gone and a man—human—in his place. What the hell will kill these hoo-doos?”

  “Loups-garous.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I don’t know, Pat, and that is an honest reply. But I do believe this: if—and it is a big if—my grandfather is. . . back . . . has returned . . .”

  Pat sighed.

  . . . I don’t think he will harm anyone.”

  Casper the Friendly Ghost, Pat thought. “Why?” he felt compelled to ask.

  “I told you what he had written in the journals. He wanted to die! Really die; be free of the Bauterre curse. I am inclined to think the opening of his crypt was grand’mère’s idea. A macabre joke on the people in Joyeux.”

  “She must have a wonderful sense of humor. I’m sure she’s in great demand for wakes.”

  Despite herself, her Bauterre pride, Janette had to smile.

  Pat was silent for a time, concentrating on driving the luxurious automobile. “Well, hell!” he finally said. “If you don’t know what will kill them—I sure don’t.” Christ! he rebuked himself. You’re beginning to sound as though you believe in these boo-boos. “I’ve hunted men all my life. In combat,” he hastened to add. “But I could kill them with a gun or knife or grenade or club or piece of wire. I’ve never hunted a . . . a roogoogoo.”

  “Loup-garou.”

  “Whatever.”

  “A blessed silver bullet, then,” she said.

  “Oh, come on, honey!”

  “Well, I don’t know, Pat. You’re the weapons expert. That’s one of the reasons I hired you.”

  He glanced at her. “What was the other reason?”

  She smiled. “I didn’t know anyone else.”

  “I get all the winners,” he mumbled.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I think you’re beginning to take me seriously.”

  “When I see the things with my own eyes.”

  “Are you sure you’re not from Missouri?”

  Pat laughed.

  Full dark when they reached Atlanta and checked into a motel. They took their dinner in the room and went to bed early, making love slowly and gently, finally falling asleep in an exhausted sprawl of arms and legs.

  “I am sorry, Miss Bauterre,” the director of the institution told her. “But there has never been anyone here by that name.” He had checked the records carefully and questioned several of the doctors. But only after he had talked at length with Janette, determining her identity.

  It was the last and most expensive private institution on the list. They had checked all the public and private sanitariums in the state. They had received the same answer at each: nothing.

  On the interstate heading west, Janette said, “I know grand’mere said he was in a home near Atlanta. She’s said that several times. She would never put him in an institution in Louisiana.”

  “So she lied,” Pat said bluntly. “If any of this story is true, she’s been lying to you for years. All right, Janette”—he had seen her stiffen slightly at his remark—“ let’s assume that all you’ve told me is true—and I said assume. How about your parents? Your father? Could he have been one of these . . . things?”

  She nodded after a short pause. Nodding reluctantly.

  “Your mother?” Play along, Pat—humor her.

  “I’ve only found where it affects males.”

  “But is it a possibility?”

  “I . . . suppose.” She did not tell him about the quick dreams she was having of late. Dreams of her mother and father. She was beginning to fear she was losing her mind. The dreams were horrible.

  “All right. Is there any place around or in that mansion where several people—say, half a dozen–could hide, undetected, for years?”

  She thought for a moment. “It seems to me that Amour House is built on the only high ground in the parish.” She was thoughtful for a moment longer. “Yes, I suppose a basement could have been built.”

  “Have you seen any sign of one?”

  “No. But that means nothing. I was raised in grand’mère’s villa in France and never knew about those passageways.” She suddenly gasped.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There is a locked door in the kitchen. In the pantry. I remember, now.”

  “You said those things ran toward a . . . what’d you call it?”

  “Garçonnière. Young man’s bachelor quarters a hundred years ago. Yes, I did.”

  “Carrying something large . . . like a body?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask why you didn’t report that to the sheriff?”

  “Because . . . this is family business.” She looked at him. “And I am a Bauterre.”

  “Since when is murder family business? Outside of the Mafia, that is.”

  She found no humor in his remark. “I don’t know there have been any murders, Pat. Another reason I hired you.”

  “If I find there have been, I go to the law, Janette,” he warned her.

  She offered no reply.

  In New Orleans, they checked into a motel and pulled out early the following morning, for Ducros Parish.

  “Pat?”

  “Ummm?”

  “Sheriff Bradshaw said you were a drunk. Were you?”

  “For five years I wandered around in an alcoholic fog. Wonder I wasn’t killed. Or killed some innocent person. If there is such a thing.”

  “How long have you been on the wagon?”

  “Close to three months. If you’re asking do I crave a drink—no. I can truthfully say—and probably most doctors would agree with me—I never really craved a drink. But I think I was getting very close to that point. I just wanted to get drunk. I prefer beer to whiskey, but whiskey gets you drunker faster. I just woke up one morning and decided that was it for my drinking. Come to think of it,” he frowned, “I was drawn to my parents’ graves that morning. Never been able to . . . figure that out. And a funny kind of feeling came over me. Almost a religious feeling.”

  “Do you feel that way now?”

  “Sometimes, yes. It’s . . . odd. ’Cause I’ve never been a religious man.”

  “God liked his warriors, too, Pat.”

  He smiled. “Funny you should say that. I’ve thought the same thing several times over the past few months.”

  “Was she beautiful?”

  “Huh?” Her question startled him, for he had been thinking of his ex-wife and of Emily at that
moment.

  “The woman—or women—who brought you to the drinking? Was she beautiful?”

  “Very. But it wasn’t just that . . . her. It was a series of events.”

  “Care to talk about it?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Why not? I never have. Might as well. I was a warrior, and I enjoyed it. Then I got tired of killing and sweat and pain. But when I got back stateside, I found I didn’t know how to do anything else: couldn’t keep a job, couldn’t keep a wife, fought all the time. I probably never would have come back if . . . she . . . Emily had not been killed.”

  “Who is Emily?” She felt a pang of jealousy hit her.

  “A girl I met in Africa.”

  “You were in love with her?”

  “It was developing into that, yes.”

  “So you married on the rebound, so to speak?”

  “Looking back, I would say so. Yes. I thought I saw something in her I’d found in Emily. I was wrong. Well, I paid for my mistake.”

  “And now here we are,” Janette said.

  Pat smiled at her words. He did not reply.

  A few miles rolled past, the only sound the hissing of the tires. “Pat?”

  “Ummm?”

  “In combat, were you ever afraid?”

  “God, yes! Any man who spent time in combat and tells you he wasn’t afraid at times is a damn liar. Or a damned fool.”

  “Did you ever run away?”

  “In combat?”

  “Yes. ”

  “Hell, yes!” He chuckled at a memory. “One time we were on a Silent Op . . .”

  “A what?”

  “Silent Operation. Sent in to kidnap a village chief we knew was a VC. It was a joint operation: army/navy. The operation went sour. We looked up and there was a full battalion of VC coming at us. There was fourteen of us. You remember the expression about valor and discretion?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, we were pretty salty ole boys, all of us. I was teamed with this navy chief—can’t remember his name. He looked at me, I looked at him, and we both agreed there just had to be a healthier climate.” He laughed aloud as the memory came rushing back. “Man, we took off like thieves in the night. Neither one of us knew we could run so fast or that far. We got back to base three days later, moving by night, hiding by day. We didn’t lose any men, but we sure came back in draggin’ ass. His CO asked him what he got, and that old boy patted his butt and said, ‘I got my ass out, that’s what!’ He was a hell of a man; won the Congressional later on, so I heard.”

  She pointed at a bridge coming up. “A few more miles and we’ll be in Ducros Parish.”

  “What’s the sheriff like?”

  “I’d guess he’s about my age. I think he’s probably very good; educated. I don’t know whether he suspects anything or not. But if I had to guess, I’d say that he does.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because of Eddie Guilbeau and his wife; the way they died. Sheriff Vallot had them buried in no time. Then Hal Callier was reported missing the . . . day after I saw those things in the yard. But there’s more: I’ve seen Edan Vallot in his boat cruising the bayou behind our estate. I think he’s put it all together.”

  Just the faintest touch of excitement slid through Pat’s belly: anticipation at the prospect of the hunt. He began hoping that maybe there really was some of those. . . googooboos prowling the countryside. But, he cautioned himself, in all probability it was a madman, nothing more. But maybe. . . ?

  He shook his head minutely, dislodging all thoughts of vampires and ghoulies and ghosties from his mind.

  “No, what?” Janette asked, having seen the slight shaking of his head.

  “Nothing,” Pat replied, his eyes meeting hers.

  “You’ll see,” she said. “You’ll see. Maybe tonight.”

  He looked at the set of her chin, her full mouth, calm eyes. He thought: she’s really convinced.

  The screaming of a siren caused them both to jump just a bit, the patrol car howling past them, blue and red lights flashing in the sun of Ducros Parish.

  “Must be a bad wreck up ahead,” Pat said. “We’d better slow down.”

  “Or the Bauterre revenge has claimed another victim,” her words came softly to him.

  This time the excitement stayed with Pat just a bit longer.

  Maybe, he thought. Just maybe . . .

  Chapter Twelve

  “Beautiful,” Pat said, as Janette wheeled the Cadillac into the tree-lined drive of Amour Estate. “It’s just beautiful.”

  “It’s very old,” she said. “And has been kept up perfectly over the years. Only a few things added to keep pace with the times. Air conditioning, that type of thing.”

  “You were born here?”

  “So I’m told. I knew we had a place in Louisiana, but I first saw it only a couple of months ago. Another of the secrets of the Bauterre family.”

  “Why would your grandmother keep something like this from you? I don’t understand. I mean, you own part of all this.”

  “I don’t know why, Pat. As I said back at your place: there is so much I don’t know about my family. I’ve wondered, of late, just how much grand’mère told me is true, and how much is a lie. And why?”

  “Speaking of your grandmother,” Pat said, his eyes fixed on an old woman standing in the shade on the porch, the upper gallery shielding her from the autumn’s still fierce blast of sun. The woman was dressed all in black.

  “That’s her,” Janette said. “I imagine she knew we were coming back today.”

  “How in the hell would she know that?”

  “She knows many things; senses them. Or maybe she’s told them by a higher, darker power.”

  “Bullshit!” Pat said.

  Janette laughed. “She was a Strahan before she married grand-père. And the Strahans are related to the Metrejeans.”

  Pat looked at her, a pained expression on his face. “And I’m supposed to make some sense out of that?”

  “You’ll see,” Janette said, her smile grim. She pulled the Caddy into the shade of a parking area, turned off the engine, and set the brake. “Don’t be surprised if she knows your past.”

  “If she does,” Pat muttered, “the price tag on my services just went up.”

  “I’ll increase the side benefits,” Janette smiled. “Come on. You’re about to get your first lesson in the ways of Amour House.”

  For some reason Pat could not understand, the feeling in the pit of his stomach was not unlike the sensation he had felt when he made his first parachute jump. And he could not understand why.

  She’s just a very old lady, he reminded himself. There is nothing to fear from her.

  But the feeling would not leave him.

  Pat stepped into the brutal heat of Louisiana’s early fall, the heat almost explosive after several hours in the air-conditioned car.

  “Grand’mère,” Janette said. “I’d like to introduce Pat Strange.”

  The old woman peered at him, her eyes dark behind the lenses of the glasses. “The man who saved Lyle’s life,” she said.

  Janette tried to remember if she’d ever told her grand’mere about Pat. She felt she had not.

  “Madame Bauterre,” Pat said.

  “Adventurer,” the old woman said, her lips curving into a smile, of sorts. “What an odd choice. Mercenaire.”

  Pat did not understand the remark about an odd choice, but he felt as though someone had hit him in the stomach. The old woman knew what he had been. Pat glanced at Janette. She was smiling, her smile seeming to say: I told you so. I warned you.

  “I was at one time, yes, ma’am.” He was honest with her.

  “And my granddaughter has convinced you that evil lurks on the estate of Amour, eh?”

  Pat felt there was no point in lying to her. “She has not convinced me, ma’am. But she has hired me to protect her, and if there is something here that will harm her, to find out what, and to do something about it.�
�

  “To kill it, or them?” Victoria asked.

  Pat lifted his shoulders in reply.

  The old woman laughed, deeply and loudly. Then she held out her hand. Pat touched his lips to the back of her hand.

  “Well!” Victoria said. “At least you have manners. . . in spite of, or perhaps because of your appearance. Welcome to Amour House, Strange, the mercenaire. Ah, my, yes,” she chuckled. “Now the humid atmosphere becomes fraught with intrigue. The fictitious hunt begins.”

  “Fictitious, grand’mere?” Janette questioned.

  The old woman’s smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Or treasonous,” she said, her eyes flashing at Janette. She pulled her gaze to Pat. “I assumed my grandchild would want you close, Strange. So I had the room adjoining hers made ready for you. I think you will find it very comfortable—compared to that hovel you’ve been living in for the past few years, drinking your life away.”

  Pat smiled. “You seem to know a great deal about me, ma’am.”

  His smile was not returned. “I know everything about you, Strange. Now. Including your weaknesses. We dine at eight—sharp. And do dress for dinner, Strange.”

  “I wasn’t planning on coming naked, ma’am.”

  “And mind your tongue, as well. While you still have it to waggle.” She turned and disappeared into the great house.

  “It’s funny, Edan,” Stella Latour said, smiling at him. “You never even so much as gave me the time of day before. Now you want to go out with me. Why? That hussy up in Shreveport toss you out?”

  One of the marvels of a small town, Sheriff Vallot thought, a half smile on his lips. Everybody knows everybody else’s business. But usually they mean well. “I’d have given you the time of day, Stella. But you were all involved with that fellow from Lake Charles; then you got all lovey-dovey with that guy from Breaux Bridge. You couldn’t see me through him.”

  She laughed and winked at him. “You can go to hell for lyin’, Edan Vallot.” Her dark eyes twinkled at him. “Neither one of those guys was serious. And you know it. I saw you come slippin’ around when you didn’t think I was lookin’.”