Wolfsbane

by William W. Johnstone

  “Yeah.”

  Sheriff Edan Vallot spat rapid-fire Cajun French at him, then walked off, his back stiff.

  Pat looked at Janette. “What’d he say to me?”

  She smiled sweetly. “He said: fuck you!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Janette and Pat went back to Amour House to pick up the journals and pictures, then met Edan at a dock, where he waited in a borrowed power boat.

  “You sure you want to come along, now?” Edan asked Janette. “It’s a long way up there, and when Annie learns you’re a Bauterre, she’s liable to be unfriendly. She probably already knows you’re a Bauterre.”

  “Probably already knows,” Pat muttered. “Crap! Mumbo jumbo!”

  “My grandmother knew you were a mercenary, didn’t she?” Janette challenged him.

  “Lucky guess.”

  “Sure, Pat, sure. Yes, Edan, I want to go with you.”

  A shout from the bank stopped them. Stella Latour waved at them. “Wait a minute, Edan. I want to see grand’mere, too.”

  “How in the hell did she know where we were going?” Pat asked.

  “Lucky guess,” Edan said sarcastically. “Sure, Stella, come on, hop in.”

  Stella sat beside Edan and glanced back at Pat. She smiled. “Soldier, right?”

  “I was,” he said peevishly.

  “Yeah. Rough-tough one, too, I bet. You won lots of medals and jumped out of airplanes. Got shot a couple of times. Wore a funny-lookin’ hat, too.”

  Edan laughed. “Beret, Stella.”

  “This place is beginning to bug me,” Pat muttered.

  Janette put a hand on his forearm. “When in Rome, Pat—remember?”

  Pat folded his arms across his chest and stared moodily into the swamp ahead and on both sides of the bayou. He was silent all the way to Annie’s place. But if his thoughts could have been put into words. . . .!

  “Hey, Annie!” Edan nosed the boat up to the pilings. “I brought you a surprise this time.”

  Her voice drifted out to them. “Ma petite-fille, a no-count mercenaire, and one of dem damn Bauterre peoples. You and Stella come on ups. Trow de rest in the bayou!”

  “It’s a trick,” Pat muttered. “Somebody tipped her off we were coming.”

  Stella laughed at him and patted his leg. “No phones way out here, Mr. Strange. Relax. My grandmomma’s bark is worse than her bite. All the old ways are about gone. My grand’mère is the last of a breed—and that’s a pity, sort of.”

  “You seem to be pretty good at guessing things, too, Stella,” Pat reminded her.

  “Oh, I didn’t guess, Mr. Strange. I’ve got the power—kind of—when I want to use it. But sometimes I wish I didn’t have it. Guys don’t like to date me; I spook ’em by gettin’ inside their heads.”

  “The power?” Pat questioned.

  Annie Metrejean stuck her head over the railing and peered down at them. “De power lak you don believe nobodies got, adventurer man.”

  “Come on up—you all welcome. When you gets settled, I ask Mr. Adventurer man someting.”

  Stella kissed her grandmother and went into the house to fix coffee. Introductions were made, but Annie waved them aside.

  “I know who ever’body is.” She looked at Janette. “I ’member de night you was born. Bad storm that night. Bad storm. One be here soon jes lak it. Soon.” She waved at chairs on the porch overlooking the bayou. “Sit, sit!”

  “Did you know my grand-père, Annie?” Janette asked.

  The old woman nodded. “Oui. He had the curse on him, but he wasn’t a bad man. Din want to do the tings he did. But he had to do dem.”

  “Why did he have to do them, Annie?” Edan asked.

  “Shut you mouth! I be talkin’ to dis lady, not you. Wait you turn.” She looked back at Janette and smiled. “Cajun boy forget his manners, oui? Yeah, I seen your fodder a time or two, me, I did.”

  “Tell me about him, Annie,” Janette begged her. “Please tell me.”

  “You go to sleep tonight, child, I tell the cauchemar when he comes talk to me to see you in you sleep. He tell you ’bout it. He be easy wit you.”

  “The who?” Pat asked.

  “Cauchemar. Don ax stupid questions, boy. You won’t understand no way if I did ’plain.”

  Before Pat could say anything else, Stella came out on the porch, a tray in her hands. Demitasse cups filled with strong coffee, dark and rich, were passed around. The odor of chicory was heavy in the air.

  “Catchee-who?” Pat finally asked.

  Annie laughed, her eyes taking in the bulk of him. “You don be ’fraid of nutting, do you? Big man; hard man. Kill lots of men in you time, hah? See someting you want, you take, hah? What you find funny in front of you door this morning, Big Man?”

  Pat locked eyes with her, neither of them dropping the hard stares. “A white substance,” he finally said. “Looked kind of like salt, in the form of a cross.”

  Stella sucked in her breath.

  Edan and Janette looked confused.

  “Obviously,” Pat said, “that means something to you and your granddaughter. But it means nothing to me.”

  “Somebody tryin’ to put a hoodoo on you, boy,” Annie said. “They callin’ on the great zombi to come get you gris-gris.”

  “Crap!” Pat said.

  Annie laughed and slapped her knee. “I lak you, Big Man. You come out anytime, you hear? You wanna hear ’bout the great zombi, Big Man?”

  “If you want to tell me.”

  She began to chant:

  “L’appe’ vini, li Grand Zombi

  “L’appe’ vini pou to gri-gri.”

  “What does that mean?” Pat asked.

  “He is coming, the great zombi; he is coming for your gris-gris.”

  “Wonderful,” Pat said. “Now maybe you’ll tell me what a gris-gris is?”

  “Gris-gris can be two, tree tings. Gris-gris be a charm that can protect—lak that one ’round Edan’s neck—or it can be someting use to make injury or death ’gainst somebodies else. Make a gris-gris to cas a spell, too. Lots of tings de be good for. You wait were you sit, Big Man; I make you a gris-gris.” She smiled. “Not that you need one, hah.” She winked at him. “I make all of you gris-gris.”

  Edan tensed, afraid that Pat would laugh and refuse the offer. But Pat sat calmly, saying nothing.

  During the short time Annie was gone, Edan said, “Wonder what she meant, Pat? About you not needing a gris-gris?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.”

  Annie returned with several gris-gris: in small leather pouches, no bigger than thimbles. A leather thong was attached to each pouch. “You, Big Man, Janette, Stella, you put these ’round your necks. Don take ’em off. I don gar-antee it protect you ’gainst all that walk at night, but it caint do no harm, neither.”

  “May I ask what is in the bag?” Pat asked.

  “Shore. Got a little dried flowers, salt, gunpowder, rabbit hair, and dried dog poo. And a dime wit a hole in it.”

  Pat looked at Edan; the ex-mercenary’s eyes wrote volumes as he slipped the cord around his neck.

  “Very bad things are happening in Ducros Parish, Annie,” Edan said. “Can you help?”

  “What you wanna know?”

  “How to stop what is happening.”

  She slowly shook her head. “I don know what I can do. I caint hep you kill no revenant, Edan. Ghost allratty dead. These be undead!” She watched with a smile on her lips as Pat stirred in his chair. “Mercenaire man dere, he don believe in night creatures—do you, Big Man? Hey, Edanl How come you change you mind ’bout what we speak ’bout las time?”

  “I haven’t entirely, Annie. But as a lawman, I’ve got to consider all possibilities.”

  “Uh-huh,” she smiled. “Shore you do.” She shifted her gaze to Janette. “How you figure in all dis, girl?”

  Janette told her about the dreams in Switzerland, on the plane to Paris, the events in the villa, of the pictures she had taken and journal
s she’d read.

  “You gots dem books and pictures wit you, girl?” Annie asked, her eyes alive with interest.

  She looked at the pictures and read the journals without comment, then returned them to Janette. Her eyes lifted to Pat. “Hokay . . . how you fit in all this, mercenaire?”

  “She hired me to protect her, and to kill the creatures—if there are any—which I doubt.”

  Annie laughed. “Yeah, you been protectin’ her allrat, I betcha. Hepin’ youself be more lak it.” She crackled at Janette’s suddenly crimson face, then abruptly turned serious before the echo of her laughter died away. She looked at Edan. “You wanna know what happen back in . . . les see . . . turdy-tree or turdy-four, hah?”

  The sheriff leaned forward. “I want to know who killed Claude Bauterre, Annie. And why. Names of those who were there. Those men and their families are in danger.”

  “Non, Edan,” she shook her head. “They not be in danger—they dead! They dead and don even know it.”

  “Names, Annie. Please?”

  “It don do you no good, Edan! Boy . . . caint you understand me?” She sighed, shaking her gray-maned head. “Caint get true to you—none of you. Big Man, dere, he tinks dat gun he got do de trick. Boom!” she shouted. “Dey fall down dead. Boy,” she looked at Pat, “caint you see dey allratty dead! Dey undead! And you, Edan, you Cajun boy. I tole you and tole you since you was little ’bout dees tings. You got short memory. Stella dere, ain’t worry none ’bout her. Wal, maybe little bits, but not much. One of dem tings bother a Metrejean and den dey have trouble. I . . .”

  “Annie,” Edan leaned forward and took her hands in his. “One of those things is a Metrejean—and a Strahan—maybe more than one.”

  “Bite you tongue, boy! What you say?”

  “Annette Metrejean, died in 1858. Her crypt is empty. And Janette’s grand’mère . . . she was a Strahan, related to the Metrejeans. But you know all this, Annie—why didn’t you tell me?”

  The old woman sat in her rocking chair and rocked back and forth. She chanted in a low voice. She suddenly ceased her chanting and grabbed her granddaughter’s hand. “You don go back with dem, Stella. You stay out here wit me. You be safe here.”

  Stella pulled her hand away and patted her grand’mère’s hand. “No, grandmomma, I can’t do that. I have a job in town. As much as I’d like to stay, I can’t. Please, grandmomma, tell Edan all you know about this thing.”

  Annie Metrejean leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. She kept them closed for several moments. She hummed a song. “Worse dan I taught,” she said. “Good and evil gonna fight.” Her old eyes touched Pat, lingering on his face.

  He doesn’t know, Annie thought. And I caint tell him none about it. “Hokay,” she said. “I talk slow—you write all dis down on papers.”

  “I have a tape recorder, Annie,” Edan said.

  She smiled. “Den tape, but write, too. Tape might not tape ma voice.”

  “I’ll get pencil and paper,” Stella said. “I take very fast shorthand.” She went into the house.

  “What do you mean, Annie?” Edan asked. “Might not tape your voice?”

  “Don you listen to talk, boy? Witch-woman—dat’s me.” She nodded her head toward Pat. “He be more rat dan you know.”

  “How . . . ?” Pat said, then shut his mouth.

  When in Rome, he thought.

  Stella returned and sat down. “I’m ready, grandmomma.”

  Annie smiled. “Yeah, dat’s what I ’fraid of when you ’round Edan.”

  “Grandmother!”

  “Annie . . .” Edan protested.

  “Oh, shut up. Bot of you. What you tink—I’m stupid old woman. You a man, she’s a woman. But you batter do her rat, Edan.”

  Annie sat quietly for a moment. “Hokay—where to begin? Wal . . . Annette Metrejean—de first Annette—was half-sister to de old voodoo lady, Marie Strahan; said she was relate to de Laveaus, but I don believe dat. All dem bad Metrejeans be empoison-neurs.. . . ”

  “Be what?” Edan asked.

  “. . . Potion makers; some poison to kill, others to sleep for long time. Don interrupt.

  “You see, de Bauterres come here after a time in Canada, change dey name from Camardelle to Bauterre. Day leave Lafourche Parish long, long time ago. Come here.

  “Hokay, ’nother Annette—dey all name Annette—marry up wit a Bauterre, and dat marriage made by de devil, and you kin all believe dat. De Annette you see today, on de gravestone, was kilt wit her husband, Claude Bauterre de second or de turd—dey so many of ’em, hard to keep track. But dey make a mistake and don burn either of dem. Dat’s why dey up and movin’. Dey got to be burn; only way you can kill dem peoples. Burn ’em! If you don, dey be back.”

  The look on Pat’s face was one of utter, total incredulity.

  “But you got to gits all of dem, Edan—you and the Big Man, dere. He got to hep—don ax why. Dis is revenge on de part of old Victoria Bauterre. And she one, too. De baddest of them all. She been here tree, four time allratty before. Devil woman.”

  “Been where tree . . . ah . . . three or four times before?” Pat blurted.

  “Herel” Annie stamped her foot impatiently. “On dis erth. Where de hell you tink I mean—de moon?”

  Pat leaned back in his chair and opened the package of cigarettes he had bought before coming out here. It was, he thought, time to go back to smoking. This was enough to drive anyone back to smoking.

  Annie said, “It gonna happen when de wolfsbane grow on de bayou path—de bloody bayou path. Where Victoria’s las husband got shot all dem time back in turdy-four.

  “De peoples who tought dey kilt him: Guilbeau, Lormand, Trahan, Sheppard, Campbell, Callier, Huval, Charlevoix, Tallant, Bares, LeJeune, Bethencourt, Blanchet. Some mores, too.”

  “But not Daily?” Edan asked.

  “Non,” she shook her head. The expression on her face was almost a pout.

  “Is my grand’mère related to you?” Janette asked. “By blood? You never did say.”

  “No, I din, did I? Yeah, she be blood kin. I ain’t proud of it, but she is. She ma aunt. Bad Strahan, she is. Ever family got ’um. But she one of the worst. She hate me, but she’s ’fraid of me, too. I got de power.” The old woman looked at Pat, then jerked her head at Janette. “She got star on her chest?”

  “I most certainly do not!” Janette protested.

  “Dat rat?” Annie continued looking at Pat.

  He nodded. “No star. No marks.” He smiled at Janette’s embarrassment. “Perfect.”

  “Ain’t no woman perfect, boy—jes lak no man perfect. Bes you ’member dat.” She cut her eyes to Janette. “Your kids; boy and girl . . . dey got marks?”

  Janette shook her head. “No. No marks.” She wondered how Annie knew of her children.

  “Good. Maybe all de bad blood die out when all dis ugly business over in Ducros. And,” she looked at Pat, “it gonna be over—one way or de other. Now, I tared. Gets me a nap. Ya’ll be back here one more time, den we gets it done.” She rose from her chair and walked into the house.

  When she had disappeared into her house, Pat said to Edan, “How much of all this do you believe?”

  “All of it,” the sheriff whispered.

  Inside the house, Annie Metrejean cackled her laughter. “De Big Man gonna be put to de test soon—den he believe. Oh, my, yes. Cooo! Yeah, den he believe.”

  Janette shook Pat awake early the next morning. The hands on his Glycine Airman wristwatch read 0245. “What?” he mumbled.

  “Hold me, Pat—Please!”

  He gathered her in his arms and pulled her close. She was trembling. “What’s wrong, babe?”

  “I just had the most horrible dream. Some . . . thing . . . some . . . whatever it was came to me in my dreams and told me to watch. It was like I was awake, but not really. Does that make any sense? No!” she answered before Pat could open his mouth.

  “Then I saw my mother and my father—and it was my parents
, that was unmistakable. She was feeding on him.”

  Pat sat up in bed. “She was doing . . . what the hell did you say!?”

  Janette shushed him and pulled him back under the covers. “She was . . . she was biting him on the neck, drinking his blood. It was awful!”

  “Janette,” Pat said calmly. “You’re letting that old witch-woman’s words get to you. You probably went to sleep thinking about that catch-ee-car she talked about. I . . .”

  “No, Pat.” She placed a finger on his lips, silencing him. “No, this was real; I feel this . . . thing I saw really happened. And something else, Pat.”

  “Yes.”

  “The . . . spirit . . . or whatever it was, he, it said. . . said you’d win this fight, but you’d also lose.” And he said: ‘Don’t trust the dark one.’ What do you suppose that means?”

  “It means,” Pat said, reaching over her and uncorking the small bottle of Valium on the nightstand, “that Casper the Friendly Ghost and Janette with the overactive imagination are both about to go night-night. Take these like a good girl. Here, here’s some water.

  “Hold me until I go to sleep, Pat?”

  “My pleasure, babe. Always your dutiful servant.”

  But after Janette had dropped into the deep sleep of the sedated, Pat rose from the bed to stand by the windows, looking out over the grounds.

  He stood for a long time, his thoughts many and all confused. Finally, he gave it up and went back to bed. But sleep was elusive. Just before he closed his eyes, dropping off into a deep sleep, he could have sworn he heard the sound of hooves just outside the window. And he could have sworn a thin finger of mist crept into the room and touched him on the forehead, sending him into sleep.

  “That’s not possible,” he muttered, as the sound of hooves striking air faded and sleep took him gently into dark arms.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The editorial in the Ducros Register was not openly critical of Sheriff Vallot’s handling of the disappearances and murders in the parish, but it managed—subtly—to leave the reader with the impression that the sheriffs department was not performing up to par on the unsolved murders in Ducros.