A Crying Shame

by William W. Johnstone

  Strange little man,” Linda observed.

  Sheriff Saucier knelt down beside the woman and stared at her for a moment. Even dirty and bloodied, Linda Breaux was a lot of woman. About five-seven, Mike reckoned, full-breasted and long-legged with a slim waist and light brown hair, worn long. Lovely expressive eyes. But very cold, he thought, then amended that thought. Not cold ... just in control.

  How much have you told my deputy?” he asked.

  What I could remember at the time. It’s all coming back to me, now.” She could not read the man’s eyes behind his dark glasses. She put her dark eyes on his face. I don’t suppose you have a drink of water or a soft drink?”

  No, ma’am. Sorry. Ms. Breaux, is there anyone you’d like me to call? Parents, friends, relatives?”

  She shook her head. My parents are dead. Paul was all I had. Well ... cousins down south. We were not close.”

  You’re going to have to tell this story lots of times, Ms. Breaux, so if you feel you must, you can wait until later, until you’re more composed. But I really would like to hear what happened. Now, if you don’t mind.”

  A faint smile darted across her lips. Very commanding way of putting it, Sheriff.” She sighed and leaned back against the patrol car. Joe had positioned her so she could not see her brother’s head, or the various other parts and pieces of him scattered about the front yard, hanging from bushes and plants. I don’t object, Sheriff. Where do I start?”

  At the beginning, ma’am.”

  That faint smile again. Very well. For about ... five ... no!—six weeks, since the third week of June, I believe, both my brother and I have been hearing ... strange noises at night. I realize that I have been somewhat of a nuisance calling your deputies out here, but I guess you believe—now—that my calls were not those of some simple-minded or hysterical woman.”

  It was not phrased to be a question. Mike picked up on that. Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  Then for ... the past three or four nights, it’s been a regular occurrence. The noises, I mean. Growing more ... persistent. Last night, I asked Paul to go outside and look. I asked him to take a gun. He did.”

  The shotgun on the den floor?”

  Yes. Bent like a horseshoe.”

  The . . . beast did that?”

  One of them.”

  That chill returned to Mike’s stomach. That slimy, many-headed, sluggish, invisible feeling of dread. A feeling that this was something no sheriff’s department —anywhere—should have to face alone. More than one of them, ma’am?”

  Yes. At least three. I suspect more. I could hear and make out their gruntings. None was exactly alike. Then, I saw them, during lightning flashes. After I killed that ... thing in the office, I began conserving my ammunition. I hit one of them ... the creatures ... outside the window. It was a well-placed shot. I saw him ... it ... stagger and scream. I had only the one box of shells for the pistol, and I certainly did not wish to run out.”

  Smart move on your part,” Mike complimented her. Very good thinking. Good presence of mind. Lots of people would have panicked.”

  Paul insisted, before I came up here to join him, I attend classes at a local gun club in New Orleans; learn to be proficient with pistol, rifle, and shotgun. I am not a woman who panics easily.”

  I’ll go along with that, Mike thought. Damned sure wouldn’t want you shooting at me. Why would your brother insist you learn weapons, Ms. Breaux? Did your parents make a point of that?”

  No, never. As to Paul’s reasoning ... I don’t know. I thought it very strange myself. But it was his request, so I obeyed. We—my brother and I—never really got along. Too much difference in ages, I suppose. Had something to do with it, I’m sure. Different personalities altogether.”

  I have to say, Ms. Breaux, you’re holding up extremely well considering all that’s happened.”

  Only now, Sheriff. Last night I went to pieces, during the storm. Sometime after the ... beasts left. Whatever those things are. I don’t know what to call them. Had they returned, they easily could have killed me. I don’t believe I ever really fainted, but I was hazy, shocky, and not really certain or aware of my surroundings.”

  Educated lady, too, Mike thought. And very cool. I can understand why she didn’t mix well with most of the people around here. Miss . . . ah ... Ms. Breaux, why did you and your brother leave New Orleans and come up here?”

  Something clouded the woman’s eyes, just for a fast, mysterious second, masking the dark green. Mike could see it, but not read its meaning. He made a mental note of the puzzling murkiness.

  Paul wanted to—in his words—get back to the land. He loved farming. He was not just a gentleman farmer, either, Sheriff; he worked just as hard as the hands. Paul majored in ... something about farming at LSU. And,”—she sighed, the movement lifting her breasts; Mike was grateful for his dark glasses, for his eyes followed the movement—I’ll be honest with you, Sheriff Saucier: there was something up here that seemed to ... I don’t know ... mystify him—if that’s the right choice of words; it may not be. For months before he came up here, Paul studied some kind of old journals and diaries belonging to our family—both sides. All sides. The Benoit/Breaux/Fortier families. I don’t know what was in the journals—I never asked and he never volunteered any information.”

  Ray Wagner’s patrol car was screaming up the road. Mike watched it pull into the drive. Where are those journals, Ms. Breaux?”

  In the house. In the office safe.”

  I’d like to see them, if you don’t mind.”

  Of course.” She smiled. I’ll certainly open the safe. But they are written in French.”

  Mike returned the smile. I think I can handle it, ma’am.”

  Les Blackwell, owner and editor of the Fountain Ledger, paced up and down the side of the blacktop road, growing more irritated with each step, each passing second. Les was not representative of all reporters—just about twenty-five percent of them. He was a total asshole, believing that his press credentials gave him an inalienable right to be rude, obnoxious, and arrogant.

  You can’t suppress the news, Deputy,” he said, his voice both demanding and commanding.

  The young deputy didn’t blink. I’m not, Mr. Blackwell. I’m just following orders, that’s all.”

  I demand to speak with Sheriff Saucier!”

  I gave him your message, sir.”

  Well?”

  Well, what?”

  Where the hell is he?”

  The deputy shrugged. Still at Despair Plantation, I imagine. Although”—the deputy fought to hide a smile at the doubt he was just about to implant in Blackwell’s mind—there are several ways in and out of Despair. Maybe he took one of the others.”

  Blackwell hesitated. Are you trying to be cute with me, deputy?”

  My mamma thinks I am.”

  Blackwell struggled with his temper. I’ve been here for more than an hour!”

  The deputy’s eyes remained emotionless behind his dark glasses, but he felt nothing but contempt for the newspaper editor. Blackwell had written several editorials against the millage issue that would have given the deputies of Fountain Parish a badly needed raise; he had editorialized against new equipment for the department; and he had slyly and oilily questioned the department’s handling of certain cases involving the monied people of the parish, implying (but never coming out and saying) that the sheriff didn’t like the rich and picked on their kids. Blackwell’s words.

  The deputy looked at the newspaperman, thinking: What does he think we are, the FBI? Our equipment is so old it’s falling apart; most of us have to work two jobs just to try to make ends meet, and we still can’t get the ends to join; we’re understaffed, underpaid, and underequipped. And to make matters worse, we have to put up with assholes like you, Blackwell.

  Well, Deputy?” Blackwell said. Deputy” came out of his mouth as if it were something nasty.

  Sheriff Saucier will be along when he finishes up at the house. Important things fi
rst, you know?”

  Blackwell bristled at the remark, but decided to keep his mouth shut, feeling he’d pushed about as far as he safely could. His feud with the Fountain Parish Sheriff’s Department went back a few years, to when deputies had picked up his oldest son on a dope charge and Saucier—just a year in office—had pushed it all the way. The judge had given his boy a year on the P Farm. P for prison. A work farm. How humiliating! His son having to sleep with niggers and work out in the hot sun from dawn to dusk, hoeing beans and chopping cotton. His son!

  The Blackwell family was one of the oldest in the parish. Settlers from way back. Les’s great-great-grandfather had opened the first newspaper in the parish; he had also supervised the farming of his acres of land. All the Blackwells down the line owned property. Old money. Gentlemen farmers. And no Blackwell had ever been in jail; they had all managed to buy their way out. Then this upstart, semiliterate Coonass decided to clean up the parish ... and started with a Blackwell.

  But semiliterate was about as far off the mark as Blackwell could get, and he reluctantly admitted it. Mike Saucier held a master’s from LSU and had been accepted for the FBI but he had decided to stay in Louisiana and become a deputy, and finally had run for sheriff of Fountain Parish. Saucier was far from being illiterate.

  Blackwell pulled his wandering thoughts to the present. Dr. Thurman’s car was rolling to a stop. The deputy waved him through.

  How come he goes in and I don’t?” Blackwell snarled the question.

  ’Cause he’s the coroner.”

  And I happen to be a member of the press.”

  That makes you better than the next ... civilian?”

  Blackwell glared at him in silence, for the moment without rebuttal.

  The deputy smiled sweetly at the newspaperman.

  Dr. Henry Thurman looked at the creature through unbelieving eyes. He shook his head, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, then lifted his eyes to the sheriff. I ... don’t believe what I’m seeing, Mike.”

  Well, you’re damned sure looking at it,” Mike reminded him. And smelling it.”

  The coroner again shook his head. My mother wanted me to be a lawyer.”

  My mother wanted me to be a priest,” Mike said. But that doesn’t help us now, does it, Henry?”

  Thurman pulled on rubber gloves and turned the dead brute over on its back. Its exposed penis and ball sac slapped dully against the flesh of its groin.

  Sucker sure was hung,” Mack said.

  Young man,” Dr. Thurman said, annoyance in his tone, I—”

  Skip it, Henry,” Mike urged. I agree with Mack.”

  Linda had put four shots into the creature’s heart. Good shooting,” Thurman said, his quick annoyance fading. The young woman did this?”

  Yes,” Mike said.

  Joe was taking pictures as fast as the Polaroid could whine them out. It’s the devil’s work!” he said. The mark of the beast.”

  Shit!” Mack said, taking pictures for the LHP with his Polaroid.

  I can do without that from both of you,” the sheriff said.

  Even if what I said was the truth?” Joe defended his statement.

  Mike ignored that, verbally, but he stared at the man until Joe dropped his gaze. He directed a question to the coroner. What is this thing, Henry?”

  I ... ah ... well, I really don’t know, Mike. But I’ll tell you this: you’d better sit on this; you’d better not let the populace find out something like this ... thing is roaming around the parish. God, you’d have panic on your hands. All sorts of people running around shooting at anything that moved in the night. And you’d better consider the real possibility that, if there’s one of them, there is probably another. At least. Mike, if word of this leaks out, we’ll have professional adventurers coming in, bounty hunters, and rank amateurs ... all of them falling over each other. You’d have scientists, professors, archaeologists, tourists, nuts—the entire spectrum. And some of them would get hurt—maybe killed. It would turn into a sideshow—a freak hunt. I mean it, Mike. Panic is what you’d have.”

  Mack’s hand-held walkie-talkie squawked. He stepped out of the room and spoke for a moment. When he returned, he said, You’ve got anger right this minute, Sheriff. Down the road. Blackwell. He’s giving Bradbury a bad time of it.”

  Hell with Blackwell,” Mike said. Let him stew. If he gets too abusive with Brad, I’ll have the son of a bitch arrested for interference with a law officer in the performance of his duty.” He looked at Joe and the trooper. You men all through here?”

  All finished,” they replied.

  Mike turned to the coroner, Henry . . . I’ll be honest. I don’t know what to do, what to release to the press. I do agree with your assessment: we can’t let the public know about this ... thing—not for a while anyway. But we ... rather, I have to go about it very carefully; I don’t want Blackwell calling in a bunch of big-city reporters and having them snoop all over the parish, getting in the way of our investigation, muddying up the waters.”

  I’ve got to file a report, Sheriff,” Mack said.

  I know,” Mike replied. I know. But let’s file similiar statements. What the hell do we call this ... beast?”

  Why not call it what it is?” a man’s voice said calmly from the open doorway. It’s a link to our past.”

  The men in the room spun around, startled. Who the hell are you?” Mike demanded. And what the hell are you doing here?”

  My name is Jon Badon,” the man replied. And I was invited here by Mr. Paul Breaux.”

  Paul Breaux is dead,” Mack told him.

  Yes.” The man’s smile was cold; without emotion. I rather thought something was amiss when I glanced out the shattered front window and saw all the blood and entrails hanging about. Gruesome, what? Did the Links do it?”

  Mike ignored the question, not really understanding the Links” part of it. How’d you get past my deputies, mister?”

  Quite easily, actually.” The man spoke with a curious combination of British and French accents. I have in my possession, thanks to Paul Breaux, a rather detailed map of Despair Plantation and the swamp. I simply drove until I found the dirt road that would bring me up to the rear of the home. Here I am.”

  Jon Badon?” Mike said, almost as an afterthought. Where have I heard that before?”

  That odd smile, quickly exposing strong, white teeth. I must admit,” Badon said, I am not unknown in ... ah ... shall we say ... certain law-enforcement circles.”

  Dr. Thurman rose from his squat beside the carcass of the dead beast. I read an article about you a couple of years ago,” he said to Jon Badon. You’re a damned mercenary.”

  Badon bowed slightly. Au contraire, Docteur. I am, or at least, was, a professional soldier of fortune. Mercenary has such an ugly ring to it, don’t you agree?”

  The doctor snorted his contempt for men who make their living fighting in this war or the other. He was appalled by the number of people who seemed to be fascinated by the lives of mercenaries. Violent people, the lot of them. And to show movies about them on television—where young minds might be molded and shaped by their example. Violence-minded men. Entirely too much violence on TV and in the movies. All that should be taken off TV ... immediately. Show nothing but sports. Football, preferably. Now there was something a young man should set his eyes upon. No violence there, certainly. A perfect example of good, fine, clean-living men. Men who lived exemplary lives: no gambling, doping, womanizing. None of that there. And the good doctor liked to watch the players mix it up on the field; hated it when the camera swung away from a good brawl. Nothing wrong with a good fist fight, now and then.

  The good doctor, like so many others, needed, as the young people put it, to get his shit together.”

  Jon Badon pegged the good doctor immediately. He had seen his type all over the world. The left hand didn’t really know what the right hand was doing—to put it as subtly as possible.

  Why did you call this . . .”—Mike pointed to the
dead creature—hairy bastard a Link?”

  Isn’t every living creature a link of some sort?” was Badon’s reply.

  Dr. Thurman snorted.

  Mack looked at the soldier of fortune and concluded, with a professional lawman’s eye, that this big dude would probably be hell on wheels in any kind of fight.

  Joe Ratliff muttered, under his breath, Devil’s beasts, that’s what they are.”

  Sheriff Saucier looked at Badon. I think we’d better have a chat, Badon.”

  That odd smile. I rather suspected you’d say that Sheriff.”

  Jon Badon,’ ” Mike read from the teletype just received from the FBI. ‘No middle name. Born Jeanerette, Louisiana. Age forty-three. Ran away from home at age thirteen, after parents died in automobile accident. Made his way overseas as cabin boy on a freighter. At age fifteen, enlisted in the French Foreign Legion. Assumed name; lied about age. Fought in southeast Asia as legionnaire, wounded at Dien Bien Phu in 1954. Captured. Escaped. Recaptured. Escaped. Made his way south to freedom. Completed enlistment in FFL. Fought as paid mercenary in southeast Asia, under contract to U.S. Government 1960-64. Mercenary in Africa since mid-sixties.’ ” Mike lifted his eyes. Africa, among other places, that is.”

  Jon shrugged, lifting his heavy shoulders. One must make a living where one can, Sheriff.”

  Mike grunted. ‘Expert in all types of firearms, explosives, hand-to-hand combat. Should be considered extremely dangerous. No wants or warrants on record in U.S. or from Interpol. Temperament: can range from suave to violent; known to have killed on contract four times. No prosecution.’ ” He looked up from the paper. Why weren’t you tried, Badon?”

  Jon’s smile was wan. Because I killed on orders from your government, Saucier.” He smiled as the sheriff shifted in his chair at the use of his last name. Or should I say a branch of it?”

  Again, that grunt from Mike. Badon wondered why the man did not take off his dark glasses inside. ‘Dropped out of sight in ’78 and surfaced in late ‘78, working for scientific investigation teams, made up of doctors and scientists from half a dozen countries, headed by respected scientists Walter Lewis and Karl von Pappen. Badon has confined his work to that area since.’ ”