A Crying Shame

by William W. Johnstone

  Before the white humans came, several hundred years past, the Links had been almost pure in their form. Animals, but with a definite social order. They ate only fish and berries and wild sweet potatoes—yams—and certain other palatable roots, which they knew instinctively would cure some ailments and aid their digestive systems. They knew enough to strip the bark from certain trees, including oak, soak it in water, and drink the liquid for sickness. They were as civilized then as many forms of so-called intelligent beings. They did not kill for sport; they did not kill for the sake of killing; they did not make war. They learned to live in harmony with those around them. They took mates, cared for their old, loved their young—in their own fashion—and built shelters out of bark and branches and leaves and living vines and bushes. They made loincloths out of small woven vines.

  And they buried their dead in secret underground places.

  But the swamp was much larger then: hundreds of thousands of acres; and the Links were never a large tribe, never numbering more than a few hundred at the maximum. Now there were less than eighty stable male Links in the Crying Swamp. More than fifty crazed young males. They all had learned to hide and sleep by day, coming out only during the late hours of the night to hunt for food—and for mates, now that they could produce only male offspring. And the leaders had to be more and more intelligent in their planning of raids, more selective in their choosing of who would breed, for a madness had crept into their strain. Of the young males, many of those who lived past twenty years would be stricken with sudden seizures and shuddering; they would foam at the mouth like mad dogs and their eyes would become crazed. They became meat-eaters only, craving hot blood and raw flesh. Human or animal. It made no difference.

  And the leaders would have to kill them. If they could catch them.

  But many got away. Those who did lived deep in the great swamp, breeding with stolen women, bringing more and more crazed creatures into the world, eluding their own brothers and fathers who sought to destroy them. For the leaders knew that those maddened few, and their actions of late, had the potential to kill them all.

  What to do?

  The older, wiser Links had much more than native intelligence. They could reason and think and plan, and they had had, for centuries, their own language. They had some of their human offspring helping them, from time to time, but now some of their human sons and daughters were turning against them, and they could not understand this act. For had they not taken the humanlike infants to the edge of the great swamp, leaving them on the steps of human homes, to be cared for and loved and raised with those who were as them?

  It was baffling to the Links. Baffling.

  And they did not know what to do. For it was against their nature to kill for no reason. But they had to survive. That was also part of their nature. So what choice were they left?

  The leaders had to talk; they must risk an open meeting with all the clans to talk. It had to be.

  At Despair Plantation, Jon belted on a .45-caliber pistol, then reached into the travel bag and fitted together an M-10 Ingram, complete with long padded barrel that acted as both barrel extension and silencer. Even with the silencer, the M-10 was not quiet at full automatic.

  Interesting weapon,” Mike observed, more than a touch of dryness in his tone.

  Forty-five-caliber. Not worth a damn past sixty yards ... that’s my personal opinion. Some say less, some say more. But up to sixty yards, it’ll stop most anything that’s coming at you.”

  Thirty-round clip?”

  Yes.”

  Sheriff Saucier studied Jon Badon in the sunlight of summer in the bayou country. A big man, well over six feet, weighing probably two-twenty-five, a lot of muscle in his arms and shoulders. Mike involuntarily sucked in his own gut, aware of the beginnings of a paunch, and felt a pang of jealousy at Badon’s lean waist and hips. At his temples Badon had only a touch of gray, in his thick, dark brown hair. Very pale eyes. Dangerous eyes, the sheriff thought. Hunter’s eyes.

  Wonder how many men he’s killed?

  Wonder if he even knows?

  Probably not.

  Badon was conscious of Sheriff Saucier’s careful studied gaze. He said nothing; he was accustomed to getting this once-over from lawmen. There was something about him, his walk, his manner, his bearing, that caused street-wise cops to turn around and take a second look at him. It was a primal sensing that this man, if confronted, would be dangerous, would not back away, would fight; and the fight would be to the death. Only men who have been tested to their limits of courage and endurance ... in combat ... possess this aura. No one else has it, for it cannot be won on a gaming field.

  The tracks of the other Links went off to the southeast, right?” Badon asked.

  Yes. How’d you know that?”

  Logical conclusion. That’s the direction of the thickest part of the swamp touching the estate grounds. They were heading home.” Badon attached a clip-pouch to his belt; it held three smaller clips, each containing sixteen rounds. A two-clip pouch for the .45 automatic pistol was on the other side of the web belt. Where are the hands who work this land?”

  The night of the killing, you mean? No one lives out here on the place except for Paul and Linda Breaux.”

  Not even the foreman?”

  No. He lives in town.”

  You don’t find that odd?”

  No. Should I? If so, why?”

  The house we passed just down the road. The nice one. That supposed to be the foreman’s home?”

  Used to be, yes.”

  Wonder why he doesn’t live there? Rent-free, I should imagine.”

  Sheriff Saucier lifted his shoulders and spread his hands in a gesture of So what?”—a body movement that only a Cajun can express so eloquently.

  What’s the foreman’s name?”

  Cooper. Doug Cooper. Is this supposed to be leading somewhere, Badon?”

  Lived here long?”

  All his life. All his forty-two years. He ...” The sheriff paused, reflecting for a moment. He sighed. He was found abandoned when he was about ... six or seven months old. Found on a doorstep.”

  Where?”

  Other side of the swamp.”

  Jon smiled. Now isn’t that interesting? Many of these around this area?”

  Now that you mention it, yes. A few that I know of. But it doesn’t prove a damned thing. Look, Badon, if Cooper ... the others ... are related to those beasts, Links, as you call them . . .” Saucier shook his head, expelling a breath of air. Why wouldn’t those people want to live close to them?”

  Maybe they don’t wish to be ‘one of them.’ ”

  Speculation. Conjecture.” Mike brushed it off.

  If I were you, Mike,” Badon said. I’d—”

  You’re not me.” Mike cut him short.

  Certainly. Excuse me. You go read your journals, Mike. I’m going down to the edge of the swamp.”

  Alone? You’re either a very brave man or a damned fool, Jon.”

  Actually, neither. I’m just a man who knows how to survive. God knows, I’ve been doing it long enough.”

  The deputy who was on guard at the house walked up to join the men. He carried a .308 in addition to his sidearm. Mike introduced him to Badon, then said, Oh, by the way, Jon; what type of driver’s license do you hold?”

  International and Louisiana. I maintain an apartment in New Orleans. Have for years. Just off the Quarter.”

  So you’re still a citizen of the United States? Technically a resident of Louisiana?”

  Yes.”

  Well ... when we get back to the office, I’ll make this official. I’ll make you a deputy—special deputy. We’ll call you a special investigator.”

  Something I have always longed to be,” Badon said dryly. He walked off toward the dark swamp, the edge of it a full half-mile from the elegant old home.

  The men watched him go, his stride a precise thirty-inch military step. We gettin‘ machine guns like he’s carryin’, Sheriff?” th
e deputy asked.

  I wish,” Saucier said.

  Who is he?”

  Not to be repeated, O.K.?”

  Yes, sir.”

  He’s a mercenary. Hired by Paul Breaux to come in here on a job.”

  To track down the creatures, or whatever that thing was?”

  Yes.”

  I hope to Christ he finds them and kills all of them!”

  Mike looked at his deputy for a long moment. Yes,” he finally said.

  While Mike pored over the journals in the house, sitting in the den, not in the blood-splattered office—and not understanding all that he read, for much of it was in professional and medical terminology—Jon prowled the edge of the swamp, seeking the spot where the Link had entered the water. No ... Links, for there had been more than one. One of them was wounded; hit hard, judging from the amount of blood lost. He had seen the well-placed shots of Linda Breaux on the chest of the dead Link. The lady was quite proficient with her pistol—also a beautiful woman.

  Jon stood on the edge of the swamp and looked at this foreboding place, at the dark water, sluggish in its almost nonexistent movement, filled with low-hanging moss and ancient trees. Full of ’gators and cottonmouths and rattlers, too, Jon mused. Thousands of acres, parts of it touching three parishes.

  And it belonged to the Breaux family. Why? Why would the old man ... what was his name? Benoit, back then. Why would he have wanted the swamp? Did it have anything to do with the Links? Jon shook his head. Unanswered questions. Many of them. And there would be many more before this was over. He felt sure of that.

  Jon squatted down at water’s edge, his mind busy. He would have to procure a boat, a good one, and a very detailed map of the swamp. He might have to find a local man he could trust, for his very life might hang in the man’s hands. A man who didn’t spook at danger. A man with a hard branch of service behind him. Combat Ranger, Green Beret, Marine Force Recon, AF Jungle Warfare, Navy SEAL. There should be at least one of those in the parish. If not, he’d look elsewhere, or call in a merc he knew who lived in New Orleans.

  Jon did not really like or trust most civilians, and he had no use for a man who had not tested himself ... or at least made an effort to do so.

  He had wanted to tell his friends, Dr. Lewis and von Pappen about this job, but Paul had been explicit about that. No. Absolutely not. And Jon had been paid enough to ensure silence. But now ... well, he would see. Paul’s death had changed it all.

  Jon had seen years of combat, had been on too many night patrols down through the long, lonely, bloody years not to know—sense—he was being watched. The Links were here, in the swamp, hidden, studying him as he was viewing their terrain. Tit for tat, he smiled. Jon wondered what they were thinking, attempting to put himself in their place as they studied their only natural enemy: man. He wondered if they could reason, and concluded they could, and perhaps not so primitively as Paul had surmised in his journals.

  Jon had asked for and received a photocopy of Paul’s journals and other related notes. He had studied them very carefully before agreeing to this job. For, if all went well, this was to be his last assignment before retiring. Forty-three was not old, but combat is a young man’s game, and Jon’s life had been long and bloody and painful and traumatic. It was time to quit. He was a highly intelligent man, and he knew it was time to get out.

  Jon again peered into the murkiness of the swamp. Yes, he concluded, they could reason. Nothing as horrible-looking as the Link he had seen could have survived all these years without the ability to think, to reason—and to do so with much more than mere animal cunning. No, they had to be able to hide when fishermen and hunters entered their domain. So ... where did they hide? Probably cleverly constructed shelters. And did they bury their dead as Paul felt they did? Or, the disgusting thought came to him: did they eat them? His mind raced through many unanswered questions.

  He rose to his booted feet to stand looking at the dark swamp. I’m coming after you,” he said quietly. And I’ll find you and destroy you.”

  The wind sighed in hot reply.

  The Links that lay hidden in the swamp, looking at the human who looked at the swamp, passed a series of low grunts between them.

  He is not afraid,” one said.

  The others disagreed. He is one human. He will be easy. As the others have been.”

  But the first young Link was not at all sure about that. He was the oldest of the break-away Links, and he sensed this human had something of the animal in him. He moved like the great cats that used to live in the swamp, silent and sure and deadly.

  We’ll test him this night,” he finally signaled.

  It’s as you said.” Mike looked up as Jon entered the den. Paul believed they are producing human babies—a few—and they have passed them into our society. Some then help their true kind.”

  That’s a good ol’ colored word, Mike. Pass. Shows you’re a real southerner.”

  How about intermingling with humans?” Mike said tightly.

  Jon sensed the sheriff was taking offense at the kidding. He smiled to lessen the strain. Either one is fine, Mike. I was only joking. I was born in Louisiana, too.”

  Sorry. But I just don’t see anything to joke about. I’ve got one hell of a problem on my hands.”

  Yes, you do. But I’ll help you in any way I can—if that is any consolation.” He glanced at a complicated-looking wrist watch. Well, if you’re quite through here, I’d like to return to town, pick up Miss Breaux and my car.”

  Ms.,” Mike corrected.

  Badon looked strangely at him. Why are you hissing?”

  I’m not hissing! She’s a Ms. M—S—period.”

  Really? How quaint.”

  What are you going to do after you pick up Ms. Breaux?”

  Return here. I intend for us to stay out here.”

  Sheriff Saucier looked at Jon as if the man had lost his mind. The hell you say! Man, are you nuts?” He waved his hand toward the swamp. Those ... things out there are going to be mightily pissed-off. Seeking revenge, probably. And you and Ms. Breaux are going to stay out here, alone? Crap. No way!”

  How do you propose to stop us?” Jon smiled.

  Well ... I’ll speak to Ms. Breaux.”

  I already have ... at your office. She agrees: we stay out here. This is her home. I am fully capable of withstanding any attack the Links may mount against this home.” Spoken with that almost-mocking, knowing smile that never reached the man’s eyes. I assure you of that, Mike.”

  Sheriff Saucier looked at Badon. Exactly what do you have in the trunk of your car?”

  It’s a very large trunk, Mike.”

  I repeat: what do you have in the trunk of your car?”

  An AK-47, a .458 Cape Buffalo rifle, double-barreled which fires a nitro-express load, a case of grenades, several coils of det-cord, a shotgun.” And several other articles he chose not to mention.

  How in the hell did you get all that crap into this country?”

  That smile.

  Mike sighed. Right,” he said. How much of that stuff is legal, Badon?”

  The shotgun. I had the barrel cut to twenty and a quarter inches. Eighteen inches is legal Federal, but I believe the law in this state is twenty. And the .458, of course, is legal. The rest is up for grabs, I suppose.”

  Well . . . it’s your ass if you get caught, partner. You’re the one who’ll get fucked.”

  That smile. With Ms. Breaux, I hope.”

  Chapter Four

  Don’t get the wrong idea about us staying at the house together,” Linda informed Jon. You will sleep in one of the guest rooms, and I shall sleep in my own room—upstairs.”

  Wrong,” Jon said.

  She put cool green eyes on him; a strange coloration, tinged with flecks of yellow. I beg your pardon?”

  I would imagine these Links are marvelously agile creatures. From the looks of the one you killed, they are probably good climbers, tremendously strong. I don’t want us too widely s
eparated. I want adjoining rooms. It’s for your safety.”

  She thought about that for a quiet moment, the only sound the humming of the tires as they rolled down the parish road. Very well,” she agreed. Then you think they will return?”

  Yes, I do. I believe—and I don’t mean to alarm you, just tell you the truth, as I see it—they have singled you out for mating purposes.” She shuddered beside him. And I believe they realize—sense, somehow—that I am a threat to them. More than that, a challenge. So, yes, I think they will return.”

  She nodded. I thought it best to tell Sheriff Saucier I knew you were arriving today.”

  Yes, he is not an unintelligent man.” He wondered what else she had told Mike. Wondered just how much she knew of her brother’s work. He had a feeling she knew very little.

  Well,”—Linda sighed—Paul said you were honest—for a mercenary—and that you were trustworthy. She glanced at him. I have to admit, you don’t look like a mercenary. At least not my concept of a professional fighting man.”

  You’ve seen too many movies about mercs, Miss Breaux. There is no stereotype mercenary. We come from all walks of life, all sizes, shapes, and religious backgrounds. And each man has his own reasons for becoming a mere. Some men were men of the cloth, doctors, lawyers; some are running from a bad marriage, some from bad debts ... some are just running. Many enjoy the test of combat—the high of it, if you will.”

  How interesting,” she said primly. And it is Ms. Breaux.”

  I think I’ll call you Linda.” He smiled.

  The smile seemed to infuriate her. You. . . ! How insufferably arrogant you are!”

  He laughed, then quickly sobered, recalling that her brother had been dead only hours. I’m sorry,” he said, and she sensed the sincerity in it. I have forgotten my manners. I also forgot about Paul.”