A Crying Shame

by William W. Johnstone

  They believe they have no choice,” the old one said. You must remember, there are human blood and human ways within them. They are not like us.”

  The man our sentry spoke of, at the great house on the swamp’s edge, he will be the one?”

  I am sure. The sentry said he could detect no sign of fear within the man. Caution, but not fear.”

  There was nothing left to say. The three old Links rose, embraced, and walked away.

  And that night, the swamp would cry.

  That’s the ugliest son of a bitch I ever saw in my life,” Governor Parker said. One of his aides, Tammy Gray, had already exhibited her revulsion by racing to the bathroom and throwing up after viewing the dead Link in the funeral-home cooler room. Parker shook his head. What in the name of all that’s holy . . . is it?”

  Looks kind of like an artist’s conception of that . . . thing that’s supposed to live in the Honey Island Swamp,” Colonel Jeansonne observed.

  Well, I wish to hell it had stayed down there,” Mike said. And all its relatives with it.”

  Jeansonne, musing, looked at Mike. You don’t suppose . . . ?”

  Related?” The governor finished the musing. God, Colonel!” He shuddered. Let’s take one thing at a time.”

  Suggestions, Governor Parker?” Mike asked.

  Notification of the press would only elevate this matter into a side show, with all the dignity of a fire drill in a lunatic asylum,” Governor Parker replied, his eyes fixed on the hairy form of the dead Link. Sensationalism sells newspapers and gets viewers. People in this parish—hell! for miles around—would go into a panic. They’d be shooting everything that moved—including each other.” He tried a faint smile. And my party needs all the votes it can get. Dead people don’t vote.”

  Not anymore,” Jeansonne corrected.

  Only in Texas,” Don Wilson, another aide to Parker said.

  Not there any longer.” Parker spoke absently. He looked at Mike. It’s your parish, Sheriff, so you’ll be calling the shots.”

  Mike hesitated, then nodded his head.

  Colonel Jeansonne picked up on the momentary hesitation from Mike. What’s the matter? You want some of my people to take over?”

  No. That isn’t it. But I ... do have someone in mind.”

  Governor Parker’s look was dubious. Not that two-bit mercenary, I hope.”

  He isn’t two-bit, Governor,” Mike defended his as yet unannounced choice. I don’t know, from reading his brief dossier, where he got his education, but he is an educated man. And he’s a professional fighting man. Plus,”—Mike held up a hand when Jeansonne opened his mouth to object—he’s been working with scientific teams for the past few years, tracking down mysterious monsters, or something like that. I wouldn’t give him his head—hell, I don’t even know if he’ll take the job—and he would report to me ... but, yes, I think Jon Badon is the right man for it.”

  I suppose he’s spent a lot of time in the bush,” Captain Sundra said. So I imagine he’d know all the right moves for survival.”

  Governor Parker sighed. Oh, hell! Well, I made the statement I wanted my last term in office to be spectacular. Wish I hadn’t said it now. Come on, people, let’s go see this mercenary.”

  It was dusk in the bayou country when the governor’s caravan rolled out of Laclede. Parker’s arrival had not gone unnoticed, and neither had his departure. Blackwell’s ace reporter, Craig Gardner, had been watching the events, wondering what in the hell was going on. Like his boss, the young man had an intense dislike for Sheriff Saucier, and like his boss, belonged to the opposition political party, and thus disliked Governor Parker. If he could come up with something to discredit either man . . . well, that would be a feather in his cap.

  Craig had tried calling Blackwell, but the man was out-of-pocket. He had tried all of Blackwell’s favorite watering holes, but the editor either was not at the trough or had given orders not to be disturbed.

  I’ll just tag along behind, quiet-like,” Craig muttered. Something’s in the wind.”

  He cranked his jeep and headed out, staying well behind the parade of cars, allowing several to pass him in case one of the cops sensed the tail. Craig didn’t like cops, either. None of them. Anywhere. He felt they were all semi-bully-boys who were sexually inadequate and who used their pistols as an extension of the penis. That was Craig’s opinion and he stuck with it.

  Craig had a reporter’s hunch where the caravan was heading, and when they turned off the highway, onto a parish road, he smiled, knowing his intuitiveness had been correct. He pulled off onto the shoulder and cut his lights long before they reached the cutoff to Despair, giving the caravan time to make the turn onto plantation property. Craig watched and waited five minutes, long impatient minutes, before rolling on. He turned onto the blacktop, past the cattle-guard rattling under his tires, and was on Despair property.

  As so often happens in the deep South during summer, night seemed to fall suddenly, without the graceful coloring of shadows in muted hues. One minute it was light, then it was dark. Very dark. The leading edge of the Crying Swamp lay black and mysterious to his right, fields of soybeans and cotton to his left.

  He pulled off onto an equipment road and turned around, facing the nose of the jeep toward the swamp. As he turned, his headlights picked up something across the blacktop. He thought he saw eyes reflecting light—yellow light.

  But when he kicked his beams on high, the . . . whatever it was he saw, or thought he saw, was gone. Dog or cat,” he muttered. Craig took his flashlight and left the jeep, walking down the road, toward the plantation house.

  He had not gone far when he sensed he was being followed. No, he thought . . . followed wasn’t the right word. Stalked” jumped into his mind. Whatever it was behind him was tracking him. Silently.

  He took a chance and flipped on the flashlight, quickly scanning the area to his right, the swamp. Nothing out of the ordinary to be seen by the narrow beam of light. But the light was comforting to him, and he was hesitant to cut the single ray of comfort. He scanned the field to his left. Again, nothing.

  He walked on. When he did, whatever it was moved with him, silently, furtively, and a damp shiver touched the reporter. It was a feeling of danger, of . . . he searched his mind for the right word. He found it with a feeling of dread. Evil.

  All right!” Craig called. This isn’t funny. Whoever you are, come on, knock it off, damn it!”

  Humid murkiness greeted his words. A thick silence lay like a heavy dark glove over the swamp. Then Craig heard a shuffling of bare feet on the damp grass; something . . . no, some things were wading out of the swamp, onto the bank. The stench of them preceded the ... whatever they were.

  Craig turned, his mission forgotten, his only thought: Get away! He took a step in the direction he had come, back to his jeep. His heart was hammering, banging his chest. He was sweating heavily. Leave me alone!” he whispered, the shout dying in his throat.

  A snarl ripped the night. He flipped the beam of light to the sound. His fingers gripped the flashlight; his breathing became force. This had to be a dream—a nightmare; he really wasn’t seeing this. Some of his buddies were playing tricks on him.

  He knew that wasn’t true. This was real.

  The Links were all around him, circling him, snarling, grunting, slobbering sticking drool. Craig made the sign of the cross. Holy Mary, mother of—”

  He never got a change to finish his plea. The maddened Links were on him, all over him, knocking him down. He screamed as he felt an arm being ripped from its socket. He passed out from the pain. More intense agony brought him back to hideous consciousness.

  He was being eaten alive.

  He experienced shattering terror and ripping, shocking pain as great chunks of his flesh were gnawed off, jerked off as a shark might do. He screamed once, a long, quivering wail of agony so violent, so mind-breaking, so fear-rooted that madness took him before his stomach was ripped open and his entrails pulled out, to be
eaten there by the side of the road, in the ditch, its brackish waters now darker and slicker from the sudden flow of blood. His long crazed wailing was abruptly silenced as fangs clamped on his throat, his blood spurting several feet into the night air.

  The Links took turns lapping at the warm, slightly salty flow. Then they took Craig’s remains into the swamp, covering their tracks as they went. A light rain shower later that night would wash away any sign of the human’s blood by the side of the road.

  On the porch on the house, the governor’s personal bodyguard rose from a chair. He thought he heard a scream from down the road. He put his hand on the butt of his .357 and listened. He walked to the edge of the porch and listened more closely.

  Nothing. The night was silent. The moon was coming up over Fountain, over Despair, over the darkness of the Crying Swamp. But it sure was a funny-looking moon, the trooper thought.

  Blood-red, with an angry-looking shroud around the orb.

  Somewhere deep in the dark swamp, the trooper thought he heard an odd sound wafting over the still, silent waters.

  Sounded like . . . someone crying.

  Or some thing, he thought.

  The trooper fought back a shudder and stepped from the edge of the porch, into the shadows.

  The feel of the butt of the .357 was very comforting to his fingers.

  Chapter Five

  Tammy Gray viewed the mercenary through her blue eyes and experienced a stirring deep within her. This one, she silently concluded, was all man; not one ounce of strutting peacock in him. He had proved long ago he was a man, and had nothing more to prove to anybody. Jon wore no jewelry—none. Not a ring, bracelet, certainly none of that silly-looking throat jewelry she so despised on men. Once, he’d lifted those cold gray eyes to hers and she’d felt her nipples begin to enlarge and ache.

  No doubt about it, she thought: I’m in heat.

  It had been some time since she’d had a man. Though she had an active sex life, was propositioned daily, and could have her choice of half a hundred men—including the governor—Tammy was picky about her sex partners. Most men turned her off; she felt most men were no more than little boys refusing to grow up and face responsibility. Not that Tammy was the perfect little angel in all ways. Not at all. She just had definite opinions as to what she wanted in a man. And she wanted Jon Badon.

  She tried to catch Jon’s eyes, but something had shifted within the man; she could sense it. He was all business. Sex would have to wait.

  She suppressed a sigh, wondering what size equipment he had and if he knew how to use it. She concluded it would be nice-sized and he did know what to do with it. Then she pushed sexual thoughts from her mind and concentrated on business—as much as possible.

  So, Mr. Badon,” Governor Parker said, how about it?”

  In a real bind, aren’t you?” Jon asked, that almost-mocking smile on his lips.

  Not necessarily.” Parker’s reply was tightly given. We’d just like to handle this as quietly and as neatly as possible, that’s all.”

  I work alone,” Badon said. Or at most, in something like this, with two or three men, carefully picked. I had men forced on me one time. The last combat mission I was on was a hurry-up type of operation. We had to go in and try to free several prisoners taken by a guerrilla force in ...” He paused. Well,”—that smile—the country really doesn’t matter. The one man in the group that I didn’t pick, that I really objected to, balked at one of my orders. It cost us the mission and the POWs died a very slow and painful death. Very hideous. The woman among them was very badly used ... before being tortured to death. Sexually tortured. All because of that man’s failure to respond to orders without question. When we returned to base camp . . . I disposed of the man.”

  Transferred him?” Colonel Jeansonne asked.

  Jon’s smile was not pleasant. If you call a .45 slug between the eyes transferring a man.”

  Colonel Jeansonne and Captain Sundra stirred uncomfortably. Governor Parker looked shocked. Sheriff Saucier kept his face impassive. Linda paused in the lifting of a teacup to her lips. Don Wilson had a tremendous urge to go to the bathroom. Tammy Gray indulged in a mental picture of Jon parting her naked legs and slipping inside her, her bare arms pulling his mouth to hers as he filled her with hardness.

  Well, you certainly won’t have that type of authority with my men,” Colonel Jeansonne said with some heat in his voice.

  Well, then, Colonel, I certainly will not accept Governor Parker’s proposition. I either run all the show, or close the box office.”

  Mr. Badon,”—Governor Parker leaned forward in his chair—I respect your decision—we all do. Regretfully, but we respect it. We’re not . . . I suppose, the type of men you’re accustomed to dealing with. But I wish you would listen to what I have to say.”

  Of course, Governor. I’m not that difficult a man to get on with.”

  I wish you’d get it on with me, Tammy thought. Just however you like it.

  Governor Parker poured another cup of spiced tea from the silver service. He leaned back in his chair. He was tired, and looked it. He did not look well. I will admit something, Mr. Badon....”

  Call me Jon, please.”

  Parker returned the smile, noting in his mind that the man had any number of smiles. He wondered how many personalities the man wore beneath his outward facade. All right, Jon. Miss Breaux looked shocked when Sheriff Saucier repeated your real reason for being here. Sorry. We all assumed she knew. Obviously, she did not.” He glanced at Linda; she shook her head. I thought as much. Well ... to put it bluntly, Jon, we’re between a rock and a hard place with this ... ah ... situation. We have—as elected officials—a definite responsibility to keep the public informed as to any danger that might present itself. But if we—I, in this case—do that, what we’ll create is panic. Pure and simple. I have a hard choice before me. All elected officials are faced with similar situations at one time or the other.

  The press—not all of them, but some—would blow this all out of proportion. We’d have people grabbing up guns of all sizes and charging into the swamp, shooting at every damned thing that moves, and killing and wounding each other. It’s a sad commentary, Jon, but I think you realize that many people have to be protected from themselves.” He paused as he noticed Jon’s smile. Why are you smiling, Mr. Badon?” Oh ... a thought just occurred to me: Where are you this evening, Governor?”

  What? I don’t understand the question.”

  I think you do, sir. If I called the governor’s mansion, if I asked your press secretary as to your whereabouts... what would he or she tell me?”

  Tammy hid her quick smile, thinking: Oh, you handsome bastard. Not only are you good-looking, you’re smart as hell, too. Do you like sixty-nine?

  The governor’s returning smile was not as friendly as before. But it was full of reluctant admiration. He’d tell you I was at Camp Beauregard, going over some problems with advisors.”

  Jon grunted. The old Army game. CYA.”

  Don Wilson said, What’s CYA?”

  Cover Your Ass,” Tammy bluntly informed him.

  What the hell does this mean?” Mike rose from his chair.

  It means the governor has no knowledge of any problems presently occurring in Fountain Parish,” Jon told him. Not until and unless the problems are solved, that is. Then he’ll jump right in with both feet and claim—loudly—the solution was his idea. Right, Gov?”

  If correct, Mr. Badon,” Parker said, placing a great deal of emphasis on the Mister,” a purely precautionary measure, I assure you.”

  Pure bullshit, you mean,” Jon countered. God, I despise politicians.”

  You can’t speak to the governor in that manner,” Don protested, flapping his hands.

  Jon glanced at the aide. Control yourself,” he suggested. And shut your fucking mouth.”

  Don folded his hands in his lap. He sat very quietly in his chair.

  If you’re not too large, Tammy thought, I like it up
the ass, too. I hope you brought some Vaseline, ’cause, mercenary, we are definitely going to get it on.

  They would. But not in the manner Tammy envisioned.

  Jon picked up on Tammy’s sexual vibes. But Tammy did not interest the mere. He shifted his eyes back to the chief executive of the state. Yeah, Gov, you very much have a problem, and short of cordoning off the entire swamp—which just may be your only solution—and using every guardsman and cop in the state, to burn the Links out, which would have environmentalists from all over the world descending upon this area and your ass, your only option, as I see it, is to go in and get the Links. And that brings it back to me, doesn’t it? All right. That’s what I was paid to do, and that is what I fully intend to do.”

  Governor Parker’s look went the full gamut, finally settling on confusion. But . . . you just said you—”

  I said—or implied, as the case may be—I wouldn’t take the job of being in charge under your terms. It is my plan—at this time, bearing in mind that everything is subject to change—to find a local man with hard service behind him, not one of your local good ol’ boys, and to go in, locate the Links, kill any who attack me, and capture two or three for study. I have friends who would like to observe them.”

  Then what?” Jeansonne asked. How about the ones who don’t attack you?”

  Jon shrugged. Then . . . nothing. My job will be concluded. I collect the rest of my money and return to France. What you people do then—with any Links remaining—is none of my concern. My one exception will be the safety of Ms. Breaux.”

  Governor Parker glared at him in shocked disbelief. Sundra and Jeansonne were angered by his seemingly open callousness. Don Wilson continued to look straight ahead, hands folded nicely in his lap, his face impassive. Sheriff Saucier narrowed his eyes, not believing Jon. Linda smiled. Tammy thought maybe dog-fashion might be the way to go with the mercenary—just submit to him right off, his to do with as he saw fit. But, she reflected sourly, he’s involved with the Breaux bitch. I can sense it.