Lightning burst through the ragged hole in the roof and lit up the dank chamber. The beast’s shadow flashed upon the wall to Poppie’s right, and he swung toward it and fired. The blast rang out in unison with the thunder clasp overhead and temporarily blinded him. He felt sick and heaved the remaining contents of his stomach onto the dirty floorboards in front of him.
"Daddy, please help us," he heard from below.
Poppie swung the flashlight around to the empty spot where he had fired his shotgun. Another flash exploded in the sky above the cabin and lit up the attic. Poppie swung around just in time to see Billy’s sharp teeth inches from his face. The beast was laughing with sadistic pleasure, feeding off of the cruel man’s fear at his impending death. Poppie looked into the dark red eyes of his son and breathed his last breath. Billy swung his sharpened claw with almost supernatural speed and ripped the old man’s neck open, sending blood splattering out from the severed arteries and veins.
The water was up to their necks as the clan held on to the lone hope that their father’s blast had cleared the attic of the waiting beast. Dorcelia stood on the table and clung to Justin as she craned her neck to keep above the rising tide. T-Roy stood on the ladder, almost to the top, as he waited for his father’s call. They all heard the blast and held their breaths.
Another crash of thunder shook the cabin, followed by a brief moment of silence. A sickening thud echoed off of the ceiling and a trickle of blood dripped out from the attic opening and landed on T-Roy’s face. He glanced toward his mother and brother, seeing the horror on their faces, then looked up again in time to see the square, wooden door to the attic slam shut on them, sealing their fates.
"EEEEEEEEEEeeeeaaaagggggghhhhh!"
Within minutes, the water overtook them all. Dorcelia accepted her death as punishment for failing once again to protect her children from the evil under their own roof. Justin scratched and clawed at the ceiling above as water filled his lungs, feeling like the capon his brother branded him as his life gave way to darkness.
Even as his life slipped away, T-Roy never tried to gain access to the attic. The last thought in his dying brain was the realization that his father was right. The beast was savoring the moment. Billy’s howls were not born of fear; they were roars of victory.
"EEEEEeeeeeeeaaaaaaggggghhhhh!"
The storm tore a hole in the roof of the small cabin and the rain poured in, riding on the gusts of the powerful wind. The sensation reminded Billy of the time he rode on the airboat, when the feeling of speed made him feel exhilarated. He was free of his chains, free of his prison in the attic, and free of his tormentors below. When the storm was over and the waters subsided, Billy stared out of the hole in the damaged roof and toward the endless swamp that surrounded him.
"EEEEEeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhh!"
Freed from his chains by the storm, Billy was loose.
PART TWO
PRODIGAL SON
Chapter Nine
Evangeline Defante’
By the time Nick returned from the Search and Rescue Conference, everything had changed. His untimely departure from the Crescent City, prior to the horrendous events in the late summer of two thousand five, only exacerbated the alienation from his co-workers that he had already established. Timing is everything and, without it, Nick had managed to end up with nothing.
It was his decision to leave early for the meeting with the hope of escaping the oppressive summer heat of New Orleans. A couple of weeks in Colorado were just what he felt he needed to recuperate and recharge his system. Nick hoped that he’d be able to start fresh upon his return and eventually regain the respect and camaraderie of his fellow officers that he’d lost after his last assignment. No one liked anyone associated with the Internal Affairs Division, particularly an undercover operative, and Nick only held out a faint hope of recovering professionally from his ill-advised rotation. The fact that he was successful in his duties only made his fellow officers despise him more and the chance of cooperation with any future endeavors harder to obtain.
Although Nick made every effort to return home after the levees broke and the city flooded, all that was remembered was that he was not there. By the time he reported back to duty, weeks had gone by and the National Guard was already in place. A large portion of the population had long since vacated, and groups from all over the country were providing the lion’s share of the search for survivors and recovery of the deceased. His new position in Missing Persons was much needed, but not at all secured because of his absence when he might have been the most useful. Nicholas Vizier missed his chance of redemption once again. It wouldn’t be the last time.
What was left of his home in the eastern part of the city was a heartbreaking sight. His humble abode was never all that much to begin with, little more than a two-bedroom single-family dwelling in a sketchy part of town that was well on its way to becoming a ghetto. Still, as humble as it was, it was all Nick had. Now, it was gone.
The waterline was clearly visible on the exterior wall at about ten feet high; the interior was a sad and putrid mix of mud, mold, and garbage. The stench was unbearable inside, even before he opened his refrigerator without thinking. Even the faintest of memories his olfactory nerves held of the event would continue to cause his stomach to wretch for years afterward. Judging by the multitude of discarded freezers taped shut at every curb, he figured he was not the only one to have made that mistake.
From that moment on, he wore a bandana soaked in cheap cologne around the bottom half of his face every time he ventured into the abandoned dwelling. Third world technology trumped first world luxuries in times of disaster, thought Nick. When he caught a glimpse of himself in the broken mirror above his bathroom sink, his reflection reminded him of a bank robber in some ridiculous B-movie Western. Drawing two pistols with his fingers and thumbs, he aimed and fired at his absurd image. Nick shook his head and chuckled, then tears welled up and drifted down his dirty cheeks, his sobs choked by the pungent cloth tied across his mouth.
Nothing in his house was salvageable. Nick sighed at the pathetic sight, thinking about the irony of it all. His domicile mirrored the state of his career. The wasteland that was his home symbolized his life. There was nothing left for him here; there was nothing left for him anywhere. It was time to go home.
Although he was born in St. Martinville, Nick spent his formative years moving from town to town every couple of years. His father, Russell Vizier, was a marginally-employed electrician and handyman who never seemed to have enough money or luck to support either him or his family. A raging alcoholic and habitual gambler, Nick’s father moved his family from pillar to post in an unsuccessful attempt to gain steady employment and run from creditors.
When Nicholas was ten years old, his father left the house for a pack of cigarettes and never returned. Nick waited for his father on the front steps of the ramshackle duplex his family lived in at the time to no avail. His heart was broken at the realization that his father had abandoned him and his mother, and he longed for the day when he would see his father again, if only to repay the pain that he had felt. He never got his chance for revenge, however, since his father was never seen in the vicinity again.
His mother, Evangeline Theriot Vizier, wasn’t nearly as heartbroken as her only son. She was pissed off. The sorry excuse for a man she had made the mistake of marrying was a poor provider, a terrible husband, a lousy lover, and an absent father. He left his own son waiting night after night for his return without so much as a goodbye. Once again, he left the dirty work to his wife. The family was already three months behind on the rent, and by this time, their landlord’s patience had run out. Abandonment or not, eviction was inevitable.
Mrs. Vizier moved her and her son to a trailer park right outside of Plaquemine and managed to obtain work in a domestic capacity for one of the elderly ladies that lived up the road in an oversize plantation style home. She worked hard for long hours to give her son a stable environment at last. One o
f her proudest moments came when little Nicky was accepted into the Louisiana State University over in Baton Rouge. By this time, her poor child’s heart had been broken a second time when his high school sweetheart ran off with his best friend; once again, he was abandoned without so much as a note. Little Nicky had always been a misfit, never quite fitting in, always an outsider. Evangeline hoped and prayed that he would find happiness in his new life, wherever that might lead him.
When Nicholas left after graduation to seek his fortune in the quagmire of New Orleans, Evangeline worried about her son. He pursued a career in law enforcement in a city that knew ugliness and violence in ways that the small towns she was accustomed to could not fathom. He visited only rarely, the memories of his painful childhood too strong for him to bear. Evangeline understood. When her friends and neighbors commented on how sad it was that he abandoned his mother, she remained silent and never took it to heart. They didn’t know her son like she did. They could never understand what it was like for her son to never belong, to never have a real home.
When Nicholas arrived at the St. Gabriel Nursing Home, he learned once again the importance of timing. The staff quietly informed him of his mother’s passing two months prior. They assured him that every attempt had been made to contact him, but with the arrival of the two hurricanes and their aftermath, no one was able to get in touch with him. Nick stopped listening to their feeble explanations. He just wanted to know where she was buried.
He brought a small bouquet of fresh daisies, his mother’s favorites, and placed them at the site where her remains were laid to rest. Only a small cement stone in a field of stones indicated that his only relative had ever existed. It dawned on Nicholas that when his turn came, there would be no one left to mourn his existence. He didn’t care; there was nothing he had accomplished that warranted recognition, but his mother had been a saintly woman. She had given much more than she ever had received. She sacrificed her happiness and comfort for a husband who abused her and a son who abandoned her. He felt guilty for his shameful and selfish actions. He hoped that she understood how grateful he was for everything she had done for him and how much he had loved her.
"Pauvre’ Defante’ Evangeline," Nicholas whispered into the wind as tears rolled down his cheek. "My poor sainted mother."
Chapter Ten
Welcome Back
"Bobby’s in the back. Just wait here a minute and I’ll let him know you’re here. Mr. Vincent?" the deputy asked.
"Vizier, Nicholas Vizier," Nick corrected the man before sitting down in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs in the lobby.
Deputy Arceneaux disappeared into the back room of the Sheriff’s Office for a few minutes and left Nick alone with his thoughts. He wasn’t sure if this was a good move on his part as he was certain some of his ill-gained notoriety followed him. Lieutenant Foster called ahead and gave him a good recommendation, Nick was sure of it, but he knew that the sheriff would make a few calls of his own. Louisiana law enforcement was a close-knit community and word got around quickly, particularly when it came to ‘rats’. Even so, Nicholas reasoned that no matter where he went, his reputation would follow him.
"Sheriff Galliano will see you now," the deputy called out, motioning toward the big office in the back.
Nick walked toward the sheriff’s office, pretending not to notice the stares from the other officers who, in turn, were pretending not to stare. Bad acting seemed to be a prerequisite for small town policemen.
"Mr. Vizier, pleased to meet you," the sheriff said, extending his hand.
After their introductions were completed, the two sat down, Nicholas trying to appear relaxed while the sheriff glanced through some file or another.
"Lieutenant Foster called," Galliano said aloud. "He gave you a glowing recommendation."
Nick just nodded and remained silent. He knew what was coming next.
"Of course, I made a few calls of my own," the sheriff continued. "Doesn’t look like you made many friends over in Orleans Parish."
"Internal Affairs never does, Sheriff," Nick answered.
"Nope, I don’t suppose they do. All the same, I don’t really think I have a need for any internal investigators at this time."
"I figured as much. That’s not why I’m here. My specialty is missing persons. My stint in the rat patrol was done as a favor to the previous police chief. As you probably know, the NOPD has had numerous problems with corruption and unfit officers. When some of my fellow officers began to end up on the wrong end of a gun, I was asked to help. I make no apologies for my actions. I did my duty. The investigations I was involved in were successful, which is why I have been maligned and despised throughout the unit. So be it."
"Then tell me, Vizier, just how successful are you with missing persons?"
"I haven’t solved them all, but I sure have made a dent, Sheriff. Sometimes you never find people. That’s just the way it is. I do, however, know what I’m doing and my record reflects that."
"Yeah, I checked on that, too. It does. The problem is, this ain’t the city. We are surrounded with swamps out here. It’s a whole different thing searching for folks in the swamp."
"Yes, sir, I suppose it is. I have been in the swamp plenty, Sheriff. I grew up out here. I might not be some swamp rat coonass with a hound dog nose, but I am resourceful."
"Well, you’re gonna have to be. We got a big problem ever since those storms came through. We have a backlog and not enough manpower or resources to tackle them."
"I look forward to the challenge, Sheriff. Does that mean you’ll take me on?"
"Now hold on, I didn’t say that. I might consider giving you a run and see how you do, but there are a few things we need to get straight first. Everyone ‘round here knows your rep. Not many people are going to be too happy to help you out. On top of that, seems you have a history of abandoning your priorities whenever things suit you."
"Now, just wait a minute, Sheriff."
"Don’t interrupt me, Vizier. I wasn’t finished. I did my research. I know all about you taking off and leaving your mother to languish out here all alone, college boy. It was my department that made sure she got the proper funeral, one in which you were nowhere to be found. I also know that you happened to be far, far away when Katrina hit. Your home was underwater and your precinct needed you. You were high and dry in the Rocky Mountains. Now, I am sure you have all kinds of reasons and excuses to back you up. I don’t want to hear them. Just understand one thing – you better be around when we need you. Got it?"
"Got it, Sheriff."
Nick was livid, but didn’t show it. He had a much better poker face than these rednecks; he needed one back in the city. Fuck this backwards hick, he thought. What the hell did he know?
"When can I start?"
"Right now. Deputy Arceneuax will show you to your desk. Don’t get too comfortable there either, I expect you to work for a living. I’ve got enough desk jockeys around here as it is."
Nicholas walked to an open area with several desks scattered around. The deputy brought him a box filled with assorted files.
"Good to meet you, Vizier. As you know, I’m Deputy Arceneaux. You can call me Dean. We got a doozie here for you to start on. It should be right up your alley."
The deputy unceremoniously dumped the heavy box on Nick’s desk and smiled to himself as he walked away. Nick was sure that he was being set up for failure; it was common to be initiated with a case no one wanted on your first day. It wasn’t the first time he encountered some impossible-to-solve cold case or followed up some mishandled clusterfuck of someone else’s making. It’s okay, thought Nick. I’ll just have to show these backwoods coonasses what a college-educated city-boy can do.
Chapter Eleven
Missing
It didn’t take long to understand why Galliano hired him on the spot, or why the sheriff needed Nick to start right away. There had already been a considerable backlog of missing persons files prior to Hurricane Katrina and Hurri
cane Rita, and now there were ten times the number. The region had been hit hard by the two storms, and resources were stretched thin.
Organization was an even bigger problem. Much of the population had been displaced, moving from here to there and back, which made it almost impossible to find any particular person at any particular location when needed. State records were often missing, many of them destroyed by the widespread flooding throughout the state, and although an influx of volunteers poured in from the rest of the country, sometimes this only made things more convoluted.
The current box on Nick’s desk attested to this. The more he read about the timeline of events and people involved in the case, the more Nick shook his head in dismay. Whatever could go wrong evidently did go wrong.
The trouble seemed to start when a family of ignorant coonasses refused to evacuate to higher ground prior to Katrina. When they were never heard from again, a rescue party was sent to find them. Naturally, the family lived deep in the swamp where only a few select and unavailable locals could find them. This did nothing to discourage the college-aged out-of-state volunteers from securing a boat and setting out into the wetlands without any idea of what they were getting into. Generation Millennium was the name the group gave itself at the time – proud of its mission and sure of its successful completion.
Nick almost found it amusing thinking about the ill-fated mission. He wondered how long it took them to get lost and how long after that before they realized what a terrible mistake they’d all made. Ah, the confidence and ignorance of youth, thought Nick. He could imagine some of his college buddies doing something just as stupid and how quickly things would have gotten terribly out of hand. The difference was, most of the people he went to college with were from Louisiana and had enough sense to stay out of the swamp.
Billy: A Tale Of Unrelenting Terror Page 5
