Wolf's Bane td-132

by Warren Murphy

  Remo retrieved the lifeless gunners and lined up their bodies near the fire, then asked the Cajun, "Friends of yours?"

  "No way," said Cuvier. "I recognize some of them, though. That's Florus Pinchot on the far end. Next to him, Claude Something, I don't know his last name. That one-" he pointed to the next-tolast body in line "-he Remy Arridano. Them be Armand's boys."

  "No werewolf," Remo said. "Surprised?"

  "Shee-it, man," Cuvier replied, "I got surprises comin' ever time I wake up still alive."

  THE BAYOU WATER TASTED foul, and Maynard Grymsdyke came up spouting like a porpoise, gasping for fresh air. He thrashed his arms to stay afloat, the closest he had come in years to swimming, but his feet couldn't make contact with the bottom. Once again, his head slipped underwater, and he fought back to the surface with a desperate strength he didn't know that he possessed.

  That strength wouldn't last long, in any case. His wild dash from the camp into the water had covered not more than fifty yards, but Grymsdyke felt as if he had been sprinting all-out for a mile. His heart was pounding, hammering against his ribs, and even with his head above the brackish water Maynard found it difficult to catch his breath.

  Somehow Grymsdyke turned himself around and faced back toward the bank. Tall grass and reeds combined with darkness to obscure his vision of the camp, but Grymsdyke stared into the night regardless, more than half expecting some demented nightmare to come crashing through the undergrowth where he had lately passed. He tried to listen, too, but his own splashing in the water made the effort futile.

  Christ, what was that in the camp?

  The wolf-dogs were no mystery to Grymsdyke. They were something he would have expected to inhabit bayou country, one more reason why sane men should stay in town. The first creature, however, had been something else.

  No matter how he tried, Grymsdyke couldn't persuade himself that he had conjured up the man-thing out of nightmares. He most desperately wanted it to be a man-even a man who roamed the swamp with vicious feral dogs, attacking other men-but he had glimpsed its face, and one glimpse was enough.

  Whatever it had been, despite the fact that it was wearing denim overalls and big, mud-clotted boots, Grymsdyke knew it wasn't human. Not with those long arms and burly shoulders covered by the same dark, matted hair that sprouted from the creature's head and face. And that mouth. That distended, tooth-filled maw...

  Grim silence descended on the swamp-or rather, the expected night sounds returned, after their rude disruption by the sounds of mortal combat. There were no more gunshots from the campsite, and the angry snarling sounds had also ceased. Maynard was terrified to think what that had to mean.

  Grymsdyke lost track of time before he drifted very far. For all he knew, he could have floated thus for hours, or it could have been brief moments. He was slipping in and out of consciousness until he woke with water burning in his throat and sinuses. Blinking scum out of his eyes, he saw a log, nearly submerged, floating directly toward him, shining where an errant beam of moonlight found rough bark. Grymsdyke beheld salvation, thrashing toward the log, intent on climbing aboard and allowing it to carry him wherever it might go.

  He was within arm's reach before he realized this log was moving steadily against the current, driven by some power of its own. Too late, he saw the alligator's glinting eyes, tried to reverse directions, swallowing foul water as he tried to call for help.

  Only the reptile heard him, opening its trapdoor of a mouth to swallow Maynard Grymsdyke's helpless scream.

  Chapter 17

  Merle Bettencourt was eating shrimp cocktail and chasing it with chilled chablis when Ansel Rousseau showed up at his elbow with a cell phone in his hand. A green light on the telephone was blinking, signaling an open line.

  "What?" Bettencourt demanded.

  "Some guy say he gotta talk to you," said Ansel. "Say it's about some huntin' party on the bayou." Bettencourt set down his wineglass, careful not to tip it, startled and unnerved to find his fingers trembling. "What's his name?"

  "Won't say." Ansel shrugged. "Guy tells me you be pissed if I don't pass him on. Want I should hang him up?"

  The Cajun mobster thought about it, wished the question were as simple as it sounded. Only six men were supposed to know about his little bayou hunting party-those involved as trigger men-and any one of them who felt a need to call him would have given up his name. It made no sense, but he could say the same of so much else that had been happening the past few days.

  "Gimme," he said, and took the telephone from Ansel, waiting for the other man to leave and close the door behind him. Then, into the cell phone's mouthpiece, he said, "Yeah, who's this?"

  "You wouldn't recognize my name," a very average voice replied. "I'm calling for Jean Cuvier."

  "Don't rightly recollect that name," Bettencourt replied eventually.

  "That's funny," the stranger said. "He sure recognized the boys you sent to waste him. Most of them, at least. You want them back, I'll tell you where to send the garbage truck."

  That's all I need, thought Bettencourt. Admit to knowledge of attempted murder on an open line and get myself shipped to Atlanta for conspiracy. No, thank you very much.

  "I don't know where you got this number," Bettencourt replied, as cool as he could manage in the circumstances, "but there must be some mistake. Sounds like you need to talk to the police."

  That was a nice touch, Bettencourt decided, smiling to himself. He was about to disconnect, but then he heard the stranger speaking almost casually, as if he didn't care if Merle was listening or not.

  "If that's the way you want it, fine," he said. "Thing is, Jean wondered if you could get together, maybe work this whole thing out before somebody else gets hurt. But since you never heard of him-" The Cajun's mind was racing, one thought stumbling on another, but he knew it would be madness to admit a link to Cuvier or the hunters in the swamp.

  "Can't say I have," he said, "but I could ask around with my people, for the hell of it."

  "No, never mind," the stranger said. "I should have gone to the police first thing, as you suggested. They can check out the bodies, see who they worked for, whether they had-"

  "But let's suppose one of my people recognized this name ...what was it?"

  "Cuvier." The stranger paused and spelled it for him. "First name Jean."

  "Where would a person get in touch?" asked Bettencourt, heart stuttering against his ribs.

  "Go south of Charles," the stranger said. "You've got an auditorium near Audubon Park, some kind of church revival going on. Across the street, you'll find a little Cajun restaurant, Justine's. The man you don't know will be there at half-past five o'clock."

  The line went dead, and Bettencourt switched off the cell phone. He had other calls to make, but not on that instrument. He would reach out for Leon, get the hairy son of a bitch cracking on the job he should have finished long ago. And just in case the loup-garou was losing it, Merle would have backup waiting to complete the contract, maybe take out the wolf man while they were at it, to prevent him squealing later, if he got his leg caught in a trap.

  Merle wouldn't lead the team himself, of course; that would be risky. But he would be in the neighborhood, by pure coincidence, to watch the play go down. It would be more fun than the prize fights scheduled out of Vegas that night, running live on HBO.

  He set the cell phone beside his plate and called for Ansel, waiting for the fat man to appear. "Yeah, boss?"

  "Give me a telephone, a real one this time, and be quick about it, hear?"

  LEON WAS SICK of driving to New Orleans. Normally, he made the trek no more than three, four times a year, but this would be his second time within as many days. In his condition-wounded, hurting, weak from loss of blood, still grieving for the brothers he had lost-Leon was in a mood to scorn the summons from Merle Bettencourt, except for one small item.

  Vengeance.

  Leon hungered for it, had convinced himself that he couldn't survive without in
flicting catastrophic payback on his nameless enemies. Without revenge, he was persuaded now, his bloody, aching wounds would never heal. The thought had seemed ridiculous at first, even to Leon, but he had been raised with magic, this and that kind, to imagine that he knew it all.

  His wounds weren't as bad as they had first appeared to be, but they still pained him, and he was feeling somewhat light-headed from loss of blood. He had a shotgun pellet in his shoulder, burrowed deep into the flesh, no damage to the bones, apparently, since he could use his arm. Another piece of lead had grazed his biceps, left an ugly, oozing furrow, with flesh and fur peeled back and dangling until he had ripped it free. He didn't know how many pellets from the shotgun blast were buried in his side, but guessed there had to be two or three at least. Again, they had struck nothing vital.

  There was no pack with him this time. They were shunning him. Leon had tried to leave the bitch behind, as well, but she was having none of that. The two of them would finish it together, but he didn't know what to expect from her once they had settled with their enemies. He was unfit to lead-that much was obvious-and Leon didn't know if she would stay with him when he was expelled from the pack.

  No. He knew. She would stay with the pack. She would gravitate to the new alpha male.

  Leon pushed that away and turned to business. He wondered how Merle Bettencourt had traced the enemy so quickly, and it bothered Leon that the Cajun mobster was directing him again. The first tip, sending Leon to Desire House, had been disastrous, and he had never seen his hated adversaries in the swamp, could not have sworn that they were even there. Now, Bettencourt said they were back in the French Quarter, hanging out around some Cajun restaurant.

  Leon decided he would have to kill the mobster if his tip proved wrong this time. Three strikes, you're out, he told himself. It would be difficult, of course, but not impossible. A man-or loup-garou-who didn't care if he survived was the most formidable enemy on Earth.

  The part about the restaurant made Leon smell an ambush. How could Bettencourt know where his enemies were having supper? And, more to the point, if he did know, why would he summon Leon for the job when he could easily have sent some guns along? It was a fact that Leon owed one body on his contract, but with all that had been going on, it seemed to him that Bettencourt would have preferred to trust his own.

  Unless, of course, he planned to kill two birds with the same stone.

  He had dispensed with the disguise, since there was still a final night of Mardi Gras ahead, permitting him to travel more or less at will, without the mummy wrappings. It was dark out, sidewalks crowded with a host of drunken revelers whose costumes made the wolf man's normal look seem positively tame. Raw wounds or no, Leon knew he would fit in with the herd and pass unnoticed through their ranks-at least until he found his prey and started raising hell.

  He cruised past Justine's, saw no familiar faces from Desire House or the Cajun syndicate, but he was still ahead of schedule. Anyway, Merle Bettencourt could have a hundred gunners on the street disguised for Mardi Gras, and Leon wouldn't pick them out until they pulled their guns and started blasting.

  Never mind.

  He hadn't come this far, the need for vengeance churning in his gut, to simply turn around and go back home. He needed blood, and wouldn't rest until he tasted someone's, be it Cajun, Yankee, Chinaman or Gypsy witch.

  Directly opposite Justine's, an auditorium's marquee displayed a sign for Mission Mardi Gras in foot-high letters. Underneath that cryptic legend hung the name of Reverend Marvin Rockwell. A line of folks waited outside the auditorium to get in, their Sunday-best clothes marking them as a distinct and visible minority in the riotous throng.

  Leon dismissed them from his mind. He had no interest in religion, and damn little in the world of men, which had excluded him from birth and thereby canceled any debts he might have owed to a "polite" society. To Leon, all the festive crowd meant was potential cover when he made his move. He found a place to drop the station wagon two blocks from his destination, parked the stolen car and waited for the bitch to make her exit, locked it up and pocketed the keys. Leon couldn't predict if he would ever pass this way again, but just in case, he didn't want to find a bunch of alcoholic elves or gargoyles sprawled out in his vehicle when he was running for his life.

  "Let's go," he told the bitch, and felt her walking close beside him as he moved into the crowd.

  "I DON'T NEED any preachin', thank you all the same," Jean Cuvier protested.

  "I didn't say you had to sign up," Remo replied. "It's handy, and you'll blend in with the crowd instead of standing out like a sore thumb. I think it's safe to say your old friend Bettencourt won't have a hit team working the revival."

  "They aren't after me," Aurelia said. "Why should I go?"

  "Because the wolf man is," Remo reminded her. "That's how you wound up here, if I recall correctly. If things get nasty, I don't need any excess baggage."

  "Thank you very much." Her tone was stiff.

  "Don't mention it. You'll stay with Chiun and do exactly what he says, exactly when he says it. Understand? Survival means cooperation. Don't start making up new rules to suit yourself. A deviation from the plan could get you killed."

  "Ain't been to Sunday school since I was six or seven," Cuvier complained. "Feels downright odd, you wanna know the truth."

  "I mean to save your life," said Remo. "You can think about your soul some other time."

  It was still entirely possible, he realized, that Bettencourt would keep his men away from the restaurant. Remo hadn't been assigned to trash the Cajun Mafia per se, but Remo wasn't shy about using his own initiative if it wasn't too much of a bother.

  Chiun was miffed, of course. He wished to accompany Remo to meet the enemy. He wanted to see the wolf man in the flesh. Mostly he didn't wish to take the servile position of bodyguard.

  He made one last snipe about the issue. "You want me to go mingle with the carpenter's rabble while you hog the glory," he accused Remo.

  "Aren't you supposed to be meditating?" Remo asked. "You can go do that if you'd rather. But I'm Reigning Master, and I'm the one who's supposed to be doing all the work. You made that clear enough. So I'm gonna go to the restaurant. You can protect the civilians or go find a nice spot for your butt mat."

  Chiun huffed and argued no further, which was as good as acquiescence, but Remo could tell the old Master was already planning some payback. Aurelia stared at Remo for a moment, as if memorizing details of a face she wouldn't see again. "Follow me," Chiun ordered. When Cuvier hesitated, Chiun took him by the elbow in his gentle fingers. The Cajun yelped.

  A moment later, they were gone, merged with the gaudy foot traffic beyond the alley's mouth.

  YOU HAD TO GET UP pretty early in the morning to surprise Merle Bettencourt. He hadn't risen from the lousy shrimp boats, climbing through the family ranks as runner, strong-arm, pimp and captain, to command the syndicate in Armand's absence, without picking up some tricks along the way.

  If you received an invitation to a sit-down, for example, and your gut told you it was a trap, you didn't automatically decline. Instead, you took precautions-showed up early, scouted out the territory, checked for indicators that you ought to stay at home, or maybe show up with your own gorillas and reverse the gimmick, turn the whole damn thing around.

  He could have sent a spotter to perform that function, but instead had chosen to take care of it himself. You want a job done right, his daddy used to tell him, don't give it to someone else. His old man had been sober that day, for a change, and Merle had listened to him. Every now and then, the scrawny bastard got one right.

  His rooftop perch gave Bettencourt a clear view of Justine's, across the street and south of where he stood, together with the auditorium directly opposite. The street was crawling with a motley crowd of party-goers sporting costumes that ranged from simple dominoes to weird full-body suits that turned them into movie monsters, cowboys, clowns or men from Mars. It was like Halloween do
wn there, except it was adults, not kids, and they were after booze or sex, not penny candy.

  The binoculars brought everything up close and personal, gave him a ringside seat to a colossal freak show. Bettencourt had no idea what kind of masks his men were wearing and he didn't care, as long as they were armed and ready, their team leader standing by his walkie-talkie for the signal to attack. He knew their general positions, staking out Justine's without being too obvious about it. They were all professionals, and he would trust them to perform as such.

  Unless they blew it, in which case he meant to have their balls for cuff links, boiled and bronzed. The problem with his plan-a huge one, Bettencourt admitted to himself-was that it only worked if Cuvier showed up as Cuvier, revealed his face to let Merle get a fix on him and tell the gunners where to strike. As far as Bettencourt could guess, the odds were sixty-forty, anyway, in favor of some kind of setup, meaning Cuvier was nowhere near Justine's, but there were federal marshals, local cops-whatever-staking out the restaurant to bust whomever Bettencourt sent in to make the tag. Another possibility was that the rat would show, but in disguise like everybody else, in which case he could pass within arm's length of Bettencourt and not be recognized. All things considered, it was a pathetic long shot, but the last, best hope he had of nailing Cuvier and opening the road for Armand Fortier's appeal.

  He had been concentrating on the sidewalk near the restaurant for half an hour, maybe longer, when he took a break and swept his glasses slowly to the right, across the crowded street. He scanned the made-up faces, traffic creeping down the center stripe while geeks of all descriptions spilled over the sidewalk, milling in the street. It crossed his mind to look for Leon, but he spotted two werewolves no more than twenty feet apart and quickly gave it up. Another long shot.

  If the hairy freak decided to show up, would he have any better luck at picking Cuvier out of the crowd? Would Leon sniff him out, like some bizarre and ghastly bird dog from The Twilight Zone? What powers did the bastard really have, beyond the strength of his broad shoulders and thick arms?