The Devil's Cat

by William W. Johnstone

  They drove straight to the hospital, meeting Sonny Passon in the lobby. One look at the chiefs face and they knew the man was very angry.

  "You heard about Andrea Golden?" Sonny asked.

  "No," Tess and Matt replied.

  "I just got fired and Tess just quit," Matt told Sonny.

  Sonny digested that for a few seconds. "Goddamn town has gone nuts," he said. "Where was I? Andrea was raped this morning. Her parents are refusing to press charges. I can't get in touch with Juvenile. People are fighting and shacking up and getting drunk and … and …" He waved his hand in disgust. "Shit!" he said, then walked out the front door.

  "He's got a point," Matt said so only Tess could hear.

  "What, Matt?"

  "Whole town going nuts."

  Tony Livaudais walked up to the couple. "Please tell me you don't have some supernatural experience you want to relate, Tess?" But he said it with a smile.

  The smile soon vanished as Tess began talking. She didn't wait for Tony to show her to his office, just began talking, standing there in the lobby of the small clinic. She spoke in a gush of released emotions. As Tess talked, the third doctor at the clinic, Oscar Martin, and the other nurses gathered, standing quietly, listening, most with disbelief clearly visible in their eyes.

  Matt saw the disbelief in their eyes. He said, "Don't smile too much, people. I saw that thing in the mirror, too. And it was real."

  One of the younger nurses shuddered at his words.

  When Tess finished speaking, no one among the hospital staff said a word. Before anyone could manage to speak, a loud crash came from down the hall. A gurgling scream ended in a wet bubbling sound. Doctors, nurses, and former schoolteachers ran toward the sound.

  Tony threw out his hand, halting those behind him. The one orderly who had shown up for work that day lay in a spreading pool of blood. His eyes had been ripped from his head and his throat had a great gaping hole in it. Blood was squirting from the wound with each beat of the young man's heart. The orderly began jerking as death drew nearer with each labored beat of his heart.

  Looking around, Tony could not find the man's missing eyes.

  "Walt Davis is gone," Noreen said, looking into the room where Walt had been housed.

  "Where did those come from?" Matt asked, pointing to the tracks in the blood; tracks that led toward a door at the end of the hall. They were not human footprints.

  "What made them?" a nurse asked, as the orderly's heart stopped beating and death took him winging.

  "Cats," Dr. Martin said. "But how the hell did cats get into the clinic?"

  "And how did a cat open that door?" Noreen asked.

  No one ventured an opinion.

  The corridor was suddenly filled with a strange sound. The men and women listened for a moment. Finally, Tony said, "What the hell is that sound?"

  "Purring," Noreen said. "Purring."

  BOOK TWO

  But first on earth, as vampires sent,

  Thy corpse shall from the tomb be rent,

  Then ghastly haunt thy native place,

  And suck the blood of all thy race.

  —Byron

  THE FIRST NIGHT OF THREE

  1

  A violent thunderstorm shook the land, nature's way of relieving the fierce heat that had been baking Becancour and the immediate area around the small town.

  And as suddenly as the storm appeared, the people of Becancour took to their homes and stayed there.

  Well … almost everybody.

  Walt Davis crouched naked under a house near the old Dorgenois mansion. He was quite comfortable despite his nakedness.

  He was surrounded by cats. The silent felines kept him quite warm and dry.

  Jackson Dorgenois and Mary Claviere left the house when full night touched the land, coming a bit earlier because of the darkened storm clouds. They left the stolen car and walked toward Becancour after Mary changed out of her nurse's uniform and into some jeans and shirt she'd found in the house. Both were barefooted. The stones and twigs and sticks under their feet did not seem to bother them as they walked through the woods and fields toward Becancour.

  Bonnie Rogers stepped out of her house to sit on the porch. She enjoyed the storm; it was like an immensely satisfying sexual experience. As the lightning seared closer to earth and the thunder pounded, Bonnie shook with one climax after the other, for she knew who was sending the storm, and she loved the Master for it.

  "The first night," she whispered, her voice not audible above the raging thunder and lightning storm. "Now they will begin to stir and move and seek escape from their rotting homes."

  Bonnie threw back her head and howled with laughter as the storm raged.

  Dave Porter lay on the bed in the motel room and thought savage thoughts of his wife and her friend, Susan. He had plans for both of them … plans that would soon become reality … just as soon as the Master signaled.

  Jimmy Perkins silently prowled the stormy nigh oblivious to the storm around him. The rain did not bother him, for it was not sent by God. But by his God. Jimmy laughed silently, the lightning flashes glistening off a blood-red tongue and teeth that were as pointed as daggers. He lightly ran his tongue over his teeth. For the first time in a long time he was hungry for the taste of warm living human blood.

  "The first night," Jimmy muttered. "The first night."

  He laughed as he hunted.

  And young Bob Savoie, who would never grow older, heard the silent call of his Master.

  "Vous arrivez juste a temps." Bob spoke for the first time in decades. His voice was raspy and deep. The word echoed about his dank and satin-lined home.

  And the Master spoke to him. Bob listened intently.

  "Oui," Bob said. "Now?"

  Soon, the silent message reached him through the grave.

  Bob opened his dead eyes. He flexed stiff fingers. He grew impatient.

  Soon, the message came to him, calming him. Bob relaxed.

  Soon. Very soon.

  Bob closed his eyes and waited.

  There were no patients in the clinic. For the first time in memory, Tony Livaudais's clinic was empty. He sent those who had shown up for work back home.

  "Don't make me go home, Dr. Livaudais," Andrea begged him. "Please don't."

  "I won't, Andrea," he assured her. He called Don at the substation.

  "I'm going to take Andrea home with me," he told the deputy. "Lena won't have it any other way. I just can't send her back to her parents. And I don't give a good goddamn what Juvenile thinks about it."

  "They'll never know about it, Tony. I damn sure won't tell them."

  Tony shut down the clinic, and with Andrea's hand in his, they stepped out into the thunder, lightning, and rain-lashed night. They stopped under the canopy protecting the ambulance. The storm was so intense it made normal conversation impossible. Tony could feel the girl's fright as she stood close to him.

  And Tony wasn't all that inwardly calm himself. He kept an outwardly calm facade for the girl's sake, but he was jumpy.

  The orderly's body had been taken to the funeral home after Sonny and Don had made their reports and taken the stories of those present. Neither man had shown any signs of surprise at the cat tracks or the stories of hearing that … that purring sound.

  To Tony's mind, that meant the cops had accepted the idea that the devil was at work in Becancour.

  Nonsense!

  Lightning unfurled its sulfuric illumination, momentarily lighting the night, the raindrops appearing like translucent pearls pocking the darkness.

  What the hell was that? Tony thought, catching a flash of … something moving beside the far corner of the clinic.

  It had looked like a man … sort of. Then it came to him. Whatever it was, and Tony was certain it had been a man, the man appeared to be hunting something. No, that wasn't quite right. Stalking, was the word.

  Come on, Tony! he berated himself. Get a grip on yourself. It's just your imagination running wil
d, nothing more.

  But he couldn't quite convince himself of that. Andrea tugged at his arm. He looked down at the girl. "Where is your car parked, Dr. Livaudais?" She practically had to shout the words.

  "'Way over there!" he returned the near-shout, pointing. "Let's wait it out, Andrea. This rain can't keep this torrent for much longer."

  She nodded her head, her eyes wide with fright. Tony felt sorry for the girl. After having endured a savage rape, she had stepped out of her room and seen the dead orderly, sprawled in a pool of blood on the floor. An awful lot for a young mind to accept.

  Lightning flashed again, and again Tony's eyes caught movement to his right. Whatever it was, it was a lot closer than the last time he'd seen it.

  He looked around for a weapon of some sort. Nothing. Then, as the lightning silently crackled, his eyes found a broken broom handle, about three feet long, sticking out of the trash bin. With Andrea not leaving his side, Tony walked to the container and pulled out the sturdy industrial broom handle, hefting it. Damn nice shillelagh, he thought.

  Andrea tensed, then let out a squall that brought the short hairs on Tony's neck to attention. He spun around, let out a sigh of relief, and relaxed his knuckle-whitening hold on the club.

  "Will," Tony said, recognizing the man as the mayor of Becancour, Will Jolevare. "What in the world are you doing out in this weather?"

  Will Jolevare said nothing, just stood in the pouring rain, just outside the canopy, and stared at the man and young girl.

  "Are you sick, Will?" Tony asked.

  The man said nothing. He stepped under the canopy, facing Andrea and Tony.

  "Mr. Jolevare," Andrea said. "What's the matter with you?"

  Andrea suddenly screamed as something very wet and slick rubbed against her bare ankles, slithering like a furry snake around her feet. She looked down. Several cats squatted on the concrete, looking up at her.

  And they brought back memories she would have preferred to forget. The framework of the trestle, lined with cats, silently watched the boys rape her.

  She stepped away from the cats, closer to Tony. She was wondering what in the world was the matter with Mayor Jolevare.

  "Will," Tony said, exasperation clear in his tone. "What do you want?"

  "You," the man said, and lunged toward them.

  Jimmy released his hold on the man, allowing the near-lifeless body to thump to the grease-splattered concrete of the garage.

  "You won't die," Jimmy whispered. "You shall never die." He smiled as the man's blood trickled down his chin to plop on his wet shoes. Jimmy licked his lips, not wanting to lose a drop of the still-warm blood. He squatted down and kissed the lips of the man. "Join us now," Jimmy said. "To serve the Master forever. You will remember nothing until you are called. Rest now." Jimmy straightened up, a bit of dark humor touching him. He glanced down at the minister. "Thank you for having me over for dinner, sir. It was quite tasty."

  Jimmy Perkins stepped out into the drumming rain and disappeared into the night.

  At Lula's Love-Inn Bar and Grill, Lula Magee shook her head in disgust, her eyes taking in the near-empty lounge. Jules Mahan was the only customer this night, and you sure as hell couldn't call Jules a customer.

  Business was booming for several months, rain or shine. And now . . . nothing. Where in the hell was everybody?

  "Hey, baby!" Jules called.

  Lula looked around her. Had she missed somebody? No. Was that old fool talking to her?

  "You!" Jules called. "I'm talkin' to you, babe!"

  "Don't baby me, you damned old coot," Lula said. "What do you want?"

  Jules told her. Bluntly. He punctuated his remarks by rubbing his crotch.

  "Jules," Lula said wearily. "You better watch your mouth. If I was to strap some on you you'd have a heart attack. Besides, you ain't had a hard-on in twenty years."

  Jules grinned. "You wanna bet, babe?"

  Lula shook her head and glanced down at the highly polished bartop. Her mouth dropped open in shock as her eyes took in the reflection shining back at her. She blinked; looked again. The image remained the same.

  Jules and Lula, screwing on the pool table.

  She cocked her head and looked again. Very interesting. A strangeness touched her. An odd feeling that she had never before experienced.

  "You want me to lock the door, babe?" Jules asked.

  "Yeah," Lula heard herself saying. But the voice did not sound like her own. "Yeah. You do that, Jules."

  Bonnie Rogers sat on her front porch. She was exhausted from her sexual experiences. She had torn off her clothing as one shattering climax after another had ripped her. Panting, exhausted, she rose from the chair and picked up her torn clothing. Slowly she walked back into the house. There was still much she had to do this first night.

  Sam and Nydia waited out the Satan-sent storm snug in their rented home. They both knew the forces of evil were working all around them. And they both knew there was little they could do this early in the game. And it was, they also knew, a game. The Dark One's favorite game.

  Little Sam looked away from the toys on the floor and glanced up at his parents. Dog lay a few feet from the boy.

  "Don't be afraid of the storm, Son," Sam told him.

  "I'm not afraid of anything, Father," the boy replied. Then he resumed his playing.

  "Ballsy little kid, isn't he?" Sam looked at Nydia.

  "Takes after his father," Nydia replied with a smile.

  Sam returned the smile. "What I was thinking a moment ago? … You don't agree with me, do you?"

  "No. It's too obvious. The Prince of Filth tried blocking all the roads up in New York State. It didn't work. He tried isolating us up in Canada; didn't work there. According to what you've told me, Satan tried about the same in Nebraska, back when your father fought him. It didn't work then, either. This is going to be a very interesting fight, Sam."

  Sam stroked his chin with big fingers. "But a slow-building one."

  "Yes."

  Sam smiled again.

  "I don't know whether I like that or not, Sam," his wife told him, correctly reading his thoughts.

  "Give me your objections."

  "No one has made a hostile move toward any of us. You know the rules."

  "Nydia, we have been told by mortal men that those are the rules. The smoking hand of God has not written them in stone for us to see. I …"

  Little Sam stood up, stilling his father with that action. "Satan is a murderer, and was a murderer from the beginning. And he abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaketh a lie, he speaketh of his own; for he is a liar, and the father of it."

  How do you know that, Son?" Nydia asked.

  "Because Jesus said it."

  "How do you know that, Sam?" his father asked.

  "I know," the child said. "I know that Satan will blind the minds of those that do not truly believe. I know that Satan tempts men to disobedience; that he seeks man's destruction and opposes God's servants. I know that he incites men to evil and can appear as the angel of light. And I know that he is to be resisted."

  "Have you been saying your prayers every night, Sam?" Nydia asked.

  "Yes, Mother."

  "Has God been answering you?"

  "Not … really." Sam began to smile.

  Nydia glared at him, unable to read his thoughts, "What do you find so amusing, Sam?"

  "I think I know who is answering our son's prayers. Has this man ever come to you in your dreams, Son?"

  "A few times."

  "Can you describe him for us?"

  "He's big, and carries a big sword. He talks kind of … hard, but his eyes twinkle. And he sometimes tells funny stories about how he slips out of Heaven."

  "And that makes God mad, doesn't it, Son?"

  "Yes. But God doesn't stay mad at him."

  "Michael," Nydia said.

  Sam nodded. "Michael. Has he come to you lately, Son?"

  "Last night."


  "Did he talk to you?"

  "Yes. But I can't tell you what he said 'cause I'll get a spanking."

  Dog abruptly rose and walked between the boy and his father. He laid down and looked at Sam through those mismatched eyes. Sam didn't think he wanted to try to punish Little Sam with Dog anywhere near.

  Dog's eyes never left Sam's face. They followed each movement of his hands.

  "No one is going to spank you for repeating anything said to you by an angel, Son."

  "I never thought angels would look like this man does."

  "Well, Michael is an … a very unusual angel. Some even say he's God's bodyguard. Not that God needs a bodyguard. Michael is a warrior, Son."

  "Like you, Father?" the boy asked.

  "I'm not in his class, Son."

  "Mister Michael said you were too modest."

  "And you thought I'd spank you for repeating that?'

  "No, it was the other thing he said."

  Sam and Nydia waited.

  "He said that when the hard rains come, they will not be sent by God. He said that on the third day, the dead will walk. And … he also said something else …" The boy paused.

  "Go on, Son," Sam urged.

  "He, uh, also said it was time for you to start kicking ass and taking names."

  2

  Tony sidestepped Will's lunge. The doctor did not know what in the world was wrong with Will Jolevare, but he knew he was damn sick and tired of all the strange happenings. And his patience had reached the breaking point.

  Spinning, Tony gripped the broom handle as he would a baseball bat and swung with all his strength—which was considerable. Broom handle came in contact with ass and Jolevare squalled in pain, the blow knocking him off the concrete and back into the rain.

  "You wimp!" Jolevare yelled.

  Having been an athlete all during high school and into college, Tony had never considered himself to be a wimp. He didn't have any idea what Will was talking about. But he knew if Will got up and charged him again, he was going to beat him to a pulp.

  Will got up and charged. The man was screaming the vilest of obscenities.

  Will was windmilling his arms, his hands balled into fists. Tony backed up and jabbed him hard in the stomach with the broom handle, the jabs bringing yelps of pain from Will. Tony shortened his grip on the handle and whacked Jolevare on top of his head. The scalp parted and the blood flew.