" 'All the 'olice!" Lester said, his voice rising about the bub of voices.
"Hey, you silly sanctimonious jerk!" the young man shouted at Lester. "If anybody calls the cops, it'll be me! You don't have the right to come in a man's business and start orderin' me around and then wreck the place. Ain't you got no sense at all?"
"Seller of filth!" a man yelled. "Debaser of morals!"
"Get lost and get out!" the young man yelled.
Elmer had crawled behind a soft drink machine and was busy looking. "Ain't that a sight?" he muttered. He turned another torn page and found an article on government. Nobody ever told Elmer these magazines had words in them. He began to read. Pretty damned interesting.
'Brother Elmer!" Sister Bertha squalled. "Where are you when we need your strength?"
Elmer scrunched up closer to the machine. If he had any luck at all, they'd forget about him. The young assistant manager jerked out a pistol. "Ya'll better carry your asses on outta here!" he hollered, " 'Fore a bust a cap!" He looked down at Sister Sally, "And drag that heifer outta here, too."
Brother Lester was on his feet, his shirt front bloody from his busted snoot. "Gather outside, Brothers and Sisters. We'll pray."
The store emptied and the young man began gathering the torn magazines. People like Cliff Lester and those that followed him irritated the shit out of him. A1ways tryin' to tell somebody else what to do. Worse than the damned government.
He cut his eyes and found Elmer, sitting on the floor, his back to a soft drink machine. "Well, what in the hell are you doing?"
Elmer looked up. "Uh … you sell fried chicken?"
The teenage girl did not fully understand what had happened. She had gone back to the church to use the bathroom and something had exploded against the back of her head. She had dropped into unconsciousness. When she had awakened, she was bound, gagged, and blindfolded.
And naked.
Those that had seized her had put their hands all over her body, squeezing and fondling her flesh.
Then she had heard a female voice saying that the girl would do just fine. The Master would be pleased.
Sadie Wesson was scared. She was so scared she couldn't help herself. She wet on herself.
The unseen men around her thought that was very funny.
Colter stilled the ringing of the phone. She tensed as the familiar voice sprang into her ear.
"Hi, Granny!" Jackson said. "My, my, but wasn't grandfather a funny-looking sight last night?"
"Where are you, Jackson?"
"At my darling baby brother's house, Granny dear. Are you ready to die, Granny?"
Colter had motioned for Sam and Father Javotte to pick up the extensions.
"What do you want, Jackson?"
"Why, just some conversation, Granny. Don't you want to talk to your favorite grandson?"
"I would rather see you dead and buried, Jackson."
"Goodness, gracious, Granny!" Jackson laughed, "You have turned into a hard old broad, haven't you?"
She said nothing.
"Some are walking now, Granny," Jackson whispered, "But I think you know that."
"I know, Jackson."
"Why don't you call for outside help, Granny? The more the merrier, as they say."
"You know why we don't, Jackson."
Jackson's laugh was so evil it touched Colter's heart, chilling it. "Oh, I know, Granny. I know. Monday morning, Granny, the pretty little town of Becancour will be back to normal. Everything will be just dandy. Won't it, Granny?"
He's too confident, Sam thought. Much too sure of himself.
Sam caught Javotte's glance. The priest nodded his understanding and agreement.
"I'm going to kill you, Granny," Jackson said, "You … are … dead!" He hung up.
"Jackson?" Romy asked.
"Yes."
"Where is he?"
She met the man's eyes. "At your house."
Romy pulled a .38 from his waistband and checked the loads.
"You can't kill him with that, Romy," Colter warned him. "Listen to me! You can't kill him with that weapon."
"Listen to her, Son," Father Javotte urged. "Don't be a fool."
"I believe I can," Romy said. Before anyone could stop him, he ran out the front door.
"Romy!" Colter called. But the only reply was the slamming of the door.
All listened as Romy's car cranked into life and roared out of the driveway.
Julie ran toward the front door. Matt Comeaux grabbed her and held her until Colter, Andrea, and Tess could get to the woman and lead her off into a bedroom.
Colter did not tell the woman her feelings: She did not expect to ever see Romy again. At least not alive.
And now she had another worry: Romy and Julie's son, Guy, who was four years old, was marked, and she did not know which side of the line the boy would choose.
She looked around for Guy, but could only spot the oldest child, Cindy. "Where is your brother, Cindy?"
"He's not here, Grandmother," the thirteen-year-old said. "He asked if he could stay over at the clinic. Guy and Little Sam Balon got along real well."
Colter nodded her head and pursed her hps. Guy was marked, but a lot of Dorgenois men were marked; not all turned toward the Dark One.
She felt eyes on her and looked up. Sam Balon was looking at her. He smiled sadly and Colter's heart was suddenly very heavy.
She walked to him. "Must it be children against children, Sam?"
"It's not up to us, Mrs. Dorgenois. We can only fight the evil the best way we know how."
"Romy?"
5am lifted his heavy shoulders in a shrug. "I don't know. Jackson is very, very confident. That might work against him. I guess there is only one person who really knows what the outcome of all this will be."
Trooper Norris walked up, a sandwich in his hand. "Who's that?"
"God," Sam said.
12
There were strange stirrings in the swamps and bayous that surrounded the town of Becancour. A stillness had fallen over this part of the parish. Not one breath of air was moved by any winds.
The Beasts grew nervous in their hiding places. For they had not been warned of anything like this. Those cats that came under the power of the followers of the Dark One, those that had gathered in great furry masses on the edge of the open field had tensed at some silently received signal. They hissed and spat and arched their backs and yowled and quarreled among themselves. Something was happening and they did not know what it was.
And all around the town of Becancour, a strange phenomena was taking place. In small packs, dogs and cats were gathering. They sat and squatted and lay, looking at one another.
For the moment, they had no feelings of animosity between them, only some primitive thought that if they were to survive, they must band together.
The dogs and cats looked at each other and reached silent agreement.
• • •
"O, ou're a 'art of 'his!" Brother Lester said to Tony Livaudais.
"Shut up, you idiot!" Tony told him. "And hold still while I set this busted nose."
"Don't you speak to Brother Lester in that tone of voice!" Sister Alice said.
"The same goes for you, too," Dr. Livaudais informed the woman. He set Lester's nose with one quick motion, and that got Brother Lester's attention faster than a plate of fried chicken and a bowl of gravy.
"Oowww!" he hollered.
"A little pain is good for the soul, Lester," Tony told him. "It reminds one that we are all mortal beings."
"If I want a sermon I'll tape record myself, Livaudais." Felt good to be able to speak properly. "Before I call the authorities, I demand to know why you have seized all these children."
"I haven't seized anybody, you fool. The children were gathered out at Frank Lovern's rent house. Almost two hundred of them." Tony explained, briefly.
For the first time, Cliff Lester felt some doubts about his scoffing of Satan being in town. He knew Tony Livaudais was
a level-headed and solid-thinking man—even if he was a damned Catholic, and didn't believe in foot-washin', and gettin' in the spirit, and Tongues, and all that good stuff. Anybody that didn't stomp and shout and sing and prance and holler when the Spirit moved you was suspect.
But Brother Lester shook away his doubts and held fast. "That's a bunch of bull, Doctor. What's wrong with this town is all them filthy magazines and books and dirty movies. And we want our children returned, too."
Tony took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I have spoken with Sheriff Ganucheau, Lester. I have informed him about these children. I have told him they are frightened and mentally confused. I told him about the strange behavior of many of Becancour's citizens. He instructed me to keep the children here, and the overflow at Mrs. Dorgenois's home. Those are his orders, Lester. And I intend to see they are carried out, to the letter.
Lester thought about that. He didn't want any trouble with the High Sheriff. The High Sheriff didn't like Lester and Cliff knew it. Sheriff Ganucheau had already warned Cliff, twice, that the next time he heard of Cliff physically interfering with the orderly operation of legitimate business, he was going to bust Cliff's ass and put him in the pokey.
"OK," Brother Lester said. "Fine. How much do I owe you for fixin' my nose?"
"I'll keep a tally, Lester, 'cause you'll be back here again. I've told you what is taking place in this town, you don't believe it. Fine. You go on sticking your long, semipious nose in other people's business, and the next time you're likely to get it shot off, not just punched. You people, and people like you gripe my ass, Lester. You don't know the meaning of democracy. You want to dictate to everybody else. And to hell with the rights of others. I've said my piece, I've got other things to worry about. Now you all haul your asses out of this clinic.
"You're a heathen!" Sister Alice hissed.
"You're a fool, lady," Tony said. "And I'm sick of looking at your opinionated face. Get out of my clinic."
Romy pulled up into the driveway of his house. No point in trying to hide anything; Jackson probably knew he was coming.
Sweat beaded Romy's face as he stepped out of the air-conditioned car and into the fierce heat. He looked toward the house; he could feel the dark evil emanating from the home. He wondered who, besides Jackson, was in there, waiting for him?
Despite the heat, Romy was wearing a sport coat. But this time it wasn't just out of habit. The coat concealed the long-bladed hunting knife in a leather sheath on his belt, carried on his left side.
Laughter reached Romy's ears. Jackson. More laughter reached him; female laughter. Two people in there, at least. No, there was yet another female voice. Three people.
Romy's pistol was in his jacket pocket. He touched the weight of it with his fingertips and began walking up the drive, to the house.
"Come on, baby brother." Jackson's voice reached out and filled Romy's head with the taunting. Romy stepped up onto the small porch and put his hand on the doorknob. He turned the knob and pushed open the door.
Art Authement sat in his office at the funeral home and wondered where his wife had gone to this time. And he wondered why he was feeling so … so odd. He thought back to the phone call he'd received from Sonny Passon. Damndest thing, that call. About the devil being in Becancour, and about most of the people being possessed. Goddamnedest thing Art had ever heard in all his days.
Art's head came up with a jerk. What the hell was that noise? Sounded like it came from back in the small cooler room; but that was impossible, 'cause Billy Cane was gone on vacation and Art knew there wasn't nobody in that room, anyways. 'Cept that dead orderly from the hospital. And that brought something else to mind: How come Tony hadn't been over here to do the autopsy? On either man.
It was just damned odd, that's what it was, all right.
And there that noise come again. Sort of thumping noise. Kinda like a drunk person staggering around in a dark room, knocking over things and running into other things.
Or like a person that …
… didn't have any eyes and …
… couldn't see.
Like that orderly.
"Shit!" Art said, getting up from his chair. "This business must be gettin' to me. That and all the odd-actin' folks around town."
And, he thought, Sonny's call.
He walked toward the rear of the funeral home. The noise grew louder. Damn sure was something in the cooler room. And making a hell of a fuss, too. Art thought about going back to the front and getting his old .38. it was probably a big-assed ol' rat was all, and he damn sure didn't want to knock a hole in his cooler.
That brought him up short. Now, he never had been able to figure out why his dad had installed the damn thing. Only funeral home he knew of between Tallulah and De Ridder that had a cooler was over to Alex. Having' a cooler the size of the one his dad had installed, when you thought about the size of the town, was unheard of.
The noise had increased. And with it came a grunting kind of sound.
Made Art's flesh seem to crawl; like maggots was workin' live on his skin.
Summoning all his courage, Art threw open the door and clicked on the lights, the switch located on the wall outside the cooler room.
Authement started squalling as his unbelieving eyes saw the sightless orderly, his arms stretched out in front of him, come thumping and jerking and staggering toward him.
"Allez vous-en!" Art screamed and screamed and screamed.
The orderly, eye sockets empty, lurched toward him.
Art fell down in the hall and the orderly stumbled over him, falling on top of Art, knocking the breath from the man.
Art was now nearly as mindless as the orderly was sightless.
But one was about to change.
Art felt the man's cold hands fumbling around his head, the clammy fingers searching. Gathering all his strength, Art lunged up from the tile floor, knocking the orderly off him. Art started crawling, trying to get to his feet, but his leather-soled shoes kept slipping on the floor. A cold hand closed around Art's ankle and jerked him back. Art's fingers tried to dig in the tile, trying to get a purchase. No good. Turning, Art lashed out with his free foot, catching the dead man … dead man! … those words rang silently in Art's head. This could not be happening.
But it was.
The orderly fell back as Art's shoe hit him. But the blow didn't seem to bother him at all. He dragged Art to him, his cold fingers digging at Art's face.
Then Art knew what he, it, whatever, was trying to do.
Get his eyes!
Art began hitting the orderly with his fists. Nothing seemed to bother the thing. He kicked the thing in the balls. Didn't faze him. Art felt hideous pain as the man's fingers dug under his eyes and popped them out of Art's skull.
The orderly jerked and the optic nerve severed. Holding the precious eyes in one hand, the orderly grabbed Art's head in the other hand and beat his head against the tile floor, until Art was unconscious. The orderly bent his head and opened his mouth, exposing needle-sharp cuspids. He plunged the sharpness into Art's neck and sucked noisily, greedily. When he had consumed his fill, he squatted beside the paleness that was Art Authement and stuck the eyes into his sockets. He got them upside down and right in left and left in right, giving him a rather odd perspective on things, but that was all right, the orderly could see … sort of.
He lurched back into the cooler room and pulled out the tray holding what was left of the cat-attacked man found out on the road. He bent down and breathed into the man's mouth.
The man's eyes opened.
Much of the skin on the man's face had been eaten off by the cats; the whiteness of bone glistened dully under the harsh lights.
"Hungry?" the orderly asked.
"Blood," the man croaked.
"Soon. Come on."
With one helping the other, the naked men staggered out of the cooler room and into the hall. The torn man's eyes shone with anticipation at the sight of Art.
"N
o," the orderly said, some of his words whistling out the hole in his throat. "He is now one of us."
The torn man nodded his head. "Blood," he said.
"Soon. Very soon."
They staggered and lurched and stumbled out of the funeral home.
Art opened his eyelids. Darkness met him. No matter, he thought, sitting up. I know where I am and where I have to go.
It had been so nice of Sonny Passon to call earlier in the day and invite him over to the Dorgenois house. A lovely invitation.
Art would accept.
Right now.
13
Romy took one step inside and then hurled himself out of the small foyer and deliberately rolled down the two steps into the large hall. His eyes had caught movement to his right as he swung open the door and stepped in.
Jackson Dorgenois with a knife in his hand.
Romy had been only a fair athlete in high school, but he did remember how to roll. He came up facing his brother with the .38 in his right hand. He cocked back the hammer.
Jackson laughed at him.
Romy began pulling the trigger.
Smoking holes began appearing in Jackson's chest as the hollow-nosed slugs impacted with flesh. The booming of the pistol was loud in the home; Romy could see some woman that looked vaguely familiar to him running around with a knife in her hand. Then it came to him who it was: Mary Claverie.
Romy felt sick to his stomach as the blood from his brother's wounds began spurting out of his chest. Jackson staggered backward and fell out of the open front door. He was screaming strangely; not a human sound. But more like a big cat.
Whirling, Romy ducked just as Mary lunged at him with the large knife. He tripped her and she fell heavily, slicing open her arm when she fell on the sharp blade.
Her screaming joined Jackson's strange catlike howling. Jumping to his feet, the empty pistol in his hand, Romy literally ran over Bonnie Rogers, knocking her to the floor. The woman's pale skin, not touched by sunlight in more than two decades, looked sick and evil to Romy. Her eyes were filled with hate and depravity.
She hissed at him, like a cat.
Romy kicked her on the side of the head and ran toward his study. He was conscious of his brother trying to get up off the porch. And even more conscious of the stinking blood that was pouring from Jackson's chest.
The Devil's Cat Page 19
