The Devil's Laughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “I guess they’re just taking it one step at a time, Father,” Donatto replied. “I can truthfully speak for all the Troop when I say that none of us have ever had to deal with anything like this.”

  “Nor have we,” Link said.

  Donatto cut his eyes. “The guys were all wondering, Link. Why you? I mean-”

  “I know what you mean. I haven’t been asked not to say anything about it. Lynette Jackson was my real mother.”

  Donatto shuddered. He had been out to the plant complex and had seen what was left of that terrible old bag of bones with the steel rod jammed through her.

  “Has the town pretty well been searched, Sergeant?” Link asked.

  “Right, sir. And it’s still going on. Basements, sheds, abandoned buildings. All the houses. We’ve got over a thousand people in here, so I’m told. They’ve been working steady since about ten o’clock this morning. Where do you think those ... ah ... other ... things are?”

  “On the outskirts of town. I just wonder how many of them there are.”

  Again, Donatto shuddered. They still had Chief Spencer chained down in a secret location. No one knew what the hell to do with him. Well, that wasn’t true. No one wanted to do it. However, some of the government’s scientists were really interested in him. “I got about fifty stakes in the trunk, Link.”

  “Yeah.” Link shook his head in disgust and revulsion, just thinking of the job that lay ahead of them. “Chief Spencer?”

  “We got him chained down. Link? Some of the government doctors want him for study, I’m thinking.”

  “No, damnit!” Father Palombo blurted out. “He has to be destroyed. The ashes have to be burned. Take us to him, Sergeant.”

  “Ah, sir, Father. I can’t do-”

  “Take us to him!” the priest shouted. “Now!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They were met by a man who showed them what he obviously considered to be very important credentials from a super-duper government agency. Link was not impressed.

  “Get out of our way,” Link told the man.

  “I’m under orders to – ”

  “I don’t give a damn for your orders,” Father Palombo said. “I take my orders from God.”

  Sergeant Donatto stood behind the men, holding a stake and a small sledge.

  “What are you going to do? Shoot us?” Link challenged. “You going to kill me, a priest, and a sergeant of the Louisiana Highway Patrol. And how about those six other troopers standing over there?” he pointed. “You going to kill them, too? Kill all of us in cold blood?”

  The troopers stood with assault rifles at the ready. If there was shooting, they were not going down easy.

  The government agent was not alone; he had plenty of other agents backing him up. “Ted,” one of the others called, “I’m not going to shoot a priest, a civilian, and seven troopers. This is stupid, man. You’ve seen that ... thing chained down in the shed. That’s not a man or an animal. That’s an ... unHoly creature. Makes my skin crawl. But I don’t want to see it cut on and cut up just to satisfy the curiosity of a bunch of eggheads. These people know what they’re doing and how to do it. Let them pass.”

  With a sigh that sounded like one of relief, the agent stepped to one side and turned his back.

  Link and the priest exchanged glances. They looked back at Donatto. “You ready?” Palombo asked.

  “If you say so, Father.”

  The men walked to the shed and opened the door. Spencer snarled and howled at them, his breath coming from hell. Link took the hammer and stake. Donatto held the flashlight. Father Palombo prayed.

  The sounds of hammering and screaming filled the night.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The men worked through the night. The stinking, screaming awful night. Miller and Holt were part of the team that saw to the carrying away of the now truly dead and to the burning of the bodies.

  The six-man team guarding Link, Father Palombo, and Sergeant Donatto had to be beefed up as those few coven members still at large tried to prevent the killing of the devil’s undead. They charged at them from out of the night and were shot down by the troopers. One trooper’s job was to film everything; it would aid them in court if any family member tried to sue for damages.

  Just as dawn was streaking the skies, Father Palombo straightened his aching back and said, “I think that’s all of them, Link.”

  They had searched for over an hour without finding any more of the once-human creatures.

  On the drive back to town, Link caught a glimpse of movement behind the house of Dick Marley. “Pull in the drive.”

  He and the priest were immediately surrounded by troopers, all wearing body armor. “You see something, Link?” Miller asked.

  “Yeah. Behind the house. I think it’s Chris Brooks. And he’s probably not alone.”

  Sergeant Donatto waved the troopers into position and then lifted a bullhorn. “You behind the house. This is the state police. Give it up.”

  “Fuck you, pig!” Frankie Marley yelled. “Come and get us.”

  “Snakehead,” Miller muttered.

  “We’ll do this easy,” Donatto said. He radioed in their position, and within moments, two Army attack helicopters came in, the great blades hammering the air.

  “Those crouched behind the house,” a pilot radioed. “You want them neutralized?”

  “That’s ten-four,” Donatto replied.

  “There’s not going to be much left of the house,” the pilot said.

  “From what I understand, there wasn’t much to the people who lived in it,” Donatto said.

  “Take them out,” Donatto radioed.

  “No!” Link said. “Tell them to hold off. Let me talk to them. Okay?”

  “Ground to air,” Donatto radioed. “Hold off. Repeat: Hold off. Back up and hang around.”

  “That’s 10-4. Sticking around.”

  Link took the bullhorn. “Listen to me, kids. This is Link Donovan. Give this up. You can’t win. All you’re going to do is die. That’s what the devil wants. You’re playing right into his hands.”

  They replied by cursing and hurling obscenities at him. Then they smashed out the front windows of the fine home and began shooting.

  When the shooting had tapered off, Link handed the bullhorn back to Donatto. “You call the shots.”

  Donatto radioed the choppers to flush the house.

  The pilots circled and came in over the heads of the police. The guns of the attack helicopters ripped the front of the house apart during the first pass, then tore it all to bits during the second pass.

  “That ought to do it,” Donatto radioed. “Thanks. We’ll take it from here.”

  “Anytime,” the pilots told him, and they went ka-chocking away.

  “Bastards!” a girl called from inside the ruined house. “You killed them all, you bastards!”

  Donatto lifted the bullhorn. “Come on out of there, girl. Do it right now with your hands in the air. Come on!”

  She came out, but she came out swearing her love for Satan and her hatred for God. And she came out shooting.

  Trooper Patin shot her in the leg in the hopes she’d give it up. The round knocked her sprawling. But she came up screaming curses at the men and firing a pistol.

  “Shit!” Link muttered as one of the troopers put her down.

  The area fell silent. Two troopers ran forward to check out the house and the girl. After a moment, they waved the others forward. Link stood over the dead girl. He looked at Miller and Holt. “Either of you know her?”

  “Yeah,” Miller said. “I gave her a ticket once. She gave me a cussing. That’s Karen Broussard.”

  * * *

  Link slept until the middle of the afternoon and then took another shower. He still felt gritty and unclean and depressed. The killing had taken its toll on him. He was not a man totally void of emotions. He had done what he had to do to survive and to protect those that he loved and cared for. But he didn’t have to feel go
od about it. And he sure as hell didn’t.

  He had told Anne about Chris and she had taken it stoically. But Link knew the news cut her deeply.

  “I didn’t kill him, Anne,” he had told her.

  “I’m glad for that.” She had walked into a bedroom and closed the door.

  Link walked out onto his porch. His gates had been repaired. Paul had gone home. To an empty house. His mother and father had been among the dead out at the Romaire complex. His brother was gone and running. As close as anyone could figure at this early stage, nearly fifty coven members had escaped and were running. The press still had not been allowed past the barricades and they were furious, making all sorts of thinly veiled threats.

  “The governor is about to hold a press conference from the steps of the courthouse in town, Link,” Anne said from behind him.

  “Good for him,” Link said.

  She chuckled and came out to sit beside him. Billy and Betsy were outside playing catch with two of the troopers.

  “Have you talked with them about what happened?” Link asked her, watching the children at play. The troopers seemed to be having as much fun as the kids.

  “The kids? Yes. They’re coping well, I believe. They both opened up to me and we’ve talked at length several times. They’ll be all right. They’re both strong kids. How long will the state police stay, Link?”

  “I don’t know. It isn’t over.”

  “You really believe that woman passed her powers on to someone else just before she died?”

  “Yes. Father Palombo thinks they can do that. But who did she pass it to? I don’t have a clue as to who that person might be.”

  “And so now we do ... what?”

  “Wait.”

  * * *

  Gerard took over as sheriff until elections could be held, Governor Larkin ordered the roadblocks lifted, and the press poured in like ants to honey. Or vultures to carrion.

  Link stayed on his property and refused all interviews. One reporter climbed the fence and brazenly marched up the drive to the house, demanding an interview. One of the troopers still stationed there placed the man under arrest for trespassing and took the fellow to jail. He was out in ten minutes, but the other reporters got the message loud and clear.

  The reporters didn’t stay long. Once they found out that Link and those directly involved in the tragedy weren’t going to say a word about it, and the rest of the citizens didn’t have any memory of it, and they couldn’t gain access to any of those in lock-down, most of them left.

  When the phones were finally back in working order, Link’s agent called and said she had big bucks lined up for a novel about the “incident,” as the government called it.

  Link said he’d do it and started to work on the manuscript.

  The dead – and there were many-were buried. A select few were burned.

  November drifted into December, and the troopers were pulled away from guarding Link’s place-at Link’s request. Several of the coven members in jail committed suicide. All of them were facing either the death penalty or many, many years in prison.

  On Christmas Eve, Link and Anne were married in a quiet ceremony at Link’s house.

  Tom Halbert and Jimmy Hughes were recovering from their wounds.

  Many of the younger kids in the coven, those who really were still children, underwent extensive counseling from so-called experts in that field.

  The ashes of Lynette Jackson and Peter Romaire were burned again and sealed in a concrete tomb out in the parish. The deep hole in which the tomb was placed was covered with earth and smoothed down.

  The terror was over.

  At least everybody hoped it was over.

  There were a few who knew it wasn’t. Who knew it never would be over.

  On New Years Day, Link answered the phone in his study.

  “Hi, puke face,” a very familiar girl’s voice sprang into his ear.

  He pushed the record button on his cassette-corder. “Got to be little Sally Wilson,” Link said.

  “That’s right. You wanna put the rest of it together?”

  “I heard you responded well to the counseling. Quite the little actress, aren’t you?”

  “You know it, dads.”

  Link sighed. “She really did it. She passed the power to you.”

  “That’s right. And there is nothing you can do about it. No one is going to allow you to kill someone as sweet and nice and pretty as me. No one is going to believe I am anything except what they see. And Donovan., what they’ll see is a church-goin’, Psalm-singin’, hallelujah-shoutin’, sweet little southern charmer. Sugar wouldn’t melt in my mouth, y’all.”

  “And you plan to do what, Sally?”

  “Why, goodness, gracious me, darlin’. I don’t plan on doin’ nothin’ ’ceptin’ keepin’ my grades up at school and maybe flirtin’ with the boys some. You know how us young southern ladies are.”

  “You could have kept quiet about this, Sally. Why tip your hand so soon?”

  “Think about it, pig shit face. I want you to sweat. I want you to think about me every time the sun goes down. But I’ll be so-o-o-o sweet every time we meet. I’ll just gush all over you in my gratitude for you savin’ my virginity that night out at the mansion. And you know I’m gonna be so-o-o-o popular with the other kids, don’t you? ’Cause I can do little things for them, things that no-o-o-body else can do. I’m gonna be so popular. I’ll make straight A’s in school. I’m gonna be class president and I just bet you I’m gonna be homecomin’ queen, too. Then I’ll go to college and just think what I can do there, vomit breath. But I’m gettin’ ahead of myself. Oh, and if you think you can record any of this, think again. All you’re gonna have is blank tape. So you can turn your recorder off now.”

  Sally started laughing in a deep and hollow voice that Link had heard before. Out of his mother’s mouth, moments before he killed her. She laughed and laughed and was still laughing when Link hung up the phone.

  He rewound the tape and played it. Nothing. Only the hiss of blank tape.

  Link found his jacket and slipped it on. The kids were out of town, visiting their grandfather. Anne was in the kitchen, fixing a stew.

  He stuck his head inside the kitchen. “I’ve got to go into town, Anne. You need anything?”

  “Not a thing. You going to be gone long?”

  Link hesitated. “No. Not long.”

  She smiled at him.

  Link went to the barn and quickly sharpened a stake. He walked to his Bronco, holding the stake close to his leg so Anne couldn’t see it should she look out the front of the house. At the blacktop, he turned toward town.

  “Please, God,” he muttered. “Let this one be the last one. Please let it be over.”

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 1992 William W. Johnstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LYRICAL PRESS is Reg. U.S. Pat, & TM Office.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND and the Lyrical Underground logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First electronic edition: March 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-6018-3526-0

 

 

 
yscale(100%); -moz-filter: grayscale(100%); -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share