by Lynn Lorenz
“Sure, Father. I’ll come over and see what I can do.” Bobby hung up.
Well, he needed to talk to Scott about the weather and the festival anyway.
He picked up the phone and called him.
Scott answered on the third ring. “Dupree.”
“Scott, it’s Bobby. I got a major problem. Got a minute?”
“Not really. I’m on my way to the church. Got a busload of pilgrims to disperse.”
“I know. Father Peder called me too. Look, I’ll meet you there. Together we can deal with that. Then I need to talk to you.”
“Sure. About the festival?”
“Yeah.” Bobby figured Scott might need some support out there.
“Fine. See you there.” Scott disconnected.
Bobby put his phone back on his belt and stood. He checked the weather on another site. Same damn forecast.
“Merde!” Could this weekend get any worse?
»»•««
When Bobby arrived, he pulled into the parking lot. Tomorrow, festivalgoers would fill the church grounds, dancing to Cajun music, eating, and most importantly, spending money.
Right now, about fifty people gathered around the oak tree where Bobby planned on setting up the main stage. To one side stood the work crew, six big men who looked pissed off. He got out of his truck and went to speak to them first.
Scott was already there, talking to the crowd gathered under the oak.
Man, they had their work cut out for them today.
Bobby approached, and one of the men, probably the foreman, stepped forward.
“Hey, are you Mr. Cotteau? With the festival?” He wiped his hand on his jeans and then held it out.
Bobby shook it. “I am.”
“Well, as you can see, we’ve got a problem. My men can’t put up the stage until”—he waved at the crowd—“those people leave.”
“I know. Look, the sheriff is talking to them now. Give me a few minutes to work this out.”
The foreman nodded. Bobby headed off in a brisk walk toward Scott, who was addressing the crowd.
“Everyone! Please. You’re going to have to leave. If you don’t, I’m prepared to take you all in and book you on trespass.”
Everyone started shouting, “You can’t do that!” and “This is a church!” and “We have God on our side!”
Bobby would have laughed if this wasn’t so serious. He pushed his way through the crowd, eventually reaching Scott.
“Hey, Sheriff.” Bobby gave Scott a wink. “What’s the plan?”
“Bobby.” Scott nodded back and lowered his voice. “I’m calling for backup and some extra cars if they don’t go soon.”
“I say we just shoot them.” Bobby chuckled.
Scott gave him a look that said he didn’t appreciate the help.
“Look, I can’t hold all these people. You know that as well as I do. The jail isn’t big enough.”
Bobby shook his head. “Not by a long shot.” He looked out over the crowd. Both he and Scott were at least a head taller than the mostly female and older crowd. Father Peder was nowhere to be seen.
Scott held up his hands for quiet. “All right, folks. This is Bobby Cotteau, chair of the festival. He’d like to have a few words.” He stepped back, and Bobby stepped forward.
“I know what this means to you.” He pointed to the tree. “Means a lot to me too. But there’s something that means just as much, especially to this town. That’s the Rugarou Festival starting right here, tomorrow.”
Everyone waited.
“I’m not going to lie to you. We’re a small town, and we don’t have much, except this festival, to earn some money to support a whole mess of activities. Youth sports, elder care from this church, the First Responders Fund, and the library. All of those things, not to mention the money the businesses make during this weekend, all of that is in jeopardy if you don’t leave.”
People milled, talking to each other and shaking their heads.
“Look. The tree will still be here on Monday. Come back then when the festival is over. I’m sure that Father Peder will welcome you then. Just not now. Just not this weekend.” He prayed his plea would reach them.
Across the lot, the workmen sat under a stand of crepe myrtles in full bloom, lavender blossoms scattered over the grass. Time was ticking down, and every hour they spent waiting cost the festival hundreds of dollars. But this couldn’t be rushed, damn it.
Pilgrims were finicky. They had to be handled properly. Respectfully.
He had an idea that just might work.
“Now I know some of you have come a long way. I understand. But I’m asking you good folks to help this town out. I’ll give each of you a one-day pass to get in free on the condition you don’t gather around this tree. And I promise on Monday, it’s all yours.”
Bobby looked at Scott who just shrugged.
The crowd would make or break the festival now.
One woman stepped forward, taking the lead for the group. “How much are the tickets?”
“Ten bucks,” Bobby answered.
“Do we get food too?” she asked. Good grief, the nerve of some people.
Bobby kept his thoughts to himself and answered as politely as he could manage. “I’m sorry, but no. As it is, we’re looking at a complete rainout on Sunday. That’s an entire day lost. Money from the food, entertainment, rides, all of it. I’m telling you, we’re hurting this year, and y’all aren’t making it better. Unless you want to come up with some money?”
Bobby bet these people didn’t have much money, and the looks passing between them only reinforced that idea. Pilgrims weren’t often the ones with a lot of money, just a lot of belief.
They talked in small groups as Bobby and Scott sweated it out. Finally, they faced the two men, and the same woman stepped up again.
“Okay. We’ll take the tickets. We can use them or sell them, right?”
Bobby nodded.
“Fine. But we’ll be back on Monday. We drove all the way from Sulfur to see Jesus and to worship him, and that’s what we’re going to do.” She gave a stern nod.
“Thank you.” Bobby sighed. Disaster averted. But there went at least five hundred bucks in tickets. He’d make it up out of his own pocket if he had to, but it was a small price to pay to ensure the festival went on as planned.
Bobby had come prepared. He pulled out a stack of tickets and began passing them out to the crowd. When he’d finished, he went back to stand beside Scott.
“How many?” Scott murmured.
“Fifty-six.” Bobby grimaced. “Nothing else I could do.”
“Damn.” Scott looked at Bobby and leaned over, keeping his voice down. “I’ll split it with you. This saved my bacon too. I don’t know where I’d have put all those people.”
Bobby and Scott laughed. “Thanks, Sheriff. I appreciate it.”
“Okay, folks. Time to get back in the bus!” The woman gathered her herd of pilgrims and shooed them toward the bus, ignoring their grumblings.
Scott spoke into his radio, letting his men know to stand down, crisis over.
“Now, you wanted to talk?” Scott pointed to the café across the street. “Cup of coffee?”
“Great. Meet you there. Gotta talk to the workmen first.” He sauntered over to the workers. “Okay, men. It’s all yours.” He and the supervisor shook hands, and he left them to it.
Bobby went back to his truck as Scott waited for the bus to fill. Bobby left before the bus did, and he found a place just outside the café to park.
He went inside, got him and Scott a booth in the back, and sat. From his seat, he watched the bus pull out of the lot and Scott rehang more of the yellow police tape. The workers had begun setting up the raised stage under the tree.
Now if he could do something about the weather. But other than pray, he was at a loss. Maybe he should put in a call to Darlene Dupree and see what she had up her sleeve. Then he remembered she started all this, and he gave a little snort.
Scott entered the café and made it to the booth, followed by the waitress.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Two.” Bobby held up his fingers. “With cream.” Scott nodded as he placed his sheriff’s hat on the seat next to him.
“Aaiiee! That was a mess. Thanks, Bobby. I don’t think they would have gone without your offer and that speech.”
“It was nothing. Besides, they’re good people. A little fanatical for my tastes, but they mean well. Once they realized they were hurting the town, and that it was the Christian thing to do, I knew they’d leave.”
“You said you needed to talk?” Scott asked as the server put two thick white china mugs of coffee and two silver pots of milk on the table.
Bobby picked out a few sugar packets, shook them, ripped off the tops, and poured them into his coffee. Then he added his milk, making the dark fluid turn caramel colored.
Scott liked his sweet but black.
“Yeah. I got the weather report for Sunday. Big thunderstorms moving in. One hundred percent chance of rain.”
“Merde!”
“My words exactly.” Bobby took a sip of the brew. Both men knew the financial loss of a rained-out day.
“What’s your rainout plan?” Scott took a sip of his.
“What do you think about holding the costume contest on Friday night instead of Sunday afternoon? You’ve done this chair thing before. What would you do?” Bobby didn’t have a problem asking for recommendations, especially from Scott. He’d practically raised the younger man and loved him like his own son. Scott was sharp. If he wasn’t, Bobby would never have handed over the pack or his position as sheriff to the man.
Scott thought about it, his gaze on his coffee. Then he lifted his head. “I’d have it on Saturday.”
“I thought of that, but Saturday’s booked solid. I have six bands on that stage all day and all night long.” Bobby shook his head. “I’d have to cancel one of them, and that’s the deposit down the drain plus a penalty. As it is, we’re going to lose all the revenue we would have made on Sunday, pay back the deposits of the bands we cancel, and I have to still pay the amusement ride folks for every day the rides are up.” He ran his hand over his hair.
“Damn. Right. Still it’s short notice. People have been working on their costumes, expecting it to be on Sunday.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking. We have everyone registered for the contest online, and I can e-mail them all about the change, offer them to either show up tomorrow or get their registration money back. Those that were going to just drop in on Sunday, well, it’ll be raining, and they won’t come anyway.”
Scott nodded. “That’d work. Good thinking about the online registration.”
“Well, Ralph Montview’s kid, Brandon, designed the site for us. Man, that boy has a future ahead of him. Thanks to him, we have presold tickets, online contest registration, maps, even an app for the schedule of events for people’s phones.”
“Wow. I’ll have to look at the site. He’s going to LSU next fall. I know Ralph is busting with pride over that boy of his.” Scott grinned. “For an old dog, you’ve brought the festival into the twenty-first century.”
“Thanks. This solution is the best I can do right now. I hate to tell you this, but we’re going to go in the hole this year. We really needed Sunday to make money.”
“Not break even at least? It’s that bad?”
Bobby nodded. “Yeah. We could raise the entrance price a buck at the gate, but people are going to kick over that. We might have fewer dollars spent overall. What do you think?”
“I say do it, then. Push the contest up to Friday night, during the opening. Then afterward, the fais-dodo can start. Everyone will be happy once they’re dancing.”
Bobby grinned. “Spoken like a true Cajun.” Bobby shifted in his seat. “There is one other thing we could do to raise the money, but I’m not sure if Father Peder will agree.” He shot Scott a look. “Sell beer.”
Scott sat back. “You know, he’s been against it for years.” He shook his head.
“Would it be any different if it were wine?” Bobby asked, then laughed.
“Probably not. But it can’t hurt to ask. Explain to him the situation. Promise him it’s just for this year.”
“I’ll do that. I know he’s going to kick, but if he agrees, I need to set it up quick.”
“Well, if anyone can do it, you can.”
“Thanks, Scott. And I just wanted to say you handled those folks just fine, son.”
Scott grinned back at him. “Appreciate you saying so. Appreciate you asking me about the festival too.”
“Hey, you’ve always been my go-to guy. You know that, right?”
“I do. You never let me forget it.” Scott laughed, then sobered. “Ted tells me you came to talk to him.”
“I did.” Bobby waited to see what Ted had said to Scott.
“You’re serious about this, huh? Hunting down this guy?” Scott leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“Yeah.”
“He’s really your mate?”
“Pretty sure.” Bobby wrapped his hands around his mug to keep them from shaking. His need for Mark kept growing the longer they were apart.
“Damn! Not many of us get a chance at a second mate. Most of the time we just sicken and…” Scott’s voice wavered. He looked away, and Bobby could see him struggle to get control.
“It’s okay. I was doing okay. Lost some weight. My fur’s not as thick, but that could be aging, right?” Bobby wanted to reassure Scott and himself. But in the back of Bobby’s mind, he knew the odds.
He’d been damned lucky, and he knew it.
“You got to find him. Ted left today, you know.”
A weight came off Bobby’s chest, a tightness he’d been living with for a few weeks. “Good.”
“Ted said you think Mark’s in danger?” Scott asked as he slid his hat back on his head and rose.
“I do. I don’t know how to explain it, but I know it. And I need to find him before something happens to him.” Bobby stood and tossed a five onto the table for the coffees.
“Ted’s good. He’ll find him.” Scott clapped Bobby on the shoulder.
“See you, Sheriff,” Bobby said as Scott walked toward his cruiser.
Bobby got into the truck and sat back. He scrubbed his face and looked across the street again.
The stage was almost up. Tomorrow, the festival would start.
Tonight Bobby had to stay calm and not go crazy worrying about his mate, but every bone in his body wanted him to change and track Mark down.
Chapter Fourteen
Mark slowed his car down as he approached the edge of St. Jerome, where the speed limit dropped to a leisurely thirty-five. The town looked like dozens of other South Louisiana towns—a main street with shops leading to the center of town, angled parking, and a square held down on one side by the mandatory Catholic church and on the other by the city hall.
The town had dressed up for the festival, and it only stirred memories of the festival where he and Bobby had danced until their boots wore blisters on their feet. A deep longing came over him, and he slowed as he came to a red light, gazing around, searching for…what? Bobby? What were the chances?
He’d recognized the accent in the big man’s voice, and figured he’d come from some place like this one—small, close-minded, a place where a gay man would have to hide what and who he was. Why else had Bobby gone to Lake Charles to look for a hookup?
A huge banner spanned the street, proclaiming the Rugarou Festival and the dates of the up-coming weekend. In one corner was a cartoonish image of a wolf’s face, jaws agape, teeth bared, saliva dripping from a lolling tongue.
Mark knew his theory was right. This town was the center of all the wolf activity, and they even celebrated the damn rugarou with a festival and a costume contest. Mark knew all about the legend of the rugarou, how the story had come over from France as the loup garou and changed over time.
He’d studied every article he could find about the half man, half wolf that roamed the swamp, killing anyone or anything that crossed its path.
Like his father.
A cold shiver ran up his spine. The light changed. Mark drove on, leaving the festival grounds behind him. After a while, the buildings thinned to little more than a few houses as he reached the other side of the town. Driving farther would put him deeper into bayou country and to the spot where he and his father had camped so long ago.
Up ahead, he spotted a gas station and pulled in. Might as well pick up the last few items on his list and fill his cooler with ice. He parked, got out, and then sauntered up to the store.
The bell tinkled as he opened the old green-paint-flecked screen door and stepped across the threshold and back in time. The one-room store was dark and cool, perfect for the heat and humidity of the swamp, even in October. It smelled of age, layers of scents piled on with an underlying hint of mildew. Four aisles extended into the depths of the store, but it looked as if they carried just about everything anyone needed.
“How ya makin’, cap?” The young clerk greeted him.
Mark grinned. “Just fine. I need some bags of ice. I saw the freezer out front.”
“Just pay for it with your other stuff, and you can take what you need when you leave.”
“Thanks.” Mark nodded and searched the aisle where the snacks were shelved. He picked up a handful of fried pies—they had his favorite, sweet potato—and a bag of beef jerky. He brought them up to the register at the front and placed them on the counter.
“Come for the festival?” the young man asked.
“No, not really. I’m going camping.” Mark smiled at the teen as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “Two bags of ice too.”
“Camping? In the swamp?” Something registered in the guy’s eyes, but Mark couldn’t figure it out. Fear, maybe?
“Yeah. Hey, can I ask you something?”
The kid shrugged, but his eyes narrowed. “Sure.”
“I’m doing some research about the rugarou, and I was wondering if you know of anyone who’s actually seen it?”
The teen’s face shut down. “Seen the monster?”
