Bayou Loup

by Lynn Lorenz

  “Yeah. Well, actually I think they might have just seen a wolf.”

  “A wolf?” Something in the air changed, and the kid shuffled his feet behind the counter as if he were ready to bolt. “There’s no wolves around here. It’s a legend. Just a story for the tourists.”

  “Yeah. Come on. We both know the rugarou is a legend. But I’m betting there is a real wolf, or a pack of wolves, living out in the swamp. What do you think?” Mark waited for the guy to answer.

  The young man licked his lips. “No. It’s just a legend.” His voice was hard and harsh, and his gaze had turned just as icy.

  Mark didn’t think he imagined the change in the teenager. One minute outgoing and helpful, the next, the kid couldn’t get two words out of his mouth. And the way his gaze shifted to the door and back, it was as if he expected the rugarou to burst through any second.

  “I know about the legend. What I’m looking for is the actual animal. The swamp wolf.” Mark nodded toward his purchases. “I’ll need a bag for those.”

  The kid rang them up and then shoved them into a plastic bag. He pushed it across the counter to Mark and looked as if he wanted to be somewhere else.

  “Sorry if I’ve upset you.” Mark didn’t mean to scare the kid.

  “I’m not scared.”

  “I never said you were.” Mark cut off as the door to the store opened, the bell tinkled again, and a man entered.

  “Hey, T-Beau,” the man said to the teen. For a minute, they just eyed each other as if sending some sort of telepathic note. And damn, if the air in the room didn’t get thick with tension.

  “Hey, Alfonse.”

  The man gave Mark a quick look, then went to the back where the beer cooler was and got a six-pack. He returned to the front and stood behind Mark. Close but not overly so.

  “Hey, this guy’s been asking about the rugarou.”

  A chill skittered down Mark’s spine, but he turned and gave the man a smile. Blue eyes narrowed at him and turned cold.

  “Festival this weekend,” was all Alfonse had to say. What was going on? The minute anyone mentioned the rugarou, everyone shut down. As if it was a big secret, which was weird, because they were having a huge festival for it.

  “No.” T-Beau cleared his throat. “He’s asking if I seen or know anyone seen a real wolf. In the swamp.”

  Now Mark couldn’t ignore it, but that time a look definitely passed between the men. The hairs on the back of Mark’s neck stood up as energy of some kind crackled in the air around them.

  “A wolf? No wolves around here.” The man said it as if that ended the discussion.

  “That’s not what the eyewitness accounts say.” Mark knew as soon as he said it, he should have kept his mouth shut.

  The two men stiffened. Another look passed.

  “You a reporter?” Alfonse asked and took a step closer.

  “No. A professor of zoology. I study wolves, and I’m doing research to see if there is a pack of wolves here in the swamp.” What could it hurt to tell them? It wasn’t as if he were going to do anything to screw up the festival.

  “And if you find them, what will you do?” Alfonse shifted from one leg to the other, the six-pack of once-cold beer dripping onto the cement floor of the store.

  “Take pictures. Study them. Write a paper about them.” Mark shrugged. “Prove once and for all that swamp wolves exist.”

  Silence stretched between the three men, and Mark regretted speaking. He didn’t know why, but he felt threatened.

  “There’re no wolves in the swamp. It’s just a legend.”

  T-Beau said, “Next in line.”

  The large man placed his beer on the counter, edging Mark out of the way. He got the message. Time to leave.

  Trying not to bolt, Mark headed out the door and heard the boy say in a squeaky, excited voice, “He’s gonna camp in the swamp.”

  “Hush, boy,” the man replied, cutting him off before the door shut.

  Why did it bother him if the men knew where he was going to camp? It was the tone of panic in the boy’s tone. And the guy’s voice, well, it reeked of… Hell, he didn’t know what, but he didn’t like it.

  He got his bags of ice from the outside freezer and then opened his trunk. He spilled them into the ice chest to cover the waters and food he’d brought, then slammed the trunk shut. Mark got back into his car, dropped the bag onto the passenger seat, and pulled out his father’s old map from the glove compartment. He unfolded it, careful not to rip the already worn-thin folds, to get a better look, and traced the road with his finger.

  His father had used this map that weekend and marked exactly where he’d pulled off onto a narrow caliche lane leading into the swamp. From there, Mark’s memory would have to find the same spot.

  He started the car and then pulled out.

  He glanced back. The man from the store stood near the pumps, watching him.

  Another of those stupid shivers shimmied down his spine. Mark turned on the radio, dialing in a local channel playing some hard-rocking Cajun music, as he tried to push the fear out of his mind.

  »»•««

  Ted figured the best place to start was at the casino bar. He slid onto a bar stool and signaled for the bartender. Even though it was midday, he knew bartenders worked long hours and crazy shifts. There was no guarantee the guy working now had worked that evening, but he’d take a chance. He’d never know if he didn’t ask.

  “Hey, I’m looking for a guy.”

  “Aren’t we all?” The dude winked. Obviously, his gaydar was up and working, or maybe the guy flirted with everyone.

  “He comes here sometimes on Friday nights.”

  “A lot of guys do. It’s the unofficial gay night.” He made air quotes with his fingers as he leaned on the bar. “What’s he look like?”

  “Nice looking, about mid-forties, dark hair with a gray streak on the side of his head.” Ted motioned with his hand to where Bobby had described.

  The man scrunched up his face in an it’s hard to remember look. Ted slipped a twenty out of his pocket and onto the bar. Ted knew the game; he’d played it plenty of times. This guy had info Ted wanted, and Ted would have to pay for it. One way or the other. A year ago, Ted would have let the guy blow him in the bathroom for the info, but no more. Ted was a one-wolf man.

  “Right. Yeah, I’ve seen him before. Once or twice.” Best lubricant in the world.

  “And?” Ted waited.

  He shrugged. “What do you want to know? The size of his dick?” He smirked.

  Ted raised an eyebrow. “You know him that well?”

  “I wish. He’s hot.” Another sigh. “Not many do. But I do know him. He comes here regularly.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Mark something. Let me think. You want a beer while I think?” The guy was asking for more money.

  Ted nodded. “Draft.”

  The bartender walked away, drew the beer, and came back. Ted handed over a five this time. “It’s Mark Bradford. All I know is he’s a professor over at Lafayette.”

  “Has he been in recently?”

  “No. But I didn’t work the last few Friday nights. Sorry.” He shrugged but didn’t look very sorry.

  “Anything else you know about him? Home address? Phone number?”

  The bartender shook his head.

  “Okay. Thanks, man.”

  “If I see him, can I tell him who’s looking for him?” The bartender gave Ted a hopeful look.

  “No. I’ll find him first.” Ted gave the guy a nod and left.

  Mark Bradford. Should be easy enough now. Ted pulled out his phone and did a quick Internet search.

  Bingo.

  Professor Mark Bradford, at Louisiana State University in Lafayette. Professor of zoology.

  Ted stopped dead in his tracks, and a woman behind him walked into him.

  “Sorry!” He moved to the side as she glared at him and then continued on her way.

  Zoology? Something gave him a
very bad feeling in his gut, as if he’d eaten spoiled oysters, but he had no idea why. So what if the guy was a professor? That was cool. Smart, handsome, interested in animals—a man fit to be Bobby’s mate.

  He got to this car, and pulled out of the casino’s parking lot. Within minutes, he was back on the I-10 and heading for Lafayette.

  »»•««

  Bobby’s cell phone beeped at him. He put down his cup of coffee and picked the phone up. He’d gotten a text message.

  He stared at the phone, then flipped it open. He didn’t get too many of those these days, not since he’d stepped down from being sheriff. A few of the guys in the pack would send him photos of fish or gators they’d caught.

  The image of a woman, nearly naked, came up on the small screen. He squinted at it, then dropped the phone as if it were on fire.

  “Holy shit!” He scooted back his chair, scraping it across the linoleum of the pack office, as if getting away from it could change what he’d seen.

  He leaned forward and peeked at it. Just to make sure.

  Yep. Holy shit. Sarah Guillory had sent him a picture of herself, with nothing on but a red scarf draped over her nether region.

  Bobby picked up the phone, cocked his head to one side, and muttered, “I’m in so much trouble.”

  Completely at a loss as to what to do next, he closed the phone and stuffed it back into his pocket.

  »»•««

  Ted drove through the sprawling university, guided by the directions from his GPS, until he found the zoology building. Unlike the other buildings, this one was newer, like a large glass-and-steel cube. Luckily, guest parking wasn’t too far from it.

  He parked and then strode to the building. Inside, the first floor had a large and open foyer. From it ran two halls filled with doors probably leading to classrooms. On one of the two large magnetic boards, he found the names and office numbers of the staff.

  Professor Mark Bradford—Room 345

  This was just too easy. Guilt flooded Ted’s belly. How could he charge Bobby for this? The man could have done this himself if he weren’t in the middle of the festival.

  Ted went to the elevator and rode up to three. He got out, oriented himself, and took off down the hall. Late afternoon and he’d just be too damn lucky to find the man in his office.

  The door was shut. He tried the handle, but it was locked, and the lights behind the frosted glass were off.

  Ted huffed out a breath. Okay, minor setback.

  There had to be a secretary around there, right? He headed in the opposite direction and found a mid-thirties blonde sitting at a desk in front of another office. The nameplate on the door read Dean of Zoology.

  “Excuse me,” Ted said.

  She looked up from her computer screen and smiled at him.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Professor Mark Bradford.” He gave her a warm smile, just to show her there was no problem.

  “Oh. I’m afraid he’s gone on a research trip.” She frowned, and her lips pouted. Very attractive, if he swung that way.

  “Do you know how long? Or where?”

  She bit her lip and looked over her shoulder at the closed door behind her. “Maybe you should speak with Dean Winchell. He knows more than I do about Professor Bradford’s trip.”

  She picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Someone is looking for Professor Bradford. Can I send him in to speak with you?” She looked Ted up and down, then added, “I think he’s with the police.”

  Ted grinned. “Ex-cop.” Smart lady.

  She stood and opened the door for him, and Ted stepped through into a large office, not as plush as he would think, but nice. Framed Audubon prints hung on the walls, and Ted bet they were the real thing.

  “Hello. I’m Ted Canedo, and I’m not a cop. Mark’s not in trouble. But I am a PI and a client of mine is looking for him.”

  “This client, is he after money?” The dean narrowed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists on the desktop. Well, Mark was liked, at least.

  “No, nothing like that. In fact, it’s the other way around. He owes Mark and wants to pay him back.” He tapped his coat pocket as if he had the check stashed in there.

  “Oh. Well, Mark’s on a research trip.” Again the frown and the defensive posture. Okay, the dean liked Mark but not the trip.

  “Can you tell me where? Maybe I can catch him there?”

  “Oh, I doubt that. He’s camping in the swamp.” The man’s fists relaxed and lay flat on the desk. He no longer saw Ted as a threat, and that was good. He’d give more info if he trusted Ted.

  “In the swamp? Looking for gators or mosquitoes?” Ted laughed.

  Dean Winchell rolled his eyes. “No. Worse. Swamp wolves.”

  Ted coughed. “Wolves?” He added, “In the swamp?”

  “I know. It’s crazy, but Mark has this theory about there being a pack of wolves running around in the swamp centering around St. Jerome. He’s made it his life’s work to find them so he can prove they exist.” He shook his head.

  “Yeah, crazy.” Ted’s bad feeling slammed into him with the force of a category-five hurricane. “You say he’s in the swamp around St. Jerome?”

  “Yes, though I have no idea where exactly.”

  “Do you have his cell number? Maybe I can reach him.”

  “Can’t it wait until Monday? He should be back by then. He has class.”

  “Well, no. See I’m from out of town, and I’m on a tight schedule. My plane is going to leave in the morning, and I’d love to get this settled today.”

  “I’m sorry, but we can’t give out that information, not about our professors or our students. University policy, you know.”

  From the look in the dean’s eyes, Ted could tell he’d get nowhere with him.

  “Well, sure. I understand. Thanks anyway. I guess I’ll have to settle for a strikeout on this one.” He leaned forward and stuck out his hand. The dean shook it, and Ted left.

  “Thank you,” he said to the blonde, who glanced up, nodded, and then lowered her head back down to her work.

  Ted wanted to run to his car, but he walked away, controlled and at ease. Only once he reached the outer door did he make a dash for it.

  The sun would set in an hour or so, and soon it would be dark. Even darker in the swamp. Where the hell was Mark? He didn’t want to think about what would happen to him once the pack members knew what he was up to. From his own run-in with the pack as Scott’s mate, he knew their first priority was to protect the pack’s secret. At all costs.

  Fuck. Mark was supposed to be Bobby’s mate. What the hell would Bobby do?

  Which would he chose? His mate or his pack?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mark pulled off the road and then parked. This was as far as the car could go without getting stuck in the mud or having its paint scraped away by the brush. He got out, opened the trunk, and grabbed his tent. He’d set it up first, then come back for the rest.

  He didn’t have to worry about getting permission to camp; this part of the woods was public land. Nothing like a state park, but open to all, and people hunted in season, fished, and camped.

  With the tent bag slung over his shoulder, he hurried into the woods. If he could get to the spot before night fell, he’d have an easy time of putting up the tent. He could do it in the dark if he had to, but why?

  Pushing his way past low-hanging limbs and brush, Mark eased his way deeper into the woods. Most of the ground was solid there, but he knew it would eventually give way to the real swamp, and the ground would disappear, replaced by dark, dank water filled with snakes and gators.

  He feared nothing in the woods. There might be a bobcat or two, but as long as he took precautions, they shouldn’t bother him. Raccoons, skunks, and armadillos were merely pests. Snakes were an issue, but he could tell poisonous from benign with a glance. The birds wouldn’t bother him, only the mosquitoes, and he’d already doused himself with a heavy repellan
t.

  The deeper in he got, the darker it became. Old oaks draped with Spanish moss surrounded him. Dogwoods in the last bloom before the winter snuggled under the oaks, seeking protection. Below them, palmettos dotted the ground here and there, and bushes popped up everywhere else, including the odd bit of poison ivy.

  The path he walked showed signs of deer and other critters. He kept an eye out for any print that didn’t belong, hoping to find one that could be his swamp wolf, but he didn’t find anything. Tomorrow he’d make a more thorough search, working in an ever-widening circle from his camp outward.

  Now he needed to step up his pace before it got too dark.

  With a final burst of speed, he covered the remaining trail until it opened into a small clearing. Mark stopped at the edge as if he’d hit a glass wall.

  Damn. “It looks the same,” he said to himself.

  Time had held still there in the little meadow. Tall grass trembled in the slight breeze, and for a moment, Mark went back in time. He was a teen, dragged on a camping trip with his old man. He’d been pouting and surly about the whole thing. His dad had long since stopped trying to cajole him out of his pissy mood.

  At fifteen, Mark knew he was gay and knew the last place he wanted to be on the weekend was camping with his old man. But his father wouldn’t take no for an answer, and no way could Mark come out and say, I want to hang out with my boyfriend. Hell, no.

  A bird’s harsh cry startled Mark, and the memory faded in a flash, only replaced by the guilt he felt every time he thought of the way he’d acted that last weekend with his dad. They’d argued, and Mark had gone to bed angry. His father hadn’t said so, but Mark knew he had been disappointed in Mark. And that disappointment was the last way his dad had thought of him; that just tore Mark up inside.

  Suck it up was Mark’s mantra when the guilt grew too large. His dad used to say it to him all the time. Now Mark said it way too often to himself.

  Taking a deep breath, he strode into the middle of the meadow and dropped the bag onto the ground. He kneeled and set to work putting the tent together.

  After he’d driven the last stake into the soft ground, Mark headed back to the car to get the rest of his gear. It’d take two trips—one for the equipment, and one for his belongings and food. He’d probably make that one in the dark.