Billy Whistler

by Bill Thompson

  “What’d he do?” the guide asked, and Junior replied he was stirring up trouble in the parish. He took notes as Catfish described the trip downriver. He was pissed off that the reporter went straight to Asher after Junior ordered him to leave the parish. By God, he’d throw the son of a bitch in jail the next time he set foot up here.

  “So we arrived,” Catfish was saying as the sheriff tuned back in. “Have you gone there, Sheriff? There’s a chain-link fence stretched across the shore about ten yards in from the bank. Looks like it’s been there for years. It’s got no trespassing signs hanging on it. Wasn’t any big deal to get through, but it made me wonder who did it. Wonder who owns that land anyway?”

  That was a good question, and Conreco made a mental note to find out. “What did you all do there?”

  “All that’s left is a bunch of foundations, and the underbrush was so thick it was hard to see them. I was there a long time ago, but I’d forgotten about them foundations. Lots of ’em. Must have been a helluva fire. Did you say you’ve been down there?”

  Junior shook his head. He also didn’t want to go there.

  “Like I say, it looks like there was lots of houses and then near the river a long street that would have been for stores and whatnot. Those cult folks built themselves a proper town. Hundred and fifty people or more lived there, from the stories I’ve heard.

  “All this talk’s makin’ me thirsty, Sheriff. Believe I’ll have a beer. Want one?”

  Conreco said no, and Catfish opened a Dixie longneck with a Pabst Blue Ribbon church key on a string nailed to his desk.

  He keeps it within reach, Junior observed. I’m sure it’s well used.

  “What did Landry do?”

  “He walked around and looked at stuff, as much as he could with the brush and all. He asked me what happened to the cult after the vigilantes came that night, and I told him nobody knows for sure. They killed seven of ’em, according to the stories, but nobody ever proved that either, I guess. He wanted to talk about it, though.”

  “It’s a legend. You’re right, nobody ever proved it. I hope you told him that.”

  “Yep. And hey, I just remembered something. I heard Billy Whistler!”

  Junior looked up. “How much had you had to drink by then, Catfish?”

  He laughed and belched, and a little beer dribbled down his chin. “Blame it on whatever you want, Sheriff. I heard him while we was standin’ in the middle of Asher. Way off somewhere, almost like a whip-poor-will but different enough that I knew better. I heard it once before, when I was a kid.”

  “Billy Whistler’s not real. It’s a myth too; everybody knows that. What did Landry think it was?”

  “He didn’t hear it. I said, ‘Listen, that’s Billy Whistler.’ Me and him cocked our ears, but nothing else happened. It came from back in the woods somewhere. Then he said with all these buildings there must have been a lot of people. Where did they all go? I told him the rumors. They moved somewhere way back in the bayous and set up another commune. Or they picked up and moved to Texas, or maybe Arkansas. Or they just broke up and went their separate ways.”

  “What other things did you tell him, Catfish? Did you tell him anything you shouldn’t have?”

  Honestly, after all that beer Catfish couldn’t remember much of his conversation with Landry, but he knew how to keep himself out of trouble. “Hell no, I didn’t. Some things ain’t for outsiders. That pot don’t need stirrin’. I kept my mouth shut like I been told.”

  “You sure?”

  He nodded. “Why are you so worried anyway, Sheriff? You got a personal interest in this?”

  “I’m the one asking the questions here. What else did you all talk about?”

  “Before he sent me back to the boat, he asked where the graveyard was. He said every town has one. He asked where them seven they killed was buried. I said the story about killings wasn’t true and I didn’t know if they had a graveyard or not. That’s when he told me to go back to the boat and wait.”

  Conreco looked up again. “You didn’t go back, did you? Don’t tell me you left him alone.”

  “Why not? It was his trip and he footed the bill. He walked off into the woods awhile, and then he came back. What’s the big deal, Sheriff? What do you think he was looking for?”

  Junior ignored him. “How long was he off by himself?”

  “Thirty minutes or so; we was on the ground at Asher about an hour in all.”

  “Did he find the graveyard?”

  “Beats me, but he told me there wasn’t nothin’ interesting to see.”

  “Then what did he do?”

  “He tipped me fifty bucks and took my number. He told me he’d see me next time.”

  “Did he say when that would be?”

  “Nope, but he was a friendly guy, and he tipped well. Personally, I hope he comes back soon.”

  So do I, the sheriff thought. He and I will have a little talk if I catch him back in my parish.

  “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

  Catfish’s memories were fuzzy. Had he told Landry about Billy Whistler and those missing girls from Abbeville? He didn’t think so, and there damn sure wasn’t any need to bring it up. All those questions made him tired, so he said no, there was nothing else he could think of.

  “If he comes back, you call me, understand? This is important, and if I find out you took him back down the river without telling me, you’re in deep shit.”

  Catfish gave a mock salute and said he would. For the rest of the morning he tried to think why the sheriff cared about that New Orleans guy and the trip downriver. And if he told that reporter anything he shouldn’t have.

  Junior couldn’t avoid going. That damn reporter created all this mess, and Junior would pay him back for it. Joel Morin too — it wasn’t safe for Junior to go there, and Joel knew it; it was like he was hoping something bad would happen.

  My position in the Conclave is the same as his. Nobody outranks anybody else; we’re all four equal. He can’t tell me what to do. I’m the sheriff, and I’ll decide who investigates what in this parish.

  All that talk sounded great, but the chairman had issued an order. A long time ago, there had been five men joined by a common goal. But time and circumstances had changed everything. Today, decades later, there were four of them, not five. And Junior didn’t have the backbone to stand up to Joel Morin.

  He had to go to Asher, and it had to be now, because the chairman wanted a goddamn report by the end of the goddamn day.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The sheriff sat in the front of a Vermilion Parish Sheriff’s Office boat with his young deputy at the tiller. They motored downstream, and Junior wished he had put in a few beers. Nervous, he took out his revolver and made sure it was loaded. When they arrived, he found the fence and no-trespassing signs Catfish had described, and they crawled through the hole he’d made.

  “What is this place, Sheriff?” the young deputy asked, and Junior gave him a short version of the story. The place was abandoned, and the deputy asked what they were looking for.

  “You ask too many questions, son. Come on. Do what I tell you and we’ll be on our way back shortly.”

  He saw the foundations, and like Catfish, the size of the place surprised him. There were boot prints, possibly from Landry’s visit, and he walked the town’s perimeter, looking for trampled brush to indicate where Landry had gone into the woods. It wasn’t hard to find.

  Junior had brought this kid for one reason only, a reason no one would have suspected. He wanted someone else with him when he visited the graveyard. He might be the sheriff, but like most Cajuns, he had a healthy respect for the supernatural, and Catfish had said Billy Whistler was warbling in the distance. He always thought it was a legend, but what if it wasn’t? No way was he doing this alone.

  He shivered as he led the way down the path through dense foliage. He unhooked the strap on his holster again and rested his hand on his revolver. The deputy noticed and
whispered, “Everything okay, Sheriff? Should I take my gun out?”

  Damn, he didn’t want to look like a coward. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just being careful. You never know when you might come across a gator or a snake out here on the bayou.”

  They arrived at the graveyard, and Junior saw that someone was maintaining the area, keeping the grass trimmed and the brush and weeds cut back. Who was doing it and why? As far as he knew, no one lived within miles, and it was no longer being used.

  This place spooked him. He felt a tingle in his spine as he tried to act nonchalant, walking around and brushing dirt off the flat stones that lay here and there. Some had carvings, but they were worn almost smooth. Two stones lay side by side at the head of two mounds of earth. He knelt and brushed away the dirt. That tingling sensation returned as he read the inscriptions.

  JAMES SAVARY MARCH 2009

  K SAVARY JAN 2007

  This made no sense. Two people who had the same last name — relatives, maybe a husband and wife — buried just a decade ago.

  This can’t be right. It’s a bizarre joke. The cult’s long gone.

  It came to him. He understood why the cemetery was well-maintained. The people who had supposedly abandoned Asher in the nineteenth century were nearby — so close that they still used this graveyard for burials. His head spun with baffling questions. Two bodies lay in the ground right in front of him.

  It was common knowledge that every cult member was either a Savary or a Lafont — and here were two from the recent past. His mind swam with memories, secrets too awful to reveal, and the realization that this wasn’t over. It never ended and it spelled danger for him and the others.

  They’re here; I feel it. They know all about me. They know who I am.

  I can feel their eyes on me. They’re waiting, watching!

  Junior’s chest started to constrict; he sucked air in heavy gasps. He fell back hard on his butt and screamed, “Get me out of here! Get me away from them!”

  Believing his boss was having a seizure, the deputy panicked. “Sheriff! Sheriff! What’s wrong? You’re too big for me to carry, sir! I’m calling for help!” He pulled out his walkie-talkie.

  Junior shouted, “No!” The last thing he needed was more witnesses — the kid was bad enough. He had to pull himself together long enough to run to the boat. He was overweight and flabby, and it astonished the deputy when Junior leapt to his feet, ran to the path and disappeared into the woods. The younger man followed, trying to keep up with someone he would never imagine might outrun him.

  As the deputy guided the boat away from shore, Junior touched his holster. His service revolver was missing. Frantic, he searched under his seat, behind him and on the floor of the boat.

  “Have you lost something, sir?”

  “Have you seen my pistol?”

  “No, but remember you released the strap. It might have fallen out when you — uh, when you fell backwards at the cemetery. Should I turn around so we can go back and look for it?”

  They should go back — he could send the kid to the cemetery to find it — but he was afraid to wait on the shore alone, even for a few minutes.

  Pinpricks of pain shot through his chest. The poor deputy looked about to throw up, and Junior told him to go to Abbeville. “I’ll take care of it later,” he said, which surprised the deputy. The sheriff drilled into every new hire’s head what happened if your service revolver went missing. You lost your job, period, no discussion. He was the sheriff though, and he could do whatever he wanted.

  A figure waited in the bushes until the men left. When the sheriff fell, something hit the ground, but from where he hid, he didn’t know what. He loped across the clearing to the graveyard, his hunched back causing his arms to dangle at his sides when he ran. He reached down and wrapped a filthy hand around the gun.

  Although his brain didn’t process information like other people’s, it excited him to find something different. He wasn’t sure what it was — he had seen guns before, but his long-term memory was faulty, and he didn’t remember. He looked it over, stuck a long nasty fingernail into the barrel, and bit down on the grip to see how it tasted.

  He touched every part of it, turning it over and over in his hands. The trigger had some play in it, and he pulled it back.

  The boat was a mile away when the gunshot rang out through the woods.

  Somebody had his weapon.

  Someone was watching him.

  I knew it! I felt it! Thank God I got away!

  “Sheriff!” the deputy shouted, turning the tiller. “That was your gun! We should go back.”

  “Dammit, boy, mind your own business! You get us back to Abbeville as fast as you can. I’ll take care of this later, like I already said.”

  “But, sir —”

  “But sir nothing! If you breathe a word about this, you’ll regret it. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” the confused kid replied. “I understand.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was important to talk to Lee Alard again, and Landry called Ruby to see if he could visit.

  “I’m sure he’d love it, but I’m not the one to ask anymore. Mr. Lee had to move out of his house, I’m sorry to say. It was a bad day when that happened, not only for him, but for me too. I’d kinda gotten used to that old coot, and I’m sure gonna miss him.”

  The last Landry had heard, Lee was at home after a long hospital stay for his bronchitis. That was only a few weeks ago, and he asked what had happened.

  “He was just too weak. He wheezes with every breath now, and he has violent coughing fits sometimes. I’m not a nurse. I’ve been takin’ care of folks for twenty years, but there comes a point when it’s too much for me. Someone had to lift him in and out of bed, help him all night long, and things like that. He’s got a nephew up in Opelousas who’s his only relative. He picked up Mr. Lee and moved him into a nice nursing home there. I saw him the other day — he misses his independence, but he likes the place too. He was playing dominoes when I was there. It’s good for him to be around other people, don’t you know?”

  Landry took the name of the facility and said he enjoyed meeting her. Ruby asked for a heads-up if he did a show about their parish, and he promised he would call.

  So Lee was in Opelousas. That was great news because when he went, he could ask Cate to join him. They had a friend named Callie Pilantro who owned Beau Rivage, a haunted plantation house on the Atchafalaya River just twenty miles from Opelousas. They’d been through an adventure with Callie at a spooky mansion called the Arbors. Joining forces to fight a malevolent spirit, the three of them had become friends, and Cate and Callie kept in touch. If they were in the area, spending the night at Beau Rivage was a must. Now he had to see if she was free to join him.

  He called her office in Galveston. It had been two weeks since they’d been together, and he asked if she’d come for the weekend. Instead of meeting her in New Orleans as usual, he’d pick her up at the Lafayette airport and they’d spend two nights with Callie at Beau Rivage.

  That sounded great to Cate, and she asked what was up in Lafayette. He explained he had an interview in Opelousas. He’d leave her at Beau Rivage, go see Lee, and come back to spend the rest of the weekend.

  He told her about his trip to Abbeville and the curt warnings to stay out of the parish. “The sheriff and the undertaker invited me to leave immediately.”

  “Really? Usually it takes you longer than that to piss people off.”

  He laughed. “They’re hiding something. The sheriff said he’d arrest me if I set foot in Vermilion Parish again. If I haven’t done anything wrong, he would have no cause to detain me. That said, I wouldn’t be surprised if he threw me in the pokey anyway when I go back.”

  “When you go back? You’re already planning to disobey his order?”

  “I have to. People are keeping secrets. It involves this ghost town south of Abbeville called Asher. I hired a guy with a boat and went down the river to find the ru
ins —”

  She interrupted. “Wait a sec. Was that before the sheriff kicked you out, or after?”

  “After.”

  “Are you serious? Two bigwigs, one of whom is the sheriff, tell you to leave, so you defy them instead?”

  “It’s a free country,” he quipped. “Anyway, nothing happened. But the ghost town brings me to a question. It’s a long shot, but does your dad own land there? It’d make it a lot easier for me to justify going if I had the owner’s permission.”

  Cate’s father Madison John “Doc” Adams had an unusual hobby. He bought tax liens and repossessed property for pennies on the dollar at auctions. He owned hundreds of parcels, most of them small and forgotten. Sometimes the previous owner paid the back taxes and redeemed his property. If he did, Dr. Adams made money. If he didn’t, the land eventually reverted to Adams. He sold the land, often to an adjacent landowner, and he almost always made a decent profit.

  She reminded him how much trouble they’d gotten into at the Asylum, an abandoned prison in Iberia Parish. Her dad owned the property, and they’d had a harrowing experience there. Landry turned the story into an episode called Forgotten Men.

  “Remember how hard it used to be to keep up with what he owned? You had to rifle through stacks of paperwork all over the office. If you’d called me two months ago, I’d have started the process for you, griping all the way. I just finished entering every parcel of land into a database. I can cross-reference it every which way, and therefore it will be easy to pull up an answer for you. Hold on a sec.”

  She searched and said, “He has thirty-seven parcels in Vermilion Parish. Is it in a town, or is it rural?”

  “It’s an unincorporated town called Asher.”

  “I have no listings with Asher in the name. How about legal descriptions?”

  “I’ll check. I doubted your dad would own another property I’m interested in, but I thought I’d ask, since he’s the biggest slumlord I know.” That made her laugh. “A mob burned the town in 1880, and there’s nothing left but foundations. I want to find out who owns it.”