Billy Whistler

by Bill Thompson

  Handwritten words in flourishing calligraphy filled a note card.

  There is much you do not know, and you are in danger. To learn everything, come to Asher tomorrow at midnight. Come by boat, and alone. Watch for my signal. Tell no one.

  Interesting. Who wrote it, and what did it mean? Could he find more answers, or was he walking into a trap?

  The story wasn’t finished, and so he would go, but not alone. The person he wanted along had been his fiercest enemy since the day Landry first came to Vermilion Parish. Should he involve the sheriff? Until today, he wouldn’t have considered it, but the change in Junior’s attitude at the cemetery this afternoon convinced him to do it. He made the call.

  At 11:30 he started the engine of a rented bass boat and pulled away from the Perry dock. A long rope led to a canoe in tow. Junior sat in it, holding an oar in his lap.

  In the stillness, anyone on shore would hear his approach. He kept the motor steady as he released the canoe a quarter mile from Asher. At the last turn, he looked back and saw Junior quietly paddling downstream.

  At Asher a light in the woods flashed once, twice, three times. He cut power, let the boat drift to shore, and tied it up. As he crawled through the fence, three flashes came from the trail that led to the cemetery.

  Landry wondered about the deputy Junior had posted at the graveyard. It appeared he was being lured to the graveyard, but wouldn’t the guard be watching?

  Three more flashes came from somewhere down the trail.

  Junior would be five minutes behind him, heading toward the cemetery if he didn’t see Landry at Asher. Armed with that knowledge, Landry kept moving. He illuminated his light and followed the path. Pale moonbeams illuminated the graveyard where his crew had worked.

  No one was there, including the deputy. He turned the light off.

  “Deputy? It’s Landry Drake. Where are you?”

  A voice came from the opposite side of the cemetery. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Drake. The deputy has been detained, I’m afraid. I appreciate your bringing someone with you. You performed well, just as I expected.” In the gloom he noticed the silhouette of a man wearing a tall hat.

  “I didn’t bring anyone —”

  “Please don’t insult me. Do you not think I would be ready for you? Now your friend approaches; it is time.”

  Something connected with the side of Landry’s head, sending waves of flashing lights cascading through his brain. He fell to the ground unconscious, so he didn’t feel his body being dragged into the woods.

  Only five minutes behind Landry, Junior pulled the canoe onshore into some bushes, knelt and listened for voices. Then he walked through the ruins and down the path into the clearing where the graves lay. He pulled out his service revolver and whispered Landry’s name.

  Nothing.

  This time he shouted, but the only sounds were the rustling and trilling of night creatures. In just five minutes, Landry had vanished.

  A voice behind him said, “Mr. Drake can’t help you now.”

  Junior raised his weapon and wheeled around, but he saw nothing.

  “Landry! Landry, where are you?” Someone groaned nearby. As he took a step toward the sound, he noticed something. He turned just as a man swung an axe handle. As the wooden handle connected with his right arm, he pulled the trigger. The gunshot reverberated through the trees, scattering birds everywhere. He screamed in pain, dropped the gun, and fell to the ground, writhing in agony.

  Two men stood over him. The one who had spoken earlier said, “Tie his hands. We must go.”

  Landry woke with a monster headache. He lay on damp leaves in the forest. His eyes refused to focus; he touched the side of his head, and his hand came away bloody.

  Was there a gunshot? Perhaps. Fuzzy memories reformed slowly. The sheriff. The cemetery. A man speaking to him, then pain and blackness.

  Where was Junior? Had he been shot?

  He pushed himself to a sitting position, groaned with pain, and tried to shake the dizziness from his head. He glanced down and noticed a piece of paper sticking out of his shirt pocket. With the light on his phone, he read words penned by the same hand as before.

  Your associate will be released unharmed if you meet these demands.

  First, you will reveal nothing about what you found at Asher and leave the parish.

  Second, your investigation will stop at once, and you will give your word to disclose nothing about the Sons of Jehovah, the legends you incorrectly think you understand, information you have learned, or anything else about this matter. There will be no television show, ever. It is over, Mr. Drake, at least for you.

  Once you have left the parish for good, I will release the person who accompanied you. If you break your word, grave harm will befall people you hold dear.

  He stood and discovered he was only a few yards from the graveyard. They had dragged him into the woods and taken Junior away. He staggered into the clearing and saw the gun lying in the grass. His head throbbed again as he bent to pick it up, and he heard a noise.

  He waited and heard it again — a groan and a weak “help.”

  The deputy lay on the ground across the clearing. Someone had ambushed him and knocked him out.

  Once again because of Landry, someone else was in danger — or worse — and he must do something about it. Hopefully Junior’s resourcefulness would keep him alive. The man might be overweight and out of shape, but he had been trained in law enforcement.

  He suggested the deputy phone his dispatcher; lots of people monitored the radio channels, and this explosive information needed to stay under wraps for as long as possible.

  Junior’s kidnapping threw his department into high gear. The chief deputy — Junior’s second-in-command — assembled every man on the force. Riot gear in hand, they boarded boats to go to Asher.

  The sheriff’s department would help rescue Junior, and now Landry had an obligation to fulfill. He called Channel Nine’s news director and explained the evening’s events. With a story like this, the first ones on the scene got the scoop, and he provided the contact information for the man with the airboat who could bring them to Asher quickly. He called Father Paul, who said he’d hitch a ride on the airboat too.

  They heard the sound of motors, and in a moment two massive searchlights panned the shoreline. The deputy waved them in, and six of Junior’s men stepped onshore from two VPSO boats. Landry gave the lead deputy a summary of where things stood.

  “We need to get moving fast,” the leader said. “Time’s critical. They can’t have gotten far on foot, but the more lead time they have, the worse it may be for Sheriff Conreco.”

  The young deputy assumed command well, Landry observed. This was the first real assignment he’d ever had on a small-town force run by a domineering sheriff, and his first job was to find his own boss. Landry offered to help him, and the deputy gratefully accepted.

  The airboat pulled to shore, offloading Landry’s cameraman Phil Vandegriff, a news crew, and Father Paul. It surprised Landry to see Em with him, and he asked why the priest brought her.

  “If they took him to New Asher, she thinks she can lead us there. She agreed, but she’s terrified they may capture her. I promised we’d keep her safe, and she doesn’t have to go all the way. Once we get close, I’ll bring her back.

  “The night Em ran away, she walked for miles along a highway. I say we let her lead us and see if anything jogs her memory.”

  The muffled tone of a cell phone came from somewhere in the grass. A deputy saw it and recognized it belonged to Junior. He handed it to the leader, who passed it to Landry.

  The missed call was from someone named Joel Morin. He put the phone in his pocket, but it rang again right away.

  “Landry Drake.”

  There was a pause, and then a refined older man’s voice said, “Let me talk to Junior Conreco.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Put him on the phone.” The man’s tone was curt and demanding, and it
struck Landry the wrong way. “I don’t have time for this,” he replied, cutting off the call and pocketing the phone.

  Joel was angry. What was Landry Drake doing with the sheriff’s phone? Lately Junior had seemed introspective, and he’d even questioned Joel’s orders. Had he told the reporter their secrets? Had he unlocked doors that were best left closed?

  The news crew and two deputies stayed behind, because Landry thought rescuing Junior might require stealth instead of an army.

  Em searched the trees at the back of the cemetery and located a half-hidden trail, one she said the people used when they came to Asher for Remembering Day. This was the way to go, and they started on their journey. Em and Father Paul led the way, followed by Landry and Phil, who would shoot video as they walked. The lead deputy and four others brought up the rear.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Junior awoke, recalling someone had spoken to him in the graveyard.

  Flashing bolts of pain shot through his pounding head as he was jostled. He lay tied on a makeshift stretcher that two men were carrying. Noticing he had awakened, they dropped it roughly to the ground.

  He cried out in pain and croaked, “Where … where am I?”

  A tall man wearing a hat said, “Stand him up. If he can walk, we can make better time.”

  Two men jerked him upright. He stumbled, but they squeezed his arms to keep him erect.

  “Walk.”

  Men in black surrounded him, and when the two holding him released their grips, he teetered.

  “I said walk!”

  He took a step, then another, and then his knees gave way.

  “Deacon Abner, Deacon Gabriel, get on either side of him and walk him along. He’ll regain his footing soon. We haven’t far to go.”

  The trees ended at a paved two-lane road, and the men walked to a spot in the trees where three horses nibbled the grass. They put the sheriff on a horse, tied his hands behind his bank, and a man climbed into the saddle in front of him. The other two mounted their horses, and they rode off into the night.

  He felt better but with his hands tethered, he could do nothing. As they rode along the highway, he thought he might catch a driver’s attention, but traffic was sparse on this country road an hour before daybreak. Occasionally a pickup passed, country music blaring and horn honking as it flew past on the deserted highway.

  They left the road, guided the horses through a swampy field, and followed a path into another forest. The sun rose as they rode on and came to a man standing on the pathway.

  “All clear?”

  “Quiet, Elder Johnson. Been quiet since you left.”

  Elder Johnson. Junior was in grave danger. They hadn’t killed him outright, which meant they had something else in mind, and he must stay alert. He didn’t know Landry’s situation or if anyone was aware he had been kidnapped, but none of that mattered. To survive, he must escape.

  They rode into a town cut from the forest. Wooden buildings stood on three sides of a grassy square. There were shops and residences, and Junior knew he was in New Asher. He wondered if their old town looked like this before the vigilantes destroyed it.

  In the middle of the square stood an elevated platform with a staircase and a floored second story. He thought it might be a place where people gave speeches, but he realized it looked more like a gallows from a movie set.

  As men hauled him up the stairs and tethered him to a corner pole, he struggled to remain calm. He whispered encouraging words he hoped were true. He wasn’t in the remote boondocks of Deliverance. This was Vermilion Parish, Louisiana, in the twenty-first century.

  I’ll be okay. I’m probably still in the parish, near some town. Someone will find me. I’ll bet they’re already looking.

  Despite his attempt at optimism, frightening possibilities preyed at his mind. He forced his thoughts onto rescue and friends and home. And how he would stay alive if Elder Johnson Lafont learned who he was.

  Unfortunately for the sheriff, the elder realized whom he’d captured the moment he laid eyes on Junior. Of all people Landry could have brought along, this man was perfect. The elder had captured one of the Conclave members at last.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Landry and the others walked through dense forest for two miles and emerged onto highway 330, which Em claimed was the road she’d walked along that night. She led them south as she looked for another trail that would lead into another woods.

  A man in a northbound pickup noticed the deputies’ uniforms. He stopped, rolled down the window, and said, “Y’all looking for somethin’?”

  “We’re looking for some people who may have committed a crime. Have you seen anything unusual?”

  “I just might have. I noticed four men on horseback going south on the highway about an hour ago. I passed them, but I didn’t stop because I had a deadline to drop some produce in Henry. They looked like they were in a movie, all dressed in black. The guy in front had one of them old-fashioned tall hats. And there was a guy riding behind one of the others.”

  The man hadn’t gotten a good look at the fourth rider, but Landry thought it might be Junior. As the driver pulled away, he urged everyone to move along as fast as possible. Time might be running out.

  Junior’s phone rang again; it was the same caller, and Landry wanted to know who he was.

  “Good luck finding the sheriff, Mr. Drake.”

  “How in hell —”

  He could sense satisfaction in the man’s reply. “You’re all over the news, Mr. Drake. When you find him — if you find him — tell him to contact me immediately.”

  “Who are you?” he shouted, but the man had hung up.

  Father Paul called out, “Come over here! Over here, everyone!” Em had found a trail. Landry knew it was the right one — he saw fresh hoofmarks in the soft dirt.

  “It’s not far now,” the girl said. “You go straight down this trail until you get to the town. I don’t want to go on from here.”

  The lead deputy called for a cruiser, and Em and Father Paul walked to a shady spot to wait.

  Landry checked the GPS; they were only ten miles from Erath and Delcambre. It was time for reinforcements. Junior was in New Asher, and he had to be ready for anything.

  The lead deputy notified the state police, the sheriff in neighboring Iberia Parish, and the Erath and Delcambre cops. He gave them GPS coordinates for an assembly point and asked that they hustle when he gave the signal.

  Ten minutes later Landry heard something and shushed the others.

  There were voices coming from far away — too great a distance to understand the words.

  They tiptoed along the trail and froze in place when they saw buildings in a clearing. Junior stood on the second floor of a wooden structure, tied to a post but looking okay. Men with pitchforks milled about in the square below, waiting for something.

  “Should we go in?” the deputy whispered, but Landry shook his head.

  “Not yet. We don’t have enough men. I can see thirty, maybe forty of the cult guys, and there’s bound to be more around the town. Send our location to the others, and we’ll wait until they get here.”

  A few minutes later when things turned really nasty, he wished to God he’d called in reinforcements earlier.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Just then the square filled with frenzied activity. The pathetic misfits Em called Strange Ones, mostly women and children but also a few men, were easy to recognize. They stood by themselves, shunned by the so-called normal ones. These pathetic people had stooped backs, and their arms dragged on the ground. Most were ragged and dirty, indicating that others in their clan refused to give them even basic care.

  Elder Johnson climbed the wooden ladder and stood beside the sheriff. He spoke to his followers in a commanding voice. “This is a day of celebration like no other! Behold this man, whose ancestor killed our people and sacked our town. Revenge will soon be ours!”

  He worked the crowd, using the intonations of his voice
to incite his people.

  In a moment a loud, warbling whistle echoed through the town square and into the woods where Landry’s group waited. Elder Johnson’s people fell quiet and waited. The deputies looked at Landry, but there was no time to explain.

  “This day shall go down as our finest,” the elder screamed, raising both hands into the air like a modern-day Moses. “Behold what a fine new prize we have!”

  He climbed down the ladder and the men gathered around him in anticipation. Not allowed to join in the festivities, the women stood to one side and watched.

  A bizarre hunchbacked thing emerged from the forest opposite where Landry stood. It resembled the Strange Ones, but more grotesque and filthy. As twisted and wiry as the creature was, it was also strong. It toted Em’s unconscious body on his back in a fireman’s carry, loping along easily despite the added weight.

  Landry panicked. Em was in imminent peril, but what had Billy Whistler done with Father Paul? He pulled the pistol from his belt. They must do something, but there were seven against dozens of pitchfork-wielding cultists. He waited for an opportunity.

  The mob shouted praises for the child’s return, and Elder Johnson went to the creature, touched its arm and said something. It seemed to understand, made a guttural noise and dropped Em to the ground. Landry could see deep gouges on its face and arm. He knew they were from 1921 when a hunter claimed to have slashed a rougarou with his knife.

  Em opened her eyes and looked up at Elder Johnson. An unearthly, pitiful wail came from her lips. It surprised Landry that she feared the elder more than the hideous Billy Whistler, who loped off into the woods, whistling his now-familiar call.

  There was a rustling sound behind Landry. Someone was moving down the trail toward them. A deputy pulled his gun, and for a split-second Landry thought everything was over. The lawman held his fire as Father Paul came around a bend, his chest heaving. “They knocked me out and left me in the trees next to the highway,” he whispered. “When I awoke, I couldn’t find Em. I followed the trail. Thank God you’re here. Is she with you?”