Billy Whistler

by Bill Thompson

  Landry pointed, and the priest gasped as they watched Elder Johnson drag Em to the middle of the square. “Bring the cage and back off so all can see!”

  They shouted and chanted as the helpless sheriff watched from the structure above. Landry understood how he felt, because his men could do nothing either.

  Em shouted, “Not the cage! Please don’t do that to me!” She struggled and tried to pull away from his viselike grip, but she was no match for him. Two men brought a wire kennel — a crate intended for a large dog — and he forced her into it. She was bent like a pretzel, crouched with her bowed head touching her knees, and with her bottom resting on her heels. Her hands were at her sides, and there wasn’t an extra inch of room anywhere.

  “Please, please,” she mumbled, her voice muffled now.

  Landry seethed as he watched the elder, and he wondered how many times she and others had endured this inhumane confinement.

  Elder Johnson pointed to one of his men and bellowed, “You’re in charge of her punishment. Guard her. If she escapes again, you get the cage!” He turned to the women and commanded, “Mock her!”

  It was obvious this was a familiar ritual. All the women — Strange Ones and the others — gathered around the cage and taunted her, calling her a whore and a traitor. “Barren,” they hissed. Landry understood how much the words hurt Em, because she had said barrenness was a sin. They spat on her and kicked the sides of the cage while the child, unable to move, had to take whatever abuse they dished out.

  Landry’s men waited in the woods just fifty feet away, but it might as well have been a thousand. From his perch Junior shouted, “What are you doing, you bastard? Stop hurting her!”

  Her guard taunted the sheriff. “Elder knows what’s best for errant children. She’ll learn her lesson, that one. And then you’ll learn yours!”

  Elder Johnson opened the cage and prodded Em out with a stick, like he was curbing a mongrel. “Is everyone ready to give our little traitor her punishment?” he yelled.

  More and more frenzied, the crowd screamed like madmen and women. They moved toward Em, who lay huddled on the ground, quivering with fear.

  He kicked her with his boot, turned to a nearby man, and said, “Deacon Joshua, I choose your son to perform the ritual.”

  A strapping youth in his twenties, barefooted and wearing overalls, stepped forward. He looked worried, hesitant.

  The elder said, “Be proud, my son. This is an honor. Do you wish to use the knife, or will you use the pitchfork?”

  The boy didn’t seem proud at all; he looked terrified, but he knew the ritual. He must have seen it before. “The knife, Elder. I will use the knife.”

  A deacon handed the young man a sheath. He pulled out a long Bowie knife, its twelve-inch blade gleaming in the half-light. He walked toward Em, and those surrounding her moved back further, giving him room and allowing the expectant crowd to see. Excited murmurs echoed throughout the square.

  This was like Jonestown — the people drank the Kool-Aid and they would do whatever Elder Johnson commanded.

  Landry couldn’t wait any longer. The elder was too far away for a clear shot, so he fired twice into the air.

  The people shouted in alarm and ran about. They looked up to be sure their prisoner remained secure. The men pulled out their own knives, as did Elder Johnson, who commanded the women with straight backs to surround him. It occurred to Landry that this was something they’d practiced. Use the women as a human shield to protect the elder. Johnson Lafont was no commander — he was nothing but a coward.

  “Kill the girl!” the elder shouted, but in the confusion the young man had dropped the knife. He bent, picked it up, and stood as another shot rang out, this one hitting its mark. The boy’s head exploded, and the people screamed in terror. Elder Johnson shouted for them to remain calm, but it had no effect on the confused, frightened mob.

  Landry had gotten off a shot, and he shouted, “Give it up! You don’t have a chance!” He motioned to the others, who shouted too.

  They remained hidden, and the elder didn’t know how many of them were out there. He raised his knife defiantly and screamed, “If you make a move, everyone will die! Men, take your women and defend our honor!”

  As if performing a drill they’d practiced many times, the men ran here and there, finding their wives, grabbing them from behind, and holding knives at their necks. It was a surreal sight that sickened Landry. Em had described women as nothing but chattel, and he was seeing it play out in real life.

  Landry fired another shot, and one woman surrounding Elder Johnson fainted. Thinking she had been hit, he struggled to pull another one into the void she had created. The deacons looked at the elder and each other in alarm, while taking their attention off Em and Phil. Landry seized the opportunity in the confusion.

  “Run!” he yelled, and his men rushed into the square.

  Landry had run track in high school, but he never sprinted faster than today. He flew through the air, body-slamming Elder Johnson to the ground, and the women surrounding him backed away. He grabbed the elder’s knife and ordered him to stand.

  As Landry moved, Father Paul overpowered the distracted man closest to Em and knelt to cradle her trembling body in his arms. The deputies stood together scanning the crowd, pistols ready, while Phil climbed the ladder and untied the sheriff. They rushed down and joined the others.

  A few deacons tried to overpower the deputies; they paused when Landry shouted, “Stop! It’s over!”

  They turned toward their leader and saw Landry behind him, holding a knife to his throat. He yelled, “Drop your weapons, now!” But it didn’t work. Unsure, the deacons looked to the elder and waited.

  Even with his own life in danger, Elder Johnson was hell-bent on vengeance against the child defector. “Kill the girl!” he shouted in defiance.

  Before anyone could react, a deacon pushed Father Paul aside, fell on Em, and plunged his knife into the girl’s midsection. She gasped in astonishment, looked at the blood forming on her dress, and fell back, still. Screaming a feral cry that came from somewhere deep in his heart, the priest jerked the man away, took the knife, and drove it deep into his heart. He tossed the body aside like garbage and tore open Em’s dress to locate her wound. He felt her shallow breaths as he held her close and pleaded with her to hang on.

  Moving about wildly, the people shouted and wailed. Landry screamed, “It’s over!” as he kept the knife tight against Elder Johnson’s throat. “Your leader is an evil man, and he is accountable. None of you are to blame. You did what you were told. Drop your weapons now and you’ll be free!”

  These people were unaccustomed to independent thinking. Some followed his order and put down their knives and pitchforks, but most waited for orders from Johnson Lafont.

  The elder’s hands were at his sides. He slipped one into a pocket, and before Landry realized what was happening, he raised his hand to his mouth, slipped something inside, and shouted, “It is truly over!” He crunched his teeth and Landry felt the man’s body go rigid in seconds. The tyrannical leader of the Sons of Jehovah fell to the ground, a gutless coward even in death.

  His followers stared in shock at their fallen leader, and one by one, they dropped their weapons. There was silence at first, but then the women began to weep. Landry assumed they were grieving as their murmurs intensified into shrieks. The females became fully human for the first time.

  The only thing women knew of the outside world was what their husbands reported after trips to buy supplies. They would whisper among themselves, wondering what it would be like to be whole — to be equal to their husbands. But they dared not let Elder Johnson hear, because they would be beaten for such thinking.

  Now the women rejoiced, shouting and hugging each other while their husbands looked on in astonishment. The men’s will to fight had died along with the leader who subjugated them their entire lives.

  The women were a different thing. Forcing women into submission was
biblical, or so Elder Johnson preached. They watched their wives assert themselves, and the behavior baffled them.

  “Hallelujah,” an older woman said in a hesitant voice, testing her newfound freedom.

  Another voice, even louder. “Praise Jehovah!”

  A younger one shouted, “Can it be true? Is it over?”

  Someone screamed, “It is over! Hallelujah indeed!”

  As the women experienced an awakening, one man gathered others around him. He pointed at the sheriff and spoke words Landry couldn’t hear. It appeared he was spurring them to action, because some picked up the weapons they had dropped.

  Confused, Landry yelled, “What are you doing? You’re free. It’s over!”

  “Not for him,” another deacon shouted. “Elder told us his ancestor was one of the evil ones, and he must pay. Kill him!”

  “Their blood runs in his veins!”

  “Yes, kill him!”

  “He must die!”

  The mob scene Landry had just put down rose again with a cacophony of screams and cries. Men with knives moved toward Junior. He had no weapon, and he walked to Landry’s side.

  Landry had to get things back under control. “All that happened before this man was born. He’s not to blame!”

  His words didn’t work. Landry took the sheriff by the arm, held the gun high in the air, and shouted, “Look at me!”

  Thank goodness the men still followed directions without thinking. They paused and looked his way. Landry lowered the pistol and put it on the ground in front of the sheriff and himself.

  “You must stop this right now. You’re free men and women — Elder Johnson doesn’t control you. This man doesn’t deserve to die. Yes, someone in his family did an awful thing at Asher, but his only sin was keeping it a secret. He never knew that relative, just like you never knew your neighbors whom they murdered that night. It happened a hundred and forty years ago. He isn’t responsible for the sins of his fathers, and God won’t allow you to punish him for them.

  “Tonight this man atoned for what his ancestors did. He and I came to save each of you from imprisonment and torture, but your elder captured him. That man treated you like slaves. Women, he never even gave you a name. He forced young girls to bear children to perpetuate the cult. That’s wrong; men and women don’t have to be slaves. You don’t deserve to live like that, and thanks to Sheriff Conreco and these others, you’re free. He blames himself for keeping the secret, but now all of us will help you live the rest of your lives without fear.”

  With no time to prepare, he had chosen his words well. The murmuring continued, but he could feel the tension dissipate. Men put down their weapons, women hugged their children close, and the crowd dispersed, although no one would go near Junior, who was still the devil to them.

  In the midst of the confusion, Landry had forgotten about his other adversary. He heard the warble seconds before Billy Whistler tore from the shadows. He raced like a wolf across the square and jumped full-bore into Junior Conreco’s chest. In seconds the creature’s long fingernails tore Junior’s shirt apart and dug deep gashes into his skin. Junior fell backwards and Billy Whistler landed on top of him, furiously scratching and clawing.

  “Shoot him!” Conreco screamed, and Landry dived for the gun he’d placed on the ground. A former deputy, he was familiar with guns, but he must be close to not hit the sheriff. He drew near and raised the weapon, but Billy Whistler looked his way and sprang through the air like a banshee.

  The creature’s claws extended, and its mouth twisted into a deadly grimace as it flew towards Landry. He fired shot after shot into the body hurtling toward him until he heard clicks. Em had said it was impossible to kill the thing. He hoped she was wrong.

  Momentum propelled the disgusting creature toward Landry, and as the thing struck him, they fell backwards. He could smell its fetid breath on his face as it raised its claws to strike. The bullets hadn’t worked.

  A face flashed through his mind — a face he knew.

  Use the potion.

  He grabbed the glass ampule, aimed it at Billy Whistler’s face, and pressed the plunger hard. A spray of beautiful purple flowers shot from the vial deep into the beast’s throat. It gave a fierce snarl, and Landry tensed for the fatal blow, but he felt the sinewy limbs sag. He gave a mighty push and shoved the nasty being to the ground beside him. Gasping, he lay back and felt his chest. His shirt was in shreds, but the claws had missed his body.

  I’ll be damned. The stuff actually worked.

  He went to see about Junior, who was trying to sit up. His shirt was in shreds, and blood ran from several gashes in his chest and arms. “I’ll be all right,” the sheriff moaned. “Take care of the girl.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Too late to quell the mob, the scene became chaotic once again as reinforcements rushed in from every direction.

  Three of Junior’s deputies ran out of the woods wearing helmets and flak jackets and with weapons drawn. Delcambre and Erath policemen joined the Iberia Parish sheriff and his deputies. The worst of it had ended, and the help they needed came from two EMTs they brought. After a quick assessment, one knelt to treat Em and the other went to Junior’s side.

  Em lay in Father Paul’s arms while the medic cleaned her wound. Her condition was serious, but the knife appeared to have missed her vital organs. He radioed for a medical chopper. The sheriff’s injuries were painful but less severe; the other EMT cleaned and bandaged the gouges in his chest and arms and said his next stop would be Abbeville General for antibiotics and a tetanus shot.

  Landry examined the place where he’d tossed Billy Whistler’s body, but the creature had disappeared. The terrifying thought that Billy remained alive went through his mind as he ran to the place and found a large pile of dust. The one-hundred-thirty-six-year-old monster’s body had disintegrated the moment he ingested the wolfsbane.

  Lost in thought, Father Paul held Em’s hand. He had killed a human being — an act both justified and necessary — but he had broken one of the Ten Commandments. He was a man of the cloth who had dedicated his life to the Lord’s work, but he was a sinner of the worst kind — a murderer.

  Phil asked Landry how he killed Billy Whistler. “I thought you were a goner. The bullets didn’t stop him, but then something happened — I couldn’t see what — and he fell dead.”

  “The more I heard about the Strange Ones and their short lifespans, the more I knew Billy was something different. There’s a resemblance, but if Em’s correct — and I think now she is — he’s been around since before the fire at Asher. I became convinced he was the thing behind the rougarou legend — and perhaps he was a werewolf.

  “I visited an old voodoo priest, explained my situation, and he said only one thing will stop werewolves. Wolfsbane — pretty purple flowers that are fatal to them. He sold me the wolfsbane and an ampule to launch them with. It sounded like mumbo jumbo, but it was my only shot. And by God, it worked. Crazy.”

  “Crazy is right,” Phil commented as a cult member approached them.

  Unused to seeing strangers, most of the townspeople stood at a distance, waiting and watching. An older man walked across the square with a swagger reminiscent of Elder Johnson’s. He marched to Landry and put his face into the reporter’s.

  “I’m Deacon Abner Savary. Actually, elder now, since Johnson’s dead and I’m next in line.” He pointed to Em and said, “That girl belongs to us. She stays here; you ain’t takin’ her away.”

  A moan escaped Em’s lips as the medic secured her to a stretcher.

  The priest snapped, “She’s eighteen years old and she can make her own decisions. She’s been through enough hell with you people. She’s coming with us, and no one will stand in her way.”

  The deacon stood his ground for a moment, pondering what he should do, but he stood down and walked away. Landry breathed a sigh of relief, hoping now it truly was all over, as Elder Johnson proclaimed when he swallowed the poison pill.

  As
the new elder ordered his people back to their homes, the lawmen prepared to return to civilization. Junior’s lead deputy got word by radio that a state police chopper was inbound — late because they came from further away. They were too late to quell the riot, but the helicopter would carry the others out.

  The medivac chopper landed in the clearing, sending the cult members fleeing to their homes in a panic. They loaded Em on a stretcher, but Junior refused to go, saying he would stay at New Asher until the rescuers and lawmen left. The EMT checked his bandages again and said he’d be fine to wait a few hours before going to the emergency room.

  The sun was up, its rays making the atmosphere heavy and steamy. Landry’s body ached for caffeine, but coffee wasn’t on the menu in New Asher. As they waited for the state police helicopter, Junior told Landry he had something to say.

  “I made you into my adversary. I did everything in my power to throw you off track, but tonight you saved my life. I’ve realized something. It’s time for me to get everything off my chest at last. I’ll do it the minute I get back to Abbeville, before I go home. These secrets have weighed me down for too many years.

  “I want you to be there when I tell my story. Father Paul too — there’s a lot of confessing that’s got to happen before I can ever hold my head up again. You’re going to do a show about Asher — how can you not? But you only have half the story. I’m ready to tell you the rest.”

  Junior had found peace. He’d carried a burden for people dead for generations, and it was time to let things go. To keep the Conclave’s secrets, he had harassed and intimidated people who didn’t deserve it — people like Catfish Guidry and countless others over the years. He had been under Joel Morin’s thumb for ages, he had tolerated the snooty, simple-minded undertaker David Hebert, and he had given deference to the governor, a man no better than he was.

  A weight was lifted from his shoulders. He would tell the truth, and secret pacts be damned. God only knew what a struggle it was to keep everything locked deep inside.