A Crying Shame Read online

  Ms.”

  Mike looked at Joe. Why are you hissing at me?”

  I ain’t hissin’. It’s Ms. She’s a Ms. M—S—period. She ain’t neither a Miss nor a Mrs. nor a Madammie. That Breaux woman is a Ms.”

  Thank you for correcting me, Joe,” Mike said, as dryly as possible, hoping his cold reply would not be lost on the man.

  It was. That woman must jump and holler every time a pine cone hits the ground, Sheriff.”

  Right, Joe.”

  Ever since her and her fancy, snooty brother come up here to live, fixin’ up that old plantation house, they been nothing but aggravatin’ to us.”

  Right, Joe.” Let him get it out of his system, Mike thought. Then he’ll personally drive out to Despair Plantation and make a very stiff, formal, sweaty apology for the department’s not responding to her call. Joe’s way.

  It ain’t natural, them livin’ out there together. I tell you, Sheriff, the Good Lord frowns on things like that.”

  Things like what, Joe?” Mike asked wearily. Right off, he could tell it was not going to be a good day.

  Incestuous relationships. It’s written right in the Book, Sheriff. Leviticus, Chapter Twenty . . .”

  Oh, no,” Mike muttered, wishing, praying the phone would ring. Anything to stop this.

  . . . And if a man shall take his sister, his father’s daughter, or his mother’s daughter, and see her nakedness, and she see his nakedness; it is a wicked thing; and—”

  Joe!” Mike said sharply, aware that several of his deputies were gathered outside the office door, stifling giggles.

  Sheriff?”

  I don’t want a sermon, Joe. If I need to hear one, I’ll go see my priest. Besides, we do not know that any incestuous relationship has ever occurred. Probably it has not. Ever since Alma and Miss ... ah ... Ms. Breaux had that run-in at the supermarket, Alma has shit-canned no telling how many of her calls from Despair. You know what to do about this one.”

  Yes, sir.” Joe looked pained at the sheriff’s use of shit-canned.” But then, Joe always looked pained about something. He stood in front of Mike’s desk, waiting.

  Joe?”

  Sheriff?”

  I don’t suppose there is anything in the Bible about New Orleans’ society women, is there?”

  Joe opened his mouth to say that statement was just slightly blasphemous. He decided against it. Sheriff Saucier was one of them Catholics. Funny people. No, sir.”

  Mike looked relieved. Wonderful.”

  Fountain Parish lies just a few miles east of being dead center in the state of Louisiana. The Fain River separates the first area of heavy Cajun country from central Louisiana. Laclede is the parish seat of Fountain. It is an old parish, and a rich one. The parish is owned, almost lock, stock, and alligators by only a few families. No industry; sparsely populated; farmland. The Crying Swamp and five thousand acres around the dark place are owned by the Breaux family of New Orleans. Claude Breaux won the swamp in a poker game on a river boat back in 1822. Back then the name was Benoit. It was changed shortly after Claude Benoit shot Herbert Gourrier in the stomach in a duel over a woman and all twelve of Monsieur Gourrier’s brothers came after Claude, vowing to hang him. That prompted old Claude to haul his ass out of New Orleans and head for the wilds of central Louisiana—way up north. ’Bout a hundred and fifty miles up and inland. Protestant country. Savage and untamed. Old Claude changed his name and the name has been Breaux ever since.

  Paul Breaux, bachelor, and his sister, Linda, bacheloress, came to Fountain Parish to take over the farming operation at Despair Plantation, and to renovate the old home to the glory of its magnificent past. They lived in the house, staying mostly to themselves, rarely socializing. When they did feel the need for social endeavors, they went back to New Orleans, where—the statement is attributed to Linda—There is more than a mere modicum of culture, quite unlike the barbaric activities that pass for mentally stimulating entertainment in Fountain.”

  Needless to say, that remark did not endear Ms. Breaux to the hearts and minds of the good folk of Fountain Parish.

  Linda and Alma—the dispatcher, or dispatcheress, of the Fountain Parish Sheriff’s Department, four P.M. to midnight, Monday through Saturday—have not spoken, socially, since the afternoon Linda referred to Booger, Alma’s husband, who, at the time, worked for Despair Plantation, as a dim-witted, crotch-scratching, tobacco-chewing, cretinous buffoon.”

  Which he was; and is—sort of.

  Alma then responded by telling Ms. Breaux, You are a snooty, uppity bitch who thinks you carry the crown jewels between your legs. And what you really need, Ms. Breaux, is a good stiff dick shoved in you.”

  Bad blood thus ensued between the two.

  But one must come to Linda’s defense: there is a distinct lack of culture in Fountain. As a matter of fact, there isn’t any culture in the parish. The nightclubs feature three types of music: adenoidal howlings emanating from under ten-gallon hats; throbbing jungle rhythms of soul; and screaming, mind-boggling sounds of rock and roll, all presented at a decibel level guaranteed to produce migraines within thirty seconds of entering the room.

  One misguided but well-intentioned matronly patron of fine arts once brought in a well-known (outside of Fountain Parish) soprano to warble a few arias at the local library (a place one redneck’s wife once referred to as the most useless building in the parish).

  Five people were in attendance: the matronly patron, the librarian, the soprano, her pianist, and Whacker Jolson, one of Laclede’s more notorious drunks. It is said that Whacker staggered out much more quickly than he stumbled into the library. He made his way to the nearest saloon, where, it is reported, he told his fellow imbibers: They’s a bunch of them damned Pentecostals down there at the library ... speakin’ in tongues. It was awful. Gimme another drink and turn up the jukebox.”

  Culture in Fountain Parish.

  There isn’t a great deal of violence in Fountain Parish, other than the usual and expected barroom fights on weekends. One redneck punching another redneck is something those who do not patronize the local joints don’t really care to read about, so it is seldom reported in the local newspaper. There has never been a bank robbery; shootings are rare occurrences (even though nearly everyone owns at least one gun—four is the average); and day-to-day life, for the most part, is peaceful in Fountain Parish.

  Chief Deputy Joe Ratliff, on this fine summer’s day, was motoring out toward Despair Plantation, rehearsing what he would say to Ms. Breaux concerning the department’s failure to respond to her prowler call the previous evening. He went over it in his mind, then tried it vocally, just wrapping it up when he pulled into the driveway of Despair.

  That’s when his vocal cords locked, his eyes bugged, his hands got sweaty, and his stomach did a flip-flop.

  Oh, my sweet precious Jesus!” Joe finally managed to blurt, his eyes sweeping the dewy grounds. Despair Plantation was so beautiful. But Joe noticed no beauty on this morning.

  What remained of Paul Breaux lay scattered on the porch, in front of the porch, on an azalea bush; and his head was sitting on the still-damp ground, grinning grotesquely in death.

  Joe grappled for his mike and called in, his shaking fingers barely able to key the mike. He got the sheriff. Get out to Despair right now, Sheriff!” he sputtered. Rightnowrightnowrightnow!”

  Joe? What’s wrong?”

  GET OUT HERE!” Joe screamed.

  Have you looked in the house?” Mike asked, having arrived just minutes after receiving the almost-hysterical call.

  I haven’t left this fuckin’ car!” Joe responded, momentarily losing his deep-rooted religion. He caught himself. Lord forgive me for sayin’ that,” he pleaded.

  I’m sure He will,” Mike assured the man. Come on, let’s take a look around.”

  Mack Atkins, the Louisiana Highway Patrolman assigned to the parish, working plain-clothes, swallowed almost audibly as he walked with the sheriff up to the porch of the magnifi
cent old home. He stopped, sticking out his arm, halting the sheriff.

  Sheriff Saucier ... look.” He pointed at the strange footprints in the mud by the porch steps.

  What in God’s name made that?” Mike said. He had never seen a print like it.

  Nothing human,” Joe said quietly and confidently. He had calmed himself.

  A shiver touched the sheriff, and crawled eerily up his backbone. It was a slimy feeling, and it would not leave the man.

  Damned sure wasn’t a bear,” Mack opined.

  The front porch was slick with blood, shining darkly in the morning sun ... and other parts of the human anatomy the men chose not to look at too closely. Not until their stomachs could adapt to the carnage.

  Paul Breaux had been ripped open, his inner parts scattered helter-skelter.

  Mike . . .” Joe touched the sheriff’s arm. Look at those teeth marks on ... that leg over there.” He pointed to one leg that had been ripped and torn from the torso. It’s . . . half-eaten.”

  Jesus!” Mack said. What kind of strength would it take to do that?”

  Inhuman,” Mike replied tightly. He shut his eyes and shook his head.

  Miss Breaux!” Mike called, his voice shattering the morning stillness. Miss Breaux! Are you in the house?”

  A slug splintered the center of the door; the men jumped for cover, slipping on the dewy grass and the slick gore. The slug whined harmlessly away.

  Crouched behind the high porch, the men turned the quiet morning into a shooting gallery. All armed with .357 magnums, they literally blew the front door off its hinges. One slug disintegrated the brass doorknob; another shattered the top hinge; several blew out the center wooden panel.

  Quiet after the ripping shots. Oh, God!” a woman’s voice moaned. Somebody please help me. Please help me.”

  Tossing caution to the wind, Joe jumped to his feet. That’s Mi—Ms. Breaux.”

  Mike hauled him back to the ground by grabbing the seat of the man’s trousers and jerking. Get your ass back down here, Joe.”

  Miss Breaux,” Mike called. Are you all right? Anybody in there with you?”

  Just a dead ... thing,” she called, her voice breaking at the last.

  The cops looked at each other. A dead ... thing?” Mack said.

  The door surrendered, the last few splinters relaxing. The heavy door fell inside the house with a crash. The men all jumped at the noise.

  Come on out here,” Mike said firmly, his voice carrying through the morning stillness.

  They heard the sounds of her stumbling footsteps and her almost hysterical weeping. She stepped over the fallen door to stand in the bright, harsh glare of the sun. The house faced the east; the woman lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the brilliance. The lawmen stared in silence at her, too shocked to speak. She was bloody, hair disheveled, eyes red from crying and wide from fear. Some sort of hideous odor clung to her jeans and shirt. Her face was white, chalklike, in direct contrast to the blood that stained her shirt. Her bare arms were splattered with dried blood. She held the .32 automatic in her right hand.

  Ms. Breaux,” Joe said softly. Please place the gun on the porch. Now ... don’t drop it ... that’s only in the movies. Just bend down and lay it easy on the porch.”

  She did as ordered, straightened up, took two steps, and fainted, falling into the arms of Joe Ratliff, who managed, quite unintentionally, to get his hands on all the wrong places of her very amply endowed body.

  Joe blushed.

  Hell of time to cop a feel,” Mack said.

  Joe glared at him, conscious of his beet-red face. I’ll pray for your evil thoughts,” he told the trooper. Joe looked at Mike. And yours, too.”

  What’d I say?” Sheriff Saucier asked.

  Behind the great house, hidden from the eyes of the lawmen, a creature slipped into the dark waters of the Crying Swamp.

  Chapter Two

  While Joe and Mack attended to the needs of Linda Breaux, Sheriff Saucier, reloaded .357 in his right hand, entered the house—cautiously.

  He slowly prowled the house, his eyes taking in but not believing the now-horseshoed shape of the double-barreled shotgun on the damp carpet of the den. Broken glass glittered like shattered crystal on the floor.

  Bent double!” Mike hissed in a whisper. What in God’s name would have the strength to do that?”

  He walked down the hall, his nose following the stench to the office. When his wide, unbelieving eyes found what lay sprawled in hideous death on the floor, Sheriff Mike Saucier lost his breakfast, spewing it on the wall and carpet.

  He backed out of the office, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. His eyes lifted from the lifeless ugliness on the floor to the bullet-shattered window of the office.

  More than one of those ... things?” he muttered. God, let it not be.” He stopped his backing up, pulling his shaky emotions together, forcing himself to reenter the gore-splattered room.

  Mike had worked terrible automobile accidents; had seen firsthand what high-speed impact could do to a human body; had witnessed stabbings, shootings, and most other forms of mayhem ... but never, ever, had he seen anything to match this.

  At a sharp noise behind him Mike jumped about six inches off the carpet. He relaxed as the familiar tread of footsteps reached his ears. He holstered his pistol, wiping suddenly sweaty palms on his pants leg.

  Sheriff?” Mack called.

  Down the hall, Mack. Last room on your right. Brace yourself. You’re about to see something right out of a horror movie.”

  Ah, come on, Mike. I’ve seen just about everything that can happen to a human.” He stepped into the office. His breakfast, a Danish and two cups of coffee, joined Mike’s bacon and eggs on the wall and the floor.

  I believe the bathroom’s that way.” Mike pointed, his tone dry. But I have to warn you . . .”

  The trooper lifted embarrassed and frightened eyes to the man.

  . . . There may be more of those things.” He pointed to the brute on the floor. ”As a matter of fact, I’d bet there are. Look at that window; she shot out of it. Very little glass on the floor. Maybe she was shooting at shadows, but I’ll bet footprints will prove that”—again, he looked at the dead creature—beast had company with it.”

  Sheriff ... what is that damned thing?”

  Both men forced their attention to the creature lying stiffening, stinking in ugly death. It was not pure animal, but rather a grotesque mixture of human and animal. It had the testicles and ball sac of a human male. Its feet were bare and large, heavily callused on the bottoms, indicating it walked upright, for the palms of the massive clawlike hands were not nearly so callused. The creature weighed probably two hundred pounds, was perhaps five-ten and had huge, heavily muscled arms and legs and shoulders. It was barrel-chested. Its yellow eyes, open in death, were set deep in an almost animal face ... but the nose was pure human. The mouth was large, with long, fanged teeth.

  Both lawmen stood staring at the brutish creature, then lifted their eyes to look at one another. I don’t know,” Mike finally stated. Go get the camera. Call in to the office; tell Ray to close off Despair Road. I don’t want anybody in here that isn’t behind a badge. And that damned sure includes the press. Use double-talk on the air; see if you can fool those damned scanner-listeners. Go on, Mack.”

  The sheriff prowled the bottom part of the large mansion. Occasionally, he would glance up at the second floor. He had absolutely no desire whatsoever to climb those elegant curving steps. But he knew he had to do it. What was waiting for him up there? Probably nothing. But ... He walked back outside, grateful for the sunlight and space.

  At his car, he opened the trunk and took out his personal riot gun: a twelve-gauge pump loaded to the hilt with three-inch magnums, double-ought buckshot. He chambered a round, put the weapon on safety, and walked to the now-awake but very pale Ms. Breaux.

  You get her story?” Mike asked the chief deputy.

  Not all of it.”

  All r
ight ... when Ray gets here, have him station a man a full mile down the road. Nobody without a badge gets in here with the exception of Dr. Thurman. Have Ray shoot all his film and all he can borrow, inside and out, from every angle. I want it all. You and Ray sweep the area; gather all the evidence you can find.”

  What are we looking for?”

  Bits of hair. Tufted, probably. I don’t know. Anything out of the ordinary. Footprints—paw prints. Blood. Anything alien. You’ll know it when you see it. Bet on it, Joe.”

  Joe started to tell him he wasn’t a betting man but decided this was not the time. What Mack told me ... is it. . . ?”

  Yes,” Mike said shortly. It is. Whatever in the hell it is. After you and Ray and Mack have finished ... then, and only then, do you call Dr. Thurman.”

  He isn’t my doctor.” Linda spoke.

  He’s the coroner, Ms. Breaux,” Mike informed her, then looked once more at Joe. Tell the boys this: anyone who leaks anything to the press without my O.K. ... gets fired. But only after I kick the shit out of him. This is big, Joe—awfully big. Could start a panic if the public learned of it before we get a good handle on it. We’ve got to sit on this.”

  Joe rose from his squatting position. I want to see this ... beast.”

  Go ahead. Then I’m going upstairs.”

  That ain’t your job,” the chief deputy bluntly informed him. And you know it. It’s mine. So gimme the shotgun.”

  Sheriff Saucier’s chuckle was without mirth. You giving me orders now, Joe?”

  In this, I am. Yes, sir, I sure am doing that.” He held out his hand.

  Mike smiled. He handed Joe the riot gun, cautioning him, It’s loaded.”

  Joe’s smile was a quick uplifting at one corner of his mouth. Be kind of silly to carry an unloaded one around at a time like this, wouldn’t it?” He nodded stiffly at Linda Breaux. Sorry we didn’t get out here last evenin’, ma’am. Might have prevented all this sorrow. Them that was responsible for our not respondin’ will surely hear about it ... from me.” He walked toward the mansion, a small, very wiry man. But very long on guts.