The Devil's Cat Read online

  And while he was quite human, and his flesh bled when cut, he had been blessed by God. Sam Balon was God's earth-bound warrior. His destiny was clear to him. Admittedly, he had tried to sidestep that responsibility. And he found he could not. As his father, Sam Balon, Sr., had done, the son would spend his life seeking out and fighting Satan and the Dark One's followers.

  Sam was under no illusions concerning his career. He knew no mortal could ever destroy Satan. Sam did not attempt that. And he knew, from experience, that one could not gaze upon the various shapes of the Prince of Darkness. For if one gazed too long, he or she would be destroyed.

  Or enslaved.

  Sam looked up and down the street. Something was wrong here, he thought. And not just the fact that a coven was here.

  It was more than that.

  Then it came to him. He had not heard a dog barking since he had arrived. Not one.

  He felt eyes on him. Unfriendly eyes.

  He looked up, at the top of the building housing the department store, and gazed into the cold eyes of a cat, staring at him. Man stared at beast.

  Beast!

  Sam wondered if the Beasts were here? He felt sure they were—but where? And when would they appear? Unanswered questions.

  Sam recalled what he could about the Beasts.

  His father had called them God's failures. But before God could allow them time to become extinct, Satan had taken control of them. The Bible doesn't make any references to God's mistakes—there was no one around to record them or confirm them. And the Beasts were cunning, for they survived the Flood and everything else God did to destroy the evil on the planet Earth. The Beasts belonged to Satan; they answer only to the Prince of Darkness.

  Satan's Beasts can lie dormant for hundreds of years, and they have a native intelligence. They are part human, part animal—all evil. The Beasts will breed with anything—anything!—in order to keep their species alive.

  But there was one thing that might reveal their position in or around Becancour: while the others slept, a chosen Sentry remained alert, on guard.

  And they stink. God, do the Beasts stink. If Sam could find that hideous odor, he could track to the lair of the Beasts.

  Sam cleared his head of the Beasts. One thing at a time, he cautioned himself. He once more glanced up.

  The cat was gone.

  But what connection did the cats have with those now residing in the Dorgenois house? Another unanswered question.

  A little? A lot? Or nothing?

  Sam walked into the department store and did his shopping. First things first. Sam knew he could not make the first hostile move. Those who worshiped Satan would have to do that. And he knew from past experience that he would be laughed at if he tried to warn the townspeople of what faced them. And … he did not know who to trust in the town. How many had gone over to the Dark Side? He had no way of knowing.

  But one thing he knew for certain … He would find soon enough.

  He paid for his purchases and walked back out into the early summer heat. He stopped on the sidewalk and stared at the hood of his car. The hood was dotted with numerous cat tracks.

  But not a cat was in sight.

  Sam felt eyes on him and turned to face whoever was doing the staring.

  Sam smiled and spoke to the man.

  "You're new in town," the priest said.

  "Just got here yesterday," Sam said. He extended his hand. "Sam Balon."

  "I'm Daniel Javotte. Staying long, Mr, Balon?"

  "Oh, probably the summer. It seems like a nice place."

  "Yes, it is. Perhaps you'll come to services this Sunday?" He noticed the wedding band on Sam's left hand. "And bring your family."

  "We're not Catholic, Father."

  "You don't have to be, Mr. Balon."

  "Well … perhaps we'll come to see you at the rectory sometime."

  "That's a start. Any children, Mr. Balon?"

  "One. A boy. He's four."

  "All the churches have gone together and formed a very nice preschool . . . well, almost all the churches, that is."

  Sam chuckled. He did not have to ask what church would be absent. And he felt the priest knew it. "I was raised to be tolerant of another's faith, Padre. My mother taught me that."

  "Oh. And your father?"

  "He died before I was born. He was a preacher."

  "What faith, Mr. Balon?"

  "Christian Church, Padre. Do you object to my calling you Padre?"

  "Not at all. A preacher, you say. Not a minister?"

  "Mother told me that Dad said there was only one reverend person to ever walk the face of the earth. He was crucified."

  "I see." The priest smiled. He was a few inches shorter than Sam, but with a rugged look about him. Stockily built, with dark, piercing eyes. His hair was peppered with gray, but he looked to be in excellent physical shape. "Then I'm sure your mother taught you that Catholics don't have horns and a tail?" Javotte smiled the question.

  "Yeah. But you couldn't prove it by listening to some people."

  "I think we're going to get along, Sam Balon. Welcome to Becancour. If you get a chance, do come to Sunday services. I think the sermon might interest you."

  "Oh? What's it titled?"

  Javotte's dark eyes locked with Sam's. Something was behind those eyes, but Sam couldn't quite make it out. The priest said, " 'The Mark of the Beast.' "

  4

  "And you think we should enroll Sam in this preschool whatever?" Nydia asked.

  "I think it would be good for him."

  "Can I take Dog?" Little Sam asked.

  "No," Sam and Nydia both answered.

  The boy took it well. He did not pout. He never pouted, and rarely cried. He knew who he was and what he was. And when it was time, he would tell his parents. Or show them.

  Whatever his Master wished of him.

  "Is the program in session now?" Nydia asked.

  "I don't know. I forgot to ask. I would think not. Probably start around the first of June."

  Little Sam sat on the floor of the house and listened, his dark eyes giving away no inner thought.

  "Feel like a walk along the bayou?" she asked.

  The family walked along the bayou's edge, with Sam keeping a wary eye out for snakes. He had taken one phase of his Ranger training in the swamps of Georgia, and he had a healthy respect for Cottonmouth moccasins. He knew that a rattler, most of the time, would not strike unless provoked; Sam had walked within two feet of rattlers and they had not attempted to strike. A Copperhead was a mean snake, totally unpredictable. The Coral snake, also found in Louisiana, was a docile snake, seldom seen, but very deadly. But a Cottonmouth would stalk a person; a Cottonmouth would strike for no apparent reason. Of all the poisonous snakes indigenous to the United States, Sam hated Cottonmouths, and would kill every one he found.

  "We'll have to buy some fishing gear and get licensed, We've got to behave as ordinary tourists. And we're going to have to meet people and socialize."

  "Well," Nydia said. "That'll be fun."

  Sam nodded. He pointed to Dog. "Do you know for certain what his role is to be?"

  "No. Only that he is to be with us." Dog stopped, swung his big head, and looked at Sam and Nydia.

  Then he trotted on, catching up with Little Sam.

  "I think he knows what we say," Sam remarked.

  Nydia did not reply. She took her husband's hand and walked slowly along. Sam's eyes swept the gloomy interior of the bayou. He had studied a map of the area and knew this swamp extended for miles, east, west, and south. Within the interior of the swamp there were dots and pockets of upthrusted earth, islands of dry land where …

  … the Beasts might live.

  "And a boat," Sam vocalized his thoughts. "How are the finances holding out?" He smiled as he asked that, for his wife was a very wealthy young woman.

  "Oh," Nydia replied, catching her husband's smile. "I think we can muddle by. Sam?"

  "Uh-huh?"

&
nbsp; "How do we handle the funds? Can I transfer monies to the local bank without bringing a lot of attention to us?"

  "I've been thinking about that. Let's transfer enough to live on and use cards to buy whatever else we need." He shrugged his shoulders. "Either way it's going to cause talk, I'm thinking, since our cards—a few of them—have no limit."

  "And if the police run checks on us? …"

  "The way you had your people set things up, we're a very wealthy young married couple who don't have to work."

  "Very well. That priest you talked to?"

  "He knows something. But I couldn't read his eyes. After we feel around some, I think we should have him out for dinner."

  "Let's get the law on our side, too," she suggested.

  "Yes. I'll pay them a visit in the morning."

  "You saw Janet." It was not put in question form.

  "Yes. No doubt about that. I think it's going to be a waiting game this time."

  "I was afraid you were going to say that."

  Dr. Tony Livaudais looked at the young woman sitting on the bed in his clinic. She had been brought in by her parents just after he had returned from lunch. He had checked her, and found evidence that she had been raped. That supported what her parents had told him.

  But the girl would not discuss it.

  "Judy," Tony said. "Are you afraid that you'll be hurt if you tell me who did it?"

  "Nothing happened," the girl said, a deadly flatness to her voice.

  "I'm a doctor. I am also the medical examiner for this part of the parish. Don't try to kid me, girl."

  Her eyes shifted to meet his. Tony fought to keep from taking a step backward. The girl's eyes were hate-filled … and something else lay lurking in their misty depths. Something that the young doctor could not read. And was not all that certain he wanted to read.

  "Me and my boyfriend got it on, that's all," Judy told him.

  "Judy," Tony said patiently, "I found evidence that you have been both vaginally and anally violated. There are enough minor tears and bruises to tell me that one person could not have done it. I have known your boyfriend since his arrival on this earth. Don Hemming may well be the biggest jerk in Becancour, but he is not Superman. I also happen to know that Don can barely manage to write his own name, much less be proficient enough to tattoo that cat on your buttocks. That is a fresh tattoo. Not more than twenty-four hours old. I saw a lot of them in the Navy. In places I don't care to reveal. I'm still trying to forget. Now you level with me, girl. Or I'll call Deputy Lenoir and Chief Passon in here and you can talk with them. It's all up to you; which is it going to be?"

  "You want me to tell you something, Dr. Livaudais?"

  "Yes, I do, Judy."

  "OK. Dr. Livaudais?"

  "Yes, girl?"

  "Go screw yourself!"

  • • •

  Sonny Passon almost swallowed his cigar. "She told you to do what?"

  Dr. Livaudais repeated what Judy had told him.

  Deputy Don Lenoir shook his head. "Are we talking about the same girl, Tony? Judy Mahon is one of the sweetest kids in town."

  "I always thought so," Tony agreed. "But she damn sure has a gutter-mouth now."

  "And you're sure she was raped?" Passon asked.

  "I was." There was open and ill-concealed disgust in the doctor's voice. "Now I'm not so sure."

  "Meaning? …" Don asked.

  "Well, I think she was a willing participant in what we used to call a gang-bang."

  "Jesus Christ!" Passon said. "Where do you reckon her boyfriend was all this time?"

  "I think he was a part of it," Tony said. "Don Hemming is one sorry jerk!"

  "Great football player, though," Patrolman Black injected.

  That got him a dirty look from everyone in the squad room.

  "If that's all you have to contribute, Louis," Chief Passon said. "Shut your mouth."

  "What'd I say?" the city cop said, astonishment in the question.

  The doctor, the deputy, and the chief ignored him.

  "So what do we do?" Dr. Livaudais asked.

  "We can't do anything," Deputy Lenoir replied. "Not unless she brings charges. Or her parents. Judy is sixteen and Don is seventeen, so that opens up a new can of worms; he's legally an adult."

  "How about Health and Human Resources?" Tony asked.

  "I'll call Mac and see what he says about it," Passon said. "And he might get to it in a month or so."

  "Why a cat?" Don asked. "Why would a bright, beautiful, well-brought-up girl have a cat tattooed on er butt?"

  "God only knows," Tony said, striking much closer to home than he realized.

  Sonny Passon felt eyes on him. But no one in the squad room was staring at him. Irritated, he glanced out the office window into the hall. No one there, either. "What the hell?" he muttered. Don glanced at Passon. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"

  He shook his head. "I don't know. I felt … feel eyes on me."

  "Hell, it's just a cat," Louis Black said, pointing. All the men looked. A calico cat sat perched on the air conditioner, outside the window.

  "Shoo!" Passon said, waving his hands at the cat. The cat yawned.

  Passon picked up a magazine and beat it against the window pane.

  The cat sat and stared at the man through very cold, unemotional eyes.

  "Well, damn!" Passon said, and solved the problem by lowering the blind. "I can't stand for anything to just stare at me."

  "Anybody but me noticed the number of cats in town?" Tony questioned.

  "There's a bunch of 'em," Louis Black agreed. "More than I ever remember seein'."

  "Cats," Tony said softly. "And a cat tattooed on the buttocks of Judy Mahon. Is there … could there be some connection?"

  "What would it be, Tony?" Passon asked. "Hell, they're just house cats."

  "Yeah," the doctor said, standing up. "You're right."

  After trudging along for more than five miles without seeing one single vehicle of any type, the hitchhiker began to realize that he'd been had. Those goddamned smart-mouthed kids back there in that hick town on 84 had told him a friggin' lie when they said this was a shortcut down to 71. This wasn't no friggin' shortcut; this was a highway to nowheres. Walt Davis kicked at a beer can and cussed.

  Well, he thought. The goddamned road has to lead somewheres. Nobody, not even these funny-talkin' folks in Louisiana builds a road that goes nowheres.

  He hoped.

  Walt trudged on. He couldn't figure out how in the hell he'd let that guy convince him to ride down to Mississippi with him. Walt had never liked the south. Too goddamned hot for one thing. Too goddamned many cops for another. Goddamned cops always asking a bunch of damn-fool questions. Always wantin' to know if you was headin' somewheres for a job?

  A job! The very thought of work made his stomach hurt. Screw a job. Any job. It was easier to steal. Sleep out in a field at night, watch to see how many folks was in the house. Then come morning, watch them all leave, then bust in and grab any money that's layin' around. Be surprised how many folks leave money around.

  Sometimes he got lucky and found a chick they'd left in bed. Wrap her head up in a pillowcase so's she can't see you, knock off a quick piece of ass, and split. Stuff the chick in a shed around the place, all trussed up, and a guy had ail day and sometimes half the night to get clear.

  Hitch to the next town wearin' nice clothes took from the house, grab a bus for the next town, then change directions, ridin' the bus right through the town you'd just left. Stupid fuckin' cops never checked the people who was already on the bus.

  They'd ask the driver, "You pick up anyone on the road?"

  "Naw."

  Usually that was it. But even if a guy was checked by the cops, the trick was don't never take no rings and watches and guns and shit like that. Just money. It ain't against the law to be carryin' money.

  But lately, Walt had been experiencing a run of bad luck. He figured money must be gettin' tight, 'cause there sure wasn't much of
it left layin' around the houses no more.

  But, he thought, walking along the deserted highway, at least I ain't been busted in a long, long time. He'd been arrested a couple of times as a kid, booked, mugged, fingerprinted. But that had been local shit. Way to hell gone back up in Maryland. And all that shit in the movies about 'em checkin' prints in five minutes was garbage, man, and every con artist and crook and thief in the country that was worth a damn knew it. Sometimes it takes months. And if your prints ain't on record with the Feds, forget it, baby.

  Another trick was to wear gloves. Just be careful bustin' in, then find a pair of gloves to wear. Every house has four/five pairs of gloves layin' around. Straights are so stupid they oughtta be locked up.

  Walt sat down to rest. The heat was bad, man. He looked up at the road sign. Becancour 2 Miles.

  He shook his head. Damn folks down here had the dumbest names for their towns.

  Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught movement to one side. He turned his head and took a better look.

  A cat sat by the side of the road, staring at him. "Hey pussy," Walt said. "What the hell you doin' way out here?"

  The cat padded toward him on silent paws.

  "Get your ass away from me," Walt told the animal. "You the wrong kind of pussy."

  The cat made a funny kind of noise in its throat.

  Walt crawled to his knees. "Get away from me, cat.'

  Something landed on his back with a soft thud. Walt screamed as claws dug through his sweat-soaked shirt ana into the flesh of his back. He hurled himself to one side and landed on his back, crushing the thing that was clawing at him. Jumping to his feet, he frantically looked around him.

  A dozen cats were gathered around him.

  The cat that had leaped onto his back, clawing and hissing, lay kicking and dying on the shoulder of the highway.

  Walt jerked up his suitcase and ran across the road.

  The cats followed him, licking their chops, sniffing the air, smelling the hot blood from the deep clawmarks on his back.

  Something growled from deep in the dark timber. Walt spun around and around, looking to see what had growled and trying to keep an eye on the cats, as well.

  Then a terrible odor struck Walt's nostrils. The smell was so bad it damn near caused him to puke.