Blood on the Bayou Read online

  “A working stiff, I assure you,” Julian called out.

  Laughter rose among the passengers.

  Julian pointed far to the left. “Right over there, friends, that old shack on the water is my place. I grew up around here as an only child. Alligators were my pets.”

  Of course, not a word of it was true. But it sounded great.

  David started to speak, then paused, a bit puzzled. He could have sworn he saw lights flashing by Julian’s place. Though he owned it, Julian did not live there. He stayed in the French Quarter, where they kept their offices. He did keep a few lights on in the place, but they didn’t flash. Maybe it had been a trick of the moon.

  “Alligator for a pet,” someone said. “Really?”

  “Not much to cuddle with at night,” Julian teased.

  “It’s so creepy out here,” one of the young women in front said. “Weren’t you always scared?”

  “When you grow up out here, you don’t think about it,” Julian explained. “It’s just home.”

  “Even with old rougarous and witches and voodoo and whatever else?” someone asked.

  “Now that’s the thing. When you’re from here, you’re protected.”

  Then Julian shrugged at David, turning the group back over to him.

  David took the cue and said, “Some say that the Good Witch of Honey Swamp offended a powerful slaveholder who called himself Count D’Oro. He owned one of the houses, like Julian’s, on the water. The Good Witch had no interest in becoming his mistress or performing her magic for him. So one night the Good Witch of Honey Swamp was dragged from her home, tied to a tree, and burned alive. She made it rain, and the rain kept putting out the fire. But finally, the flames consumed her. As she died she cursed the count and all who knew him. It’s said that her curse backfired. Count D’Oro turned into a rougarou and slaughtered dozens of people before he was caught, before he had his head bashed in and his throat ripped out, before being tied to a stake and burned to nothing but ash. They still say if the witch’s curse is repeated, the soul of D’Oro will come back. And the rougarou will roam the swamp once again.”

  “What were the witch’s words?” a teen asked.

  A shrill scream pierced the night.

  From one of the young women toward the front of the boat.

  For a moment, it seemed that David’s heart stopped. Had they been moving too close to shore? Was another alligator aiming toward the pontoon boat?

  “The rougarou,” the young woman screeched, moving from her seat.

  “Careful,” he warned.

  The pontoon boat shouldn’t flip, but with such a sudden shift of weight he wasn’t sure. “Please, please. What is it? If you saw something in the trees—”

  “No,” the young woman cried, looking over at him with huge eyes. “Blood. There’s blood on the bayou and a man. He’s dead.”

  David carefully moved to her side of the boat.

  They were close to the shore.

  And he saw it.

  A dead man.

  Feet still tangled in the grass, head battered, blood dripping.

  “Rougarou,” someone else shouted. “They’re moving in the trees.”

  And there was someone out there.

  Gone in a flash, racing away, thrashing through the underbrush.

  Rougarou? No way. They weren’t real.

  Not like the corpse.

  And the blood on the bayou.

  Chapter 1

  Michael Quinn heard the hysterical crying the minute he entered the police station. The young woman creating the commotion was inside Detective Jake Larue’s office. Someone else was trying to soothe her while not becoming hysterical herself.

  “This one is right up your alley,” Larue told him as he approached.

  “My alley?”

  “That young woman is certain she saw a rougarou. She was on a bayou tour in Honey Swamp last night.”

  He smiled. No kid grew up in Southern Louisiana without hearing about the rougarou. Every region of the world had their own particular brand of monster. The rougarou belonged to the Cajun region of Southern Louisiana, stretching right into the city.

  “Honey Swamp?” he asked. “Doesn’t a problem in that area go to the Pearl River police?”

  “Yep,” Larue said. “But she’s here because she believes the rougarou followed her home, showing up in the window of her hotel last night.”

  He arched a brow at the ridiculousness of the statement. “I’m assuming there’s more.”

  “A dead man in the swamp. Head bashed in, throat ripped.”

  Which grabbed his attention.

  “I want you to talk to them,” Larue said. “I told them that you’re a rougarou expert and that you’ll get to the bottom of things. They were out on some night ghost tour in the bayou and their boat came upon the dead man. Right now, she’s so hysterical that she’s not making sense. But you rougarou experts are used to dealing with that.”

  He shook his head at Larue’s sarcasm. He was no more a rougarou expert than someone was a ghost expert. Once upon a time, he’d worked with Larue as partners in the NYPD. Before that, Quinn’s life had been anything but normal. He’d actually been a pretty horrible person, not as in deadly or criminal, but as in vain and egotistical. His prowess in sports had led to excess, which eventually led to him being declared legally dead.

  Which changed everything.

  While clinically dead, he’d seen a strange personage, who told him it was time to turn around. An angel? Maybe. But the experience had led him to the military, then the police—and then to Angus Cafferty. When Angus died, neglecting to tell his own child, Danni, what he really did on and during many of his buying trips, Quinn had brought her up to speed. It hadn’t been easy. She’d not believed anything he’d said, nor had she much liked him.

  In fact, she’d loathed him.

  He’d never imagined how hard it would be to make her believe that all things in life were not what they seemed. But most legends had their roots in truth. She’d both grown up with Angus and wanted to believe that the world was filled with good. She was, however, her father’s daughter. So when she finally came around to realizing what they were sometimes up against, she’d been brilliant.

  And still exquisite.

  Five-feet-nine-inches of willowy perfection, vitality, and intelligence. A mane of sleek auburn hair and the kind of blue eyes that seemed endless and could steal a man’s soul. He always smiled when he thought of their rocky beginning.

  She was both stubborn and opinionated.

  But he couldn’t imagine life without her.

  His smile widened before noticing his friend’s stare. Larue was studying him. When they’d been partners, Larue had known Quinn had something of an extra sense, and Larue wasn’t the kind to fight, deny, or question it. In fact, Larue didn’t want to know what lurked beneath the surface. He just wanted whatever bad was happening to stop. So he tended to bring Quinn in on the unusual stuff, which allowed Quinn to be both a private investigator and have the police on his side.

  “You can help?” Larue asked.

  “How long have we both lived around here?” he asked Larue.

  “Lifetimes.”

  “And have you ever seen a rougarou?”

  “Look, I’m not you,” Larue said. “I don’t have the gift, or whatever it is. Anyway, the Pearl River guys are working the murder. Two fellows I know fairly well, Hayden Beauchamp and Dirk Deerfield. Good detectives. Beauchamp called me this morning. The tour directors and the guests on the boat were all out of New Orleans. I’ve got a car ready to head out so you can meet with them and see the murder site, if you think you can help.”

  He pointed at his old friend. “Say what you will, but we’ve heard the legends for years on a rougarou.”

  “I get it. That’s why you’re going to need to be on this,” Larue softly said. “Did you hear what I said? Head bashed in, throat ripped out. That’s only happened once before that I know about, and, of cours
e, you know about it too.”

  Quinn winced and nodded.

  He didn’t believe that a rougarou had wandered into the French Quarter to jump around the guests’ windows. But he did remember the murders that had taken place out at Honey Swamp when they’d been kids.

  “There’s more,” Larue said.

  He waited.

  Larue pointed to the two women in his office. “There were drops of blood on the balcony where they’re staying. So far, we know it’s human and that’s about it. We have it as a top priority, but we don’t have any DNA results back yet. It all sounded like a prank when they walked in here. I don’t have your ability with the strange or whatever, but I do have a cop’s sixth sense. And something tells me that this is going to get worse, and weirder, before it’s all over. Will you talk to these women for me, please, Quinn? God help us, we might have been kids back then, and it’s not like we don’t still have our fair share of pretty awful crime, but this could be like last time.”

  And he knew what that meant.

  Serial killings.

  “We have to jump on this,” Larue said. “Or the whole damned bayou, and maybe this town itself, will run red with blood again.”

  * * * *

  “I’m opening up,” Danni Cafferty called to her friend Billie McDougal.

  She walked across the first floor of the old house at the corner of Royal Street that she’d inherited from her father, unlocking the door of the shop portion and flipping over the OPEN sign.

  She was smiling.

  It was going to be an exceptionally good Friday because she couldn’t wait for the night.

  They, meaning herself, Quinn, Bo Ray Thompkins, Billie, Father Ryan and Natasha, also know as Mistress LaBelle, were going to get together as soon as they all closed up for the day. Also, it was going to be a night when they could bundle up a bit. New Orleans was actually chilly in January. Even the mules drawing the carriages filled with tourists seemed to enjoy the respite from the heat, clopping down the streets with what seemed like a hop in their steps.

  They were planning an evening of great food and music. Not necessarily an all-nighter, which was easily possible in a city that never slept. Her shop, the Cheshire Cat, would be open tomorrow, a Saturday, but not until eleven. And Quinn, a might-have-been-guitar-player, was scheduled to sit in with friends down at a bar on Chartres Street. She loved when he played. He wasn’t quite as good as many of their friends, who spent just about all of their waking hours playing their guitars. But he could have been if that’d been his goal. He was a natural and he loved it.

  And she loved Quinn.

  Go figure. When he first strutted into her life she’d thought him an arrogant hunk. She’d hated the fact that Angus Cafferty working with Quinn had been a secret her father had kept from her.

  But things were different now.

  And it wasn’t just physical, though he was near the perfect man, lean of muscle, all six-four of him. It was that she knew that even when he’d been hero-worshipped by kids as a star athlete, he might have been oblivious but never cruel. She’d thought him the biggest ass the world had ever known when they first met. But eventually, she learned, after her father’s death and through a difficult and deadly case involving the theft of a special statue, that he was far from it. He’d changed and become a man with a dedication to the world and those around them.

  A person even her father had trusted.

  Sure, the beginning hadn’t been easy, and life still made things a challenge between them. But there was something that made the challenges worth it, and sleeping with him every night certainly helped ease away the day’s dilemmas.

  “I’m ready,” Billie called to her, grinning.

  His words trilled.

  Billie had come to America with her father from Scotland. And though he’d been in the States for years, his rich Scottish burr hadn’t faded. Tall and gaunt with a thick thatch of white hair, Billie could have easily stood in for Riff Raff in a performance of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. He was as dear to her as a man could be, her self-appointed guardian after her father’s death, and the one who, with Quinn, had finally allowed her to see just what her father had really collected through the years.

  “I’ll be bringing me pipes,” Billie assured. “And don’t roll your eyes at me, lass. I’ll just see if I can’t be part of one or two songs.”

  “I love it when you play your pipes,” Danni said. “It’s just that the bar is small and bagpipes are loud. But it’s great to have them.”

  Billie laughed. “Hey, now. I just want you to know, Miss Danni Cafferty, I made good money in me younger years standing on the streets with me hat out. You should have seen the folks throwing bills in it when I played.”

  “Maybe they were paying you to stop,” Danni teased.

  “Ah, lass.”

  “Kidding, Billie. I love it when you play.”

  “Here’s hoping Quinn does make it back,” he said, “and that he’s not starting into some fresh trouble with Detective Larue. I’m looking forward to some fun times this evening.”

  “Don’t worry. Quinn said he’d be back in plenty of time, and we’ll head right out at closing.”

  The front door opened quickly and a tall man entered.

  Who she recognized.

  David Fagin.

  She greeted him, curious because of his anxious manner.

  David was an old friend. They’d gone to high school together, one of those magnet schools for the arts. She’d been in visual art and David had focused on theater. They’d bumped into each other a few times over the last three or four years, and he’d come to her father’s funeral. They’d talked about the changes in their lives, their plans and dreams, and she recalled how he’d been excited about his business ventures. She’d told him that she was happy too, still working as an artist, running her father’s shop.

  David had dropped by a dozen times, but today he seemed to not be on a buying excursion.

  “Danni, I need your help.”

  Billie stepped up beside her, ready to listen to whatever it was their visitor was about to say. She noticed how David shifted on his feet and kept looking around, as if someone were after him.

  “Danni, I’ve heard… There are rumors. We’re talking a life or death situation.” His eyes focused on hers. “My life.”

  She swallowed hard and felt a sense of dread. She wanted to push David back out the door and pretend he’d never come. Every once in a while it was still difficult to reconcile all that had happened in the last several years. She’d thought her father the most wonderful man in the world. Tall, sturdy, and gruff, the perfect Highlander with his rich accent, booming voice, strength, and kindness. He’d traveled the world. On buying trips. Only after his death had she learned that they had been anything but.

  Oh yes, Angus Cafferty had been a collector.

  At the Cheshire Cat they sold local art, jewelry, clothing, and some more unusual items. Angus had especially loved unique pieces, one-of-a-kind carved masks, Egyptian trinkets, religious artifacts, custom items. One of the display cases had been created from an authentic Egyptian sarcophagus. A display in the left window featured a Victorian coffin, a turn-of-the-century mannequin, and a 19th century vampire hunting kit. The right window held local lore. A stunning display from the so-called Count D’Oro, an 18th century aristocrat who murdered numerous young women and dumped their bodies in the swamp. Among them, a beautiful, young witch who had cursed him at her death. Legend noted that he’d been a cruel man whose soul had been consumed by the devil, and only when he’d been caught by vigilantes and then burned alive in the swamp himself had his evil been laid to rest.

  But Angus had also acquired the dangerous.

  Items best described as having evil upon them.

  And as the inheritor of the business, she now was their owner.

  “Okay, David, let’s have a chat,” she said.

  A nod to Billie and he understood to cover the store. She led David t
hrough the shop, past her studio, and opened the kitchen door where Wolf, Quinn’s giant mixed breed dog, bounded toward her, then let out a loud woof at the sight of a stranger.

  “He’s a friend,” she told the dog, then turned to David. “Don’t be afraid of Wolf. He’s a good dog. If he thought Quinn or I were in danger he’d rip into someone like hell on wheels, but as soon as he knows you’re a friend he’s like a puppy.”

  “Hey, Wolf,” David said. It seemed like there was a catch in his throat when he said the dog’s name.

  “Sit, please.” She motioned to the small breakfast nook. “Coffee?”

  “In lieu of a morning shot of whiskey? Sure.”

  He took a seat as indicated but still looked jittery enough to shoot through the ceiling.

  Danni poured coffee as David surveyed the kitchen.

  “I got a note,” he said.

  She laid two cups of coffee on the kitchen table and sat to join him.

  His fingers drummed nervously. He looked at her, his dark eyes haunted and serious. “From the rougarou.”

  She studied him and could tell he was serious. Quinn was a licensed private investigator. And, apparently, during the years she’d been blissfully naïve, her father, and the shop, had gained a certain hush-hush following, a place where people turned when they needed help with strange, life-threatening events. She wished Quinn was here now. But Detective Larue had called him that morning and he’d gone in to help with whatever Jake wanted. He wouldn’t be back until early evening.

  “The rougarou killed a man last night, Danni. Killed him horribly, about a minute before we reached him. There was still blood in the water. His head was bashed in, skull cracked like an egg, throat torn out.” He drew a deep breath. “Bitten out. By savage teeth.”

  Her heart skipped a beat at the horror, and she could only imagine the sight he’d seen.

  “The rougarou?” she asked.

  Her window display dealt with the rougarou, a monster said to consume the souls of the evil and turn them into killing machines.

  David curled his hands around his mug, seemingly baffled and defeated. “I just heard myself. I can’t believe what I said. And I’m from that damned swamp. I grew up along the Pearl River. Yeah, we base the business here in the city, and my apartment now is just off Esplanade on Bourbon, but I know that swamp. I’ve trapped gators, caught catfish as a summer job, worked crawfish nets. I know the bayou.”