A Crying Shame (103 page)

Walter sighed. Debbie laughed and took him by the hand.
Come along, dear.” She led him from the room, but not swiftly enough to prevent Walter from getting in a final shot at his colleague.

Did you know, Miss Gray, that Karl's real name is Hans Poopen?”

Lugner!”
Karl shouted, calling him a liar.

Is your name really Poopen?” Tammy asked.

Karl sighed.

 

Dawn rose hot and bubbly over Fountain Parish. By nine o'clock, any person, who had spent much time outside, felt as if he had been slapped in the face with a hot, steaming towel. Several times. By eleven o'clock, the temperature was one hundred and the humidity only a few percentage points less.

As Colonel Jeansonne's hand-picked troopers were racing to get into position in the surrounding parishes, and the Special Forces unit was gearing up in their armory, events were occurring in Fountain Parish and Baton Rouge that would drastically spin the hands of the clock and alter forever, in many cases, the lives of hundreds of persons.

 

In his small country church, Chief Deputy Joe Ratliff was kneeling in very fervent prayer, praying for guidance as to what he should do. He had worked himself into a state of religious frenzy; sweat poured from the man. He rose from his kneeling, his aching knees a sign of his atonement. Joe, in his agitated state of mind, really thought he had been spoken to ... by Him. The big sheriff in the sky.

I hear You!” Joe shouted, rattling the rafters.
I do hear You. Oh, Lord, your wish is my command. Your humble servant will obey.”

What Joe heard was old Clyde Perkins' red-bone hound chasing a bitch in heat back in the woods, baying mournfully, but no one could ever convince Joe of that.

In Laclede, Les Blackwell was fuming, boiling mad. He knew something terrible had happened to Craig, and he felt the sheriff's department was, as usual, dragging their feet in the investigation. Something . . . strange was going on in the parish. And by God, Blackwell was going to find out what it was. He stormed out of his office.

 

In Baton Rouge, Governor Parker felt lousy. His lieutenant governor, Maurice Pennypacker, a total idiot if God ever put one on the face of the earth, was pestering him as to what was going on. Why so much secrecy? What happened to those troopers that went into the swamp?

Parker tried very hard to avoid his lieutenant governor even on good days. The man absolutely did not possess the common sense to pour piss out of a boot before putting his foot in it.

Parker checked his blood pressure with the monitor he kept in a desk drawer. Too high. Way too high. And his head hurt like demons were pounding to be released. He took several aspirins and gently rubbed his temples. Didn't seem to help much. God! he felt lousy. And what was Badon doing about the . . . creatures? Had the mercenary taken him for a ride? Right now, he really didn't care. He just wanted his head to stop hurting.

His secretary buzzed.
The lieutenant governor to see you, sir,” she said.

Oh ... fuck!” Parker swore.

 

Booger Brady was packing up food and clothing to take with him. Alma was crying, yelling, shouting, asking him what in the hell was the matter? What the hell was he doing? What had she done? He shoved her rudely out of his way and walked out the front door, striding toward his old pickup truck. Right past his son with the funny yellow eyes. Boy was five years old; couldn't speak a word of English. Just a strange series of grunts.

 

And two teen-age girls were bicycling out toward Despair Plantation. Their transistor radios hung on the handlebars, playing rock and roll music—loudly.

From their hiding places on the dank edges of the swamp, several young Links watched the girls draw closer.

Closer.

 

Where in the hell is Sheriff Saucier?” Blackwell demanded. He stood in the outer office, his hands on his hips.
And I want to know what the hell is being done about the disappearance of Craig Gardner?”