A Crying Shame (52 page)

I suppose he's spent a lot of time in the bush,” Captain Sundra said.
So I imagine he'd know all the right moves for survival.”

Governor Parker sighed.
Oh, hell! Well, I made the statement I wanted my last term in office to be spectacular. Wish I hadn't said it now. Come on, people, let's go see this mercenary.”

 

It was dusk in the bayou country when the governor's caravan rolled out of Laclede. Parker's arrival had not gone unnoticed, and neither had his departure. Blackwell's ace reporter, Craig Gardner, had been watching the events, wondering what in the hell was going on. Like his boss, the young man had an intense dislike for Sheriff Saucier, and like his boss, belonged to the opposition political party, and thus disliked Governor Parker. If he could come up with something to discredit either man . . . well, that would be a feather in his cap.

Craig had tried calling Blackwell, but the man was out-of-pocket. He had tried all of Blackwell's favorite watering holes, but the editor either was not at the trough or had given orders not to be disturbed.

I'll just tag along behind, quiet-like,” Craig muttered.
Something's in the wind.”

He cranked his jeep and headed out, staying well behind the parade of cars, allowing several to pass him in case one of the cops sensed the tail. Craig didn't like cops, either. None of them. Anywhere. He felt they were all semi-bully-boys who were sexually inadequate and who used their pistols as an extension of the penis. That was Craig's opinion and he stuck with it.

Craig had a reporter's hunch where the caravan was heading, and when they turned off the highway, onto a parish road, he smiled, knowing his intuitiveness had been correct. He pulled off onto the shoulder and cut his lights long before they reached the cutoff to Despair, giving the caravan time to make the turn onto plantation property. Craig watched and waited five minutes, long impatient minutes, before rolling on. He turned onto the blacktop, past the cattle-guard rattling under his tires, and was on Despair property.

As so often happens in the deep South during summer, night seemed to fall suddenly, without the graceful coloring of shadows in muted hues. One minute it was light, then it was dark. Very dark. The leading edge of the Crying Swamp lay black and mysterious to his right, fields of soybeans and cotton to his left.

He pulled off onto an equipment road and turned around, facing the nose of the jeep toward the swamp. As he turned, his headlights picked up something across the blacktop. He thought he saw eyes reflecting light—yellow light.

But when he kicked his beams on high, the . . . whatever it was he saw, or thought he saw, was gone.
Dog or cat,” he muttered. Craig took his flashlight and left the jeep, walking down the road, toward the plantation house.

He had not gone far when he sensed he was being followed. No, he thought . . . followed wasn't the right word.
Stalked” jumped into his mind. Whatever it was behind him was tracking him. Silently.

He took a chance and flipped on the flashlight, quickly scanning the area to his right, the swamp. Nothing out of the ordinary to be seen by the narrow beam of light. But the light was comforting to him, and he was hesitant to cut the single ray of comfort. He scanned the field to his left. Again, nothing.

He walked on. When he did, whatever it was moved with him, silently, furtively, and a damp shiver touched the reporter. It was a feeling of danger, of . . . he searched his mind for the right word. He found it with a feeling of dread. Evil.

All right!” Craig called.
This isn't funny. Whoever you are, come on, knock it off, damn it!”

Humid murkiness greeted his words. A thick silence lay like a heavy dark glove over the swamp. Then Craig heard a shuffling of bare feet on the damp grass; something . . . no, some things were wading out of the swamp, onto the bank. The stench of them preceded the ... whatever they were.

Craig turned, his mission forgotten, his only thought: Get away! He took a step in the direction he had come, back to his jeep. His heart was hammering, banging his chest. He was sweating heavily.
Leave me alone!” he whispered, the shout dying in his throat.