Primal Creatures - an Excerpt

In Louisiana, Cajuns have another name for a werewolf. They call it rougarou. Deep in the swamps and bayous, the creature is genuine. In Primal Creatures, Wyatt Thomas, New Orleans' favorite private detective, is coming off of a bender of epic proportions. After returning home, he learns Bertram Picou, his best friend and landlord, has secured an investigation that will take him to a secluded island resort south of New Orleans. The Goose Island Monastery is located on the island, as is a fishing village populated by descendants of escaped slaves. Voodoo is afoot, as are actors and artists,  strange monks, an eccentric old birdwatcher, and a pack of dangerous rougarous. I hope you enjoy reading Primal Creatures, which the Preternatural Post described as "a colorful zydeco of a read that's part mystery, part thriller, part travelogue, and all fun."

Prolog

Fingers of lightning laced the cloudy sky as the sounds of lovemaking issued from a patch of tall grass, a woman’s throaty voice disturbing the night’s stillness. For just a moment, a full yellow moon poked through the clouds.

“Stop it, Rance. You know I don’t like it that way.”

Laughter followed the woman’s words. “That’s a first. I didn’t think there was any perversion you didn’t like.”

“Maybe I’m just in the mood for something new.”

“Oh? Tell me.”

The woman had no time to explain as an ominous howl echoed across the shallow waters of the bay, momentarily interrupting the midnight chorus of frogs and crickets.

“What was that?” she asked, squeezing the man’s arm.

“Sounded like a wolf to me.”

“Oh shit! Are there wolves on the island?”

“No one ever told me if there are. Maybe we should find our clothes and go to your cabin.”

“Pussy,” she said.

She squealed when Rance bit her neck. They both stopped what they were doing when another roar, closer this time, riveted their attention.

“Whatever that was, I don’t like it. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Our clothes are down by the water,” the woman said. “Whatever’s out there is between us and the bay.”

“Forget the clothes. Sounds to me like it’s circling us. We need to move it.”

Confused for a moment, they didn’t know which way to go. When a tree limb cracked ten feet away, the woman screamed.

“Oh shit! It’s right behind us.”

Not waiting for her companion, she sprang to her feet, squealing again as the underbrush resonated with the sound of something extremely large moving toward them. The man tried to follow but fell when he caught his foot on a tree limb.

“Oh shit!” he called. “I twisted my ankle.”

Ignoring his cry of pain, she sprinted through the tall grass, the full moon lighting her way. Tripping on a vine, she stumbled face-first into moist earth as another howl pierced the night. It was followed by crazed growling and her lover’s tortured screams as the creature that was stalking them began its attack.

Fear surged up her spine when she stopped and turned, watching for a moment as the shadow of some creature ripped into his victim. Sensing her presence, it wheeled around, red eyes blazing and bloody fangs flashing in the moonlight.

Grabbing her breast, as if her heart might suddenly stop beating, she screamed and ran from the melee, unmindful of briars scratching her bare skin or broken branches bruising her feet. She didn’t stop running until she reached the berm surrounding Goose Island.

Unable to climb over the concrete structure, she sank to the damp ground and covered her face with her hands, listening to a dying man’s last cry for help. Though she waited for the creature to find her, the attack never came. Instead, dark clouds opened, releasing a driving rain.

When the deluge finally ceased, the howls and cries of distress had ended, and the moonlight illuminated the footbridge across the berm. Unmindful of her nudity as she climbed over the bridge, she raced toward the distant monastery without looking back.

Chapter 1

When a glass of cold water in the face awakened me from a drunken stupor, I sprang up from the bed, staring into the blue eyes of an angry, redheaded woman.

“Is that what it takes to get you out of bed?”

“Chrissie, I. . .”

She didn’t let me finish the sentence.

“I felt so sorry for you when you showed up at my door. I understand your ex-wife died of cancer, and your runway model joined a convent. I’ve heard it over and over. I’m tired of hearing about it.”

“Chrissie. . .”

Her finger pointed at her chin when she said, “Up to here. Grow some balls and stop feeling sorry for yourself. I’m sick of all your drama, and I can’t abide it anymore. Get out of my bed and out of my life!”

“Chrissie. . .”

“Just get your clothes on and go. I’m done with you for the last time, Wyatt Thomas.”

The apparent anger in her voice left little room for misinterpretation. Stepping on my shoe when I slid off the bed, I rolled an ankle and sank to my knee.

“I’m going,” I said, holding a palm when she stepped toward me.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Maybe something like thank you, Chrissie; you’re a remarkable woman. Don’t say I love you because I don’t believe you anymore.”

“Thank you, Chrissie. You saved my life.”

“I don’t need you or your lies.”

Hesitating, I said, “I thought you needed me as much as I need you.”

“For what? Someone to bring you more booze? Cry on my shoulder, and then expect me to have sex with you all night? I’m done; now get out.”

“I’m going,” I said, pulling on my pants. “I can’t find my socks.”

A cup whistled past my ear, sending shards of glass through the air when it crashed into the wall.

“Screw your damn socks! Get out of here, and don’t ever come back.”

Chrissie’s voice had become increasingly louder. Grabbing the shirt from the bedstead, I slipped it over my shoulders, reached down, and clutched my shoes, ducking a vase flying over my head. I was out the door and down the stairs before she had time to find something else to throw.

An elderly couple glared at me as I hurried away. They weren’t the only ones who had witnessed the incident. A regular from the Irish pub where Chrissie worked gave me the evil eye as he hurried up the stairway. He seemed to know where he was going and didn’t hesitate to say hello.

***

Eight in the morning, Bertram’s neighborhood bar was all but empty. Bertram wasn’t alone, his collie Lady at his feet, my tailless cat Kisses treading on the countertop, rubbing against his arm. He was polishing a glass with a bar rag, dropping it when he saw me. Lady’s tail began banging the floor, and Kisses jumped off the counter into my arms.

“Well, look what the cat drug in,” he said with a big Cajun grin. “Guess I don’t have to say you look like warmed-over shit.”

Born on a Terrebonne Parish bayou, Bertram was one hundred percent French Acadian. He had a mustache and thinning hair, usually topped by a south Louisiana trapper’s hat. His costume aside, you only had to hear him speak to know he was the real deal.

“Glad to see you too, Bertram. Thanks for taking care of Kisses while I was out of pocket.”

Fishing under the counter for a bottle of Jack Daniels, he poured whiskey into a glass. When I pulled up a bar stool, he shoved it before me.

“You drink it,” I said. “I’m off the sauce.”

“Oh yeah? Since when?”

“About an hour ago. Since Chrissie kicked me out of her apartment and explained, in no uncertain terms, how the cow eats the cabbage.”

“Maybe you better tell me about it.”

“You don’t want to hear. My ears are still ringing from the dressing down she gave me. In all my years, I never realized what a son-of-a-bitch I am.”

“Well, now you know, maybe you can start doing something about it,” Bertram said without cracking a smile.

“I needed that,” I said.

Bertram’s bar was on Chartres Street, in the French Quarter. The building had been there for decades, with the same wooden floor and ornate counter built by craftsmen from a different era. Panties, bras, and other assorted fragments of personal apparel—testimonies to losses of inhibitions—decorated the rafters above where Bertram usually held court. Taking the whiskey, he sipped it with a wink and a sly smile and then replaced it with lemonade in a tall glass of ice.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “I have been wondering what happened to you. Kisses, here, was kinda getting used to Miss Lady and me.”

“I see,” I said, rubbing the cat that hadn’t left my arms since she’d jumped into them.

“You look fine. Are you okay? I mean, about Desire and all?”

Desire was the beautiful woman I’d fallen in love with who had left me and joined a convent after the suicide of her twin sister, Dauphine. Bertram rested his elbows on the countertop, staring at me with his dark eyes, waiting to answer a question I was still wondering about myself.

“Everything’s feeling strange, though my mind’s a lot clearer. Chrissie helped a lot.”

“I thought you said she kicked you out.”

“Sometimes a kick in the head is what it takes. She said I don’t need a mother and that she doesn’t need a dysfunctional drunk of a son.”

“Brutal.”

“It’s what I needed, not another bottle of Black Jack.”

“When did you figure it out?” he asked.

“About halfway through her rant, I’d ducked the cup and vase she threw at me. I was almost dressed when it crashed against the wall. I just grabbed my shirt and headed for the door.”

“I see you ain’t got no socks on,” he said.

“Hell, I’m lucky to have my pants and shirt.”

“You’re smiling, so it must not be too bad.”

“Hey, I finally remembered why I left her in the first place. Remind me not to get serious with a redheaded Scottish lass again, no matter how pretty she is.”

“You’re right about one thing. She’s a good-looking woman.”

“I will send roses and tell her how much she helped me. Then I’m swearing off relationships for a while.”

“Good idea. You look about ten pounds lighter. I doubt you’d have lasted another two weeks. You eat lately?”

“Tell you the truth, my mind’s a bit fuzzy. Then again, I don’t remember much since I liberated the bottle of Jack Daniel’s from beneath your bar. Has it been two weeks?”

“Give or take a day or two. I’ll whip you up some grits and eggs if you’re hungry.”

“Bertram, you’re a lifesaver.”

I waited at the bar, Bertram whistling a Cajun tune as the aroma of cooking eggs wafted from the kitchen. He quickly placed the steaming plate in front of me, along with a bottle of hot sauce, grinning as I sprinkled a liberal dose on the fried eggs and grits.

“Guess the whiskey didn’t hurt your stomach any.”

“I’ll live. What’s happened since I left?”

“Mardi Gras ended, and most of the tourists went home. At least for a while.”

“Guess I missed it.”

Bertram gave his mustache a twist. “Mama Mulate got her wish.”

“Oh, and what wish was that?”

“She was jealous about Father Rafael’s job as a rent-a-priest with the cruise line. He got her an interview, and they hired her to lead a voodoo trip to Jamaica as a rent-a-mambo.”

Mama Mulate was my sometime business partner, Tulane English professor, and full-time voodoo mambo. When I had questions, she always had answers.

“You’re kidding.”

“She and Rafael left port yesterday, bound for Jamaica with a stop in Haiti along the way.”

Rafael Romanov had married my ex-wife Mimsy sometime after we’d divorced. We’d become acquainted following her untimely death, at her wake, and soon became friends. Though defrocked, he was technically still a priest. Cruise line passengers are comforted by having a priest on board, performing weddings, conducting services, etc. A shipping company specializing in cruises had readily hired him, not caring that he was defrocked.

“They’ll be gone a while,” Bertram said. “Mama thought she’d died and gone to heaven when they called her with the job offer. Pays pretty decent, too.”

“Well, I’m happy for her. She deserved a break. I could use one myself.”

“Your holiday is over. You got a job waiting for you,” Bertram said.

“Oh?”

“You told me to check the answering machine in your room. A man called to see if you’re available. Since I didn’t know when you’d be back, I decided to call him.”

“Oh?”

“Said he needed you for two weeks to a month and wanted to know how much you charge.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I said hell yeah, but a job taking that long would cost him ten grand plus expenses.”

“Did he hang up on you?”

“Why the hell no. I said you got clients backed up in the wings, waiting for your services.”

“You didn’t.”

“He said money was no issue if you’d put him first in line, that is.”

“No way!” I said.

“Then what’s this?” he said, pulling a cashier’s check out of his cash drawer and showing it to me.

“Oh my God! Bertram, I’m going to make you my business manager.”

“You do that. Meantime, just pay me the rent you’re beh on because of your moonin’ around.”

“You got it,” I said, unable to suppress the silly grin growing on my face. “Did he say why he needs me?”

“Only he wants you to call him as soon as possible.”

Bertram handed me a piece of paper with a phone number on it. Thanking him again, I grabbed Kisses and headed up to my room at the top of the stairs.

I’d rented the apartment upstairs from Bertram’s for three years. It was small, a single room with a tiny bathroom. Still, it had charm and a covered balcony, complete with draping ferns, overlooking Chartres Street.

When the nights weren’t too hot or cold, I’d sit on the balcony in my old rocking chair, enjoying the sounds of tourists passing on the street below. That’s where I was, my feet propped up on the iron filigree railing, giving Kisses a few well-deserved caresses when I remembered the message from the person who wanted to hire me. I called him on the phone beside my bed.

“This is Wyatt Thomas. I have a note to call you.”

“Quinlan Moore. You know who I am?”

“The movie producer?”

“Bingo. I sent your agent a check. I’m sure you’ve put it in the bank by now.”

“What exactly do you want me to do, Mr. Moore?”

“Nothing I can explain over the phone. We’re filming in Jackson Square. Can you come by the set?”

“Sure. When?”

“Tomorrow, first thing, if that’s not too soon.”

“No problem.”

“We’ve got most of the square blocked off while filming. Just show security some I.D., and they’ll bring you to me. Can you do it?”

“I’m just around the corner,” I said.

“Fine, Mr. Thomas. I hope you’re not going to flake out on me.”

“I’m not a flake, Mr. Moore, and my dance card is open.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Chapter 2

Louisiana, especially New Orleans, is a Mecca for the motion picture industry. Fueled by valuable tax breaks, movies are more advantageous to shoot in Louisiana than in other states. Many successful productions hit the can there. The movie filming down the street from Bertram’s witnessed the trend.

Quinlan Moore’s production company was shooting scenes in Jackson Square, seemingly oblivious to the tourists, participating extras, or those there just to watch. The director sat at the center of the action on a tall chair, barking out directions no one seemed to pay much attention to.

His entourage flanked him, tending to his every whim like a star quarterback in a crucial football game. A flock of pigeons, arguing over which one would get the majority of popcorn some tourist had spilled, didn’t seem to care. When a young man wearing a jacket that said security approached me, they flew off in a flurry of beating wings.

I glanced up at the frowning young man with muscular arms and a blond crew cut.

“You got business on the set?” he demanded.

“I’m here to see Quinlan Moore. I have an appointment.”

“Then show me some identification,” he said, not impressed. After peering at my I.D., he said, “Come with me. Mr. Moore’s waiting for you.”

I caught a backward glimpse of the stars as he led me away from the filming. The crowd watched in rapt silence as they exchanged what was apparently a meaningful kiss. I didn’t get a chance to see the outcome, but I heard applause and encouraging shouts as we walked to an R.V. parked on the street. I waited as he knocked on the door.

“Mr. Moore, your appointment is here.”

The young man didn’t stick around once the door opened.

“Mr. Thomas?”

“That’s me.”

“Come in,” he said, holding the door open.

The inside of the R.V. looked like an expensive hotel room, complete with original paintings, Persian rugs, and the pungent smell of pot someone had recently smoked. Moore motioned for me to sit in a plush leather chair.

“Get you something to drink?” he asked.

“No thanks.”

I watched him pour himself a glass of vodka from the well-stocked bar. He seemed young and looked nothing like I’d anticipated. Nerdy, in fact, with a little black mustache much like Bertram’s that shouted inexperience. I was wrong.

“You look surprised, Mr. Thomas. Not all the movers and shakers in the movie biz are over sixty.”

“I didn’t mean to be so obvious with my expressions. I’m sure you’re most qualified for the job, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Bravo. I can say the same for you. I didn’t just choose your name out of the phone book. You come highly recommended.”

“Glad to hear that.”

“In a town filled with detectives, you’re the only one who seems to possess the esoteric qualities I most desire.”

“Such as?”

“Someone with a deep understanding of ghosts, magic, voodoo, and the paranormal. Am I mistaken, Mr. Thomas?”

“Perhaps you give me too much credit. Every citizen of the Big Easy knows about what you just mentioned.”

Moore smiled and sipped his vodka. “I’m convinced no one knows more than you do.”

“I hope I don’t disappoint.”

“I knew you were the best person available when your agent told me your fee. No one would charge that much unless they were the best.”

“Thank you, Bertram,” I said beneath my breath.

“What was that?” he said.

“Just mumbling to myself,” I said.

As I gazed into his dark eyes, I saw something that seemed familiar to me. “Do I know you from someplace?”

“Bravo again, Mr. Thomas. You’re everything I expected and a keen observer. The face you remember is that of Dr. Darwin Porter.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I’m also an actor and played Dr. Darwin Porter for three years on the T.V. series Central Hospital.”

“Of course. I was a fan of the show. Why exactly do you need the services of a private detective?”

I nodded when he said, “You know how many movies are filmed annually in Louisiana?”

“Hundreds, probably. I hear we’re in third place, behind only Hollywood and Bollywood.”

“You heard correctly. This is a prime venue for us. We move quickly and sometimes film two or three movies in a row, often using much the same cast and crew.”

“I could tell by the production going on outside. I’m impressed,” I said.

“One of our production offices is right here in the city, and many professional film workers make their homes in the state.”

“But.”

“But many of our people aren’t from Louisiana, and it’s not out of line to compare New Orleans, and the state of Louisiana, to a foreign country. You know what I’m saying?”

“I think I do.”

“Weeks and months away from home are difficult, even if you’re making twenty million dollars. Our production company needed a place to give our players a little rest.”

“I’m listening.”

“A monastery not far from here was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. Our production company, with help from the industry, rebuilt it, turning it into a world-class resort and spa. Our leading actors and production people often spend time there between movies. They even look forward to it.”

“Where is this place?”

“In a remote area of southern St. Bernard Parish, at a place called Goose Island.”

“I see.”

“Rance Parker was staying there when he was killed.”

Rance Parker, recently up for best actor, was one of the most famous movie stars in America. I’d seen him at a Mardi Gras party in the Garden District less than a month before. I was unaware he was dead, and Moore’s announcement caught me by surprise.

“I’ve been out of pocket a while. Rance Parker’s dead?”

“You have been out of pocket. Everyone else in the world has heard about Rance’s demise.”

“Mind telling me how it happened?”

“That’s my problem. No one knows. His death certificate says he died of a heart attack.”

“And his death occurred at the monastery?”

“Like I said, it doubles as a retreat.”

“And you don’t believe the stated cause of death?”

Moore didn’t answer my question, saying instead, “His body was horribly maimed.”

I had to pause a moment. “I’m finding this hard to understand. Was Rance Parker attacked and horribly maimed, or did he have a heart attack?”

“It seems the former is the most likely scenario,” he said.

“If that’s the case, then a medical examiner was involved. What did the report say?”

Quinlan Moore cleared his throat, and we waited through an explosion on the set outside the R.V.

“Something I must explain. I have a slight conflict of interest here. The medical examiner wasn’t involved. A good thing. If the press had gotten wind of this, there’d have been a feeding frenzy. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Now I am confused,” I said. “You had something to do with how the case was handled?”

Moore gave me an icy look.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Look, Mr. Moore, I’m not trying to be combative. I’m on your side. Just spell out your problem to me. I’m a little slow sometimes.”

“Our production company has three of Rance’s films in the can. They cost millions to make but should pay out many times over as long as the wrong stories don’t start coming out. You know where I’m coming from?”

“What about the police?” I said, not answering his question because I didn’t know the answer.

“That’s not our problem.”

“Then what is?”

“I have to know if it’s okay to continue sending our best people to the spa for rest and relaxation. I want you to visit the monastery and get me some answers.”

“And what exactly do you expect me to find?”

“Who or what killed Rance, and is the monastery a safe environment. You think you can do it for me?”

I was still thinking about his phrase, who or what, when I said, “I’m an information junkie, and I’ll probably discover more than you’ll want to hear. Then what?”

“When we know what we’re dealing with, then we’ll know what to do,” he said.

The movie had continued filming outside Quinlan Moore’s fancy trailer, bullets, screeching rubber, and blaring police sirens reverberating through the thin walls. I waited a moment for silence.

“Is the monastery we’re talking about the one where monks build burial caskets and sell them worldwide?”

He nodded. “The monks still do their own thing, including the building of caskets. Legally, they own the monastery and the land it’s on. They share in the profits of the spa but don’t manage the daily operations.”

He nodded again when I said, “You have a staff that handles that.”

“Not only our people, but artists, writers, and creative souls from all over the world spend time at the monastery turned spa and resort. It’s become a valuable concern.”

“I see.”

“I know everything I’ve told you so far must sound a bit cryptic. I’m sorry it has to be that way. Can you help solve my little problem?”

“I’ll do my best. You want me to visit the monastery and get some answers for you.”

“And be discreet about it. I don’t want anyone to know your true purpose. Are you an actor, Mr. Thomas?”

I smiled. “My late wife thought so.”

Moore gave me an appraising look as if assessing the possibility I could make it in Hollywood as an actor.

“You’re good-looking enough. When this is over, maybe I’ll have you read for a part.”

I smiled again. “One job at a time.”

“Then your answer is yes?”

With the ten thousand dollars freshly in my bank account, there could be no other answer than yes, even though I was still confused about what he wanted me to do.

“I’m your man.”

“Wonderful,” he said. “Pack casually. I’ll send someone to pick you up and take you there.”

“When?”

“After lunch tomorrow. Why, is that too soon?”

“I’ve been away from home for several days, and I don’t have anyone to take care of my cat. She’s barely let me out of sight since I picked her up from the person keeping her.”

It was Moore’s turn to smile. “Take her with you. She’ll love the island, and you won’t have to find anyone to care for her.”

“You sure?”

“If it makes you happy, it’s okay with me. Believe me when I’m used to working with demanding people.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“The person picking you up thinks you’re a mystery writer. Everyone there, including the monks, will also think you’re a writer.”

“So then I’ll be undercover.”

“Can you handle it, Mr. Thomas?”

“No problem.”

“You can use your real name, but your pen name will be Jethro Wolfe.”

“Anyone on the Internet can Google a name.”

“Yes, well, there is a Jethro Wolfe, author of a single mystery novel, Blood Horror.”

“What if someone there knows Mr. Wolfe?”

Quinlan Moore smiled. “They won’t. I’m Jethro Wolfe, and I wrote Blood Horror as a freshman at U.C.L.A. You’ll use my pen name, and no one will be the wiser.”

“I’m on it, Mr. Moore.”

“Magnificent. Here’s my business card, and take this with you,” he handed me a carrying case.

“What is it?”

“A laptop. You’re a writer. Remember? You’ll need it to create the appropriate illusion. The card has my personal numbers.”

“You want me to call you?”

“I’d prefer you keep me posted by email. Call if you have something that can’t wait, even for an hour. Now, I’m off to Antoine’s for lunch.”

As I carried the computer out the door, I didn’t bother telling him I’d never used one, much less know how to email him. Since I didn’t want to return the money, I decided to worry about it later.

Another car crashed as I exited the trailer. It took a moment to realize it was all part of the movie being filmed, the action framed by the antiquity of the Cabildo, and St. Louis Cathedral behind it. Bertram’s eggs were only a memory in my growling stomach. Since Moore hadn’t invited me to lunch with him at Antoine’s, I made do with a hot dog purchased from a street vendor.

Clouds had begun covering the French Quarter. I hadn’t gone far when warm rain began to fall. Tourists crowding Jackson Square didn’t seem to mind.

Chapter 3

I was up early the following day, Kisses kneading dough on my chest to get my attention. The time I’d spent away with Chrissie seemed forgiven, and we’d quickly fallen back into our old routine. As she ate from her bowl on the balcony, I finished packing for my trip to Barataria Monastery, not knowing what to expect when I arrived there.

“I’m taking another trip, and you’re coming with me this time,” I said, putting her in my cat carrier.

I scooted my suitcase and the carrier outside by the stairs, shutting the door behind us. Kisses took everything in stride, not seeming to mind that we were taking a little trip.

“I didn’t make you mad, did I?” Bertram said as I descended the stairs, bag and cat carrier in hand. “I thought I did a decent job taking care of Kisses while you were out of pocket.”

“The job you got me. Someone from Barataria Monastery is picking me up. My new employer said I could bring Kisses with me.”

“Now that’s the kind of boss to have,” he said.

“By the way, thanks again for negotiating my fee. I’m not sure Moore would have hired me if you hadn’t asked for the moon.”

“Just the way some people are. They judge the value of almost everything by how much it costs. Good thing I ain’t like that.”

“That’s a fact, Bertram. I can’t disagree with you.”

“Ain’t the Barataria Monastery where they make the coffins?” he asked.

“Yes. What else do you know about it?”

“Nothing much. It's just that it’s about forty miles south of here, but it might as well be in a whole nother country. What are you going there for?”

“There was a suspicious death. My employer wants me to look into it for him.”

“You got that right, Cowboy,” the man sitting with his back to us at the bar said.

I immediately recognized the voice of homicide detective Tony Nicosia.

“Tony,” I said. “You’re out early.”

“Maybe I didn’t go to bed last night.”

Tony was sipping Scotch from a tall glass and smiled when he glanced at me. Probably in his mid-forties, he had the brooding eyes of a longtime homicide detective. Despite all the murders he’d investigated over the years, he kept his sense of humor. At the moment, he didn’t look pleased.

“Glad to see you’re among the living.”

“Barely,” I said. “How are you?”

“Making it. My partners are in the hospital, and we’re having a little shake-up at the precinct.”

“Shake up?” Bertram said.

“The Feds have been up our ass ever since Katrina. I’ve been suspended from duty. Maybe even fired. I’m not sure which.”

“What the hell for?” Bertram asked.

“Corruption, excessive force, and brutality.”

“You never done none of those things.”

“Thanks, Bertram. I wish you had some sway with the Feds.”

“Sounds as if they’re throwing the baby out with the bathwater,” I said.

Bertram agreed. “That doesn’t seem fair, long as you’ve been on the job.”

“Don’t seem to matter,” Tony said. “You a lawyer, Cowboy. What rights do I have now?”

“Ex-lawyer. It would be beneficial to see who’s doing what to whom.”

“The Justice Department’s monitoring the N.O.P.D. now. Gonna change everything, from what I hear. They think the whole force is corrupt.”

“No offense, but well-deserved for some,” I said.

“Well, try doing my job a day or two and see how easy it is. Got any other pearls of wisdom?”

We both knew someone that could give him all the answers—the Assistant Federal District Attorney in New Orleans.

“Eddie Toledo can tell you more than I can. Why don’t you call him?”

“Fast Eddie and I had a little falling out since I kneed him in the nuts.”

“Mama Mulate told me about it. You two ain’t kissed and made up yet?” Bertram asked.

“He’s too busy saving New Orleans to worry about me. Meanwhile, I’m out of a job.”

“You’re drinking early.”

“Gettin’ fired is the least of my problems. Lil kicked me out. I’m staying in Tommy’s apartment till she cools down. If she ever does.”

“Hope it’s nothing permanent,” Bertram said.

Tony grinned. “I stepped in it this time. She’s pissed, and I can’t say I blame her.”

“You get rid of that young girlfriend you had?” Bertram asked.

“She’s history, just like my job.”

“Call Eddie. He may be mad at you, but he knows you’re an honest cop. He’ll help you. I can’t give you any advice about Lil. When it comes to relationships, I’ve been batting zero lately myself.”

“Thanks. Now, why are you going to the Barataria Monastery?”

“A P.I. job. Movie star Rance Parker just died there.”

“You must know all about it. You read the Picayune every day.”

“I’ve been out of pocket for the past two weeks. What’s the deal?”

Tony killed his shot of Scotch and motioned Bertram for another.

“Rance Parker. Up for an Academy Award last year. He was filming a movie in N.O. Took a few days off afterward and spent time at the monastery.”

“And?”

“He was killed.”

Bertram said, “I heard he died of a heart attack.”

“I have a little insider information that says it isn’t so,” Tony said.

“Then what is the cause of death?” I asked.

“This is scuttlebutt I heard from my detective friend in St. Bernard Parish and wasn’t in the papers. Whoever, or whatever killed him, ripped him to shreds. Tore his genitals off. He was naked when they found him.”

“Sweet mother of God,” Bertram said. “What was he doing at the monastery? I thought they only made coffins there.”

“It’s a retreat. They got first-class accommodations, fabulous food, and peace and quiet. Costs a bunch, from what I hear. The movie companies send lots of their people there.”

“So Rance Parker was chilling out at the monastery after filming a movie in New Orleans. I just saw him at a Mardi Gras party,” I said.

“He loved New Orleans and was trying to buy a place here,” Tony said.

“What else did your detective friend say?” I asked.

“That’s about it. I could call and get the straight skinny on it, though.”

“You been in the bottom half of St. Bernard Parish recently? Delacroix’s at the end of the road. I’ll bet the cops don’t even patrol that far south,” Bertram said.

A horse-drawn carriage passed outside on the street, hooves echoing off the cobbles and buildings.

“I’m starting to get the picture,” I said.

“Hey, Cowboy, I don’t want to horn in on your business, but now that I’m out of a job, I could use some extra money. Let me know if a P.I. case comes along you aren’t interested in.”

“How much do you charge?”

“Don’t have a clue. Why?”

“The person that hired me pays well. You could do a little legwork for me. Interested?”

“Hell, I’ll help you out for nothing.”

“No way you’re doing anything for nothing. I just bet Quinlan Moore wouldn’t mind having another pair of legs, especially someone in the city working his case.”

“Let me negotiate this deal for you,” Bertram said.

“Bertram’s the best,” I said with a grin. “He’s going to be my personal manager from now on.”

“Your ass,” Bertram said. “For ten percent, maybe.”

Tony handed us a couple of business cards. “It has my home and cell phone numbers on it. You won’t have any luck catching me there for a while. Don’t matter none because I always have my cell phone with me.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“No problem. I’m going stir-crazy hanging around doing nothing.”

I stuffed the card into my shirt pocket. “I’ll call you soon as I get my bearings and find a phone to use.”

Tony smiled. “I almost forgot, you’re not exactly tech-savvy.”

“Hell,” Bertram said. “I don’t even think he can drive.”

“Knock it off, you two,” I said.

“I’ll talk to my Chalmette buddy and see if he’ll give me the straight poop on Rance Parker’s murder.”

“Thanks,” I said as a large man in worn jeans and a sleeveless tee shirt appeared in the doorway.

“One of you, Wyatt Thomas?”

“That’s me. You must be the person from the monastery.”

“You look familiar,” Tony said. “Do I know you?”

The man shook his shaved head. “Don’t believe so.”

“What’s your name?” Tony asked, not letting the matter drop.

“Dempsey Duplantis.”

“I got cousins named Duplantis,” Bertram said. “Ayoù tu deviens, bro?”

“Sorry, man. I’m a little hard of hearing sometimes. What’d you say?”

“I was just asking where you are from.”

“Arkansas. My parents moved there when I was just a kid. I came back to Louisiana after Katrina. These your bags, Mr. Thomas?” When I nodded, he picked them up and headed for the door. “I’ll wait outside till you’re ready. No hurry.”

“He ain’t got no Arkansas accent,” Bertram said as Duplantis disappeared through the door.

“No, and that’s a gang tattoo on his neck. Mr. Duplantis, or whoever he is, has spent time in prison. Looks like you got your first suspect, Cowboy.”

“Thanks,” I said as I fingered Tony’s card in my shirt pocket, hoisted the cat carrier, and followed Dempsey Duplantis. “Wish me luck.”

“Sounds like you gonna need it. Glad this gig’s paying you so well,” Bertram said.

 “Set up a few more jobs while I’m gone, and I’ll give you that ten percent.”

Duplantis had already stowed my bags in the back of an expensive-looking Land Rover. The tailgate was still open, and I slipped the carrier beside them. The man with the shaved head and gang tattoo on his neck was waiting for me behind the wheel, the city’s skyscrapers and bridges spanning the Mississippi rapidly disappearing in our rearview mirror.

As we headed south, out of town, I noticed he’d covered his neck with a red bandana. Unlike the tattoo on his neck, a wolf howling at the moon was in full view on his hairy arm. Like Bertram had said, a few miles south of New Orleans was like being in another world.

“Nice vehicle,” I said. “Must have cost a fortune.”

“The monastery doesn’t have to worry much about money.”

“Oh? I know they sell handcrafted coffins. I didn’t realize there was that much money in it.”

“Not the only thing they do there. The place is a haven known all over the world. The reason you’re headed there.”

“My agent booked this little sabbatical for me, and I don’t know much about the Barataria facilities. Maybe you can fill me in.”

Duplantis hesitated before answering. By now, all vestiges of the city were gone, replaced by the Mississippi River on one side of the road and low-lying islands in an endless marsh on the other. A flock of brown pelicans lifted out of the water and flew across the blacktop in front of us.

“The monastery is on Goose Island. People come from all over to spend time there. Writers, painters, actors.”

“Like Rance Parker?”

“He stayed with us quite a bit, usually between movies he was filming in Louisiana. Said the place took his stress away.”

“You knew him?”

Dempsey Duplantis glanced at me and frowned. “Everyone there knew who he was. Hell, the man was a movie star.”

“What I meant is, did you ever talk to him, one on one?”

“Sure, he was a regular guy. No pretense, you know. We even went drinking together once.”

“Oh?”

“A small bar in Delacroix. Parker liked the Cajun dancing and zydeco band there and got along with the locals. Hell, even in Delacroix, they knew who he was.”

“What about his death?”

Duplantis looked at me again, frowning this time. “If you read the papers, you know as much as me. I was at the airport in New Orleans, picking up an arriving guest.”

“Just curious. He supposedly died of a heart attack. Word on the street is something entirely different.”

“There’s talk of that. One of the gardeners on the island told me he was torn up pretty bad like a pack of wild dogs got him or something. Parts of his legs and arms were chewed off. I don’t know if it’s true or not.”

“You have to be kidding.”

“Like I said, it’s second-hand information. I do know his widow flew in and got the body. Had it cremated in New Orleans?”

“He was married?”

“You wouldn’t have known it. Guess he didn’t want his female fans to find out he wasn’t available.”

A smirk spread across Duplantis’ face, and he brushed his day-old growth of beard with a calloused hand.

“What?” I asked.

“Hell, that man had the morals of an alley cat. He’d have screwed a snake if he’d got the chance. I’m not throwing stones, you understand.”

“I’m not exactly a saint myself.”

“Rance Parker sure wasn’t.”

Dempsey Duplantis grew silent as if he were withdrawing into himself, realizing he’d said too much. The highway, if you could call it that, paralleled the Mississippi River. A similar road, only a mile away but impossible to get to from where we were, followed the other side of the river. The shallow water beside the road was alive with birds.

“I’m a mystery writer. You never know. Parker’s death might be a theme for my next novel.”

“No problem,” Duplantis said.

“What’s the retreat like?”

“Plush. The guests have their own personal bungalows. Never more than a dozen guests at any given time. Several restaurants with chefs from New Orleans rotate regularly. Swimming pools, hot tubs, and health facilities. Masseurs and masseuses. Hell, you know how much it costs.”

“Like I said, my agent booked this gig for me. How much does it cost?”

Duplantis grinned. “If you don’t know, I hope you’re rich and famous. Ten grand a week.”

“Whoa!” I said. “I must be selling more books than I thought.”

“You better be. You’re booked for two weeks and open for two more if you decide to stay on.”

Dempsey Duplantis grew silent. It didn’t matter because I was tired. Less than thirty miles south of New Orleans, we were surrounded by water, stunted trees draped with Spanish moss, and low-lying islands. Leaning against the Land Rover’s headrest, I closed my eyes and took a much-needed nap.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.