Big Easy - chapters

In Big Easy, award-winning Book 1 of Eric Wilder's intoxicating French Quarter Mystery Series, a killer is at play on the dark streets of New Orleans. The element connecting all of the killings is voodoo. Long-suffering N.O.P.D. homicide detective Tony Nicosia enlists the assistance of two of his friends, voodoo mambo Mama Mulate and French Quarter P.I. Wyatt Thomas, to assist him in his investigation.

Voodoo is the street name for Vodoun, and few people know much about this strange and mysterious religion. Dive into Big Easy and the French Quarter Mystery Series and visit that 'exotic, erotic mecca known as New Orleans.' You might decide to stay awhile.

Prologue

Gaylon LeBlanc was a collector. Not stamps or coins, but shriveled objects, much like the one he carried in his pocket for luck. He fingered it as drums echoed from the cultural center in Louis Armstrong Memorial Park. Intent on the arrival of someone he knew and his upcoming task. He paid no attention. The drummers had yet to learn their hectic tempo would backdrop an actual Vodoun ceremony. One that would culminate in someone's death.

Gaylon waited in a part of the park named Beauregard Square. Most locals still called it Congo Square, also known as Place du Cirque or Place des Negres at different times. Gaylon had arrived at Congo Square long before dark, dressed as voodoo deity Baron Samedi in a tuxedo, top hat, and flowing cape. He awaited a woman's arrival near the fountain centering the cobblestone pavement.

His cigar remained unlit, and his purple sunglasses served no purpose except to save his blue eyes from the glare of a full moon. He removed them as a taxi halted at the entrance to the square. When the passenger, a nun dressed in a black habit, offered the driver a ten, he motioned it off with a wave. After crossing himself, he pulled away in a screech of burning rubber.

The nun stuffed the note in her clothes and turned to the man awaiting her; no words were exchanged when she reached him. Strapping her arms around him, she probed his mouth with her tongue and groped his privates. Undisturbed by her blatant sexual advances, Gaylon reciprocated, returning her ardor with his own. Wild drumming continued as he tore open her robe, ripped off her starched head cover, and tossed them to the ground.

She stood before him in a knee-length mantle of beaded seashells that did little to hide her athletic body. Blond hair tumbled to her waist. The fake sister had something else hidden beneath her robe.

Backing away from him, she grasped a black rooster by its neck in one hand, an opened bottle of Jamaican rum in the other. The rooster, sedated by strong rum poured down its throat, was alive, though not for long. Gaylon watched as she twisted the head off the bird, tossing its lifeless body to the ground.

The headless rooster ran in circles until it finally dropped, blood gushing from its neck. When it did, she grabbed its pulsating body and held it with the bottle over her head. Warm blood and strong alcohol poured down her face, mixing with beads of sweat on her bare neck and breasts.

Drawing closer to Gaylon, she began dancing the wild bamboula, her sultry moves daring him to join her. The percussive melody pervading the park had become more frantic, as if feeding on the strength of the two dancers. Her beaded wrap glistened with sweat and blood as the drumming reached a crescendo. When it did, she stopped dancing.

When she smacked his forehead with her bloody palm, he dropped to his knees, grabbing his temples as if they were about to explode. He was no longer Gaylon LeBlanc when he arose from the ground. He was now Baron Samedi, as the voodoo deity had taken possession of his body.

 The woman began dancing again, her gestures sexual and overt. Baron Samedi finally reclined her on the cold stone and began ritually humping her. A man burst from the shadows at the climax of the wild yet simulated performance.

He was huge, his crooked smile imparting a fierce look in light reflecting from the full moon. Moving away from Baron Samedi, she danced toward the man with unkempt hair and blew something up his nose. The inhaled powder caused an instant change in his persona. A smile replaced his scowl as she tore open the front of his shirt and clawed deep scratch marks down his chest with her long fingernails. Voodoo drums continued as she stood on her tiptoes, accosting him with her lips.

“This is the night you’ve waited for, my handsome lover. The great Ghede himself has sent Baron Samedi to assist you. Tonight, he will help you revenge yourself on the person that has wronged you.”

She turned when Baron Samedi spoke. “You are not yet done. You have one more thing to do before satisfying my needs.”

Prostrating herself, she crawled toward Baron Samedi and licked his shoes with her tongue.

“I pray you will return him to my bed,” she said.

Baron Samedi dusted his tuxedo, reached into his pocket, and removed a frightful object, showing it to her.

“He will have his revenge, and I will have another nipple for my collection.”

As Baron Samedi left Congo Square, a bus passed on the street, saturating humid air with the momentary odor of burning diesel. Before following him, the other man bent the woman over a park bench. This time, the sex wasn't simulated.

“Go now and return triumphantly to my bed before the sun rises,” she finally said.

The drums had gone silent as the man followed Baron Samedi out of the square and vanished into the night.

Nearby, a dog howled at the moon, its mournful sound melding with the screech of brakes on N. Rampart. As a tugboat sounded its whistle, dark clouds shrouded the moon. They masked the man as he left the nun alone in Congo Square and followed Baron Samedi down Rue St. Peter.

 

Chapter 1

 

Torrential rains had moved in from the north, cooling afternoon heat twelve degrees in less than fifteen minutes. As I sat in Bertram Picou’s bar on Chartres Street in the French Quarter, shucking oysters from a pile of seafood laid out on paper spread across a table in the back, I could still see the headline through the oily stains: Strangler claims victim near Lee Circle.

The headline didn’t surprise me. The Big Easy is a violent city, a fact usually hidden from tourists, again visiting after Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. This murder hit me because the victim was my high school English teacher.

Something, maybe the bottle or droves of unmotivated students, had driven Sally to madness. She had disappeared for a while, finally surfacing on St. Charles Avenue, pushing a grocery cart she’d stolen from a nearby grocery store. No one seemed to care. Rain gusted through the door, freeing my thoughts from the disturbing murder of Miss Sally Gerant.

The drop in temperature provided a welcome respite to Bertram’s overworked air conditioning—a bonus for the few lucky customers enjoying the fragrant mix of rain and spicy seafood. Bertram’s brother, Junior Picou, had taken his flat-bottomed skiff out at dawn into the splay channels beyond Yscloskey.

Junior had returned before noon with a wealth of shrimp, oysters, and redfish. What Bertram hadn’t used in his pot of gumbo, simmering in the kitchen, he’d boiled up and put on the table as complimentary appetizers for his customers to enjoy. Who said there was no such thing as a free lunch?

Despite the enticement, the bar remained virtually empty, except for a few mostly out-of-work regulars. Everyone, especially Bertram’s female customers, gawked when the front door opened, and a handsome, middle-aged man entered. After spotting me by the table, he smiled and walked toward me. An expensive raincoat draped his elbow. Despite afternoon humidity through the roof, he was still wearing his tweed sports coat and had not bothered to loosen his tie.

“That you, Wyatt Thomas?” he said. “Remember me, Beau Kaplan?”

How could I have forgotten? Captain of the L.S.U. Football team and student voted most likely to succeed. How could anyone forget handsome Beau Kaplan, the big man on campus and the one voted by everyone most likely to succeed? He needn’t have worried about his popularity as Bertram’s women regulars and a table of local legal secretaries stared goggle-eyed at him from across the room. He palmed my hand with the secret fraternity handshake I’d almost forgotten.

“How are you doing, Beau? Help yourself to some of Bertram’s grub.”

Beau’s grin vanished. “Ate already. Can we talk?”

“Sure. There’s a booth in the back.”

“No, I mean somewhere else, like over in Jackson Square.”

“You bet,” I said, taking one more bite of the shrimp po'boy.

Not knowing why Beau had bothered looking me up after all these years or for all the secrecy, I wiped the hot sauce off my mouth with a bar rag and followed him. We found the sidewalk almost deserted. The rain had moved south toward the Gulf. Dark clouds hung directly overhead, weighing heavily on thick, humid air. Too hot for most tourists, the square was almost deserted. They were probably visiting the endless miles of air-conditioned shops that began where Canal Street intersects the Mississippi River. Most any place that had air conditioning. Only a white-faced mime and a few persistent portrait artists occupied the Square when we reached it.

I followed him through a wrought iron gate to a secluded park bench. His physical appearance had hardly changed since I’d seen him last. Just a touch of gray rimmed his full head of dark, wavy hair. He and his wife Kammi owned a mansion near Pontchartrain and many expensive toys. One of New Orleans’ leading neurosurgeons, he’d only added to his family’s impressive wealth. His trademark grin soon returned.

“Seeing you again has really brought back memories.”

I knew what he meant. My sudden recollection of Kammi had sent a wave of melancholy nostalgia cresting across my bow.

“Those days at L.S.U. were the best of my life,” he said. “Remember the frat parties down by the river with the bonfires, barbecue, and kegs of ice-cold beer? Those hot young things all loved you, Wyatt.”

“You kidding me, Beau? When it came to women, you were the pro. I’m just an amateur.”

“Kammi didn’t think so. She never gave me the time of day till you had that fight at the Old South Party. When you broke up, she gravitated to me. On the rebound, I guess.”

Kammi and I were a number for a while. I couldn’t remember why we’d argued, but I hadn’t forgotten her large green eyes. Soon after breaking up with Kammi, I took a real job and moved out of the frat house. Sometime after, I’d married Mimsy, my ex, and had lost touch with the frat crowd.

As we talked, a half-grown yellow tabby with a stump for a tail appeared from under the park bench. After rubbing against my leg, he bounded into my lap.

“Didn’t know you like cats,” Beau said.

“Never had one.”

“I think you do now. That one looks like he hasn’t eaten since the last time he sucked his mama’s tit.”

When I stroked the cat, he promptly closed his eyes and fell asleep in my lap. “What’s bothering you? You didn’t look me up to talk about cats or old times.”

Beau stared at the sky as a gull, winging toward Pontchartrain, disappeared into the clouds. Rolling thunder rumbled in the distance.

“It’s Kammi. She’s trying to kill me.”

I waited for the punch line. Beau’s puckered brow and bowed head soon informed me there wasn’t one.

“You’re kidding me?”

“It’s true. You handle this kind of work. I’ll pay you to help me.”

Beau’s insinuation that I’d only assist an old friend for money stung me, even though I’d experienced a prolonged dry spell with few clients and fewer payments. Still, I could see he was serious, and I was in no position not to hear him out.

“If what you say is true, you should go to the police.”

“They’d never believe me.”

“I’m finding it hard myself. Why would Kammi want to kill you?”

Beau sank back against the bench and squeezed the raincoat draped over his arm. “Cause I got a girlfriend,” he said, averting his eyes. “Well, more than a girlfriend, a mistress, really. Kammi must have found out about Sheila, and now she’s trying to even the score.”

His admission failed to surprise me. Beautiful women had flocked around Beau, always ready to comfort the moody young man. I couldn’t believe Kammi wasn’t aware of her husband’s wandering ways or that she could sustain any negative emotion other than mild anger.

“What did she do? Threaten you with a gun or knife?”

“Worse than that. She went to some witch doctor one of her girlfriends told her about. I know because Sandi, another of her girlfriends, confided as much to me at the country club barbecue last Saturday.”

I could only imagine the confiding scene at the country club with Sandi and Beau.

“Witch doctor? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Voodoo, Wyatt. It is real around here, and you know it. Kammi found some voodoo witch doctor to cast a spell on me. I’ll be dead soon, and no one is the wiser.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute, and neither should you. How is this spell affecting you?”

“It’s bad, Wyatt. I wake up in a cold lather, my head pounding and bones aching. I’m so nervous I can hardly do my business at the hospital.”

Beau grew silent as heat lightning pulsed across the horizon behind St. Louis Cathedral. Another clap of thunder quickly followed, frightening the pigeons on Andy Jackson’s statue. The white-faced mime had gone, the few remaining artists busy packing their brushes and easels and hurrying off toward Pirate’s Alley. I waited for Beau to resume his wild tale.

“One thing, though. All this malarkey with Kammi has made me realize the one I love is Sheila. You know, Wyatt, what’s so strange? I never felt this way about Sheila before and never thought of her as anything except a mistress. Don’t mean a thing, though. When I get this situation behind me, I will divorce Kammi and marry her.”

“Why wait?”

“Cause I got to break the spell first. That’s why I need you.”

“I’m no voodoo expert,” I said, half in jest.

“I bet you know someone who is because you know everybody. Always did. Can you help me?”

Warm rain began falling in the vacant Jackson Square. A clap of thunder almost masked my answer.

 

Chapter 2

 On another hot day in New Orleans, Detective Tony Nicosia ran chubby fingers through thinning hair, trying to ignore the Chief’s angry words that had greeted him when he arrived at work. Although it was barely July, the city had already experienced more than three hundred homicides. Tony seriously considered packing up and moving to a safer place. New York City, maybe. The daydream was fleeting when his partner, Tommy Blackburn, entered the office unannounced.

“Don’t you ever knock?”

“Sorry, Fat Tony,” Tommy said as he pulled up a chair.

Detective Nicosia had lost seventy-five pounds in the last two years and had, so far, managed to keep the weight off. At five-eight and two-twenty-five, he was still not exactly svelte. He continued working at it, walking two miles before work, lowering his cholesterol and blood pressure as he cinched his belt tighter by the month. He detested the precinct nickname he had lived with for twenty years. He couldn’t get them to stop calling him Fat Tony despite constant appeals to his fellow officers. Not even Tommy Blackburn, his young partner.

Tony had grown up in a rough New Orleans area known as the Irish Channel, a neighborhood once populated by Irish workers. His accent was clearly recognizable by locals from other parts of the city. Many ethnic and racial groups lived there now, and the low-income neighborhood still maintained its rugged appearance.

Tommy Blackburn, ten years younger and forty pounds lighter than his partner, had also grown up in the Channel. A raw-boned six-footer, Tommy’s ruddy complexion matched his unruly growth of flame-red hair. Tony often accused the bachelor of sleeping in his clothes. His rumpled sports jacket provided no evidence contrary to that accusation. Tommy was like the little brother he’d never had, so he didn’t bother reminding him not to call him Fat Tony. Instead, he poured two cups of coffee from the percolator on the corner table.

“What’s up?” Tommy asked.

“My blood pressure,” Tony said, testing the coffee with a careful sip. “Chief Wexler chewed my ass this morning. It's the second time this week, and it's just Tuesday.”

“Can’t be that bad. Chief Wexler’s not much of an ass chewer.”

When Tony failed to answer, Tommy sipped his coffee, knowing better than to ask what was caught in Wexler’s throat.

“I’m starved. Let’s grab a po'boy at Nicoletta’s.”

“We’ll get something on the way,” Tony said. “The chief didn’t like our report from last night’s murder scene. We’re going back and looking again. See if we missed something.”

Tony grabbed his own coat from the rack and started out the door. After a final swig of his coffee, Tommy followed.

Sergeant Blackburn and Lieutenant Nicosia worked out of the 8th District Station on Royal Street in the French Quarter. The 8th District includes the Central Business District—what the locals call the C.B.D.—the prime downtown and business district and, of course, the French Quarter.

The vaunted 8th District was well known for providing outstanding police service for significant events that included Mardi Gras and the Super Bowl. For a while after the hurricane, Detectives Blackburn and Nicosia had wondered if there ever would be another Mardi Gras or Super Bowl in New Orleans.

Tony was the chief detective, a job he considered one of the city's most essential. He was also one of the few older officers in the District who had survived the firings to clean up what some had deemed the most corrupt police department in the country. Many close friends and associates had lost their jobs, and not all had been dishonest. Tony still smarted from the experience, and his early morning meeting with the Chief brought unwelcome memories.

The district firings were only a blink of an eye compared with the loss caused by Katrina. One of Tony’s oldest and dearest friends had committed suicide in the devastation's immediate aftermath. Many officers fled New Orleans with their families. A few particularly heinous individuals had even joined in the looting. Most of the decent cops had stuck it out, performing like champions through the ordeal. Now it was summer, and many things had changed.

July in New Orleans is tolerable, although only barely, even for the locals. Prickly heat and intense humidity drape the city like a damp washcloth. Tourists planning their visits usually wait until spring or fall. Driven by the need for tourism, city leaders promote minor events like the Festival of the Tomato and Crawfish Week.

Usually, only sweaty tourists tempted by off-season hotel bargains frequented these events. It was generally so hot in July that many locals took their vacations, traveling to cooler climes. After driving down St. Charles Avenue in a police car with inadequate air conditioning, Tony wished he’d gone with them.

“Roll down your window,” he said as they passed a clanging streetcar. “It can’t be any hotter than the air coming out of the vents.”

“That’s the truth,” Tommy said. “What’s the matter with our report?”

Just before reaching Lee Circle, Tony remained silent as he parked on the street. The Garden District, one of the oldest and classiest neighborhoods in the city, lay further down St. Charles. Businesses and warehouses populated the C.B.D. between Lee Circle and downtown New Orleans. Interspersed between them were a few tiny eateries, visited during the day by hordes of workers. They usually closed around five.

Lunch hour, aromas of gumbo and frying shrimp wafted from the many cafes and bistros. Tony’s stomach growled as he and Tommy threaded their way down the sidewalks filled with people dressed in industrial uniforms, white shirts, and ties. There were also the invisible, homeless people living on the streets, some asleep on the sidewalk while others extended hands to the passing herd of office workers. Many were already sipping from Tokay and Mad Dog 20-20 bottles. All they had in common was they didn’t care what people thought about them.

The latest murder had occurred in the early morning hours of the previous day, Tony and Tommy called at two in the morning. Now they were returning to the crime scene, an alleyway leading to a large dumpster surrounded by crime scene tape. Tony stepped over the yellow plastic barrier, walked behind the dumpster, and stared at the bloody concrete patch. After several minutes of silence, Tommy finally tapped his shoulder.

“What do you think?”

“There’s blood all over the dumpster. And over there,” Tony said, pointing at a spot on the brick wall he had overlooked in the dark. “The old lady was probably going through the trash to find something to eat. That door is the back of a café that closes around five. Her killer probably dragged her behind this dumpster. He must be a big one, considering how he manhandled her.”

“Or maybe two murderers,” Tommy said. “The victim looked at least one-seventy-five. Living on the street and all, I doubt she was a shrinking violet.”

Tony thought about his comment. “The killer cut her clothes off with a razor and then used it on her. Bruising and blood loss mean she was alive while all this was happening.”

Tommy shook his head. “The coroner’s report will be interesting, especially if she put up a fight.”

“He’ll have something for us, always does.”

Tommy mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “No wonder the Captain is pissed. This one could be bad for the recovery, being so close to the Quarter and all.”

Tony crossed over the tape and started for the car. “We’ll nose around the streets and see if anyone saw something unreported.”

Lunch hour was near an end, and it didn’t take long to find two of the many homeless people who lived in the C.B.D. The men were sleeping on the walkway covered by remnants of a day-old Times Picayune. An empty bottle of Tokay lay between them. Tommy prodded one man’s ribs with the toe of his shoe.

“You boys seen anything unusual lately?”

Both men blinked and rubbed their eyes. “Like what?” one man said.

“Like a large man, maybe a stranger to the area? Maybe you saw him drive up in a car.”

The man shook his head and pulled the paper back over his head. The other man refused to answer at all. When further questioning provided only a consumptive cough, Tony motioned Tommy to give it up and move on. Again, they continued asking panhandlers, bag ladies, and winos with no success.

“These zombies aren’t alive just yet. Make a note to have the uniforms come back after dark. Maybe they’ll be more receptive.”

As they returned to the car, someone caught their attention. The big man walking toward them was tall and sallow, his face scarred by acne and exposure to the sun. He also had the muscled physique of a smack-down wrestler. A red ski cap topped his dark and greasy, shoulder-length hair. His thousand-yard stare glared at them as he passed on the sidewalk. Despite his disheveled appearance, the man appeared sober.

“You looking at me?” he said.

“N.O.P.D.,” Tony said. We need to ask you a few questions.”

“I didn’t say anything to you,” the man said with an angry edge as he continued walking.

Tommy started to grab him, but Tony shook his head. “Call for backup to take this guy downtown for questioning. He’s not a wino, but he’s large enough to be our killer and clearly not normal.”

Tommy quickly used his cell phone. Until help arrived, they followed the large man who was apparently indifferent to their presence. Shortly, two uniformed police officers arrived in a cruiser and went after the suspect as soon as Tony had pointed him out.

“Sir, you need to come downtown for questioning,” one of the officers said.

The man ignored the request, brushing past them. The two officers grabbed his arm.

“Hey, Mac, didn’t you hear me?”

The suspect wheeled around, his face red and wild eyes accentuating his tortured complexion. Without warning, he swiped at the cop with a small knife he had hastily pulled from his pants pocket.

“Don’t kill him!” Tony yelled, sensing what was about to happen.

Without waiting, Tommy knocked the knife-wielder to the ground with a flying body roll from behind.

“You sons-of-bitches,” the man screamed as three cops descended on him, cuffing and dragging him to the awaiting squad car.

Tony and Tommy watched as the two uniformed police officers screeched off downtown, the suspect in handcuffs in the backseat.

“Now that’s one crazy dude. You think we’re lucky enough for him to be our killer?” Tommy asked.

“Never know. One thing I do know. We got about all the information we will get today from this damaged mass of humanity. Let’s head uptown and visit the morgue.”

A tanker coming up the river blew its whistle, the mournful sound melding with blaring car horns involved in traffic congestion on Canal. As they drove down Camp Street, the air conditioning worked no better than before. Despite their impending confrontation with death, both men welcomed cooler air as they entered the building housing the morgue. Dr. Bernard’s office was at the end of a long hallway, and they entered without knocking.

“Got anything for us, Doc?” Tony asked.

Dr. Bernard nodded and began reading from the report on his desk. “As you already know, her name was Sally Gerant, a white female, sixty-five years old, hundred and eighty pounds, raped and sodomized. We have a sufficient sample of semen. The murderer bruised and cut her with a straight razor. He also took some trophies, pieces of her skin, and snippets of hair. Some of the cuts in her chest look like symbols.”

“Of what?” Tommy asked.

“Can’t tell because of the swelling, but they look like patterns. He kept her alive while torturing her, although there was no evidence of a struggle from the woman. I found no hair or skin under her fingernails and no bits of anything human I could identify. She was a practicing alcoholic. She had no other diseases and was in reasonable health except for her scarred liver. No physical abnormalities. Excellent muscle tone for a woman her age and weight. Cause of death strangulation.”

“Ligature,” Tony said. “He kept her alive by applying the right amount of pressure to whatever he used to strangle her with.”

“Probably a thin wire,” Dr. Bernard said. “There’s swelling around the ligature mark, meaning he worked her over for ten minutes or more. He gloved her, so she couldn’t scratch him but didn’t bother tying her hands.”

“Find any prints?” Tony asked.

Dr. Bernard shook his head. “The killer probably wore gloves. Not that it matters. Besides his semen, we got samples of his saliva, where he drooled on the old woman, and some long hairs from someone other than her. When you catch the man, we’ll have all the needed evidence.”

“Crazy,” Tony said. “He wore gloves but not a rubber. What’s the point?”

“What color are the hairs?” Tommy asked, ignoring his partner’s question.

“Dark, almost black, but definitely Caucasian,” Dr. Bernard said

“What’s the victim’s history?” Tommy asked.

He cast a questioning glance at his partner when Dr. Bernard said, “From New Orleans. She used to teach English over in Metairie. So far, no relative has come forward to claim the body.”

The footsteps of Tony and Tommy echoed down the empty hallway as they departed the coroner’s office. Though Tony was moving ahead with authority, Tommy had no trouble keeping up with his short-legged, older partner. They went to the snack shop on the ground floor and poured coffee from the urn. Tony’s stomach growled again as he glanced at the doughnuts lined up in the cabinet by the cash register. Tommy joined him at a table in the back corner.

“What’s your take on all this, Fat Tony?”

“Your ass if you don’t quit calling me Fat Tony.”

“Sorry,” he said, sipping his hot coffee.

“These street people are tough. They had to be to survive Katrina. Sally was a bag lady living alone on the street. The reason for murder is random selection. At least, that’s my first take, though we need to check her family and acquaintances to verify that. Our killer is big and unusually strong.”

Tommy frowned and folded his arms. “What else?”

“The killer seems to know something about police procedure, or he wouldn’t have gloved her. Even that fails to make much sense because he didn’t bother using a rubber. Sounds like something a crazy asshole might do.”

“Something else puzzles me,” Tommy said. “Even with a crazy asshole, he could have found a better candidate to satisfy his sexual needs.”

“It had nothing to do with sex,” Tony said. “That old woman was physically unattractive, bordering on the grotesque. Probably hadn’t bathed in years and smelled like a distillery. Our man had another motive in mind.”

“Like what?” Tommy asked.

“Humiliation,” was Tony’s terse reply.

  

Chapter 3

 Beau Kaplan was right. I did know a voodoo practitioner. So did almost every other resident of the Big Easy. Beau picked me up in front of Picou’s bar in his maroon Lexus coupe for a little trip to see the one I knew. Mama Mulate lived in a two-storied Victorian house not far from the river. Age and decay typified most of the homes in the old neighborhood, with crumbling brick walls only partially concealing junk cars littering many of the yards.

Mama’s house resided at the end of the block. A horn sounded from a nearby tugboat plying its business as we parked in her drive. I kept my fingers crossed that the fancy chrome hubs of Beau’s Lexus would still be there when we returned.

A jungle of garden plants covered Mama’s front porch, banana palms, and other semi-tropical plants that melded with fragrant bougainvillea draping from the ceiling in wicker baskets. Hibiscus and morning glories crammed well-tended beds surrounding the porch, and a small truck garden teemed with peas and carrots on the side of the house.

Mama answered the door, Beau instantly smitten by the handsome woman. When I introduced them, he became all charm and Pepsodent. Ignoring his blatant flirtation, she led us down a narrow hallway to a room where she donned a black lace shawl retrieved from the closet. Only flickering light from several well-placed candles lit the room, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness.

Mama was sensually stunning, slender, and nearly six feet tall in her thin caftan. Coffee-colored flesh accentuated finely chiseled features and flowing black hair draping her shoulder blades. When she finally spoke, she did so with no discernible accent. Mama’s understanding of the black arts wasn’t all she possessed. She also had a doctorate in English and taught classical literature at Tulane University.

She sat at a table near an elaborate shrine decorated with glowing candles, various bones, feathers, and crucifixes. The room reeked with the cloying odor of melted wax and burning incense. She motioned us to join her at the table and quickly locked Beau’s eyes in her intense stare. Her eyes soon mesmerized Beau, reducing him to swaying passivity. When Mama finally spoke, her Oxford-flavored accent had disappeared, replaced by the rhythmic singsong of a Haitian field hand.

“Why did you come to see Mama?”

“A spell,” Beau’s voice droned. “Someone put a spell on me.”

Mama tossed her head, causing a strobe-like passage of light to permeate her thick black hair. She closed her eyes and slowly raised her chin, stretching her arms toward the ceiling. Soon, she began to shake. It started with a barely noticeable palpitation in the hollow of her long neck and then quickly shimmied down the length of her body.

Absorbed in his own trance, Beau didn’t notice Mama’s fit. I did, reaching a hand across the table to help her. I didn’t get far—a force, like repelling magnets, stopped my hand, locking it in midair. All the candles flared as if pure oxygen had suddenly surged through the room. Mama’s head slammed against the table with such force I thought she must have knocked herself out. Again, the force kept me from touching her.

For the better part of a minute, I watched as Mama’s upper torso writhed on the tabletop; her dark eyes rolled back in her head, and a thin strand of saliva drooled from her open mouth. When her convulsions finally ceased, she lay on the table for a long moment before a piercing sound emanated from her unmoving lips—a moan that seemed to come from another world rattled the walls and whipped the softly glowing candles into orange and crimson flame.

“Who dares awaken me from my sleep?” a deep voice said.

 Beau’s eyes were open, his body rigid, almost as if he were in an advanced stage of rigor mortis. The voice, pealing from Mama’s lips, repeated the question.

“Mama, is it you?” I asked.

“Mambo asleep. I am Bon Dieu. What is it you want?”

Mama was a close friend, and from my many discussions over the years with her, I knew Bon Dieu was the High God of Voodoo. The voice coming from her body had to be a hoax, but I didn’t believe it. Mama had too much integrity to stoop to such theatrics. Maybe I was wrong. Feeling quite the fool, I answered the question.

“My friend thinks someone has cast a spell on him.”

The spirit’s laughter echoed inside the smoky room. When the laughter died away, the voice said, “A powerful and unbreakable spell cast by a mighty houngan.”

“If you’re the Bon Dieu, you can help us.”

“Such a powerful spell cast cannot be undone,” the indignant voice replied. “Finality is the only solution.”

“What finality?”

A cold wind chilled the room before I’d gotten my answer. It rattled the walls, sent papers flying and candle flames flaring. When the wind ceased, Mama moaned, raised her head, and stared around the room. Beau shook the cobwebs from his head, opening and closing his mouth, trying to pop his ears as his eyes began to refocus.

“What was that?” he asked.

“The Bon Dieu,” I said.

“Hardly,” Mama said, making the sign of the cross. “It was only a loa, a simple spirit of the dead, though he told you what you came to hear. A voodoo priest we call a houngan has cast a powerful spell you cannot break.”

***

Beau’s Lexus had survived the stay in Mama’s driveway. He returned me in silence to my apartment over at Bertram Picou’s bar. Two days later, I discussed the incident with Bertram as he polished glasses behind the bar, his collie asleep on the floor beside him.

Cajun slang peppered Bertram’s colorful vocabulary. His bar on Chartres, hidden two blocks from Bourbon Street, was a favorite of the locals and the occasional tourist who stumbled in to escape the heat or rampant humidity. Bertram’s bar never closed its doors during Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. Bertram, like many of his regulars, refused to evacuate.

Much of New Orleans became flooded when several levees failed. Most notably, the Lower 9th Ward remained underwater for several weeks, first by Katrina and then by Rita. The French Quarter was different. The original inhabitants of New Orleans constructed the city on the area’s highest ground. The forethought of the founding fathers helped spare the Quarter and the C.B.D. from the storm’s destruction.

Bertram never stopped serving whiskey and beer—cold as long as the ice lasted and warm afterward. He soon found a generator, solving even the problem of warm beer. The main drawback was the smell of garbage, dead fish, and mildew that lingered long after clearing the carnage of the two monster hurricanes.

Bertram always wore a trapper’s hat that framed his square face, emphasizing his gapped teeth and graying ponytail. He always smiled, even when tossing the inevitable unruly drunk out the front door. Bertram was French Acadian—an authentic Cajun. That meant he was friendly though distant with people he didn’t know. Like most Cajuns, he would do anything for a friend.

“What’s up, my man? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Maybe I did,” I answered, relating my experience at Mama’s séance as briefly as possible.

“Your doctor buddy sounds beaucoup screwy,” Bertram said, tossing Lady a treat from a canister beneath the bar.

“He is just a little eccentric from growing up the only child of one of the wealthiest families in the city.”

At that moment, Beau Kaplan entered the bar dressed like a Calvin Klein runway model. “You wouldn’t be talking about me, now would you, old buddy?” he said, pulling up a bar stool beside me.

“One and the same,” I said. “Beau Kaplan, this is Bertram Picou, proprietor of this fine establishment.”

The usually moody Beau pumped Bertram’s hand across the bar, his smile celebrating every perfect tooth in his mouth.

“Proud to meet you.”

“Sorry about what happened at Mama’s house,” I said.

“You kidding me? That was the most awesome experience of my life, and the spirit told me exactly what I needed to do.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“I had Kammi served with divorce papers. I’m moving in with Sheila. Best thing I ever did, and I owe it all to you.”

I felt Kammi would be less than thrilled with me if she knew of my involvement in her impending divorce. Bertram poured himself and Beau shots of Jack Daniels and a cold glass of lemonade for me.

“Here’s to you!” Bertram said as he and Beau drained their shots.

“Wyatt, I got a business proposition for you. All my friends at the club are just as curious as I am about my voodoo experience. They all want to learn more about the city’s best secret, and you’re just the one to teach them.”

I glanced at Bertram and noticed his usual smile had changed into a wry grin. “I really don’t know that much about voodoo.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. Here’s the money I owe you for solving my problem,” he said, peeling off ten crisp Benjamin Franklins from the roll he pulled out of his sports coat. “I know you can use the money, and you can easily make this much and more. All you have to do is introduce some of my friends into the voodoo inner circle. You know what I mean?”

I had no idea what he meant, and I wanted to return the thousand dollars to Beau. I knew I couldn’t because I owed Bertram two months’ rent. After Katrina, he needed the money, and so did I. With his 100-watt smile still intact, Beau patted my shoulder and headed for the door.

“I’ll be back in touch,” he said. “Thanks a bunch, Wyatt.”

I watched him go, then turned to find Bertram waiting with an outstretched palm. Counting out half the bills, I pocketed the rest. Was Beau the answer to my prayers or a nightmare waiting to happen? I didn’t have an answer.

 “You haven’t had a paying customer since February,” Bertram said, sensing my hesitation. “You need some work, and to tell you the truth, I’m tired of seeing you sit in that booth, sulking all day.”

“I’m not a tour guide,” I said.

“Now you listen to me,” he said, thumping his chest. “If someone wants to give you a job plucking chickens, you better take the plucking job. You ain’t got nothing else going right now.”

Bertram was right. Still, I knew little more about voodoo in New Orleans than Beau. It didn’t matter because Mama did. I called later and left a message on her answering machine.

***

Although my room upstairs was small, it was all I needed. It had a bedroom, closet, and bath, but it had a wrought iron balcony overlooking Rue Chartres. I had a potted palm growing on it and hanging plants draping the colorful awning that shielded it from the day's heat. Oh, and now there was Bob, the cat I’d rescued in Jackson Square during my meeting with Beau.

Despite my better judgment, I’d grown fond of the yellow tabby. He looked as if his name should be Bob because all he had for a tail was a stump. Once I’d named him, as the saying goes, he was my cat. More likely, I was his human.

Bertram had frowned on me keeping him. It didn’t matter because Bob had taken to the balcony. He wasn’t about to leave, and I wasn’t about to make him. He spent his days sunning, stretching, and watching the action on Chartres from a perch in my potted palm. At night, he’d go tomcatting. I always knew when he’d returned because he would scratch on the patio door until I let him in. He’d also taken to sleeping at the foot of my bed, and I’d finally given up trying to put him out. Soon, I didn’t know if he was my pet or the other way around.

***

Toward the end of the week, Mama returned my call. “I feel terrible taking the poor man’s money when there’s nothing I can do for him.”

“There’s nothing poor about him, Mama, and he thinks you hung the moon. Anyway, I called you about another matter. Are you interested in a potential business deal?”

“What kind of business deal?”

“Let’s talk about it in person.”

Mama hesitated and said, “I’m working late tonight, grading a few papers. Will you stop by? When I finish, we’ll get some oysters and barbecue shrimp at Pascal Manale’s.”

Later that night, I took Mama up on her offer.

***

When the streetcar rattled to a stop at Tulane, I entered a world of towering oaks and academia. The old university was stately and imposing. I joined the large building housing the English Department and took the stairs to Mama’s office. It was the weekend, and the building was nearly deserted. I found her alone at her desk, dressed quite differently from our previous meeting. Instead of the revealing caftan she’d worn at the ceremony, her pinstriped dress imparted a stately and intellectual persona. Steadfastly refusing to discuss my business proposal while grading papers, she made me wait silently. When she finally finished, we drove down the street in her fully restored Bugeye Sprite to Pascal Manale’s.

While waiting for a table in the crowded restaurant, we enjoyed two dozen freshly shucked oysters at the bar in the front. After making it to a table in the back, we barely talked while eating the succulent shrimp and didn’t discuss business until we finished our bread pudding. Finally, I told her about my meeting with Beau Kaplan.

“You know I’m a practitioner of Vodoun because it is genuine to me,” she said. “What you saw and heard the other day was not a sideshow attraction.”

“That’s exactly why I called you. Beau wants an expert. I’m not. You are. His friends have money, Mama, and they will gladly pay. I propose a fifty-fifty partnership. I bring you the clientele, and you take it from there. I’ll help all I can, of course. I think we can make some real money.”

“Well,” she finally said. “I would love an extended trip to Europe this time next year. When do we start?”

“When Beau calls. He is setting us up with someone as we speak. Are you in?”

Mama smiled, shook my hand, and motioned our server for more coffee.

###

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.

Primal Creatures - Werewolf in a Basement Freezer

Do you believe in werewolves? In south Louisiana, Cajuns do and call them rougarou. In Primal Creatures, a movie producer hires French Quarter sleuth Wyatt Thomas to investigate a gruesome death at an island resort south of New Orleans. There's a fishing village on the island populated mostly by the descendants of slaves that had escaped into the swamp. An old voodoo woman from the village tells Wyatt, "There are creatures on this island that only walk at night." To make matters worse, a hurricane is approaching the island, southern Louisiana and New Orleans.

Wyatt's friend and associate ex-N.O.P.D. homicide detective Tony Nicosia is helping him with the case and Tony tracks a discredited researcher to his rundown Garden District mansion in New Orleans. The city is buttoned up and evacuated in preparation for the approaching hurricane. Dr. Kelton Frenette and his wife Latrice can't leave because they've had something frozen in their basement freezer for forty years. Don't believe in werewolves? Read this excerpt from French Quarter Mystery No. 3 and you might just change your mind. Hope you love it.
P.S. If you need to go down to your basement after reading this at least wait until daylight and even then you might want to take someone with you.

Primal Creatures Excerpt

Tony awoke the next morning feeling better than he had in weeks. The rain had momentarily abated to just a sprinkle falling from a dark and cloudy sky. Just a brief respite, he knew. His neighbor was boarding his windows as he went out to the car. The man shouted across the driveway.

“You hear about the hurricane?”

“I heard. I got something to do first. I’ll be back to board up the windows a little later.”

“Need some help, just let me know.”

“Thanks, Joe,” he said as he cranked the engine on his Sebring.

Though still early, traffic was heavy, people scurrying around, preparing for the approaching hurricane. The storm was in the back of Tony’s mind as he splashed through puddles of water on his way down St. Charles Avenue.

Kelton Frenette still lived in the Garden District. Tony had his address and was on his way there. He hadn’t called first because sometimes the best tactic was to just show up at someone’s doorstep. Give them no time to concoct a story, if that’s what they were inclined to do.

Steady rain poured down his windshield as Tony parked on the street in front of Frenette’s home. He knew a person’s house spoke volumes about the people living in them. As he gazed at the old two-story mansion, he’d already formed an opinion of the man before ever seeing him.

The Garden District is known for its eclectic architecture. Frenette’s house might have been Greek Revival, Victorian, or plantation style. Tony didn’t care. What he saw was a house desperately in need of a fresh coat of paint, trees that had gone untrimmed for years if not decades, broken boards on the porch, and cracked panes of glass in the windows.

The iron gate was unlatched, swung open toward the front door of the house as if there was no one inside that cared if anyone came or went. Pulling his collar up around his neck, he closed and latched the gate behind him.

The doorbell didn’t work. After knocking several times, he began wondering if the house was deserted. Before he turned to leave, someone opened the door a crack.

“Help you?”

The large, black woman peeking through the door sounded pleasant enough.

“Is Dr. Frenette in?”

“He’s in, but he doesn’t see anybody these days. What is it you needed?”

“Dr. Frenette did some research years ago. I’d like to talk to him about it.”

“As I said, he doesn’t get around much anymore.”

A booming voice sounded behind the woman. “Who is it, Latrice?”

“Some person that wants to talk to you about your research.”

“Well let him in.”

The woman named Latrice opened the door for Tony, and he entered the spacious alcove lined with large pots where ornamental plants probably once grew. Sitting in an antique, wooden wheelchair was the man with the booming voice.

“I’m Kelton Frenette,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Tony Nicosia. You did research on a rabies-like virus. I’d like to talk to you about it.”

“Are you a reporter?”

“No sir, I’m not. Just a guy with some questions I hope you have answers for.”

“Then come with me,” he said as he wheeled into a cavernous room that was clearly the main living area.

Like the paint on the outside of the house, the off-pink walls had the look and feel of faded antiquity. The couch, settee, and chairs were antiques. Probably valuable. Everything was spotless, no dust anywhere in the room. Only the shiny patina of age and continuous use tarnished the furniture.

“Take a seat, please,” Latrice said. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea or lemonade?”

“Forget the tea and lemonade, Latrice. Bring Mr. Nicosia a brandy, and one for me too, please.”

Latrice didn’t argue, soon returning with three snifters filled with expensive brandy.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” she said.

“Is Latrice your help?” Tony asked when she was gone.

“Latrice is my wife,” he said.

“I apologize.”

“Don’t worry about it. A more tolerant age is what Latrice and I needed.”

“You haven’t been out much lately. Things are better now. Whatever, I can see you made a wise choice.”

Frenette smiled for the first time. Like his voice, he was a portly man, probably pushing three hundred pounds. His khaki pants and canvas shirt were pressed and clean but as timeworn as the paint on the wall.

“There was a time when mixed marriages were frowned upon by people in the Garden District,” he said.

“Then you should have moved to the Quarter. They always been a little more tolerant across Canal Street.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Frenette said in an affected southern accent.

“This is wonderful brandy,” Tony said.

“Pierre Ferrand, 1972. I only serve it to my favorite guests. Since you are the only guest we’ve had in a while, you got lucky. If you like brandy, that is.”

“Love it, though it sounds like I probably can’t afford the finest stuff.”

“None of us can, Mr. Nicosia, but then again none of us can afford not to.”

“I like your philosophy.”

“Now tell me what you need to know about my research.”

Frenette nodded when Tony asked, “You know what a rougarou is?”

“I do.”

You think they exist?”

Frenette nodded again. “If you’re a journalist, it’s too late to discredit me. That was done years ago.”

“Tell me about it, please,” Tony said.

“When I published my findings in a small medical journal, my colleagues called me mad. My research funds dried up, and I was widely shunned.”

“I’m not a journalist, Dr. Frenette, I’m a detective investigating two recent deaths that are baffling, to say the least.”

“And you think a rougarou is responsible?”

Tony dropped the claw into Frenette’s hand. “You seen anything like this before?”

“Where did you get it?”

“From the horribly mutilated body of a person possibly killed by one of those creatures we aren’t supposed to know exists.”

Frenette fingered the claw, then tilted his oversized head, rubbing his chin with thick fingers.

“Interesting,” he said. “Latrice, we need more brandy.”

Latrice must have been within hearing distance because she quickly appeared with the bottle.

“Thanks, ma’am,” Tony said as she replenished his snifter.

“We’re going into the basement,” he said.

“You sure, Honey?” Latrice said.

“We’ll be fine,” he said.

Latrice pushed him to a hallway near the center of the large house. With some difficulty, she lifted the heavy, metal bar across the door. Using a ring of keys hanging on the wall, she unlocked three padlocks.

Opening the door of an oversized dumbwaiter, she wheeled Frenette in and pushed a button. An old electric motor made grating sounds as the cab of the dumbwaiter began descending into the basement.

Latrice pointed Tony to a door leading to the cellar, removing the metal bar and unlocking three more padlocks as she had on the dumbwaiter door. When he entered, she switched on a bare, overhead bulb that dimly illuminated the musty stairs.

The stairway was steep, Tony thankful for his recently repaired knees. Another dim light greeted him when he reached the concrete floor of the basement. Dr. Frenette waited in a large room that felt twenty degrees colder than at the top of the stairs.

“I haven’t been here in ten years,” he said. “I know this place looks like something out of Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. I assure you, my endeavors weren’t so manic.”

The room was filled with beakers, test tubes, and medical paraphernalia, everything coated with dust. There was also a dissection table that reminded Tony of the autopsy room he’d recently visited. The large, open cellar reeked of must, and maybe something else. The subtle, but distinctive odor of death, like he’d smelled in the autopsy office, permeated everything.

“You haven’t come here in ten years?” Tony asked.

“That’s right.”

“Because?”

“There’s something here that haunts me to my very core. Are you a religious man, Mr. Nicosia?”

“I go to church on Easter and Christmas. My priest doesn’t remember my name because I haven’t taken confession in years.”

Frenette grinned for the first time since they’d been in the basement. Tony still had the empty snifter in his hand. Frenette motioned him over and refilled it.

“Sometimes brandy is more comforting than a priest,” he said. “Since there’s no priest to comfort us, let's have another drink.”

“Amen to that. What’s going on down here?”

“I want to show you something. Do you have a strong stomach, Mr. Nicosia?”

Frenette grinned when Tony said, “I’ve lost my cookies a time or two. What you got, Doc?”

Dr. Frenette pointed to a large, horizontal freezer against the wall. Like the dumbwaiter and the cellar door, it was secured by several locks.

“It’s in there,” he said. “You might want to take a deep breath before you open it.”

Chapter 26

 Frenette tossed Tony a set of keys, and he quickly slipped the padlocks. The lid had long since frozen to the top of the freezer, and he had to give it an extra hard pull. When he did, it popped open with a whoosh, stale, refrigerated air blasting his face. After glancing a moment at the contents of the refrigerator, he took a step backward.

“Jesus! What the hell is it?”

“Your rougarou, Mr. Nicosia.”

Tony stared at the frozen body of something that wasn’t quite a man. Dark eyes glinting red in the overhead lighting stared back at him. Tufts of thick, brown hair splotched the creature’s face and neck. Long fangs protruded from the half-opened mouth. Black claws, like the one he had in his pocket, extended from his hairy fingers. White frost encased the frozen body.

“Is it. . . ?”

“Dead? It’s been frozen for more than forty years, though I fear it’s still very much alive.”

“It’s enormous. How did you get it in there?”

“I had help.”

“Where did it come from?”

“Close the lid, lock it tight, and then I’ll tell you the story. After we go back upstairs.”

Tony closed and relocked the freezer, then wheeled Dr. Frenette to the dumbwaiter. After situating him inside it and pushing the button, he switched off the lights and hurried up the steep stairway toward the dim light shining at the top. Latrice was waiting for them.

She quickly padlocked the doors and returned the metal bars to their catches before giving her husband a hug that dragged on for several anxious moments.

“It’s okay, Baby. It’s still frozen.”

The rain, buffeted by the wind that hadn’t been present when Tony arrived, had intensified as they returned to the pink living room. Latrice quickly handed him and Dr. Frenette a new snifter of brandy, and then covered her husband’s legs with a tattered blanket. After placing the fancy bottle of brandy on the coffee table in front of Tony, she joined him on the couch.

“Hon, I was so worried.”

“It’s okay. The freezer’s working, and there’s nothing to worry about.”

Frenette smiled when Tony said, “I didn’t toss my cookies, but I almost did. That creature in the freezer. Was it really a rougarou?”

“You already know the answer to your question.”

“You haven’t told me where it came from.”

“The creature is a person and has a name—Calvin Couvillion. His relatives brought him here. Like I said, more than forty years ago.”

“And you’ve had it frozen in your basement since then? Maybe you’d better explain,” Tony said.

“It’s not like you think,” Latrice said.

Frenette waved his hand and shook his head, shushing her.

“Covillion came from the Atchafalaya Swamp, over near Thibodaux. His family brought him here.”

“A live rougarou?”

“Let me finish the story, and then you’ll see. Most of Couvillion’s family was at a fais-doux-doux.”

“I know,” Tony said when he hesitated. “A Cajun celebration.”

“The family had already become concerned about Couvillion’s erratic behavior. When a storm came up during the party, he began to transform.”

“The storm caused him to transform?”

Frenette nodded. “Perhaps hurried along by a rapid change in barometric pressure. That’s the only explanation I can come up with.”

“And everyone at the party saw him?”

“They believe in such things out there on the bayou. He might have killed someone but was struck by lightning, the impact rendering him immobile, at least temporarily. They packed him in dry ice and brought him to me.”

“Why?”

“I was doing research on lycanthropy and rumors had started to spread.”

“Lycanthropy?”

“The study of human transformation into a wolf-like creature,” he explained, seeing the puzzled look on Tony’s face.

“What about his family? They just left him here with you and never said nothing about it, even after all these years?”

“They were afraid. They helped me put him into the freezer, and then left me with their problem.”

“He was struck by lightning and didn’t die?” Tony said.

“You apparently know little about rougarous, loup-garous, werewolves, or whatever you want to call them.”

“Tell me.”

“The virus that causes lycanthropy is similar to the rabies virus. Rabies can take months or even years to develop. Before a cure was discovered, people contracting it often became hyper-sexual and then eventually quite mad.”

“But we aren’t talking about rabies here,” Tony said.

“No, but the two diseases are similar in many ways.”

“How so?”

“Rabies is the only virus contracted by a bite, the person bitten guaranteed to contract the virus and die unless they undergo a painful treatment.”

“If you shoot a mad dog, it dies. If the disease you’re talking about is like rabies, how could someone that has it survive a lightning strike?”

“Because, Mr. Nicosia, the disease makes them immortal.”

“I don’t believe that. Nothing’s immortal.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong. Cancer cells are immortal. That’s why we have no cure. Succeed in knocking out one cell with radiation or chemotherapy, and it usually only results in the propagation of many more.”

“We’re not talking about cancer here,” Tony said.

“The rabies-like virus that causes lycanthropy mutates the cells in a person’s body. Like cancer, the mutated individual becomes, quite literally, immortal. I’m sorry if the concept is difficult to reconcile, but it is what it is.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Doc. I don’t want you to cut me off this great brandy, but I don’t quite buy your story. Like I said, nothing is immortal.”

“Au contraire, Mr. Nicosia. The creature you saw frozen in the basement is very much alive. Of that, I can assure you.”

“Then why didn’t you report it to the authorities years ago?”

“Because I was already a discredited researcher when the family brought me Calvin Couvillion. I thought I could show everyone I wasn’t crazy by curing the man.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“A little problem,” Frenette said.

“Then didn’t it occur to you to get it the hell out of here?”

“More than once,” Latrice said. “We even thought about burning the house down.”

“Just call the authorities. Let them deal with it. You should have done it forty years ago.”

Latrice’s hands went to her face to hide her tears. “You just don’t know how it was back then. People protesting at our front door, calling Kelton Dr. Frankenstein.”

Tony grabbed the bottle of brandy, topped up her snifter and then gave her shoulder a reassuring pat.

“Ma’am, I’m not here to point fingers or cause distress. I’m just looking for answers. Maybe I can help get rid of that creature in your basement if that’s what it actually is.”

Tony’s words and the brandy calmed her. Cupping the snifter in her palms, she held it to her nose as if the pungent aroma might somehow drive away her unpleasant memories. Tony topped up his own glass and that of Dr. Frenette’s.

“Our paranoia kept us from revealing the creature to the authorities. Not to mention we feared letting loose such a beast on an unsuspecting city,” Frenette said.

“I was afraid they’d put Kelton in prison,” Latrice said.

“No one’s going to jail. If you have a serum that cures the disease, why don't you just use it?"

“The little problem I mentioned. You can’t inject serum into a frozen body, and we can’t unthaw him because he would kill us.”

“Jesus! I can’t believe you’ve lived forty years with that thing in your basement. I take it you stayed here during Katrina.”

When Latrice began to cry again, Frenette wheeled over to her, and they hugged again.

“We were afraid to stay and even more afraid to leave,” Latrice said when her tears abated.

“It was terrible with the wind and rain. Not knowing if the house would survive, much less ourselves,” Frenette said.

“Yeah, well it’s not getting much better out there right now. Didn’t you lose power? How did you keep that thing in the freezer from thawing out?”

“We had a large generator installed years ago. We’ve never had to use it,” Frenette said.

“I think I’d have carried it out to the swamp and dumped it in the bayou,” Tony said.

“Believe me, we thought about it. In the end, it just wasn’t possible. If there were just a way to disable it until the serum had a chance to take effect,” he said.

Frenette and Latrice both looked at Tony when he said, “Maybe there is.”

“You know something you’re not telling us?” he asked.

It was Tony’s turn to hold up a palm. “Like I said, I’m investigating two deaths down in St. Bernard Parish, near the Gulf. Both may have been killed by a rougarou. Hell, I don’t even think we’re talking about a single rougarou. There may be several.”

“An outbreak. What I’ve feared all these years,” Frenette said. “I have a possible cure, but no way to administer it, except in the early stages of the disease. What were you talking about when you said maybe there is?”

“My partner’s working the case on Goose Island. There’s a fishing village with a voodoo woman that lives there. Her son coats his buckshot with something she gives him. He claims it’ll knock down a rougarou.”

“For how long?” Frenette asked.

“At least until the person doing the shooting can escape.”

“Well for God’s sake, tell me what it is!”

“Wolfsbane,” Tony said, waiting for Frenette to scoff at his suggestion.

He didn’t. Turning to Latrice, he said, “Baby, can you get me the Martinsdale?”

“Sure, Hon,” she said.

Latrice apparently knew what he wanted because she went to the bookcase lining the wall and pulled a large book from the many volumes. Frenette began leafing through it immediately. Apparently locating what he was looking for, he stared at the page.

“Find something?” Tony asked.

“Aconite,” he finally said.

“Pardon me?”

“Aconite, the active ingredient found in the Aconitum species.”

“You mean Wolfsbane?”

“That’s one of the flowers. The substance has been used in Chinese and Ayurvedic medicine for centuries. In small doses, it can be helpful. Its highly toxic in large doses and can paralyze, stop a person’s heart, and even kill.”

“But will it stop a rougarou?”

“You’re the one that said it does.”

“Yeah, but I’m not speaking from experience here.”

“The Ainu, Japanese indigenous people, used it on their arrows when they hunted bear. It’s extremely powerful. It just might work.”

“Fine,” Tony said. “Now what?”

“We have to thaw him out.”

“You’re shitting me! You have aconite?”

“Yes, more than enough to do what we need.”

“You sure about that? What if it don’t work?”

“Then at least we won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Tony glanced at his watch. “Sounds like you’re gonna need help moving him. I’m ready if you are.”

“You’re a brave man, Mr. Nicosia,” Frenette said.

“Hell, I don’t hold a candle to you and Latrice. Let’s do it before I change my mind.”

Dr. Frenette smiled for the first time since leaving the basement.

“Baby, you better open us another bottle of Pierre Ferrand, and then join us in the laboratory.”

Tony and Frenette were at the basement door when a clap of thunder shook the roof. When it did, all the lights went out.

“Oh hell, there goes the power,” Frenette said.

“What happened to the generator?” Tony asked.

“It hasn’t been tested since the time it was installed. Who knows? We’ll have to make do without it.”

Flickering light soon lit the hallway as Latrice joined them, the bottle of brandy in one hand, a hurricane lamp in the other. Frenette took both.

“Go get more candles, Baby. We’re going to need them.”

Tony and Frenette were soon back in the dank laboratory lighted only by glimmering candlelight. Latrice quickly joined them. After steeling themselves with more brandy, Frenette pointed to an operating table, its legs lowered so he could reach it without standing.

“You ready?” Tony asked.

When Frenette nodded, Latrice unlocked the freezer and opened it, her face revealing more than words could express.

“What is it, Baby?” Frenette asked.

“Oh my God, Hon! It’s fully transformed. No longer even partially human.”

Her words caused Tony to become more nervous than he already was.

“Help me up,” Frenette said. “I need to see.”

Latrice and Tony helped him out of the wheelchair, supporting him as he gazed into the freezer.

“My God! Even encased in melting ice, he’s somehow managed to transform entirely from human to wolf. It must be the storm.”

“How is that possible? The electricity hasn’t even been off for ten minutes yet.” Tony said.

“Then we must hurry. We don’t have much time left.”

Tony nodded when Latrice said, “Can you help me get him out of there?”

As Frenette watched, Latrice and Tony lifted the large body out of the freezer.

“This thing must weigh three hundred pounds,” Tony said, struggling with the weight. “You okay, Latrice?”

“I got him. Just hurry.”

Frenette had rigged up a mechanical drip and filled it with aconite. The creature’s body was totally naked, its wolf/human genitals only partially hidden by thick tufts of hair. Latrice covered most of the body with a blanket to accelerate the thawing.

“Now we wait,” Frenette said. “Soon as I can penetrate his skin with the needle, I’ll start the drip. I don’t need you two for that. Go upstairs and lock the door. I’ll call when I’m done.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Latrice said.

“In for a penny, in for a pound. I’m staying,” Tony said.”

Twenty minutes passed. Though he’d tried several times, Dr. Frenette was unsuccessful in inserting the needle into the rougarou’s vein. After an hour, the creature’s eyes moved in their sockets. For a moment, Tony was sure they were looking straight at him.

“It’s now or never,” Frenette said. “The beast is almost cognizant.”

Latrice clutched Tony’s arm as Dr. Frenette began working the needle. The creature was fully thawed and beginning to move. Tony reached for his service revolver before remembering he didn’t have it anymore.

“Bingo!” Frenette finally said. “Thank God this instrument has a battery pack or it wouldn’t do us any good without electricity.”

“Yeah, when was the last time you checked the batteries?”

Frenette didn’t answer. Latrice just closed her eyes, crossed her fingers and began praying out loud. Reaching for the I.V.’s control panel, Frenette flipped the switch. The display turned green and the screen began recording drips of aconite into the creature’s arm.

“Shit, that’s a relief. Now what?” Tony asked.

“It’ll work, or else in an hour or so we’ll all be in hell,” Frenette said.

###

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 is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.