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CHAPTER 1
BOOK ONE
1
They had drifted for a year, not stopping for very long at any one place. Nydia knew her husband was looking for something, and knew what it was. But they had yet to find it.
Xaviere Flaubert's coven.
Since leaving upstate New York, Sam, Nydia, and Little Sam had kept contact with others to the barest minimum.
They were hunters, but yet they knew they were also the hunted.
They were hunting Satan's followers, and Satan's followers were hunting them.
Once, Sam thought he had found them in a small town in Illinois. That proved to be false.
They drove south into Georgia, and once more Sam felt he had found the followers of the Evil One. But again he was wrong.
"Sam?" Nydia said. "Let's try Nebraska."
"Why there?" he asked.
"The beginning," she said simply.
Sam pointed the nose of the car west.
On the fringes of what had once been the town of Whitfield, Nebraska, Sam stopped the car.
"They aren't here," he said to his beautiful, raven-haired young wife. "But ... something is."
"Can we get closer?"
"We can try."
The young couple, with Little Sam asleep on the backseat, drove into the charred remains of what the massive fireball had left when it struck the earth, several years back. They found nothing. But both were experiencing a very odd sensation.
"Do you feel it?" Sam asked.
"Yes. But I don't know what it is."
They drove on, through the cracked county road that wound through the sand hills. Sam drove slowly, his eyes searching both sides of the little-used road.
For what, he still did not know.
Then he saw the dog, loping along the side of the road, pacing them. Sam slowed to a crawl; the dog slowed, keeping pace. Sam picked up speed; the dog picked up speed.
"What the hell? ..." he muttered.
"Stop, Sam!" Nydia said.
Sam braked and looked at her. "What is it, Nydia?"
Nydia looked at the light-fawn-colored dog, sitting on the side of the road, looking at them. "He is a friend, and we're going to need him."
Sam never questioned his wife. Nydia was a witch. But the inherent good in her had overpowered the dark side and Nydia had accepted God Almighty as her only God.
That action had infuriated the Dark One. He had schemed and plotted and sworn to have her as his own. For years Satan had tried to kill Sam and possess Nydia as his own. He had flung his awesome powers toward that end.
But whatever Satan did, it always ended in failure at bringing Sam and Nydia to their knees, to worship him.
Once he thought for sure he had them up in Canada. He failed, and the skies darkened and it stormed for days. Another time he was certain he had them in upstate New York. But Sam destroyed his coven and then blew up the town to spite him.
And through it all, Nydia had stood like a rock beside her husband and child.
And the Dark One cursed them.
"Call the dog, Sam," she said.
Sam hesitated.
"He won't hurt us. He is why we are here."
Sam opened the door and got out. It was warm for this early in the spring, and the hot winds fanned him.
He wondered if it was just the wind.
He thought not.
Sam squatted down beside the car and called for the dog to come to him. "Come on, boy. Come to me."
The dog did not hesitate. He rose from a sitting position and trotted to Sam, standing in front of the young man.
Sam stayed in a squat, looking at the dog. He couldn't tell what breed it was. It looked to be perhaps a hundred pounds, with a massive head and large jaws. The crushing power in those jaws would be tremendous. The dog appeared to have some German shepherd in him, as well as perhaps some boxer. His ears were pure hound dog. He was solid, with powerful legs. A thick neck.
But it was his eyes that fascinated Sam. One was light blue, the other one was a yellow-gold color. Sam wondered if the dog was blind in his pale eye, as is so often the case. He tested the animal. The pale eye seemed to be normal.
Sam turned around and looked back. Little Sam was awake, sitting up on the backseat, looking at his father and the dog.
"You like him, Sam?" his father asked.
The boy smiled and nodded his head.
"I wonder if he has fleas?" Sam muttered.
"I doubt it," Nydia said, a touch of the mysterious in her voice.
"Dog!" Little Sam said, his voice filled with excitement. "Dog!"
"I guess that's what we'll call him," his father said.
Sam looked more closely at the big dog. No collar.
"That you can see." Nydia spoke softly.
When they first met, it startled Sam to have her read his mind. Now he paid very little attention to it. And since sometimes he did not know the true meaning behind her words — as now — Sam elected to remain silent.
The sky began to swiftly darken, announcing the forming of a savage prairie storm. Thunder rumbled around them and lightning lashed the heavens, seeking introduction with the earth.
Not God's earth, Sam thought. For he knew only too well — firsthand — that while God ruled the Heavens, the galaxies, Satan roamed the earth, ruling it from time to time.
Dog looked up at the dark sky and growled deep in his throat, baring his wet fangs at the lightning.
Little Sam, now in his fourth year, laughed at the approaching storm.
It was still unclear to mother and father exactly what power the boy possessed ... Good, or Bad.
Both felt the boy was on the side of Good, for he had exhibited signs to that effect.
But neither could be certain. They would have to wait. Wait.
The winds began to howl, screaming over the sand hills and ripping the hot air, but not cooling it. The air became hotter, and with it came a foul, evil-smelling, putrid odor. The odor assailed the nostrils of all who smelled it.
Dog sneezed and growled.
Sam looked around him, sudden realization touching him with a numbing sensation.
They were parked in the middle of what used to be Whitfield.
He said as much to Nydia.
"Yes," she replied. "I know. I can feel Dad's presence."
"Yes. But he is far away."
Dog growled and turned his big head, looking at Sam.
"Sam?" Nydia said. "Let's go."
"Are you afraid?" her husband asked.
"No. But I know where they are."
Strength filled the young man. He rose to his feet just as the first hot, stinking drops of rain began pelting the barren earth. He opened the door and Dog jumped onto the backseat, lying down beside Little Sam.
Sam slid behind the wheel and turned around. "Where, Nydia?"
Her eyes were closed and her brow furrowed in deep thought. Sweat streaked her face. Sam remained silent, for he had seen her like this before.
The storm battered the car. The winds shrieked in a familiar language to those whose lives were dedicated to fighting evil.
Sam looked back at Little Sam and Dog. The boy was patting the huge head of the animal. Dog opened his eyes and gazed into the dark eyes of the boy. Something invisible moved between them; some ... understanding, Sam felt.
Sam took his foot off the brake and the car moved forward slowly.
"They're waiting, Sam," Nydia said. "They are firmly entrenched and waiting for us."
"What do you see, Nydia?"
He was suddenly aware of Dog sitting up on the backseat, his big head resting on the back of the front seat, his mismatched eyes studying Nydia.
"Cold unblinking eyes," she said, her voice husky.
"What is behind those eyes, Nydia?"
"I don't know. Yet."
"Which way, Nydia?"
"I see cypress trees and Spanish moss. Lazy streams. No. Bayous. It's very hot. The people are friendly and open."
"Bayous? Louisiana?"
"Yes."
"What else, Nydia?"
She opened her eyes and turned her head, looking at Sam. "Black magic."
2
The town of Becancour lay just to the north of the center of the state, and a bit to the east of the geographical center of Louisiana. Here is where the Cajun influence really took hold, in speech and music and philosophy.
And in Becancour was where the Dark One had chosen to face his old enemy: God.
Becancour lay off the beaten path; no roads ran east and west. A state road ran north and south, connecting some twenty miles later with Highway 28 to the north, and absolutely, positively nothing to the south.
Except swamps.
Dark, deep, foreboding swamps.
And the population number of Becancour was to some people ... well, odd.
Odd, that it never seemed to change. It had not changed in the last six years. It remained a constant. When someone was born, someone either died, or moved away. When dying came first, someone either moved in, or was born.
Odd.
But since Becancour was so far off the beaten path, that little oddity never came to anyone's attention.
Until it was too late.
Such a pretty little town, it was said by those few who visited Becancour.
Sure was.
And the people were so friendly.
Sure were.
But there weren't many dogs, though.
Nope.
Sure were a lot of cats, though.
Yep.
A lot of cats.
"Sure is hot," Thelma Lovern remarked to her husband.
"Sure is," Frank agreed. And it's so damned early in the season, too."
Frank and Thelma owned the local motel. It didn't have a name. Just MOTEL.
They also owned the café adjoining the motel. The café didn't have a name, either. Just EATS.
"Reckon we'll get some tourists in this season, Mother," Frank said.
"I'm sure we will, Frank," Thelma agreed.
Neither one of them believed it. Any tourist who came to Becancour was either hopelessly lost or drunk. Or both.
Frank and Thelma had owned the motel and café for twenty years. They made a living, and that was about it.
"Sure is hot," Thelma said.
"Sure is," Frank agreed. If she says that one more time, Frank thought, I'm gonna kill the bitch!
Across the street, at the most popular bar in town, Lula's Love-Inn, Lula Magee was unlocking the front door to let in her clean-up man, Jules Nahan. Lula noticed that Jules looked even worse than he normally looked. She commented on that.
"I hate cats, Lula. I hate them worse than I do a cottonmouth. And this town is full of 'em. Where the hell did they all come from?"
"I don't know, Jules. But calm down. You need a drink."
"Damn shore do."
She gave him a beer and a broom. I'll be in my office, Jules."
Jules sat down to rest before work.
Down the street, Chief of Police Sonny Passon sat in his office and stared at Deputy Don Lenoir. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then finally blurted, "Would you mind saying that again, Don?"
Don repeated it.
The chief shook his head. "Don, now I know you went off to college and got you a fancy degree in law enforcement, then you done a hitch in the Marines. I know you're a bright young man. You been all over the world and seen a lot. But, Don, don't come in here talkin' a bunch of shit to me! It's too damn hot for jokes."
"I'm not joking, Sonny," the deputy said.
Since Becancour was so far away from anything in the parish, a deputy was stationed there on a permanent basis.
And nobody wanted to be that deputy, 'cause nothing ever happened in Becancour.
Old Man Jobert sometimes dipped too deep into his muscadine wine, dressed up in his French Foreign Legion uniform, and marched through the streets of Becancour, singing La Boudin" at the top of his lungs. But Jobert never gave the arresting officer any problems. Just slept it off in an unlocked cell.
Sometimes the local good ol' boys got rowdy in Lula's Love-Inn, but Sonny Passon's patrolmen, and one patrolwoman, were very adept at handling rowdy good ol' boys. More than one good ol' boy around Becancour had bumps and scars on his noggin from tangling with the Becancour city police. Especially when one good ol' boy grabbed patrolwoman Rita Dantin by the tit and shouted, "Grand teton! Teter, s'il vous plaît?"
Rita bounced a hickory stick off his tête de mort and gave him a tremendous mal de tête of the headbone.
For a fact, Becancour used to be lots of fun. A fais do do many times during the summer. Church picnics, lots of good times.
But the townspeople had changed over the months. No one seemed to have much fun anymore. Oh, the regulars still came to Lula's Love-Inn and drank and played the jukebox and shot pool and got drunk. But it was ... different somehow.
People were more wary now. And for no good reason that anyone could explain.
"Devil worship, Don?" Sonny almost whispered the question.
"Old Man Musto's missing sheep, Sonny?"
"Yeah. What about it?"
"I found it this morning. Mutilated. I took pictures." He tossed several Polaroids on Sonny's desk. The chief looked at them, paled, and placed them back on his desk.
"It was layin' in a circle. What the hell does that mean, Don?"
"I don't know. Now, about those dogs your people found, Sonny?"
"How do you know about them?" The question was sharply asked.
"Come on, Sonny! It's a big parish but a small town. People talk. Hell, Sonny! You can't keep nothing secret among Cajuns. Or damn little."
"Yeah, but it usually stays among us, Don."
"I haven't said a word to the sheriff."
"Pour de bon. OK, OK. It's kids, Don. Got to be kids. But why are they doing it?"
"How do you know it's kids?"
A sigh. "I don't. Don, I was with the Highway Patrol twenty years. Finally pulled the pin. Started out 'way to hell and gone up in Monroe. Ended up down in Lake Charles. I've seen everything anyone could throw at me. But I ain't never had a case of devil worship. Jesus Christ, I don't know anything about it."
"I think we'd better learn, Sonny. Both of us."
Sam, Nydia, Little Sam, and Dog pulled into Becancour at two o'clock that afternoon. It was early May, and already the temperature was in the nineties, with the humidity matching it.
"You take pets?" Sam asked Frank at the check-in counter.
"Mister," Frank said, "as long as it don't shit on the floor, you can have an ape in the room with you." He grinned at Sam. Just please don't say it's hot out! Frank thought. Please!
"Sure is hot out," Sam said.
Frank gritted his dentures. "Will you be staying long?" he managed to say.
"Until we find a house to rent for the summer."
Frank beamed. "I got a house!"
"Hey, that's great," Sam said with a smile.
"It's about five miles out of town." He pointed. "South. Right on the bayou. Two bedrooms, bath and a half, carpet throughout. It isn't nothing fancy, but it's clean. There's even a boat there ya'll can use."
"Okay if we wait until tomorrow to look at it?" Sam asked.
"Sure!" Frank handed Sam a key. "I'm givin' you and the missus the suite. Two rooms. It's Number 20. All the way down on this side. We'll drive out in the morning and look at the house."
"That'll be fine," Sam said, taking the key.
"Ya'll be sure and have supper with us in the café this evenin'," Frank told him. "We're servin' up red beans and rice."
"Sounds ... delicious," Sam replied, not having the foggiest notion what the man was talking about.
Dog stood up and placed his front paws on the countertop, staring at Frank through those strange mismatched eyes set in the huge head. Frank took a step backward, momentarily startled.
"Does he bite?" Frank asked.
"He's never bitten me," Sam told him.
Located just inside the city limits, on the southern edge of Becancour, on Dumaine Street, was the largest house in town. The old Dorgenois home. Back in the early 1800's, when Becancour was just a tiny village, Romy Dorgenois moved his family from New Orleans up to Becancour. Rumor had it they moved out of New Orleans under protest. Seems the Dorgenoises had gotten involved with black magic, voodoo ... and Satanism.
No one ever really knew; or if they did, over the years, they weren't talking. However ... it was widely accepted throughout the community that the Dorgenois house was haunted. Most accepted it good-naturedly, as a joke, but there were those who took it much more seriously.
With good reason.
There had been some mysterious deaths over the years. And the people who died had been very vocal about the Dorgenois family. And although the priests involved would not talk about it, the incidents of exorcism, or attempted exorcisms, had increased ever since the Dorgenoises moved into Becancour.
How many exorcisms had been successful?
No one knew.
Or they weren't talking.
The last two generations of Dorgenoises had refused to live in the huge mansion set on twenty acres of land. And their explanations for not doing so were vague.
House was just too large, said Grandfather R.M. Dorgenois and his wife, Colter.
Maybe.
We prefer the more modern type of home, said the grandson, Romy Dorgenois, and his wife, Julie.
Sure.
So the Dorgenois family began renting out the lovely mansion.
A lot.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Devil's Cat"
by .
Copyright © 1987 William W. Johnstone.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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