Billy: A Tale Of Unrelenting Terror (8 page)

The St. Pierre clan was tenuously known around the sheriff’s office. They lived deep in the swamp at some place called
Bayou Noir
, which, as it turned out, only a select few people knew how to get to. Occasionally, one or the other would surface in town to attend Sunday Service over at St. Gabriel’s and pick up a few items at the local store. Deputy Arceneaux seemed to know the most about them, which wasn’t much, but he readily shared the information he had with Nick one day over a tray of boiled crawfish.

"They pretty much kept to themselves," Dean said. "The only real neighbors they had were the Landrys, and I’m not sure where they are right now. Last I heard, most of them were over in Lake Charles, but I’d bet they’ll be back soon. Their family’s been here a long time, and I doubt a couple of storms gonna keep them out for long."

"Yeah, that’s what I heard, too," Nick replied as he sucked on another of the delicious critters in front of him. "I’m still hoping that one of the Landrys will show up soon to help out with the search, but I’m not going to wait on it. The sheriff gave me a few names of a couple of locals that might help out, but I haven’t had much luck on that front yet. I figure I still have a little ground work to do before I go riding out into the swamp. I am not about to make the same mistake those kids did."

Dean nodded at the sentiment. "Yep, that’s the smart thing to do. Jean Landry might show up soon, but I’m not sure how much help he’ll be. He was the closest thing to a friend the St. Pierres had, but even he didn’t like to go out there if he didn’t have to. The St. Pierres were a strange bunch, from what I’ve heard. Not too bright and not too friendly is the best way I can put it."

"Tell me more about them, if you can," Nick said. "How many are there?"

"Five, that I know of," answered Dean. "There’s Poppie – he’s the patriarch of the family and one of the meanest sons of bitches you’re ever going to meet. Then there’s Dorcelia, his wife – a saintly woman who puts up with that man for who knows what reason. Besides that, there’s two boys, T-Roy and Justin, and Lillian, the girl. Lillian’s a pretty young thing, too, but quiet as a mouse. Rumor has it she ran off with some feller from out of town, and I can’t say as I blame her. Either way, she hasn’t been seen around here for quite some time."

"You think there’s any chance they survived out there?" Nick asked.

"I doubt it," answered Dean. "Water got pretty high from what I heard. Of course, ain’t no one been able to get out there and check on them, so there’s no way to know for sure."

"How about those Coast Guard helicopters? Why haven’t they been able to find anything?"

"Well, you have to understand what it’s like out there. Their house is probably little more than a shack built on sticks. It’s been there for ages and probably overgrown with vines and weeds. You would almost have to know where it is ahead of time and be right on top of it too see it, and even that’s not a given. Besides, with all of those stupid stories going around, no one’s going out there unless they have to."

"Stories?" Nick asked. "What stories?"

Dean paused for a moment before taking another swig of his beer. The crawfish were spicy, and it was all he could do to keep his acid reflux at bay.

"You know these Cajuns, Nick. A lot of them have lived out here their whole lives with little education and even less interaction with the outside world. The St. Pierres might be the worst of them, but they ain’t the only ones. Anyway, I have heard stories about ghosts and spirits and supernatural creatures haunting the swamp since I was a child. Most of them are just that – ghost stories no one takes seriously, told just to scare the little ones."

"Yeah, I’ve heard a few of those myself," Nick recollected.

"Well, lately, some of the stories have been getting scary. There’s talk of some kind of swamp monster roaming around and killing things. It’s got some of the locals spooked, even some of the ones you’d think would know better." Dean shook his head while telling the story, "Ignorant
coonasses
," he laughed. "Fucking swamp monster."

"Yeah, it does sound kinda stupid," Nick agreed. "Maybe it’s a distant relative of Bigfoot?"

The men laughed.

Dean thought about the incident on Bayou Blue Road and the missing Louisiana Gas employee. No trace of the man had ever been found, despite the exhaustive search they had conducted. By the copious amount of blood left at the site, there was little doubt the man met a gruesome fate as the meal of a hungry predator. It was only assumed that the guilty party had been an alligator of gigantic proportions, although whispers of another unknown beast made their way around.

Dean remembered the sensation of being watched when he came upon the scene and it made him shudder. He never saw whatever it was that had given him that feeling, but lately his slumber was haunted by visions of a demonic spirit gazing upon him from the darkness of the swamp. He promptly dismissed his misgivings, realizing how childish they were and changed the subject.

"You’re alright, Nick," Dean said. "I guess you know there’s talk going on about you behind your back."

Nick nodded, but kept quiet.

"Typical shit about your stint in Internal Affairs and all. I want you to know none of that shit means nothin’ to me. From what I’ve heard about Orleans Parish, someone had to take a stand. The way I figure it, if you’ve got nothin’ to hide, there’s nothin’ to worry about."

"Everyone’s got something to hide, Dean. I don’t care about any of that now, anyway. I’m not here for that. I’m here to help out in whatever way I can. Right now, I’m here to find those kids and anyone else that might be missing. I just hope I don’t run into that monster in the process."

The two men laughed again.

"Yeah, it does sound kind of stupid," Dean said, shaking his head. "Those rumors have been going around for awhile now, but ever since the storms hit, everyone seems to get in on it. I don’t know if it’s because everything is so uncertain now or because of some kind of post traumatic stress, but people are swearing they’ve seen or heard all of these ridiculous things. I put most of the blame on that girl they found."

Nick almost choked on the crawfish tail in his mouth.

"Girl?" he asked. "What girl?"

"I know what you’re thinking, but don’t read too much into it, Nick," Dean tried to explain. "There’s some girl that was found a couple of months ago that was lost in the swamp. No one really knows who she is, but she ain’t exactly the best historian. They got her locked up in the mental ward over at St. Elizabeth’s. She claims that there is some monster that lives in an old plantation in the swamp and hunts and kills people for sport. Fuel to the fire is all I can say. Never mind we live in the twenty-first century and never mind how many times I’ve tried to tell people there are no such things as swamp monsters or whatever. Instead, these dumbass inbred hicks believe some outlandish story told by some nut in the loony bin. Go figure."

Dean gulped down the last of his beer and headed for the bathroom leaving Nick alone at the table. What the hell has he gotten himself into? Ghosts, unknown creatures, plantations in the swamp inhabited by monsters, insane ramblings by an unknown lunatic in the local asylum; one theory more ridiculous than the next and at the heart of his budding investigation, the situation almost made Nick choke. He contemplated how likely it was that he was being set up in some elaborate prank. Either way, he concluded that he would be visiting a special guest of St. Elizabeth’s Mental Health Unit before long. If the joke was on him, he only hoped that, at the end, they would all be laughing. Deep inside something told him that there was going to be nothing funny about it.

Chapter Thirteen

St. Elizabeth’s

T
he best word Nicholas could use to describe the facilities at St. Elizabeth’s Institute for the Mentally Ill was ‘creepy’. Although it was built in the nineteen twenties, the Victorian architecture gave it a haunted house feel. Nick thought that, even when it was newly constructed, the building probably looked old. He was no expert in mental health, but Nick questioned the wisdom of housing paranoid schizophrenics in such a setting.

The interior of the building is not any better than the exterior, thought Nick. Even with the occasional modern upgrades, there was no undoing the eeriness that the architecture provided. The attempt at sterilizing the environment only made it more impersonal and unwelcoming. Every pore in Nick’s body told him to get out of there as soon as he was able. He could only imagine the terror of being locked inside such a place against your will, even for the sane. For those who suffer the unimaginable horrors of mental illness, it must have been unbearable.

After an extended wait and a round of credential checking, Nick was escorted by a pair of rather large gentlemen wearing nondescript white scrubs into a back office. He couldn’t help but notice how different the décor was once he arrived in the back. The walls were painted in warm, pastel colors that blended nicely with the Berber carpet and solid wood furniture. There were pictures of smiling family members on every wall, along with proud displays of diplomas and awards that attested to the unquestionable qualifications of the people in charge.

Nick waited in an outer office while being completely ignored by a middle-aged secretary with large horn-rimmed glasses and an absurd amount of makeup on her face. He tried not to stare at the painted-on eyebrows that were uneven and sitting higher on the woman’s face than the place where she had shaved off her actual eyebrows. He couldn’t understand the rationale of such an act of facial vandalism, but he never had the guts to ask why anyone would do that to themselves.

After another extended wait, Nicholas was called into the inner sanctum of one Dr. Theodore Newsome. Dr. Newsome was the Chief Psychiatrist at St. Elizabeth’s – not surprising considering his pedigree, history of attending Ivy League institutions, and the plethora of letters behind his name. His appearance was anything but imposing. Standing only five foot four and as thin as a rail, the good doctor looked like he might even tumble-over from just the weight of his spectacles. The Orville Redenbacher bow tie and leather elbow patches on the man’s sport coat eliminated any amount of smoothness the slight man might have possessed, and Nick couldn’t help but wonder if he smoked a pipe like the patriarch on My Three Sons. Dr. Theodore Newsome was exactly what Nick was expecting the chief headshrinker was going to be.

"I understand you’re here to see one of our patients, Officer Vizier?" the doctor asked.

"Detective. Detective Vizier," corrected Nick. He didn’t care how many letters or awards the doctor had, he wasn’t the least impressed or intimidated. "Yes, Doctor, I am."

"You are aware that some of your colleagues have interrogated the poor girl on several occasions already."

"Yes, I’m aware. Unfortunately, they didn’t do a very good job of it."

"No, they didn’t. To be perfectly frank with you, Detective, they made a mess of it."

"Which is why I’m here," said Nick.

"Which is why you’re here," stated the doctor, waving his arms to signify the office around them. "You need to understand a few things, Detective. The patient is in a very fragile state, and although we’ve been making progress, it’s been slow. There are still so many things that she’s been unable to tell us, and we have a long road ahead of us. Even the slightest amount of stress or undue pressure and we’re all back to square one. Now, I know that your office is trying to do everything you can to help out, and I respect the work you do. You just have to respect what it is that we do. In the end, the girl’s health is my primary concern and everything else is secondary to that. I’m sure you understand."

"So, what are you saying then, Doctor? Are you denying me access to the girl?"

"The girl, as you call her, is my patient. My only concern is for her. She has a name; a name that even she won’t tell us at this time. She has lived through something that has traumatized her beyond her ability to cope. In response, her mind has closed off much of her memory in an attempt to protect herself. In order to treat her, we are faced with allowing her the comfort of putting the past behind her while at the same time trying to help her face her fears in order to regain who she once was. It is a difficult task, maybe an impossible one, and we can’t have our progress damaged by your efforts, however important you feel they may be."

"With all due respect, Doctor, you have your job to do and I have mine. The girl is a witness, whether she knows what she saw or not, and I am well within my jurisdiction to question her as I see fit. I appreciate your concerns, and I will go about my duties with the utmost care, but I intend to question the witness all the same."

"With all due respect, Detective, the girl as you call her, is under my care. I can and will grant you access to her as I see fit. If you think you can override that, think again. You may use my phone to call the sheriff or anyone else you want, and I assure you, they will tell you the same thing."

"You don’t know her name any more than I do, Doctor, so why is it that you assume that my referring to her as the girl is demeaning in some way?"

"We call her Jane, a name we give to all female patients when we don’t know their proper name. We call her Jane, and I pointed out that she is not just a girl because I want to make sure you understand that she is a person. She is someone’s daughter, maybe someone’s sister, maybe someone’s mother, maybe someone’s girlfriend or wife, not just a witness or a girl for you to interrogate to help you in your quest, however noble it may be."

"I understand your point, Doctor, and it is well taken. Please, let me assure you of not only my intentions, but of my qualifications. It’s true that I’m not a psychiatrist or psychologist and have no advance degrees in mental health, but I’m not just some local deputy out to stir the pot. I’m aware of the girl’s – of Jane’s – situation; and I’m grateful to you that we are even having this talk. Your concerns are valid, but then again, so are mine. Perhaps there is some way we can come to a mutual agreement?"