The Uninvited (3 page)

“No,” he said, then slapped at his ankle.
Damn! Something just bit the hell out of me!”

“Fire ant,” his friend replied. “Ever since the government banned any chemical that would do any good, they're all over the place. I lost a dog to some last year. Damn government, always sticking their noses into things don't concern 'em. They're gonna keep on protectin' little fish and bugs and the damn bugs gonna take over the world some day.”

“I heard that,” his buddy said, once more slapping at his ankle. He raised his hand from his boot and for one second stood staring at the ugly creature attached to the back of his hand. The creature boldly returned the stare. The man's eyes held a mixture of fear and revulsion.

The creature's eyes gleamed with maliciousness.

Then both men began slapping at themselves, screaming and running across the field.

 

 

Baronne and Lapeer Parishes are mostly good, rich farm land, timber, and bayous. Good hunting, good fishing, good logging, and none of the stresses of city living. The combined populations of the two Parishes do not exceed twenty thousand. Lapeer Parish is the larger—land-wise—of the two. There are only five incorporated towns in the combined Parishes, the largest being Bonne Terre, population 8,000. Barnwell ran a close second—population, 7,491. Most agree it is a good place to raise a family.

The racial mix, both Parishes included, is about two to one, with whites in the majority. While white and black do not embrace each other in passionate gestures of brotherly love, there have never been any really serious, violent clashes. There are hot-headed nincompoops, narrow-minded racists (on both sides of the color line), but most people in the two Parishes try to ignore the troublemakers and go their own way. There are several high schools, about a half dozen elementary schools, and one private academy in the two Parishes. There have been no riots, burning, or looting. Of course, neither Parish had ever experienced full-scale panic. Yet.

 

 

“I'm tellin' you, sheriff,” the farmer said.
Carl Fowler and Dick Harris is gone. Vanished! There is not one sign of either of 'em anywhere. I looked!”

Sheriff Mike Grant of Baronne Parish looked across his desk and shook his head, thinking he really didn't need this tale this early in the morning. “Jim, come on, now—two grown men just don't suddenly disappear in the middle of a bean field.”

“Mike.” The farmer put his hands on the desk. “You tell me what happened to them. Now, I was there, you wasn't. I found the trucks, both of 'em, parked by the side of the road. One door was open, driver's side.”

“Which truck?”

“Carl's Ford.”

“And you waited how long before coming here?”

“Hell! Half hour. Maybe forty-five minutes. I waited there by the trucks ‘cause I had some business to talk over with Dick. Then I went lookin' for them. I prowled the left side, Dick's field. Must have stomped through forty acres of beans, hollerin' for them. Then I started over to Hampton's field, on the other side of the road.” The farmer shut his mouth abruptly, as if he had said too much already.

Sheriff Grant waited, looking at the man. Half a minute ticked by. “Well?” Mike urged.

Well, what?” the farmer said defensively. He would not, for some reason, meet the sheriff's eyes.

Sheriff Grant sighed patiently as he drummed his fingertips on the desk. “What did you find in Hampton's field, Jim? Hell, what else are we talking about?”

“I didn't go in there.” The man's reply was sullen. He would not meet the sheriff's eyes.

This is worse than pulling teeth from a bull 'gator, Mike thought, and wondered, for the millionth time, why he ever got into law enforcement, more than twenty years back. “Jim? Did you see anything in Hampton's field that made you suspicious?”

The farmer said nothing for a few seconds. “Nope,” he finally replied. A short, sulky answer.

Sheriff Grant took a sip of lukewarm coffee, then lit a cigarette. He remembered he had promised his wife he would quit smoking. That morning he had promised her he would try to quit. He decided to put it off for another day. Tomorrow, he would try again. “Why didn't you go into Hampton's field to look for Fowler and Harris?”

The farmer shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair. “'Cause of that damn clickin'!”

“Clicking? Clicking! Beg pardon, Jim? Did you say clicking?”

“That's what I said, Mike. You heard me right. Clicking. The damnest sound I ever heard in my life. Clicking. No other word for it.”

Sheriff Grant looked at his chief deputy, sitting across the room. Walt Burns shrugged his shoulders and asked, “You been drinking, Jim?”

“Now, damnit, Walt!” The farmer shifted his gaze from the floor to the deputy. His face flushed with anger and embarrassment. “You know damn well I haven't had a drink in ten years. Not since I joined the church. You know that for a fact.”

“I had to ask, Jim.”

“S'okay. I understand. No hard feelings. You got a job to do.”

“Did you see anything that might have caused this clicking sound?” Sheriff Grant asked.

“Nothing. That's what kinda spooked me.”

“We'll check it out, Jim,” Mike assured the man. “And thanks for coming in.”

“Didn't mean to get all sulled up, Mike. But I got scared out there in that field. Really scared. And what bugs me is I don't know why.”

Mike smiled. “Jim, you wouldn't be human if you didn't get scared time to time. I do, believe me.”

The office door closed behind the farmer. Sheriff Grant leaned back in his chair. “That's three disappearances today, Walt. And it's still early.”

“We going to sit on it?”

“Tight. Got to, until we find out what in the hell is goin' on.”

Walt got to his feet. “I'll check this one out.”

Walt?” Sheriff Grant said. The deputy met his eyes. “You be careful.”

The chief deputy nodded his understanding and left the room.

Burns headed out into the Parish, toward Hampton's place. What was happening in the Parish was a mystery to him, but he wasn't spooky about it. He didn't doubt Jim's words about hearing something, but it was something that could probably be explained away, like some damned ornery kids hiding out in the field making funny noises, getting a good laugh out of scaring the grownups.

As for where Fowler and Harris had gone off to—who the hell knew? Probably found a woman and were taking turns humping her in some hunting camp back in the timber. But why would they leave their trucks sitting by the side of the road? That part didn't make any sense.

But nothing about this really made any sense, he concluded. Any of it.

Chief Deputy Burns found the trucks and carefully looked around for any signs of violence. He found nothing out of the ordinary. There was no traffic on the Parish road. He had not seen one car or truck since turning on to Parish 119. Odd, he thought. He looked across the road to the house belonging to the Jeffersons. Grass needed mowing. Odd, 'cause Mrs. Jefferson loved to work in the yard. Her car and his truck in the drive, so both of them were home.

Walt shook his head and stepped out into the bean field, walking the rows. He heard no clicking.

 

 

The housewife swung the broom savagely, crushing the life from the ugly bug: She had never seen a bug so frightening—so ugly! And so big. And something else: it acted like it wasn't afraid of her. It stood its ground and glared at her. And it hissed and clicked and finally tried to attack her.

With the toe of her new tennis shoes, she pushed the dead thing onto a dust pan and, with a grimace, dropped the monster into the trash.

“Damn that pest control man!” she said. “He said I wouldn't be bothered with bugs this year.”

The house was quiet this time of the morning. She looked around the kitchen: spotless and good-smelling, with the faint odor of hotcakes and bacon from breakfast lingering with the smell of ribbon cane syrup and the pie baking in the oven.

She glanced out the window. Something had moved out in the back yard, over by the equipment shed. She looked again. Nothing. Well, she thought, there was something. That huge dark spot on the ground and that spot on the shed.

“What in the world?” she muttered, squinting at the unfamiliar splotches. She rubbed her eyes. “I guess I'd better make an appointment with the eye doctor,” she spoke to the empty house. She looked out the window and could not believe her eyes. The spots were gone.

“Oh, this is ridiculous!” she said. “I better make that appointment first thing.”

She took down the phone and called into Barnwell, making an appointment with her eye doctor. Then she dialed her good friend, Ruth Black. Ruth lived a mile down the road.

“Ruthie? If you got the time for a cup of coffee, come on down. Pie'll be ready time you get here. Know any good gossip? Really? I can't wait—come on down.”

She hung up, then again looked out the window. The splotches were back. But they appeared to have moved.

“Well, this is silly! Somebody is playing tricks on me.” She jerked open the kitchen door and marched to the shed.

The pie was ready when Ruthie got there, thirty minutes later, but Beth Johnson was gone. Slightly miffed, Ruthie turned off the oven, removed the pie, and set it out to cool. The coffee pot was bubbling, so she turned off the burner.

Ruthie stood in the clean kitchen, thinking. Strange she would invite me down and then take off before I get here. Didn't even leave a note. That's not like Beth. Wonder where she went?

Ruthie looked out the kitchen window. The husband's pickup was gone, but her friend's car was parked in the drive. She lifted her eyes to the shed. The tractors were parked there, as usual. Then she remembered she hadn't heard the Johnson's dog barking when she drove up. And he never strayed away. Strange. She looked again. A tennis shoe lay in front of the shed. Some dogs probably dragged it up from only God knew where. Ruthie didn't know whether to wait, or to go on home. She decided to go home.