The Uninvited (6 page)

“Of course, here in the Parish. Right here in Barnwell.” He almost yelled the words at Ellis and was sorry the instant he spoke. “Doc?” he softened his tone, smiling. “Me and the wife have the house to ourselves this evening, and that's rare. You know, you're married with kids. It's cozy tonight. Or,” he said, removing his hat, shaking it free of water, “it was till you called. Look, I hate to have to explain the birds and the bees to you, but me and the wife was sorta figuring on playin' momma and daddy tonight, a little bit later on, if you get what I mean. And I hope to hell you do, 'cause if you don't, your folks sure wasted a bunch of money sendin' you to med school.”

Ellis laughed. He rose from behind his desk and picked up the shot glasses, handing one to Mike. “Drink it, buddy. Drink it all. You're going to need it, believe me.”

Mike sighed, then tasted the whiskey, a small sip, a little swallow to appease an old friend who appeared drunker than Cooter Brown.
Folks been callin' my office all day, Ellis. Missin' friends and family. Roy Barnes's whole herd of cows got . . . eaten today.”

“I know,” Ellis said quietly. “Walt was in this afternoon. He told me. I must confess, I owe the man an apology. I didn't believe him at first.”

At first? Wonder what changed his mind? “What do we have, Ellis?”

“We have a dead man, Mike.”

“Doc.” Sheriff Grant held his temper in check. “Come on, don't play games with me. We go back a long ways—more than twenty years. What's so special about this dead man? We've seen more dead men than either of us care to recall.”

The storm raged outside the small clinic in the small town of Barnwell, blasting the night with rainy fury and the split second bursts of lightning.
The way he was killed,” Doctor Ashley muttered. He looked at the glass in his hand and knocked back the amber liquid.

“Did you say killed?”

“Yes.” Ellis motioned his friend to follow him into the examining room. “I'll list the cause of death as heart attack—and I won't be wrong. It was a massive attack, believe me. His heart literally exploded. From fear, I should imagine. He was probably running away from ... them.”

Something cold and slimy touched Sheriff Grant's backbone, spreading tentacles of fear through his body. “Them? Did you say them, Ellis?”

Yes.”

“What is this, a science fiction plot?”

“I wish it were.”

A very large roach ran across the tiled and scrubbed floor. Sheriff Grant stepped on it, mashing it under the sole of his boot, cringing at the popping sound. “That's not good for business, Doc. You'd better get the pest control man in here to do something about that.”

The look he received from Doctor Ashley further heightened his feelings that something was very wrong.

“The body was terribly dirty when it was brought to me this afternoon. I washed it carefully. It was then I noticed the bites all over the body. Very deep bites, as you will soon see.”

Doctor Ashley put his hand on the corner of the sheet covering the body on the narrow examining table. The hand was shaking. “You asked about the pest control man, Mike? Well, here he is.”

Then he whipped back the sheet, letting it drift ghost-like to the floor.

Billy Oldroyd's body was covered with bites; deep, jagged, vicious bites. Mike had never seen anything like it. The body had been autopsied, the chest cavity exposed, from neck to waist.

The glass of whiskey dropped from Sheriff Grant's fingers. His face paled. He fought to keep down his supper. “Oh, my God!” he blurted. “Dear sweet Jesus!”

Billy Oldroyd was full of roaches.

Just below Baronne Parish, the Mississippi River to the east, and the Velour River and the Lost Swamp on the west side, in the Seat of Lapeer Parish, Bonne Terre, Sheriff Vic Ransonet prepared to close his office for the evening. It had been a long and trying day. Also a strange day. There had been too many missing persons reports for a Parish this size. And Vic's chief deputy had spoken with the chief deputy of Baronne Parish. They, too, had too many missing persons.

Vic sat behind his desk and shuffled through a stack of MP's reports, looking up as a deputy walked into the room. “Not another one?” he asked, hope fading as the deputy nodded his head.

“‘Fraid so, Sheriff. Bill and Diana Cole reported missing. They were supposed to be in Shreveport at ten o'clock this morning. But they never showed.”

Vic sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. He was tired. “You call their house?”

Yes, sir. Several times. No answer.”

“Go out there?”

“Not yet. Was just going to do that. Thought I'd bring you up to date on the latest.”

“Thanks ever so much,” he smiled. “You call the Highway Patrol?”

“Yes, sir. First thing. No wrecks involving the Coles, no tickets, nothing.”

“Maybe they changed their minds and headed off in another direction?”

“I doubt it. It's Diana's mother they were going to visit. She's been sick. The mother said they called last night to confirm when they'd be leaving here and when they'd get there. The old lady is pretty upset about all this.”

Ransonet's eyes bored into his. “Something's eating on you. Come on, give.”

The young deputy hesitated for a moment, then said, “I think we've had way too many missing person calls. We average about what in this Parish—one a month? Look how many we've had just this day alone.”

Go on.”

The deputy shrugged. “What else can I say? Kidnapping? I don't think so. Neither does anyone else around this department. It's frustrating. Nothing ties in—nothing fits. And the only pattern is that one day these folks are here, well and happy, and the next day they're gone. Like they walked off the edge of the earth.”

Yeah,” Sheriff Ransonet agreed. “I know, Jimmy. Okay, you better take a run out to the Cole farm, look around.” The phone rang, interrupting him. “Hang on just a second, Jimmy.” He answered his phone.
Yeah? Hey, Mike. How's things up in Baronne? Oh? That's tough. Yeah, his wife's been calling every half hour since noon. Sure, I'll tell her. What got him, Mike, heart attack?”

Sheriff Ransonet listened for a full minute, his face paling with each tick of the big office clock. He was aware of a dead feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Mike, are you serious, man?” His eyes touched the young deputy. “Jesus Christ! Okay. Sure! Hell, yes, I'll sit on it. This just might be a fluke, Mike. Yeah, me too. Right. I'll be back in touch in about an hour or so.”

“They find Billy Oldroyd?” Jimmy asked.

Yeah, what was left of him.” Sheriff Ransonet wiped his sweaty face with a handkerchief. “I gotta hunch it's gonna be a long night, Jimmy. Get on the phone before you leave and call Slick. Tell him to meet me here in half an hour. Right here!” He thumped his desk. “I've got to go tell Mrs. Oldroyd about Billy—as much as I dare tell her, that is.”

“What do you mean, Sheriff? I don't understand any of this. You said what was left of him.”

“Just get Slick in here. I'll tell you later. Go on, Jimmy.”

Jimmy turned to leave.

“Wait a minute!” Sheriff Ransonet's voice stopped him.

The deputy turned around. “Yes, sir?” Something in the sheriff's voice was funny. And his face was flushed.

“You be careful, hear? Don't get out of the car at the Cole house. Use your spotlights. Put your lights on bright and honk the horn for as long as you think is necessary. But
don't
get out of the car.”

“All right, sir. You gonna tell me why I have to be so cautious on a routine call?”

Vic hesitated for a second, then made up his mind. Jimmy was a cop, putting his ass on the line every time he went out on a call. He had a right to know.
Billy Oldroyd was full of bugs. The coroner opened him up this afternoon. And he'd been eaten. There's more. Two farmers up in Baronne vanished this morning, in the middle of a bean field. An entire herd of cattle was eaten—right down to the bare bones. All of them. Even the hide and hair. Couple of housewives are missing. Just like what's happening around here. So you be careful, Jimmy.”

“Are you putting me on, Sheriff?”

Ransonet slowly shook his head.

“What kind of bugs was he full of?” Jimmy swallowed hard, and with difficulty. His stomach felt queasy. That hamburger he'd had for supper, maybe.

“Mike Grant said they kinda looked like roaches.”

 

 

“Oh, wow, Mickey!” the girl said. “That is really some kind of super-fine shit!”

The boy passed the joint to her, leaning back in the seat as the smoke filled his lungs. The teenagers were satisfied to sit in silence for a moment, content to drift. They each took another sip of wine.

“Colombian,” Mickey said.

“Huh?”

“The grass. Supposed to come from Colombia. It does have a real good jolt to it, don't it?”

Yeah.”

The joint smoked down to a roach, the coal carefully knocked off and the remains placed in a matchbox and stowed under the seat, the teenagers relaxed for a moment.

“You love me, Judy?”

“Sure. You know I do.”

“Let's do it, Judy.”

The teenagers, both of whom would be seniors the next school year, were parked two miles from the Cole house, down a rutted road, in Mickey's four-wheel drive Bronco. Timber loomed dark around them, casting tall shadows in the gloom of the bayou country. The trees swayed gently in the wind.

The boy kissed her, put his arm around her shoulders, and cupped a soft breast, feeling the nipple harden in his palm. She wore no bra. The rock music ripped through the confines of the Bronco. Judy moaned against his searching tongue and rubbed her hand on his crotch, feeling him harden and thicken through his jeans. Fashion jeans, of course, with a little name on one pocket. Thirty dollars a throw.

The teenagers struggled to undress in the closeness of the Bronco. Judy slid under him, moaning as his erection pushed into tight wetness.

Caught up in the waves of Heavy Metal blasting through the speaker, gripped by passion, the young couple did not notice as the windshield darkened, their groaning covering the soft brushing sounds as the Bronco became swathed in hairy, ugly darkness. Antennae constantly moved, testing the night. Thousands of eyes viewed without comprehension the thrashing within the vehicle.

The driving passion of the young pair increased, with Judy hunching upward to meet his plunging. The rain had long since gentled into a fine, light mist.