Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 13 - The Diamonds of Ghost Bayou Read Free

there was about forty-five minutes left of daylight, which should
be plenty of time to reach their home on Bayou Fantome. Back
in Austin, when Jack told me the location of the house, I’d kept
my mouth shut. While I am far from glib in the Cajun French
patois, I knew the English translation for Bayou Fantome was
“Ghost Bayou.” And in that neck of the Louisiana woods, there
was a reason for most names given by the old-timers.
    The narrow macadam road led into a dark forest thickly
populated with pine and occasional oak, obviously one of the thousands of tree farms throughout Louisiana. The tall pines
formed a canopy fifty feet overhead, giving the impression of
driving through a tunnel.

    As dusk drew near, a few rabbits ventured onto the shoulder.
Back off the road, a deer looked up as I passed. I glanced down
the road. I was close. Just around the next curve, according to
Diane’s directions.
    A deer leaped out in front of me. I slammed on the Silverado’s brakes. The tires screeched and then hit a stretch of sand
washed over the road from the last heavy rain. I slid into a ditch
on the left side of the road.
    I slammed the truck into reverse, but the wheels just spun.
Cursing under my breath, I hopped out and stared at the front
wheel buried hub-deep in the soft mud. I kicked the wheel and
cursed some more, dreading the walk back to town.
    Abruptly, the wheezing and rattling of an old truck broke the
silence. I looked around. A hundred feet down the narrow road, an
ancient pickup almost identical to my Grand-pere Moise’s 1949
Chevrolet came out of a dirt road and turned in my direction.
    The pickup ground to a halt beside me. The bed was full of
scrap metal and aluminum cans. A cigarette dangling between
his lips, a wrinkled old man peered out the window and cackled.
“Need some help?”
    Talk about a rhetorical question. I played the game. “You bet.”
    Leaving the sixty-year-old pickup idling and gasping, he
clambered out and shuffled around to me. He was skinnier than
a fence post, and his overalls and denim shirt hung on him like
a scarecrow’s. He paused, looked up at me, and then glanced at
the wheel mired in the ditch.
    Without a word, he turned back to his pickup and fished in
one corner of the bed and pulled out a chain. “Put one end on
your tow ball,” he said, glancing at the trailer hitch on my back
bumper. He deftly formed a large loop in the other end of the
chain and draped it around the tow ball on his truck.
    Two minutes later, I was out.
    I wanted to pay him, but he refused. I knew he would. Those
old-timers always do.

    He eyed me warily. “You be a stranger?”
    “Yeah. Name’s Tony Boudreaux from up around Church Point.”
    The wrinkled old man took a deep drag off his unfiltered cigarette. “They call me Rouly. I got me a place back down that
road-right on the bayou.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “You
looking for somebody?”
    I hooked my thumb over my shoulder. “Visiting some friends
down the road.”
    His face clouded with suspicion. “Ain’t nobody live there. The
place, it be filled with haints. Has been since old man Prioux sell
it.” He paused, concentrating. “Let’s see, that was-” His face lit.
“Oui. Nineteen fifty. I remember because that one, he sell it the
year after I buy this truck of mine.”
    I was about to dismiss the old man as a loony, one of those
who had lived in the woods too long with only alligators and
snakes to keep him company.
    He continued, tapping his chest with his middle finger. “Me,
Augustus J. Rouly, I see the feu follet; it play there with the loupgarou. Me, I see lights at night.”
    I ignored his fancies. “My friends bought the house. Those
are probably the lights you see.”
    And he ignored my explanation. “It good I find you. Just a
couple nights ago, old L. Q. Benoit was walking down this very
road. The loup-garou, he jump him. He turn himself into a horse
and kill Benoit