Bayou Whispers

ONEPresent DaySt. Dismas ParishTHE AIR FELT THICK, and Curtis Jones always had trouble breathing this time of year. The rain had followed the sunset, but it couldn’t wash away the humidity of summer. The moisture in the air hung like damp towels, causing Jones to work harder for each breath. It might have been the after-effects of Desert Storm. Or the cigarettes. Or maybe it was the fact he was on the downslope toward sixty. For whatever reason, he should have been at home, taking it easy with a bourbon in hand and a sizzling steak fresh off the grill on a paper plate. Or maybe watching the news. Or one of those Lifetime movies Georgina used to like so much.He should have been doing anything but driving his classic 1987 Grand National T-Type at seventy-plus miles per hour on the slick tarmacadam of Route 21 South while being chased by two sheriff’s deputies in a couple of Ford Explorers. But such was the life of a criminal who dipped his wick in the territory run by Majo

THREESt. Dismas Parish Sheriff’s OfficeInterview Room #2THE ROOM WAS sparse and smelled of old cigarettes and sweat. A worn table, chipped, with the word “fuck” scratched in its surface an impressive number of times, stood between the hand-cuffed man facing the two-way mirror and the man with his back to those watching and listening. A single dented lamp hung over the table, casting shadows along the walls and on the stained ceiling tiles. The room was supposed to intimidate. The room was supposed to scare those brought into it. For Curtis Jones, the room reminded him of his past. He smiled at the thought.The former cop had a dozen cuts and abrasions that had been hastily bandaged. The bump on his forehead throbbed, and he knew he’d have two black eyes by morning, but he had somehow miraculously survived.Jones rubbed the tangled hair of his goatee. The old man with matted long hair that he watched in the mirror did the same. When did I get so old? He shifted in hi

FIVEGreenwood Cemetery Caretaker’s CottageNew OrleansTHE “SAFE PLACE” was a cemetery.One of the krewe—Richard “Red Rooster” Romain, a black Baptist with a penchant for the occult—worked as the caretaker and lived in the small cottage nestled between the stone and marble above-ground graves.“The neighbors don’t put up much of a fuss,” he’d once said when asked why he liked living surrounded by the dead. But Jones knew the truth had to do more with the former Ranger’s interest in Voodoo, than it did with peace and quiet.A three-legged cat let out a loud “meow” as Curtis entered the dimly lit cottage. The place smelled of fried sausage and peppers, and the growl from his stomach reminded him the last time he’d had something to eat was a cold slice of pizza earlier that day.“Rooster!” Jones called. “Hey, Roo!” He deliberately made a lot of noise as the old man of his krewe had a blown eardrum from the war. Probably only one of a handful of soldiers whose Purple Heart was

SEVENFebruary 2006WGNO Temporary Studio Outside the Louisiana Superdome“DON’T BE NERVOUS,” said Stanley with a reassuring smile. “You’ve done TV before. I’ll be with you the whole time. Look at me if you get nervous, okay?”“I’ll be fine, Uncle Stanley,” said fourteen-year-old Jeannine. “You worry too much.”“The people want an update on you,” continued Stanley as if she hadn’t spoken. “Talk about your new prosthetic. And don’t forget to mention the charity event next week. That will lead right into the announcement of my new talk show.”“I know, Uncle Stanley!”“And don’t call me “uncle” on the air, okay? Might give people the wrong impression, got it?”Jeannine nodded.“Say you’ve got it.”She sighed. “I’ve got it, Stanley.”“That’s my girl,” he said, as he put his arm around her shoulders.“One minute, Dr. Bernstein,” said the news director.JBack in the make-shift green room, Curtis Jones, in his dress uniform, paced nervously while watching the broadcast. He

NINEThe StormHAD THE VISION of her mother, Cassandra, on the roof been real? Had she, and maybe even Nana, somehow survived? How would she find them? How would they find her? These thoughts tormented her for hours as she struggled to stay alive, clinging to the shattered remains of the roof.Rain sliced at her, mixing with her tears and blood. The storm was alive—a beast, a monstrous beast hell-bent on killing her. Wind tore around Jeannine, trying to throw her off balance into the waiting arms of the waters below and laughing at her like Cassandra had. Debris tore at her body, rending pajamas and flesh. This creature made of wind, rain, and fear had tasted Jeannine’s blood and wanted more. It tried every trick to wear her down, to destroy her.But she persevered.The wind gave up first, quieting to an impotent breeze. Then, the needles of rain faded to a trickle. Despite the realization that she was alone, Jeannine called for her mother, for her Nana, her tears and blood