Butcher of the Bayou

Part 2

The screen door slams as I rush to give Momma her tonic. Normally, she would yell at me about making too much noise on the count of her head hurting her. That should have been the first sign something was amiss. The kitchen chair flipped over on its side, not unusual when her temper comes out, but the man standing in the living room wearing a suit and tie—well, that was a big red flag.

"Who are you, and where is my momma?" I reach around and rest my hand on the knife I keep in my back pocket. He is pretty swanky looking. I could take him if I had to—or at least buy myself enough time to run.

"I'm Detective Cooper. The door was open, and no one answered when I called out."

"So you just trespassed on in my house? Detective."

He smirks. His straight white teeth gleam at me.

I want to punch him in his stupid face.

"Your mother. Is she here?"

He steps further into the room, his eyes missing nothing."She is sick in bed. Why do you want to know?"

"I need to ask you some questions. Fleur, is it?"

I eyeball him with my meanest look. My nose all crunched up, and my lips in a snarl.

"What about?' I snap.

"I have seen you at the last two crime scenes. Did you know those girls?"

"It's a small town; everyone knows everyone." I bark.

That smirk is back on his face. I imagine the wheels turning inside his head, trying to figure me out.

"What can you tell me about them? Did they have boyfriends? Were they on any school teams?" He reaches down and rights the chair before taking a seat in it. He crosses his legs at the ankle and leans back. He is a smug bastard.

"Why don't you just ask their families those questions? Why do you have to come here and bother me with such stupidity." I cross over and sit on the chair straight across from him, resting my elbows on the oak table. This close, I can see the faint line of an old scar just above his eyebrow.

"I did, but I want to hear from you. Maybe you saw or know something the families don't. Maybe those two girls had secrets." His lip twitched, a small movement I don't think he realized he did.

Is it a tell?

Is he lying to me?

"They are a grade above me. I don't know nuttin' about their personal lives."

His eyes narrow, and he exhales in frustration. I can see him being a nasty fellow under the right circumstances. I touch the bone handle of my knife to reassure myself it's still there.

"I think you see and know more than you tell me, Fleur. How about we trade information? I tell you something about the murders, and you tell me something about them girls?"

Intriguing... But do I want to start this game?

"You first." I nod my head and wait. This time, he smiles — no smirk, just a real smile. He thinks he caught me, and maybe he did.

"All the victims were killed in the same way and the same place before being dumped in the swamp."

Interesting if he is telling the truth. "What was the method by which they were killed?" I blurt out

"Not so fast. It's your turn."

Damnit, I want to know what he knows. How much should I tell the detective?

"The new girl Sissy, she and Laura shared a common person. That is meant to be a secret."

His eyes light up, and I know I have him. This is information only a few know about, and two are now dead. He is an eager beaver but doesn't want me to know. His lips twitch again, and I am confident it means he is about to lie.

"Yes, I have heard this rumor. I would like to hear your version, though."

I bet you would (liar, liar, pants on fire).

"The way they were killed?" I lean forward on the edge of my chair, holding his gaze. His eyes seem to change from brown to green under the kitchen light.

"They were strung up by the ankles and bled. Till every last drop of blood was drained out, but before that, they were tortured. Carved up like a turkey on Thanksgiving."

I lean back, my dark mind imagining the scene. I imagine their screams and tears. They probably pleaded and begged all to no avail. Like that fine cajun music, the devil enjoyed their terror-like music to his ears.

"Eloi Guidry." His name rolls off my tongue like honey. Now go on. I have a sick momma to tend to, detective."

He smirks as he stands up, and the chair scrapes across the old wooden floor. I don't bother showing him out, but I watch as he leaves. I wait for the screen door to slam shut before I stand. The tonic in my hand as I make my way upstairs. The smell of vomit greets me as I open her bedroom door. The lights are off, and the curtain is drawn.

"Momma, it's me. I got your medicine." A slight moan lets me know she is still alive, at least for now. I cross the room and turn on the bedside lamp. It casts an eerie glow over her pale face. Her lips are chapped, and there is dried vomit on her chin. My heart squeezes painfully in my chest. I know there is nothing I can do to help her, to change the course of her or my life. Those stones were thrown ages ago. Nothing left to do but watch the ripple effect.

I lifted her fragile head and poured the tonic down her throat. She gags from the taste. I don't know what is in it, but it smells like the place poop goes to die.

I take a cloth and clean her face. She doesn't move or give any sign she knows I am here.

"Goodnight, mama." I place a kiss on her forehead and leave the room in search of fresh air. Away from the stench of sickness. Away from the sad woman lying in the sweat-covered bed.