Wayne Patrick

pwbracken@cox.net

Chapter 26

Poulet had consulted another new client after Jeb McKenna and elected to walk to McCauley's Cafe for lunch.

As he locked the door and walked out on Main Street, he sensed a hint of autumn. He flared his nostrils and took in the musty scent of decaying leaves and wet trees: the same aroma he'd found during the fall season in Paris. He playfully kicked a pile of leaves aside and watched them cartwheel down the street as he started his walk to the café.

Lunchtime found McCauley's crowded. Emily caught sight of Poulet entering and their eyes met. She gave him a smile as she continued to serve patrons. He found an unoccupied table. Another waitress came by and handed him a menu.

While he checked the daily specials, he heard the creak of bending leather and sensed a nearby presence. He turned to his left to see a holstered revolver hugging a pair of narrow hips with a thumb hooked over the top of the belt. His eyes followed shirt buttons up to a pair of broad shoulders and a dark mustache resting on a swarthy lip. The lips moved and uttered, "Mind if I join you?"

"Oh, of course not, sheriff," Poulet said. Intimidated by the sheriff's looming size, he stood up and shook hands. "Please, join me."

Sheriff Stiles took a seat and the waitress brought another menu. As he settled in, he said, "I am Sheriff Lucien Stiles, Mr. Poulet."

"I gathered that, sheriff." Poulet set his menu aside. "How did you know my name?"

"Word gets around, this bein' such a small community. Big Cloud is a little town, but there sure as hell are a lot of faces." Stiles shifted in his chair. "So, Mr. Poulet, I hear you're a doctor."

"Of sorts, sheriff," Poulet said as he rotated his spoon in the sunlight. He picked up his napkin and rubbed off the smudges. "I am not in any sort of competition with Doctor Foster, though."

The waitress came by, took their orders and poured coffee.

Stiles blew the steam off his coffee. "Exactly what kind of doctor are you?"

Poulet fussed with his linen napkin, rubbing it between his thumb and index finger. "I use medicinal plants as remedies. Plants and prayers for the afflicted."

The sheriff ran the edge of his hand across his unruly mustache in a crude attempt at taming the wiry hairs. "May I ask what your patients are afflicted with?"

"All sorts of maladies from the head to the toe," Poulet replied. "Also, matters of the soul."

"The soul, huh? Maybe you're a preacher then, too?"

Poulet shook his head with a dismissive nod. "Not at all," he replied. "I am a practitioner of the art of healing with plants and herbs and as such, consider myself the holder of a doctorate in that regard. I also practice Voodoo. Have you heard of Voodoo, sheriff?"

The sheriff's eyes moved away from Poulet and to the front window. "Yes, I have," he said, "but I don't know much about it."

"Let's just say I put a bit of, uh, magic into my practice."

"I see." After a slight pause, the sheriff deadpanned, "Do you do card tricks?"

Poulet let out a snort.

"I wasn't being serious Mr. Poulet," the sheriff said, as he began to chuckle. Poulet found the sheriff's laugh infectious and joined in with a distinctive chortle of his own, relaxing the tension.

The sheriff slurped his coffee. "Can you heal broken hearts, Mr. Poulet?"

Poulet replied, "If the patient is motivated enough then, yes, I believe I would have a chance at doing just that."

The sheriff scanned the room. "Well, sir, there's someone around here that is in need of your services."

"And who would that be, sheriff?"

Stiles leaned in with a husky whisper. "Stuart DuChamp's wife, Jessica."

Poulet's gaze dropped to the clouds of cream in his coffee. "Oh, yes, I, uh, heard." 

"It's really tragic, Mr. Poulet," the sheriff continued. "Mr. DuChamp's body was, well . . ."

"Yes, I heard, sheriff," Poulet said, looking up. "It all seems so very gruesome.”

Stiles' thumb nudged the handle of his cup. He swiveled it back and forth and around and around in the saucer. "I cannot understand how a man can do something so horrific to a fellow human being. It baffles me, Mr. Poulet."

"I've heard it was a black bear that caused the damage, sheriff."

"Don't count on it, sir." Stiles glanced around the crowded cafe again and turned back to Poulet. "There's more to it than that. If you want to know the truth, I believe it was a man and that same man took both lives of DuChamp and Jordan."

"If that is the case sheriff, I am in utter shock." Poulet picked up his knife and inspected the polished silver blade. He turned it over and over again, squinting at the surface and letting a sunbeam reveal any defects. He turned back to the sheriff. "Have you any leads?" 

"No. Neither Jordan nor DuChamp had any enemies as far as we know. They were both well respected in the community."

An older woman dining at the adjacent table covered her eyes as the blinding flash of Poulet's knife-flipping passed over her eyes time after time. She tapped Poulet on the shoulder and requested he stop. He complied. He set the knife down, picked up the fork and continued with his distraction.

The waitress brought their lunch and Poulet took a bite of his baked chicken. "Sheriff, may I ask, if these men did indeed have no enemies, why would someone want to kill them?"

"That is something I have to find out," the sheriff said as he dug into his lunch. "I know most of the people around these parts and see their faces most every week. None of 'em have a guilty look. 'Course, that doesn't mean a goddamn thing." He swallowed a chunk of meat. "You can't tell a killer just by lookin' at him." 

Poulet picked up his napkin and dabbed the corners of his mouth. "Sheriff Stiles, I certainly hope you don't think I--"

"No, no, Mr. Poulet." The sheriff waved a dismissive hand. "You just arrived here and rented a house. Don't think you'd wanna stay in town if you had anything to do with any of . . . this."

"Thank you." Poulet took a bite of his biscuit.

Stiles changed the subject and sounding more congenial, said, "I hear the house you rented is at the top of Main Street - uh, Maxine Bishop's place?"

"Yes, it's my residence and office. Why don't you come by at your earliest convenience for a visit and consultation?"

"Don't need a doctor for nothin’,” the sheriff grumbled, "just need someone to tell me what the hell's goin' on around here." 

Poulet paused as he finished chewing. "Well, my door is always open, Sheriff Stiles. Feel free to drop by anytime."

"Thank you," Stiles said between chews. He sawed off another chunk of steak. "You haven't seen anyone acting peculiar, have you?"

"Peculiar? No, but then, I've been here less than a week."

The sheriff's earnest blue eyes focused on Poulet's. "Haven't seen anything suspicious?"

"Sheriff, remember, I'm from New Orleans. Suspicious here is totally different from suspicious there. Everyone in New Orleans is suspicious. Since I am so new here, I wouldn't know what suspicious looked like." 

"You make a good point," the sheriff said, finishing his last bite of lunch. He laid fifty cents on the table and stood up to leave. "Let me know if you hear or see anything out of the ordinary, Mr. Poulet."

"I will certainly do that."

Stiles said good day and left McCauley's.

Poulet hadn't finished his lunch. He wasn't in a hurry. 

Emily continued to hurry about the cafe, taking orders and juggling plates and coffeepots. Her quitting time was officially one o'clock and it was a few minutes before one.

One o'clock came. Emily took her apron off and hung it on a post behind the counter. She joined Poulet at his table. With a bright smile, she asked him, "How was your lunch, Antoine?"

"Exceptional, Miss Meriwether. Please give my compliments to the chef."

"I will do so." She continued, "I see you had lunch with Sheriff Stiles."

"Yes, he seems to be a nice gentleman. He was fishing for answers concerning the recent killings."

Emily's brows lowered. "Why would you have any answers?"

"I wouldn't and don't. I told him since I was new here, I didn't know many of the inhabitants yet, so he was asking the wrong person."

"What'd he say?"

Poulet swallowed the last of the chicken. "He was cordial. He asked me to keep him abreast of any suspicious behavior I may come across."

"Who's behavior? Anyone's? Does that include you?"

The slant of a smile crossed Poulet's lips. "I didn't get that impression, no." He took a sip of coffee. "They brought Ben Jordan in just after I arrived. Why would I even be here if I had anything to do with . . .”

"You know as well as I that it's just his job, Antoine. He's receiving enormous pressure to find the person responsible." She commenced a tapping of her fingers on the table. "Since you're new in town, he probably just wanted to get to know you."

"He was an inquisitive fellow, but most effective lawmen have to be. Mostly, though, it was just small talk."

Poulet recalled his conversation with Jeb McKenna. The sheriff may be looking for the wrong person, if it was a person. "I agree. He just wanted to get acquainted." He dabbed the napkin at his lips and set it down next to his barren plate. "But, enough of this morbid talk. What are your plans for this afternoon?"

"No plans," Emily said, playing with a stray curl of her hair. "I was just going to go back to Mrs. Gallagher's, rest, and then maybe sit in her garden and read."

"Would you care to accompany me on my walk?" he asked as he folded his napkin. "It's such a beautiful autumn day."

"I'd love that," she said with an enthusiastic smile. "Where are we going?"

"Just along the river and perhaps into the hills. I need plants for my medicines and I need to find them soon, though. Winter's on the way and they'll just wither away." 

"Sounds like a pleasant afternoon adventure. It’s been ages since I’ve walked along the river." She pushed herself away from the table. "Let me go home and freshen up and then I'll meet you at the dock in say, half-an-hour or so?"

"I look forward to our afternoon engagement, Miss Meriwether."

They stood up from the table. Poulet reached down and picked up his soiled napkin. He refolded it, the crisp creases now lined up in perfect symmetry and awaiting its bath in the nearest washtub.

They left McCauley's. Emily walked to Chestnut Street. Poulet walked home and put a "Closed" sign on his front door.

Chapter 27

Ida Duncan ran from the house in tears as her husband tied his horse to a post. "Jake, you're home!" she said. "I prayed the whole time you were gone that you’d be delivered back to me safely and here you are. Praise the Lord!" 

"Not to worry, dear. Got three fine beaver pelts for my labors."

"You stayed at the cabin last night?"

"Thought about stayin' another day. Changed my mind. Had three pelts already." I ain't tellin' her anymore.

"Well, when you get done out here, come in the house. I just made beef stew."

"Be right in."

He was still baffled with what had happened the night before. After having had only a few pulls on the jug, he figured he hadn't been drunk. What puzzled him was not so much the feel of the experience, but the sound of it and the spinning ball of light. The howling and breathing and scratching and pounding was still fresh in his memory. A shiver spread from his back to the prickled hairs on his neck as he unloaded the last of his trapping gear and the pelts. He led the mule to its stall in the barn.

Duncan finished his stew, walked out of the cabin and unhitched his horse. Ida gave him a quick kiss as he saddled up. He told her he was going into town for supplies and started down the trail.

Something he did not relish was discussing his experience with someone, but knew in order to retain his sanity, he'd have to. He immediately discounted speaking with Stiles and Foster. What he'd learned from a dock worker in Dorland's Saloon was that Antoine Poulet had been very particular about his baggage and its handling and had mentioned his crystal containers of herbs and potions during some idle chit-chat. The worker told Duncan that Poulet had said that he was a Voodoo doctor and was called a bokor. Duncan wasn't too familiar with Voodoo, but knew someone with Poulet’s credentials would be the first person to talk to. He knew his story would be unbelievable to anyone but Poulet or Jeb McKenna.

Despite the slight chill, the day was clear. Ever-shifting dappled sunlight played on the river road. As he rounded the bend into town, he took notice of two figures strolling hand-in-hand. As he got closer, he recognized Antoine Poulet and Emily Meriwether.

He stopped his horse, dismounted and removed his hat. "Beautiful afternoon, is it not, Mr. Poulet?" Tipping his hat to Emily, he added, "Miss Meriwether. Nice to see you again. What brings you two out of town?"

"We're gathering plants for my practice before they all die with the coming frosts," Poulet replied. "There are some interesting plants growing here that I was convinced I would never see in these parts."

Duncan shifted his weight to his other foot. "Uh, Mr. Poulet," he said, "I was just on my way to speak with you about a grave matter." He looked down, scratched his nose and looked back up. "I need to ask. What kinda doctorin' do you do?"

"Well, Mr. Duncan--"

"Jake."

"Uh, Jake. My practice entails remedies for the healing of the body or soul. I guess you could say I'm an unorthodox, but knowledgeable, medical doctor. Sometimes, there's no known conventional medical cure, so, I offer an unconventional alternative."

Duncan looked around again and licked his lips. "Actually, I believe I do have a malady of the soul,” he continued in a whisper. “I got a story that you may or may not be interested in hearing. Might be hard for you to believe what I got to tell ya, but I reckon you may be able to help me."

"Yes? In what way?" Poulet asked.

"All I can say is that, well . . . uh, Mr. Poulet, I'm convinced now more than ever that the killings had nothing to do with, ahem, man or animal."

"Ummm . . . " Poulet scratched his cheek. "You mentioned something alluding to that after Ben Jordan's funeral."

"Someone told you the same thing?"

"Yes. I will agree with you that these slaughters were not caused by someone or something we are familiar with."

Duncan nodded to Emily. "S'cuse me, Miss Meriwether. Hope this talk isn't upsettin’ you."

"Well, it is upsetting," she replied, "but I'm just as concerned as everyone else. I believe we’d all sleep better at night knowing at least something. You mentioned at Ben Jordan's funeral that these were cases of a different kind."

Duncan surveyed the surrounding hills, put his hands on his hips and looked down. He gave a couple of timid kicks to the dirt road. "Well, now, ma'am, I believe I'm sure."

"Why do you say that, Jake?" Poulet asked.

Duncan looked up. "I'd rather not say in front of the lady." His eyes shifted to Emily and then back to Poulet. "It's a discussion of the, uh, male sort."

“I understand,” Poulet said. “Would you care to come see me tomorrow for tea or brandy? I’d like to hear your story."

Duncan tilted his head to the side with an imploring politeness. “Any chance I could speak with you later today?”

Poulet's eyes checked Emily's for approval. “We should be done collecting in a few hours. Come by, say, around five p.m.?”

“Five it is," Duncan affirmed as he slid his boot in the stirrup and mounted his horse. "Got a few supplies to pick up in town, so that'd be fine. Good day, Miss Meriwether." The Tennessee stallion trotted off in the direction of town.

Chapter 28

Poulet and Emily continued their stroll hand-in-hand along the river. Poulet’s basket remained empty.

Emily turned to Poulet. “Antoine, he seemed very nervous, don’t you think? I don’t know him well, but you can tell when a man has something on his mind."

“I would agree. He does have something on his mind. Something very troubling, I'm afraid." He shrugged. "I guess I shall find out later today.” 

They came to a well-used footpath that meandered far up into the hills. Poulet thought it a perfect route for finding local plants, even though he was aware that it was going to be difficult to find many surviving species so late in the year. He congratulated himself on inviting Emily. Even if we don't find a thing, this afternoon with her will not have been a complete waste. 

They walked along the trail, still holding hands and chatting. They turned a corner near a thick stand of cottonwoods. In the near distance, they glimpsed a hunched-over figure digging in the ground with a shovel. The startled old woman caught sight of their approach, quickly turned away and disappeared back into the woods.

“Who was that, Emily?” Poulet whispered.

“I believe it was Nidawi, the medicine woman.”

“She came into the drug store the day I arrived," Poulet said, "just after they brought Ben Jordan in. She bought a bag of powdered root and then left. I don't believe Jeb McKenna was too pleased with her presence.”

“She is a strange one. She must be a hundred years old. The kids around here say she's a sorcerer or a wicked witch. I certainly wouldn’t know, but she is very reclusive. Not many people know anything about her." Emily whispered into his ear, "They say she can fly."

Poulet’s mind raced. "Fly? Is that right? Let’s go see what she was pulling from the ground.”

They walked to where the woman had been digging. Poulet found that she’d been digging up roots of the belladonna plant. He'd learned from experience how potent and possibly fatal the plant was if ingested. It had the distinct property of inducing hallucinations and had been used for years in Voodoo and satanic ceremonies. Ingestion of the dangerous substance had the potential of bringing the person closer to the spirit world - or death. He retained a pinch of it in a jar he’d had for years, but never used it.

“What is it, Antoine?” Emily asked.

“Belladonna. It’s also known as Deadly Nightshade. It’s not good for much of anything except making people sick and crazy. It's used for ceremonies that require communes with spirits of the dead. It can kill you.”

“Why would she be gathering this, then?”

Poulet turned his head and focused on the shadows in the deep woods. “Anyone who gathers this and knows how to use it has a firm grounding in the spiritual arts. It doesn’t have much medicinal value." A puff of chill wind brushed by them. "I wonder if she knows how powerful it is.”

Emily laid her hand on Poulet's arm. “Maybe you should talk to her, Antoine.”

Poulet shook his head. “I don’t think so. She doesn’t seem to be the sociable type. I’d like to speak with her, but I don’t want to, as they say, ruffle any feathers, especially hers.” He removed his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. “If she‘s harvesting this plant, I assume she probably has been doing so for years. I wonder what she uses it for.”

"Maybe the tribal council would have some answers," Emily added.

Poulet put his glasses back on and took in a deep breath. “Well, I’m not going to worry about an old lady on this fine day." He moved closer to her. "Not when I have a very beautiful young lady on my arm.”

Poulet found Emily's beauty magnetic. The sunlight played on her smile - a smile that he knew could dissolve January ice on the Missouri. Her delicate features were framed by wisps of her long hair. He caught the heady scent of her perfume and pulled her close to him. She closed her eyes. Before Poulet could kiss her, his eyes were drawn to the tree line of the thickest part of the woods. One of the trees stood out of place and sharply in focus, setting it apart from the others. The clarity waved in ripples.

"What are you looking at, Antoine?" Emily asked as she opened her eyes and turned her head. "I don't see--"

"It's time to leave." Poulet grabbed her hand and dispensed with the kiss. 

"But it's still a beautiful day. Don't you want--"

"No, I don't," he said as he trotted back down the path with her. "There's something peculiar going on here."

"Peculiar?"

"I don't think it's safe to be this far away from town."

A cold wind blew up and they hurried back up the river road to Big Cloud.

Chapter 29

Jake Duncan hitched his horse and entered Dorland’s Saloon. After his experience in his cabin, he didn't need the time-to-kill excuse for a shot or two of whiskey, but used it anyway. He decided the dry goods store was going to have to wait. He pulled out his pocket watch and found five o’clock a few minutes away. 

He tipped two quick shots of whiskey and as he unhitched his horse to leave Dorland's, glimpsed Doc Foster walking across the street in his direction.

“Well," Foster said, "if it isn’t Jake Duncan. Heard you were out trapping. Come home early?”

“Got three good pelts, so yes, I did. Had a real profitable day.” 

“Keep on your toes when you’re out there, Jake. You gotta watch your back these days.”

“I know that, doc." Duncan mounted his horse. "Uh, by the way, you goin' to the orphanage this week?"

"Probably tomorrow," Foster replied as he shoved one hand in his pocket and ran the other through his hair. "Say, before I forget," he said, "I wanted to ask you something." 

"Yes?"

"Don't you and Ida want to hear the pitter-patting of little feet around your home?"

"Well," Duncan said, "don't know if--"

"You two would make sterling parents to a child who doesn't--“

"Yes," Duncan said with a hint of irritation. "I know we would. Thanks, Doc. We'll consider it."

"That's all I ask." Foster nodded. "Well, I need to go speak with Abe Emerson at the bank for a minute and then I'm heading to Dorland's for a beer. Care to bend one with me?"

"No, thanks. Maybe next time. Got an appointment."

"Well, nice speaking with you. Good day, Jake." Instead of heading to the bank, Foster sauntered into Dorland’s. 

Duncan rode the four blocks to Poulet’s home. He hitched his horse and rapped at the door.

Poulet answered and ushered his visitor in. Duncan removed his hat and sat down in a chair next to Poulet.

“So, Monsieur Duncan," Poulet said. "What is the story you wanted to tell me?”

The trapper told Poulet of his experience the night before. He told the story with no trace of emotion. 

Poulet nodded as Duncan finished the story and then asked him, “You didn’t see anything other than the spinning ball of light?”

“Nothin'. Just the smells and sounds mostly, but I felt that thumpin' against the cabin."

“Have you told anyone else?”

“Hell, no,” Duncan replied. ”They'd say I was lyin' or they'd think I was completely crazy."

“Good. It’s best you don’t. I will say, however, that you’re not the only one that has had an unsettling encounter with something, uh, unknown - human or otherwise.”

“Besides me and Jeb McKenna?”

“That's confidential, Jake, but I will say that you're not alone.”

Duncan raised his eyebrows. "Well, t'wern't nothin' I ever run across." He looked down and then up at Poulet. "Sooo . . . what the hell was it, then?”

“I’m not yet sure, but I’m conducting some research.” Poulet shifted in his chair. “Are you familiar with any of the local Ioway myths or legends?”

“Not many. I can tell you who knows a lot about it and that’s Reverend Tutwiler.”

“Reverend Tutwiler?”

“He spent a few years here as a missionary 'fore they built the church for him. I’ve heard him mention legends of the local tribe, but I can’t remember what exactly they were about.”

“I'll have to have a talk with the eloquent preacher.” Poulet stood up. “In the meantime, do you have something of sentimental value on your person?”

Duncan thought a moment, then reached into a pocket and found a Spanish gold doubloon from the 1600s. He handed it to Poulet. “It’s my good luck piece.”

Poulet left the room for a few minutes and when he returned, handed a green leather coin purse to Duncan.

“What’s this?” the trapper asked.

“It’s your mojo. It's your amulet to ward off evil. From the sound of it, I believe you need it.”

Duncan gave an inquisitive scratch to his head. “You mean evil, like last night’s experience?”

Poulet drew closer and looked him directly in the eye. “That was evil you experienced and nothing less.”

“This little bag will protect me?”

“It is said that no harm should come to you if you keep it close at all times. Along with your doubloon, I added a bit of a powdered plant and a bone shard of a black cat. I can’t guarantee you that it will keep evil away. That is dependent on the strength of the magic of the person, or spirit, that is trying to do you harm.”

Duncan lifted the mojo purse closer and took a quick peek inside, then cinched the ties taut and shoved it in his pants pocket. He stood up and shook Poulet’s hand. “Thank you, sir,” he said as he dug around in his pocket and fished out a silver dollar. 

“Please, Jake, I don’t charge for initial consultations,” Poulet said.

“Oh," Duncan said with a brief thankful nod, "well, thank you.”

Poulet caught the fleeting sound of hooves as the trapper headed back down the hill to the center of town. He made a mental note to call on the Reverend Tutwiler, even though the reverend was not his idea of exciting company.

He sat down and lit his meerschaum pipe. Lost in the trails of Cavendish smoke, he watched the layers of lazy clouds drift about the room in no hurry of dissipating. 

His eye caught a blinding flash as a ray of light struck the gold lion ring on his right ring finger. The lion's ruby eyes sparkled with the reassurance that Marie Laveau was looking out for him.

Chapter 30

Poulet arrived at the front door of the Mt. Zion parsonage and found the sound coming from inside unsettling. The reverend and his wife were arguing. It seemed a good excuse for him to avoid another dose of fundamentalist Christianity. He turned to leave, but stopped himself when he realized that there was more at stake than just his anxiety concerning men of the cloth. He turned around and rapped loudly on the door. The distinctly acrimonious talk coming from inside, ceased.

"Oh, why Mr. Poulet,” Mrs. Tutwiler said as she opened the front door. “What a pleasant surprise! Please come in.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“What can I help you with today, sir?" Mrs. Tutwiler asked.

“Is your husband about? I need to speak with him a short while - uh, it's a private matter.”

“He is here. Please have a seat and I'll go fetch him. Care for tea?”

“Don't go to any trouble, ma'am.”

“It's no trouble," she said, closing the door. “Members of our flock are always dropping by, and, uh, others as yourself.”

Mrs. Tutwiler's veiled sarcastic use of the word “others” was not lost on Poulet. Even though he'd been to only one Mt. Zion service, he speculated that without a generous contribution and her blessing, he would probably remain an unofficial member of the flock. He wasn't bothered in the least.

Mrs. Tutwiler turned to the leave the room. “Let me go get my husband and I'll be back directly with the tea.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

A few seconds later, Poulet heard muted talk coming from the hall.

He inspected the parlor and found modest furniture, but the tables were in need of a good dusting. The area rug was threadbare, but attractive. A musty scent hung in the air.

A glass cabinet in the corner held a selection of crystal and glass stemware, twinkling under the light streaming through the windows. Unremarkable bric-a-brac filled the remainder of the space: tiny porcelain dolls with flaking skin and vacant eyes, a few cracked blue Dresden dessert plates, miniature bouquets of paper flowers and a bronze crucifix crowning the top shelf.

A painting of Jesus hung above the fireplace mantle and dominated the room. The portrait took him back to Catholic boarding school. His curiosity took over and he questioned the ability of this particular set of Jesus eyes to follow him around the room like they did in the chapel, all his classrooms and his dorm room. "Look at his eyes, Antoine. Look! Pay attention! He is watching you. He will see your every sin - every blemish on your mortal soul. You're not paying attention! You need to learn your lesson again, don't you? Drop your trousers and lay down on your bed on your tummy. Just relax Antoine - and you'd better not cry or I'll make it worse. I can make it so much worse, you know that, don't you? Maybe now you'll pay attention."

He took a few steps to the right and then to the left while holding his stare on the portrait's eyes. Jesus watched his movements. It seemed that no matter who painted the picture, wherever the picture hung, the eyes always followed him. Jesus' countenance in the Tutwiler's portrait seemed a little less comforting and a little more threatening than the ones he'd remembered seeing. He chalked it up to his Catholic hangover of an excessively guilty conscience.

Reverend Tutwiler entered the room and extended his hand. “Mr. Poulet. So nice to see you.”

Poulet shook the reverend's hand. They sat down and as Mrs. Tutwiler brought tea, the reverend asked, “What can I do for you today?”

“I have some questions concerning the local Ioway Tribe, reverend. I was told you know quite a bit about them.”

“Yes, well, I'd like to think so. What would you like to know?”

“Are you aware of any legends concerning spirits of the woods, or ghosts, specifically malevolent ones?” Poulet asked.

“Spirits of the woods?” Mrs. Tutwiler interjected as she poured the tea. “What kind of silly nonsense have you been listening to? There is so much misinformation floating around these days . . . oh, and by the way, how is Miss Meriwether?”

“Victoria,” the reverend said. “Your chores?”  

“Oh, yes," she replied, forcing a congenial smile. “I need to attend to them. Please excuse me.” She walked back to the kitchen.

"I'm sorry Mr. Poulet," the reverend said. "At times, Victoria's mouth will not stop."

"No need for an apology. You were saying, reverend?" 

"There are all sorts of stories and legends of the tribe. Of course, they are all grounded in superstition and beliefs in spirits." He took a sip of his tea. "They have their own religion, you know. I have tried to bring the word of God to them and converted them, but most continue in their backward thinking and cling to their traditions.” 

"Uh, yes, sir. About the spirits?"

"Oh, yes. There are a lot of legends and stories of spirits, usually animals of the woods, but as far as spirits of the woods, there is but one I know of. It is called Itopa'hi."

"Itopa'hi?"

"Yes. He's said to be an evil man-eating ogre spirit with two faces and spikes on his elbows. He's also known as Sharp Elbows. Parents of misbehaving children threaten to invoke his spirit if they don't behave. This, uh, ghost, as it were, is a fair weather demon and --"

"Fair weather?" Poulet asked.

"As implausible as this may seem, as if the idea of a demon wasn't, according to the Indians, it is controlled by shamans and only makes an appearance during warm weather.” 

“I see,” Poulet replied. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

The reverend lolled his head back, closed his eyes, and then snapped his head back up. “It disappears after the first snowfall and then reawakens in the spring to go about its man-eating ways. It's just unbelievable - a fair weather demon that only makes himself known when the weather is nice? I guess the shamans don’t want to work during cold weather.” The reverend let out a short chuckle.

A shattering crash of breaking glass came from the direction of the fireplace. Poulet and the reverend jerked their heads toward the sound. 

"What the . . . " the reverend said.

Mrs. Tutwiler rushed in from the kitchen at the sound. "Oh, Charles," she said, "just look at this!"

Poulet and the reverend jumped up and rushed over to the fireplace. On the floor, lying amongst pieces of broken porcelain vases and a glass lamp, rested the portrait of Jesus. Covered in splintered glass, Poulet found the eyes remained fixed on him, even as he moved away from the destruction. 

"Charles, I thought you hung that securely," Mrs. Tutwiler said. "Why did--"

"It was, Victoria," the reverend replied. "Are you sure you haven't been adjusting it too much?"

"I certainly have not," she said, her hands planted on her hips. "It must be--"

"Victoria, please just clean it up so I can continue my visit with Mr. Poulet."

Mrs. Tutwiler glared at her husband and stooped down to clean up the mess. The men returned to their seats.

"Now, what was I saying, Mr. Poulet? Oh, yes, yes. Itopa'hi. This supposed demon sleeps during the winter like a hibernating bear. I'm assuming it has an aversion to cold weather." 

The Frenchman's heart sank. His mouth turned to cotton and his blood lost its warmth. The years of his experience with spirits sometimes caused the same reaction, but he didn't remember any of them being as pronounced. "Reverend, I know you are well aware of the killings around here of late."

"Yes. I just met with Mrs. DuChamp this morning pertaining to the arrangements for her husband's funeral tomorrow. It is such a sad state of affairs. I pray Sheriff Stiles gets to the bottom of this." The reverend set his teacup down and leaned back. "As you know, the town is very agitated with the events and I've had to counsel a few in my congregation that were a little, I believe, overly concerned - not that it isn't a very serious situation, mind you. Mr. Poulet, let me ask you your own opinion. Were these men killed by a man or mauled by an angry bear?"

Weighing the consequences of his reply, Poulet made the decision to give the reverend his honest opinion. "Reverend, I have come to the conclusion that it was neither man nor animal."

"Neither?" The reverend sat up. "Well, if you haven't considered a man or animal, just what is your conclusion?"

"My deepest heartfelt impression, sir, is that we are dealing with something that is not animal. We may be dealing with what you just described as a woodland spirit. After hearing your description, I believe we are dealing with what you call Itopa'hi."

Poulet settled his cup and saucer on the table as he watched Reverend Tutwiler's expression change from one of concern to one of skeptical implausibility.

"Mr. Poulet," the reverend said, "you realize that what I've told you of this spirit is just legend and myth and has no rooting in reality whatsoever?"

"It may have no rooting in reality, but its spiritually rooted branches have thrived and spread," Poulet replied. "It has entangled hearts, minds and souls of the people who live here and I just feel--" 

"That, sir, is totally preposterous."

"With all due respect, reverend, no more preposterous than the Resurrection or the devil coming to earth to walk among us."

The reverend crossed his arms and sucked in a deep breath. "Well, sir, we know from the Bible that the word of God is true and that yes, in past times, the devil sometimes walked among us, but that is not presently the case. The Bible says nothing concerning an old Ioway myth, and besides--"

"But reverend, do you agree that the devil has minions to do his bidding?"

"Um . . . well, yes, I suppose so, but--"

"Then, sir, how can you discount the idea of a spirit that intends to do harm to all that come its way? Perhaps this spirit is a representative of the Dark Angel."

"I suppose it's possible, but highly unlikely, Mr. Poulet. The devil that walks among us is not found in the thickets of the woods, but in the sinful hearts of men."

"But, is it not possible the devil can present himself in other forms?”

Reverend Tutwiler threw his hands up. "Mr. Poulet. What I've told you is fiction. It is not true. There is no such thing as Itopa'hi. The only truth is God and that's the only truth I know."

"You do know that the two men killed were mutilated?"

"Yes, yes, I know," the reverend replied. "It's just absolutely dreadful."

Poulet lowered his voice to a whisper. "What mortal has the capability of visiting such calamitous misery on humanity?"

"I would guess someone without a heart or soul," the reverend replied.

"Isn't it possible," Poulet asked, "to just entertain the idea of something other than man or beast preying on our fellow citizens?"

The reverend suppressed an emerging smirk. "Mr. Poulet, I understand you are a master of the occult and Voodoo and even Satanism. Is that not correct?"

The Frenchman laughed. Still trying to control his tittering, he continued, "I'm sorry reverend. Please forgive me. I forget what a small town this is. I'm an herbalist and physician, if in an unconventional sense. Yes, I practice Voodoo, but the Voodoo I practice has nothing to do with Satan. I believe you have been misinformed."

The reverend nodded. "My apologies, sir."

"Apology accepted." Poulet continued, "Reverend, what I am trying to do is find the cause of these murders. It may not be any of my business, but I have heard from reliable sources that an evil spirit has been awakened. The powers-that-be in this town seem to cling to the notion of a man or bear. I, sir, am close to being certain as to the cause of the demise of these two men. I have heard the voice of two who have encountered this spirit and swear by its existence. It would only make sense then, that I should pursue this alternative option. If anyone has experience in alternative options, it is myself."

"I'm sure we'd all like to get to the bottom of these murders - or killings. You best let Sheriff Stiles do his job."

"Uh, yes." Poulet sipped the last of his tea and stood up. "Well, thank you reverend for your information. It has been of great help."

The reverend stood. "Anytime. My door is always open."

The men shook hands and Poulet left the parsonage. The reverend closed the door and Mrs. Tutwiler came into the parlor.

"What was that all about, Charles?"

"I told him of the myth of the wood spirit Itopa'hi. He, for some reason, is convinced the recent killings were committed by an evil spirit. That man has a wild imagination."

"Yes," she said, "he certainly does. A spirit. What was he thinking? He is such a strange little man."

Victoria Tutwiler picked up the tea service and returned to the kitchen. Reverend Tutwiler took a seat in his study and opened his Bible to work on Sunday's sermon.