The Rougarou

The Rougarou

Raylan Stone was installing a strut on a Toyota when I burst into the Texaco station. I ducked under the lift, slipped in a patch of oil, and cracked my head on the garage floor.

“Mais là, Delilah Jane, are you pining for a concussion?”

The handsome Cajun scooped me up and set me on a stack of tires. He wiped grease off his hands and gently palpated the back of my head. “You’re not bleeding, chère, but there’s a lump. You might’ve cracked your skull.”

Holding my throbbing head, I mumbled, “I’m just dizzy.”

“Why’d you bust in here like a rabid wolf was after you?”

“Lucinda’s missing.”

“Lucinda Defoe? Isn’t she your cousin?”

“Yeah, her foster mom said she didn’t come home from the roller rink last night.”

“That teenager’s wild as a colt. This ain’t the first time she’s run off.”

“That’s why I’ve gotta have my truck.”

A muscle vibrated in his lean jaw. “It’s not ready. Baton Rouge ain’t bringing the new radiator until tomorrow.”

“Then let me borrow something. Antoinette thinks that Mississippi River pirates got her.”  

He threw back his head and laughed. “Antoinette watches too much television. She swore that a UFO beamed Lucinda to Mars last year. And a few months ago, she told the sheriff that the Rougarou ate the girl.”

I shuddered, imagining the man-wolf. Eight feet tall, he had eyes like fire coals and teeth like a bear’s. He hunted dogs and kids who wandered into the bayou. My headstrong cousin liked to sneak out there. Gambling with her life turned her on.

Giving me the side-eye, Raylan said in Cajun French, “Tonnerre mes chiens— tell me you don’t believe in the Rougarou.”

“Um, no, of course not. He’s a legend, not real at all. Invented to scare bratty children.”

His lips quirked. Irritated that I hadn’t fooled him, I squared my shoulders. “I’m guessing that she’s at the fish camp with Marcus. That’s where she was last time. I need to bring her back.”

“You’re not going anywhere with a busted noggin.”

I fingered my skull and winced. “It’s sore, not busted. Have you met Marcus?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“You’re lucky. He’s mean as a snapping turtle. Everybody swears he eats water moccasins and scorpions for breakfast. Imagine what he could do to a sixteen-year-old. Are you gonna lend me a vehicle or not?”

“Sorry, I don’t have a loaner.”

Muttering, I shoved myself off the tires and bumped into his hard chest. Steadying me, he smoothed a curl off my forehead. I leaned into his palm for an instant and then stepped back. My friends said he was crazy about me, but he’d never even stolen a kiss. Raylan Stone was a Southern gent, a throwback to the days when a man left a calling card and asked your daddy if he could court you. I didn’t have a daddy. Neither did Lucinda.

I licked my lips and tried again. “My cousin’s had nothing but bad breaks since her parents died. If she’s with Marcus, she’s with a critter as dangerous as the Rougarou.”

He sanded the beard stubble on his jaw with the heel of his hand. “Look, I’d drive you if I could, but the mayor’s coming to pick up the Toyota. I’ve gotta finish the struts and rotate the tires by five o’clock.”

“Tell her it’s an emergency.”

Narrowing his dark eyes, he stepped forward and caught my chin. He stood rock still, his warm breath wafting over my face. I trembled, thinking he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to.

Instead, he whispered, “I was a medic in the Army, not a neurologist, but I’d say you dodged that concussion. Your pupils are equal and react to the light. That’s a hard head you’ve got, taking a hit like that on concrete.”

“Yeah, my head’s not made out of paper mâché. I’m fine.”

“Prove it. Lemme see you walk the seam in the floor.”

Hoping he would relent about driving me, I traversed the crack like a tightrope walker, turned, and came back. My head hurt but I didn’t wobble. “Satisfied?”

His brows drawn in a scowl, he picked up a box wrench and twirled it through his fingers. “All right, chère, you win. I’ll let you take Ol’ Jeb. Go to the fish camp and then come straight back. Deal?”

Ol’ Jeb, oh là là!  Raylan’s rebuilt 1940 International Harvester was a thing of power and beauty. He didn’t let anybody drive that truck. Maybe he was crazy about me. I resisted a sudden urge to kiss him.  

“Go wait in the portico, Delilah Jane. I’ll bring him around. Hurry before I change my damn mind.”

Its wiper blades flip-flopping over the divided windshield, the old truck rumbled into the portico a few minutes later. Raylan hopped out and cocked his fists on his narrow hips. “You ever drove a double-wheel rear end?”

“No, but it can’t be all that different from my Ram truck.”

“Different enough. You lock up the brakes, you’ll skip the tires and the rear end’ll get away from you. Don’t drive Ol’ Jeb over forty. Heavy rain’s fixing to start.”

“I’ll drive him ten under at all times, I swear.”

“That’ll be a first, you doin' the speed limit.”  

I put my foot on the wet running board and slipped. I fell backwards. As Raylan cupped my hiney to catch me, I heard him draw a sharp breath.

“Careful, darlin’, it’s slippery when wet. Dieu.” He slid his hands to my waist and boosted me onto the seat. I stole a look in the rearview mirror. Red cheeks. Lawsy.

An impish twinkle in his eyes, he said, “I dropped a Green Diamond 214-cubic inch engine into Ol’ Jeb last month. Feel the vibration? That calfskin seat’s kind of tickly, ain’t it?”

Yes, the engine was vibrating a place I’d never admit to in a thousand years. Or maybe it was a visceral memory of Raylan's hands on my tail. Oh là là with hot pepper on top!

“The engine ain’t broke in yet, so keep an eye on the tachometer as you run through the gears. Don’t rev him up, y’hear?”

“I’ll treat him like a baby possum.”

He snorted and shook his head. “You don’t have to go that far. Hey, lemme adjust the rearview mirror for you. The dang thing likes to stick.”

As he leaned across me, his fingertips skimmed my thigh. He turned his head and gazed at me for several breathless seconds. I saw a muscle throb in his cheek and heat flash in his eyes. He positioned the mirror and stood back. Flushed from head to toe, I stared at the gauges as though I’d never seen anything so fascinating.

“Okay, see if Lucinda’s out there and then head straight back here. If she ain’t at the fish camp, the sheriff can send the Cajun Navy after Antoinette’s river pirates.”  

I chuckled as he shut the door. Cranking the window down, I was about to wisecrack that he looked like a daddy sending his truck off to kindergarten, but he gazed at me with such solemnity that the words died in my throat. 

“Watch your back, darlin’. I don’t believe in your Rougarou, but if something were to happen to you….”

“Nothing’s gonna happen. And he’s not my Rougarou.” I forced a laugh. “That smelly old monster would make an awful pet.”

Looking even more solemn, he placed his warm hand on the back of my neck. “You sure you know how to drive a big truck?”

“Does a duck wear waterproof underwear? Watch me.”

His fingers tightened. “I’d like to watch you, and not in duck drawers. Damn, woman, you wear that truck like Victoria’s Secret. Whew.”

I flushed again, thrilled. Maybe Raylan Stone wasn’t the gentleman I’d taken him for.

“Buckle up. There ain’t a shoulder harness, but the lap belt will keep you from going anywhere. Not that you’re gonna hit nothin’, right?”

I touched two fingers to my eyebrow. “Right. Don’t worry about me.”

Frowning, he churned his hair with both hands.

“Quit worrying, Raylan.” 

“I’m calm as a clam.”

“Calm as a clam fixing to be deep-fried. I’ll be back in two hours.”

I pushed in the clutch, eased into first gear, and drove into the rain. It wouldn’t be long until dark.

I was on the highway near the swamp when a lightning bolt snapped out of the clouds. It unleashed a torrent of rain. Within minutes, the deep ditches on either side of the highway overflowed. Rooster tails sprayed out of Ol’ Jeb’s fenders and hit the windshield. The window fogged up. Blinded, I stopped to clear the glass with my sleeve.

I glimpsed movement out of the corner of my eye. A huge black thing lurched out of the swamp and fixed a pair of glowing red eyes on me. The Rougarou.

I jammed the gas pedal to the floorboard, not looking back, not looking aside, looking only through the foggy windshield and screaming, screaming, screaming. As I shifted into second, the rear end broke loose. I jerked the wheel in the direction of the skid and felt the truck catch up, but then I skidded the opposite way and overcorrected. Stormwater snatched Ol’ Jeb toward the ditches as we reeled back and forth. Waves exploded over the hood. Steam boiled out of the engine.

Black smoke pouring out of its stacks, a dump truck appeared in the mirror. Roaring like a bear, it smashed into us. Ol’ Jeb spun a three-sixty and sailed into the ditch. Sudden deceleration. My hips snapped against the lap belt. My knees slammed into the dashboard. My forehead bounced off the steering wheel. 

Dark water rose over the hood and sprayed in around the windows and door seals. It boiled out of the dash, the air vents, the gas pedal, the floorboards. The ammeter glowed bright red, and then the turbid water snuffed it out. The cab submerged. Locked in a cold black tomb, I fought to unbuckle the seatbelt. Water rose to my chin. Choking, I struggled for air. White-hot knives stabbed my chest.  

I heard a dog barking, and then a gruff voice. Get to the air pocket or you’ll become a ghost like me. The seatbelt buckle popped open. I pushed off the steering wheel and hit my head on the roof. Found the air pocket. Sucked sharp, terrified gulps of oxygen. 

Ol’ Jeb groaned and nosed deeper into the ditch.  I fumbled for the door handle. The door wouldn’t open. It couldn’t. The water pressure outside was too great. The door wouldn’t open until the pressure equalized. That would be when the cab was full of water. By then, I would have drowned. Raylan Stone would tow the truck out and stare at me in disapproval. I’d promised not to hurt Ol’ Jeb.

Dragging in a lungful of air, I ducked underwater and tried to grab the window crank. The freezing water struck my head like a hammer and knocked the air out of my lungs. I caromed to the ceiling and hit my head.

I can’t do it. It’s too deep. It’s too cold. I can’t get out. I’m gonna die.

Something appeared in the darkness. Brown fur, claws, teeth. I felt the Rougarou touching me, breathing on me. I screamed in mindless terror.

Roll down the window. Golden eyes, a white bib, and speckled paws appeared. It was the little brown dog that I’d lost to the Rougarou when I was five. Barks pushed my head underwater and guided my frozen hand to the crank. Together we rolled the window down.

Get out, Delilah Jane. Go. My face hit the ditch bank. It was too close, choking off escape. I was underwater. My lungs burned. I had to take a breath. If I did, I would drown. If I didn’t, I would suffocate. I would die no matter what I did.

I’m gonna bite you.

Sudden, sharp pain in my butt. I spasmed, twisted, heard my scream carry away my last breath. My head broke out of the water. I clawed the bank, shoved my feet against the truck, and crawled onto the flooded road. Coughed. Sucked cold wind. Where was my dog?

The rain stopped as though someone had flipped a switch. Low in the northeast, the Wolf Moon was waxing full. Tonight, the Rougarou would reach his zenith of power.  

Its diesel engine roaring, the dump truck crested the hill. Tires squalled and a shadow rushed at me. I saw the head of a wolf mounted on the massive, black-furred body of a man. I turned to run. The Rougarou stabbed my back with his claws and sank his canines into my neck.

                                                           **

Sterile white room. White blanket trapping my legs. Panicked, I started kicking.

“Calm down, Delilah Jane. Look at me.”

Gripping my shoulder, Raylan Stone stroked my cheek. His shirt bore a picture of a diesel truck and a caption, BLACK SMOKE DON’T MEAN IT’S BROKE. I visualized the dump truck in my mirror, smoke billowing from the stacks.

“Don’t let it get me!”

“Shh, baby, you’re in the emergency room. Nothing’s gonna get you, darlin’.”

But a frightening kaleidoscope whirled in my mind. Lucinda was inside the submerged truck. As I struggled to free her, the Rougarou surfaced from the dark water and tore out her throat. I screamed and screamed.

I heard Raylan’s low-voiced command: “Open your eyes, chère. It’s just a dream, that’s all it is. You got a concussion when you smacked your head in the garage.”

“The Rougarou’s killing my cousin!”

“No, the sheriff picked her up at the fish camp. You had a bad dream, baby. Just a bad dream. It’s over.”

I covered my face and wept. The mechanic gathered me into his arms and began humming a Cajun melody, his vibrato flowing in rich, warm waves out of his chest into mine.

As I settled into him, he whispered, “I won’t let anything happen to you, I swear. You’re safe, love. Safe.”

He cradled me in his left arm and gently pushed the hair out of my eyes. Cut like banjo strings, his powerful arms were colored in ink. Tattooed on his right wrist was a knife, twin arrows, and DE OPPRESSO LIBER.

“Is that Latin?” 

“Shh, don’t talk.”

But I needed to make sure I was alive, that what I was seeing was real. That I wasn’t dreaming anymore. I touched his wrist. Warm and strong. Pulsing. Real. I traced my finger over the tattoo and felt him tremble.

“What’s the tattoo for, Raylan?”

“It’s the Special Forces crest. ‘From oppression, we will liberate them.’”

Like he’d liberated me from the nightmare. “So I didn’t wreck Ol’ Jeb?”

His eyebrows shot up like question marks. “I don’t let anybody drive my truck… Oh, wait, you drove him in your dream.”

Heaving a shaky sigh, I laced my fingers through his. “It was so real. So awful. Will you take me home?”

“Later, darlin’. We’re gonna stay and keep you awake. Concussion protocol.”

His eyes twinkling, his lips quirked in the mischievous grin I was beginning to love. “The next time you come sliding into my garage, I’ll outfit you with a crash helmet.”  

Smiling, I snuggled into his arms. Raylan Stone was exactly the gentleman I’d dreamed he was. Maybe tomorrow, I’d steal a kiss.