CHAPTER SEVEN
Memorial Day, 8:32 a.m.
“This is Willie Fontenot’s lucky day,” said Little Fontenot happily, banging his big meaty hands on the patrol car steering wheel. “This really is my lucky damn day.” He was cruising north on Main Street, headed toward Bonner Farm Road at the edge of town. Actually, his true destination was a place in the woods beyond Bonner Farm Road, a place about two miles deep into the wet, wild woods. A place that had no path or trail or road leading to it.
A secret place.
Little Fontenot liked having a secret. He liked having a secret because it proved that he was smart. He knew that everybody thought he was dumb -- just another big, dumb, Cajun good ol’ boy. He knew that his nickname was a joke. Ostensibly, he was called “Little” because his father was also on the force, so his father was “Big Fontenot,” but he knew the truth -- he knew that they really called him “Little” because he was so god damned fat. He was a giant tub of lard, and he was slow-witted to boot, and he knew it. Everybody knew it, and everybody laughed about it behind his back. But nobody would laugh if they knew his secret.
Little Fontenot pulled off onto the side of the road next to an old picnic table at the edge of the woods. He wasn’t sure why there was a picnic table there; it wasn’t a park or anything, just a small clearing, and as far as he could tell, no one ever used the table for picnics.
He killed the patrol car’s engine, then heaved his bulk out of the creaking leather seat. He slammed the door shut, stood in the clearing, and surveyed the area. It was quiet here, and there wasn’t much traffic, but someone was bound to see his car parked so conspicuously, so he needed some excuse, some plausible reason for being here. His eyes settled on the prison complex across the road. He decided that, if anyone from the station asked him why his car had been parked here today, he would tell them that he had been searching for the escaped prisoner. It was believable; just the sort of thing he would do if left on his own.
Little Fontenot turned toward the woods, found the tree with the red mark on it, and began walking into the forest. As he passed the old wooden picnic table, he noticed once again that it was covered with graffiti, obscene and otherwise. There were also symbols that looked… mystical. He wondered about these as he walked on into the woods.
“It’s my lucky damn day,” Little Fontenot began saying -- almost chanting -- under his breath as he walked through the brush into the surprisingly dark woods. He believed his morning had been filled with signs, the final one being the fact that he was allowed to patrol solo for the first time in his career.
Today was a day -- the day -- to visit Lady Belladonna.
Lady Belladonna was a woman Little Fontenot visited at least once a month. She rolled the bones for Little Fontenot whenever he visited, and gave him guidance for his life. She was an honest-to-God Voodoo Queen, and very few people knew how to get to her house. In fact, it was rumored that unless Lady Belladonna wanted you to find her house, you couldn’t even see her little cabin out there in the woods.
As he slogged through the damp underbrush, Little Fontenot thought about the first time he had encountered Lady Belladonna. He had met her five years before, on his thirtieth birthday.
Some of Little Fontenot’s buddies from the department had chipped in to buy him a whore, since it was well-known at the time that he was still a virgin. The whore his buddies had hired for him was a relatively high-class hooker from an escort service out of Alexandria. She showed up at the birthday party -- held at the rented V.F.W. hall -- dressed as a fortune teller. A very buxom, very sexy, scantily-clad fortune teller.
Divination of all sorts had always held a strong fascination for Little Fontenot, so the boys in the department -- encouraged by his father, Big Fontenot -- had thrown him a fortune-telling themed party. Oversized tarot cards were pinned up all over the walls, and crystal balls (actually made of hard plastic) adorned every table. Everyone got plastic rune stone replicas and fortune cookies as party favors.
A local micro-brewed beer called Voodoo Brew was served at the party. The gimmick behind Voodoo Brew was the fact that every bottle had a different fortune printed on the back label. To set the stage for the arrival of the sexy escort, the guys made sure that all the bottles served to Little Fontenot had fortunes dealing with “getting lucky.”
When the escort arrived -- a surprisingly beautiful redhead calling herself “Margo the Medium” -- she flirted her way through the group of men until she reached the birthday boy. She sat on the shy fat man’s lap and whispered that she’d love to give him a “private reading.” He blushed, and stammered that he would love that. She then took him by the hand and led him outside while the other men whooped and hollered and shouted out various lewd encouragements and carnal suggestions. Big Fontenot whooped the loudest, happy that his only son would finally become a man.
Margo walked Little Fontenot to the squad car the on-duty officers had driven to the party. “I never done it in a police car,” she told him, her voice purring with excitement. “I think that would be so hot. You know, with a strip search and handcuffs...”
He stared down at her pretty face, confused by what she was saying. When he spoke, it was still with a stammer. “Can’t you… can’t you do a reading without… without all the sexy stuff? I mean, I understand, the boys want you to show me a good time. I know that’s what you’re here for. But… all I really want is a reading. A real reading from a real, uh, medium. So, can’t you just do a reading for me? I’ll tell the boys whatever you want… I’ll tell ‘em you pleased me real good…”
Margo reached up and put both hands behind Little Fontenot’s thick, flabby neck. “Sweetie, it’s your birthday, and you can have whatever you want,” she said cheerily. “But I ain’t no medium. I’m just a call girl who plays different parts -- nurses and naughty schoolgirls mostly. Guys do love a girl in uniform.”
“So… you can’t really see the future?” Little Fontenot said, sadness sluggishly creeping into his voice.
“No,” Margo said, “but if you’ll take me for a drive, I’ll introduce you to the best damn fortune teller in Central Louisiana… probably in the whole state.”
“You’re just foolin’ me,” Little Fontenot said, pulling her hands from his neck. “You’re gonna take me to the Oakwood Inn, and try to do all the sexy stuff.”
Margo patted him on his ample, flabby chest and said, “Sweetie, I’ve already been paid, no matter what happens. You come with me, I promise you’ll get that reading you’ve been wishing for.”
Little Fontenot stared at Margo for a long while, sighed heavily, then finally decided to believe her. He took her by the hand, led her to his old F-150 pick-up, and helped her inside. He climbed into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. She gently patted him on the knee and said, “Drive north, baby.”
And that night, she had led him to Bonner Farm Road, and to the clearing beyond the picnic table, and to the pine tree marked with red paint, and out into the dark woods. She had taken his hand, and navigated him expertly through clusters of gnarled trees, over a wooden fence marked with hand-painted “No Trespassing” signs, to an unlit, ramshackled cabin.
The same unlit, ramshackled cabin stood before him now. In the daylight, it didn’t look nearly so imposing and dangerous as it had on his first visit, but the place still had a haunted feel to it. The ground around the cabin was covered with a gray mist, and the surrounding trees kept the tiny structure in a permanent twilight.
Little Fontenot sighed, heaved his portly body over the wooden fence, and approached the old shotgun-styled house. Tall grass and prickly branches raked at his pants as he tromped toward Lady Belladonna’s cabin.
When he reached the porch, he leaned against a corner post to catch his breath. The post cracked, and the building seemed to shift. Little Fontenot pulled back quickly, horrified that he had damaged the home of his muse, his precious spiritual guide.
The cabin door opened, just a crack, and Little Fontenot saw a familiar silhouette. “Mon cher,” the woman’s voice purred. “I’ve been expecting you.”
He stepped up onto the porch, and Lady Belladonna opened the door a bit wider. She laughed lightly -- a cold, tinkling sound, almost like wind chimes. “Come inside,” she whispered. “Today’s your lucky day, mon cher. Your very lucky day.”
Little Fontenot blushed, giggled shyly, and shuffled toward the door. The door swung open wide -- impossibly wide -- and the huge man bumbled through the doorway. Then the door closed quietly, shutting out the light of day.
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