Free The Uninvited by William W. Johnstone Page A

“And neither Beth nor Ruth have been runnin’ around. I know that for a hard fact.”
    â€œWhere are your kids?”
    Took ’em to their grandmother’s last night. Didn’t tell her anything, though. Just asked her if she’d keep them for a couple days.”
    â€œI think we’d better call the law,” Hal suggested.
    He walked to the kitchen and took down the wall phone, starting to dial the number. He glanced out the window. “Sam?” he called, urgency in his voice.Get a couple of guns out of the closet and come here quick!”
    He had spotted his wife’s tennis shoe by the shed.
    His friend came to his side, a shotgun in each hand. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œBeth was wearin’ tennis shoes when I left yesterday morning. New ones. Joggers. I bought them for her.” He pointed out the window. “That’s one of them.” He took a shotgun from his friend and began punching in shells. Sam did the same.
    â€œWhat the hell is that big brown spot by the shed?” Sam asked. “Must be a quarter-acre wide, at least.”
    â€œI don’t know. But I’m damn sure goin’ to find out. Come on.”
    The two men walked out the back door. Toward the sounds of clicking.

Chapter Five
    â€œThe Voleur River,” Brett told his little summer school class, “forms the top of Baronne Parish, then travels down the west side, all the way down to the bottom of Lapeer Parish. It cuts under Lapeer, then heads directly east until it almost joins the Mississippi River. Two miles from the big river, the Voleur abruptly cuts south, eventually running into Bayou Sorelle, which, a few miles farther along, runs into Lake Sanlow. Who can tell me what Voleur means?”
    Surprisingly, although most of the kids had lived in Lapeer Parish all their lives, only three hands went into the air. Broussard, Duhon, and Melancon. Brett nodded at Cathy Duhon.
    â€œIt means thief, Mr. Travers.”
    Brett nodded his head, thinking, I should ask them where it got its name. Should force the non-Cajun kids to learn something about their state. But what the hell? God, this is the most boring class I have ever taught. I will never, ever, teach summer school again.
    â€œYou know, Mr. Travers,” a boy said. “I been thinking—”
    â€œThat’s a new experience for you,” a voice called from the back of the room.
    Brett waited for the laughter to die down. “What have you been thinking, Les?”
    â€œWell, Baronne and Lapeer are pretty good-sized Parishes, but only three bridges link the two with any others. None crosses the Mississippi. One goes to the north, one to the south, and one to the west, at the swamp’s and river’s narrowest points.”
    â€œThat’s correct, Les. But where is all this leading?”
    â€œWell, if something bad was to happen, like a war or something, all anybody’d have to do is knock out those bridges, and we’d be stuck.”
    â€œIn other words,” said Art Baldwin, the clown prince of Bonne Terre high—and a straight D student—if we were invaded by creatures from the Black Lagoon, we’d all be up the creek tryin’ to find a way out.”
    As he waited once more for laughter to fade, Brett suddenly thought of the mutant roach he’d found that morning. He smiled thinly. Odd time to be thinking of that thing.
    â€œYes,” Brett said, “we would, except for the Mississippi River. That swamp that separates us from the Voleur is, I’m told, virtually impassable.”
    â€œThat’s right, Mr. Travers,” a boy. said, “you haven’t been here long. I got lost in that swamp a couple of years ago. If I hadn’t been a Boy Scout, and learned not to panic, I’d have been in real trouble. Nothing in there but ’gators, cottonmouths, rattlers, and quicksand.”
    â€œI have a question,” a girl spoke up.