by John Ringo
“What do you mean?” Barbara asked, wrinkling her brow.
“When you ask people about someone, and you’re working on a public case like the Ripper, they tend to be either very helpful or very uncommunicative,” Kelly said, trying to explain something it had taken him years to figure out. “If they’re being helpful but don’t know the person, they say things like ‘have you checked the phone book?’ And they’re helpful in random ways. Some of them are more common: ‘I don’t know him but I’ll call my sister she knows everybody’ and the phone book question. They don’t all say: ‘well, there’s some Lancereaus up Nitotar way but that’s out in the swamps and you’ll need a boat.’ ”
“That’s what the deputy said,” Barb pointed out.
“That’s three times I’ve gotten that identical response,” Kelly replied, holding up three fingers. “Which means that three out of three people in this town have been instructed on what to say in the event of questions. And that makes me very interested in Mr. Lancereau.”
“I didn’t go to New Orleans because of the Ripper killings,” Barbara said, her face working. “Are you telling me that he might be here?”
Kelly paused and looked around the town, frowning.
“There are at least six people involved in the killings…” he said, cautiously.
“How do you know that?”
“Semen traces,” Kelly responded, coldly.
“Thanks so much for the blunt answer,” Barb replied, wincing. “Go on.”
“Carlane Lancereau is not one of the rapists,” Kelly continued. “But I’m beginning to suspect he knows who they are.”
“And the chief deputy is… what? Hindering your investigation?” Barbara asked.
“Certainly not giving full support,” Kelly replied. “I’m going to be fascinated if he turns up with Carlane in an hour.”
“Why?” Barb asked. “Then you take him back to New Orleans?”
“Perhaps,” Kelly said, frowning. “But I don’t actually have anything to hold him on. All I can do is ask questions. If he gives me the runaround, there’s not much I can do.”
“So… why did you tell me about the medium?” Barbara asked.
“Ah, Madame Charlotte,” Kelly said, regaining the thread. “Madame Charlotte told me that Carlane had come down here, back to his swamp. But she also told me that that Carlane was playing with powerful ju-ju. More powerful than she was willing to play with. And that I was in grave danger, which is no surprise since we’re talking about at least six people who are willing to involve themselves in rape and murder. Last, but not least and most important to you personally, she told me that I should look for help from the sign of the princess,” he finished, looking at her chest again.
Barb quirked an unnoticed eyebrow and lifted her shirt outward.
“Bingo,” Kelly said, grimacing. “I wasn’t seriously looking for the sign of the princess, but lo and behold, there it was. Talking with a rather unhelpful deputy shortly after the death of the local sheriff.” He looked back up and stared in her eyes. “So, Mrs. Everette, what do you know about Carlane Lancereau?”
“Oh, come on,” Barbara snapped. “I’m on vacation and my car broke down. It’s in the shop; want to go look at it? All I want to do is get the heck out of this place!”
“But that doesn’t explain why Madame Charlotte would tell me to look for the sign of the princess,” he said, gesturing at her chest. “I’m trying to figure out why she told me that, well, a soccer mom was my only hope of survival.”
“Lots of girls wear shirts that say princess,” Barb pointed out with a shrug. “Maybe I’m not the right sign of the princess.”
“There’s that,” Kelly replied. “But I was wondering… would you care to assist me in my investigations?”
“Can I at least leave my bag in your car?” she said, shrugging with her left shoulder to indicate her clothes bag.
“Of course,” Kelly said. “Want me to carry it?”
“I can carry it as far as your car,” Barbara said, smiling.
Chapter Five
When he popped the trunk on the unmarked police car, Barb let out a whistle and bent down into the trunk. Although he tried not to notice, Kelly was forced to admit that all her assets were not up front.
“What the heck are you doing carrying around an AR-10?” she asked, dropping her bag into the back. “Is it the carbine or the full auto version? Never mind. It’s the full auto, I can see the markings on the reverse. And a pump twelve gauge?”
“Deer hunting,” Kelly said, shrugging as she straightened back up.
The AR-10 was a .308 version of the venerable M-16 rifle. It was actually designed to mimic the M-16A2 but used a much heavier round. The M-16 used a high-velocity 5.56 millimeter bullet whereas the AR-10 fired a high-velocity 7.62 millimeter bullet. An M-16 round tended to wound a man rather than kill him. An AR-10 round tended to put him in the morgue.
“Yeah, right,” Barbara scoffed. “You know those things tend to jam about every tenth round?”
“I noticed,” Kelly admitted.
“Not enough gas blowback,” Barb said, shrugging. “And the tubes get fouled. It gets really bad over a hundred rounds. There’s a type of powder that cuts down on it but not many .308 rounds are made with it. They need a lighter buffer spring, too.”
“You do say?” Kelly said. “If I have to fire more than fifty rounds, I’m in the wrong fire-fight. I’m a detective, not a tac-team member. And I don’t think even they fire more than fifty rounds in any situation. Where did you learn about AR-10s?”
“All that is gold does not glitter,” she said, grinning. Then she tossed him her purse.
Kelly caught it, noticing the additional weight immediately, and frowned.
“That is highly illegal in the state of Louisiana,” he said, tossing the bag back. “Don’t get caught with it by, say, a local cop. Or you might end up in the local slammer and I really don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“I’ve got a concealed carry permit for Mississippi,” Barbara said, frowning. “Louisiana has a reciprocal agreement, so I’m covered. But, while I’m not into resisting arrest, I think I would if it meant dealing with local justice. The term ‘prison movie’ comes to mind. I… did not like that deputy.”
“As a professional police officer, I do of course feel that resisting arrest would be the wrong thing to do,” Kelly said. “As a thinking being, however, I suggest that if it comes to it you use every bit of force, short of lethal, necessary to avoid being arrested by Deputy Mondaine. The other question that comes to mind is, can you use that thing? Because if you can’t, you shouldn’t be packing, Mrs. Everette.”
“I’ve probably put ten times as many rounds through it as you have your service pistol,” Barb said, shrugging. “Including on tactical ranges. Not that I’ve had much chance lately. But what I aim at, I hit. And it’s a court of last resort, anyway. I have… other skills. Which I will use on you if you make any ‘packed and stacked’ cracks.”
“What… are you, Barbara Everette?” Kelly said, carefully.
“I’m just what you called me,” Barb said with a frown. “A soccer mom. I had to have one da… danged weekend where I wasn’t taking care of somebody else. Just one. And I ended up… here,” she said, waving her hands around. “In… this! Fortunately I had a father who thought his girls should be able to defend themselves.”
“Okay,” Kelly said, nodding. “I’ll play it as it lays, then. I don’t suppose your cell phone works?”
“Nope,” she said. “No towers around here. I asked.”
“In that case, we need to find a pay phone.”
“Down by the Piggly Wiggly.”
At the Piggly Wiggly he bought a phone card and went out to the pay phone to call in. While he was doing that she went to the drugstore next door and bought her own phone card, a small black backpack, a six-pack of bottled water, some cold Pepsi in twenty-ounce bottles, a bag of ice and some energy bars. If worse came
to worst she could survive on those for the weekend. As she was walking back to the front she stopped by the drugs section and picked up some Tylenol and Claritin-D.
When she’d paid for her items she passed Kelly, still talking on the phone, and went in the Piggly Wiggly to use their bathroom. It was only marginally dirty as such places went. She emptied half the ice in the sink and put the half-filled bag in the backpack, then stuffed the drinks in the ice. Once that was done she put the energy bars and drugs in the side pockets and carefully disposed of her trash in the overflowing trashcan.
When she came back out, Kelly was finally off the phone and she called home. Still no answer so she left an updated message and called Mark’s cell phone. No answer there, either. He’d probably turned it off.
What she wanted to do was ask him to come down and pick her up. A creepy town was bad enough. A creepy town with a tough cop who was looking to her for a chance for survival was worse. She was trained to stay alive and get out of danger situations. The first position in every self-defense class is the running position. And everything in her was telling her to run.
But Mark was going to be in no condition to come pick her up and even if he was the drive would be hell on both of them and she’d be paying back for years.
No, she was just going to have to wait for the car to get done or figure out an alternate plan. She could call Daddy and wail. In which case he’d be on a plane for New Orleans in no more than an hour and here in about… ten. The thought was immensely reassuring but she couldn’t do that any more than she could call Mark. She was a big girl and she was the one who had just up and left for the weekend. It was up to her to get out of the town.
Preferably alive. If she knew she was in danger she’d pick up the phone. Then again, if Detective Lockhart was sure she was in danger, he’d carry her out of the town in an instant.
“You talk to your boss?” she asked when she was done with the phone.
“Yeah, Lieutenant Chimot,” Kelly said, frowning. “I told him what seemed to be going on and he agreed it was suspicious. I also told him I was going stay on overnight and come back in the morning. I don’t think the good deputy is going to show.”
“Neither do I,” Barbara said, grimacing. “What are you going to do now?”
“Ask around,” Kelly said. “See if I can find anybody who doesn’t give me the run around.”
* * *
“Lieutenant Chimot, my name is Augustus Germaine.”
Chimot had received a call from the director of the FBI explaining that one of their consultants was coming over to see him and that he should listen to what he said and believe it. “No matter how strange it seems, believe it.”
The FBI and local police had a so-so relationship. In certain cases, and kidnappings were one of them, the FBI had override authority. That meant that some snot-nosed punk straight out of the academy could order around anyone on the case, up to and including the chief of police. Generally they were polite about it but enough had been right pains in the ass that local police rarely looked forward to the FBI poking its nose in. They had excellent support and the manpower was often useful, but truth be told most of the cases the FBI ended up “supervising” were solved by some local detective who actually knew the area and the players involved.
The FBI hadn’t taken over the Ripper case, but Chimot knew it was close. He suspected that the “consultant” was going to tell him that. Just what he needed to hear from some closet academic.
Germaine, though, was something different.
“Mr. Germaine,” Chimot said, standing up and offering a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“I doubt that,” Germaine said, bluntly, giving the hand a quick but firm shake. “Your department has had more than a few run-ins with the FBI and the Justice Department and there’s not much love in either direction. But that’s not important in this case, what is important are the Special Circumstances.”
“What… circumstances?” Chimot asked, sitting down. He cocked his head in interest at the tone; the capital letters had been noticeable.
“There are certain investigations that take on odd hues,” Germaine replied, taking his own seat. “And I’m going to explain to you what is really going on in this one. At the end of the conversation, you’ll realize that you can’t pass it on to anyone because they would assume you’d cracked under pressure. And if you decide to chance it, don’t. Because we don’t let this information get out. Period. Understand me?”
Chimot looked at those piercing black eyes and nodded, a cold chill running down his back.
“That’s a little blunt,” Chimot said. “And aren’t people usually asked if they want to know stuff like this?”
“No,” Germaine replied. “Because if they have to know, they’re told. And they generally keep their mouths shut for reasons that will become obvious. Is that clear enough to start?”
“Yes,” Chimot said.
“You’re a smoker, Lieutenant,” Germaine said, quirking one cheek in a grin. “Please, light up. Cigarette smoke does not offend me.”
“This is a no-smoking building,” Chimot said.
“You have a smokeless ashtray in your bottom left-hand drawer,” Germaine replied. “And you usually open the window to make it less obvious. Please feel free to light up. But you probably want to save a hit from the bottle of Jim Beam next to the ashtray until after the conversation.”
Chimot glared at him but fished out the ashtray and lit a Marlboro.
“Go,” he said when the cigarette was lit.
“The FBI gets involved in most serial killing investigations since they almost always involve kidnappings. And ones that do not rarely matter to them, but they do to us. Most serial killers are simply evil humans that enjoy the power rush involved in the killing and control of their victims. But a few do it due to Special Circumstances. Special Circumstances is the FBI’s cautious euphemism for the supernatural. Shall I continue?”
“Go ahead,” Chimot said. “If you were nuts, the director wouldn’t have called me.”
“I am the European and American head of a group that supports the investigation of Special Circumstances. We have an arrangement to share information and assist in investigations with the FBI. There is a similar arrangement with Interpol, Scotland Yard, what have you. We also have worked with local authorities from time to time. In this case, we were uninterested until the FBI crime lab identified one of the semen samples as construct DNA. That is, the DNA of a supernatural being that had manifested on earth. The scale, which was not lost by the way, we have it, is from the avatar of an entity named Almadu. Are you familiar with the name?”
“No,” Chimot said, his head reeling from more than nicotine. “You’re serious.”
“Very,” Germaine said. “Almadu is a god who was first identified by the Babylonians, one of the eleven monsters summoned by the dragon goddess Tiamat in her battle with Marduk. There are indications that he was listed as a daevas in the Zoroastrian religious tracts that were destroyed by Alexander in Persepolis. Possibly associated with Lilith who may, in fact, be Tiamat/Kali. A water god, usually depicted as looking like a cross between a fish and a dragon. He requires human sacrifice and often engages in sex with the sacrifices. Occasionally he will reproduce with a human female and create an amphibian cross species. They don’t look very human but can pass for it in a bad light. The last manifestation of Almadu was in the 1920s in Massachusetts and involved a colony of such crosses. It was, we believed, wiped out and Almadu was dispelled. He apparently has been brought back from the nether realms. It is he who has been gutting your victims.”
“You’re telling me there’s some fish god going around screwing hookers and then murdering them?” Chimot asked, shaking his head. “You’re right, I can’t tell anybody this. They’ll think I’m nuts. I’m not too sure about you.”
“Lieutenant, in the… very long time that I have been in this organization, I have seen things that would drive you mad,” Germai
ne replied, calmly. “Almadu isn’t even close to the worst. Almadu is, however, very bad. A full physical manifestation requires enormous power, more than I’d have thought he could gather. Either he has a large group of worshipers, numbering at least in the tens of thousands, or there have been far more murders, sacrifices, than you suspect. I’ve run a match on the criminal database and I think that some sixty street ladies have disappeared in one place or another in the Louisiana and Mississippi area. It’s hard to tell, obviously — people just disappear from the street, change their names, what have you — but that would explain the full manifestation far better than five. However, with the full manifestation, he can begin using powers that he would not have without it. And I would anticipate his numbers of worshippers would grow. I suspect that he’s soon going to leave these parts for somewhere he can gather sacrifices without so much oversight. And we dearly want to prevent that, for obvious reasons.”
“So why are you telling me this?” Chimot asked.
“Two reasons. The first is that if you close on his place of worship, you are liable to encounter resistance beyond what you’re used to dealing with. Think of it as attacking a group of ardent terrorists, for that is in many ways what they are. And there are no police tac teams on earth that are prepared to handle Almadu. Very few earthly weapons will harm him. He is vulnerable to fire and electricity, but shooting him will only make him angry. He also can charm people, make them believe he is a good god, control their actions and so forth. He prefers sacrifices that die in terror, but he is not averse to charming attackers and then eating them, stealing their souls to do his service in the Dark Realms.”
“That’s what he’s been doing to the victims?” Chimot said, swallowing.
“Yes,” Germaine answered. “The other problem is that anyone who gets close to him is in danger. I don’t have any agents available who are trained and capable of assisting right now. To defend oneself against the power that Almadu can use requires ardent belief in another god. A Catholic priest or a Protestant minister or a Wiccan high priest or priestess who really believed might be sheltered from his power, might be able to channel a shield against it. Might. One of my agents would be, if I had an agent of the caliber to take him on. But your average Joe Cop would be as undefended as if he was in a firefight with no vest. It’s important that you understand that. Do you?”
