by John Ringo
“I hear what you’re saying,” Chimot admitted. “But I’m having a hard time believing it.”
“That, of course, is the problem,” Germaine said, smiling sadly. “It requires that the agent not only believe, fundamentally, in evil as a separate power but that the agent believe, again fundamentally, that there is an equivalent power of good and that it can defeat evil. Without that belief, an agent, or the noted Joe Cop, is unshielded.”
“Crap,” Chimot said, shaking his head. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Which is?” Germaine asked.
“We have a possible lead in the case,” the lieutenant said, swallowing and putting out his cigarette. “One of the people that was talking with one of the victims has disappeared. And, come to think of it, one of our informants mentioned that he was dabbling in ‘old time religion.’ We have reason to suspect he went back to his hometown, which is right down in the bayou…” He paused and looked at Germaine, raising an eyebrow.
“With access to water and eventually the oceans,” Germaine said, nodding. “Anywhere in Louisiana practically fits that description, but it’s logical that it may be the center. Go on.”
“Anyway, Detective Lockhart went down there to see if he could find the suspect, Carlane, and he says the people there are giving him the runaround.”
Germaine sighed and looked at the ceiling, frowning.
“The reality is that when there is a full manifestation, people tend to believe, strongly,” the agent said after a moment’s thought. “What may start with a few followers spreads. If it doesn’t spread naturally, people will be brought into Almadu’s presence and he will… assist them in their belief and worship of his power. If the center is this place that your suspect returned to… What is that, by the way?”
“Thibideau,” Chimot said. “A little speck down in the southwest bayou.”
“Yes, a small town,” Germaine said, nodding. “Everyone knows everyone else. Very little movement in, some out. And manifestations can manipulate things. Minds. Actions. They can give their earthly followers earthly support, economic and social. A person removed. A business deal completed on very favorable terms. Even treasures lost in the deeps of the sea. It is likely that you’re facing a whole town of believers. Those who were strong, who resisted his power, would have been removed. Some of them to feed his power, others through ‘accidents’ or ‘natural causes’ if they were too high profile to disappear.”
“The sheriff down there died of a heart attack about a month ago,” Chimot said.
“Likely he was resistant to the power,” Germaine replied. “Which means that Almadu is still weak. Or the sheriff unusually strong. I wish, how I wish, I had just one fifth level agent to assign to this case.”
“What about you?” Chimot asked.
“This is not the only case that is currently occupying my attention,” Germaine said, dryly. “I did mention covering both the U.S. and Europe, yes? You have no idea what some of the Muslims who think they’re fundamentalists are summoning. And you don’t want to know. Then there’s the fact that I’m not a believer.”
“What?” Chimot asked, suddenly realizing that he’d bought into the story and wondering if he was insane.
“It is not necessary to be a believer to run things,” Germaine said, quirking one cheek again. “In fact, it can be a bit of a problem. You see, all the members of the organization are not believers in the same god. Few are Christians, for example, many are pagans, a few are Hindu, although they count as pagan as well. Being able to say, honestly, I am not a believer in any credo helps when the, inevitable, quarrels break out. And my… cynicism is as deeply ingrained as the belief of my agents. But I do my job, none better or so I’m told. However, if I were to engage Almadu I would probably succumb to his glamour. Perhaps not, I have my own methods of defense. But I would not choose to challenge him. And then there’s the other problem of assigning an agent.”
“Which is?” Chimot asked. “As if all those aren’t enough?”
“Such an agent, such a strong believer, has… a fine taste to the soul is perhaps the best way I can put it,” Germaine replied. “They, in and of themselves, are targets for the Dark Powers. They are… tasty, strong, marinated in belief. And if Almadu does rip such a victim’s soul from body, eat the victim’s guts, that is, they will serve him in the Dark Realm whether they care to or not.”
* * *
Barb quickly discovered that “street-work” was hot, miserable and frustrating. They had walked around the town for two hours, talking to everyone who would stop at the sight of Kelly’s badge. She had gone through two bottles of water and a Pepsi, and given three more bottles of water to the detective. And they had found not one person who admitted to any knowledge of Carlane Lancereau. And in almost every case they had been told that the Lancereaus “lived up Nitotar way” and “back in the bayou, you’ll need a boat.” A few added that the Lancereaus probably wouldn’t be helpful anyway.
Late in the day they ran upon the single exception, being ejected from the bait shop.
“All I want is a taste!” the old man shouted at the closed door. He was unkempt and looked as if he’d recently been sleeping in the bayou, his clothes covered in mud and vegetation. He was short and might once have been strong and broad but age and, presumably, alcohol had left him thin and wasted looking. He also had a slightly different cast to his features, more traditionally Cajun than the locals.
As Kelly approached him the man spun around in fear and then relaxed when he saw the two newcomers.
“Hello,” Kelly said, extending his badge. “My name is Detective Kelly Lockhart from the New Orleans Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“No,” the man said, shuffling off. “I don’t have answers. You go away. Get out of town while you still can.”
“Excuse me,” Kelly said, hurrying to catch up. “What do you mean, while we still can?”
“Just go,” the man said, fiercely. “I ain’t talkin’ to you. Ain’t nobody gonna say they seen me talkin’ to you. Get out of here. Go!”
“Would a drink help?” Kelly asked.
The man paused but didn’t turn around. Then he shrugged.
“Down the end of town there’s an old boathouse,” the man said, quietly. “You bring me a bottle. Hard stuff. I gotta have my bottle so the voices won’t get me, too. Don’t let nobody see you come. Right before dark. You need to be back in your room by dark or you’ll never leave.”
Then he hurried off.
“I’d dearly like to talk to him,” Kelly said, musingly, as he turned away from the figure. “But the only place to get a bottle is in the bar, and they’d know why.”
“I’ve got a bottle,” Barbara said. “In my bag.”
“What’s a nice Christian lady like you doing with a bottle of whiskey in her bag?” Kelly said, amused.
“I’m Episcopalian,” Barb replied, lightly. “We don’t have prohibitions against drinking. And it’s a habit I picked up from my mother. I haven’t drunk any of it, but it’s sitting there in case I need it. Jim Beam.”
“What would you need it for?” Kelly asked as they walked back towards the courthouse.
“I dunno? Brushing my teeth?”
“With whiskey?” Kelly said, aghast.
“Better than water in some of the places I’ve been,” Barbara said, shrugging. “Don’t mix it with toothpaste, though, that’s really horrible. Mixed with water it kills almost anything that can ail you, though. And it tastes better than iodine.”
“What an… interesting point,” Kelly said. “Where’d you learn that?”
“Borneo,” Barb replied.
“Borneo?” Kelly said. “I thought you were from Mississippi?”
“My husband is from Mississippi,” Barbara said, smiling slightly. “I’m not from anywhere. My father was an Air Force officer, a bomber pilot. When they demobbed-”
“Demobbed?” Kelly asked.
“Demobilized, sorry
. When they demobilized most of the B-52 fleet he was given the choice of being riffed, sort of like laid off…”
“Riffing I know…”
“Or retraining. He took retraining and managed to get a foreign area officer slot. So for the first ten years of his career we wandered around from airbase to airbase and for the last fourteen years, which are the ones I remember the best, we moved around east Asia from embassy to embassy. Hong Kong, before the hand-over, Japan, Malaysia and Borneo to be specific. And travel to other countries while we were there.”
“And that’s where you learned to brush your teeth with Jim Beam?” Kelly asked.
“My mom learned it from some colonel’s wife when she was a JO… a junior officer’s wife. The colonel’s wife had picked it up from some civilian lady she’d known way back in Iran before the fall of the Shah. And that’s why I’ve got a bottle of Jim Beam in my bag. It’s just a pint flask, but it should do. So, what are you going to do with it?”
“I’m thinking that I’d like to talk to him but what I really should do is go back to New Orleans,” Kelly mused. “If he’s right, and there’s going to be a problem tonight, getting out of town is the right thing to do.”
“You are not leaving me here,” Barb said.
“No, of course not,” Kelly replied.
“And that ignores the question of if your car is going to work or not,” Barbara said, suddenly feeling a chill. “We haven’t been in sight of it most of the day.”
“You are just the most optimistic person,” Kelly said. “Let’s go check the car and then get your bottle.”
“You’re going to meet with him, then?” Barb asked.
“Yeah. I’m tired of working in the dark.”
Chapter Six
The cop was talking to Chauvet,” Deputy Mondaine said.
The meeting was in the back of the old church where the sacristy had once been. The room had been fixed up to minimal standards and now served as the office of the cult. On the back wall, by the window, was a black flag with a shape like a weird green dragon. In one corner was a sculpture of the same creature, twisted and horribly deformed. Carlane Lancereau was standing behind the desk, looking out over the bayou with his hands folded behind his back.
“I told you we should have had him killed,” Mondaine said when there was no response. “Sacrifice him to the Master.”
“Such a soul would be of little use, worn and devoured as it is by time and life,” Carlane said. “And what is he going to say? That devils live in the swamps? That the whole town has succumbed to evil? That there are voices in his head? That should go over well. And after tonight, it won’t matter. The master will have fed and fed well. After tonight he shall be fully manifest upon the Earth. And then, we move. Be prepared.”
“I will, Your Unholiness,” Mondaine said, bowing.
“But bring Officer Lockhart and the woman to me,” Carlane said, turning to face the deputy, his eyes glowing a sickly green. “Lockhart’s soul is steeped in the evils of the street and worth little. But the woman glows with power. She will be fine food for the Master.”
* * *
“Wait,” Lockhart said as they approached the car. It was parked by the courthouse in one of the reserved parking spaces. He pulled his keys out and thumbed a control. There was no apparent response.
“Shit,” he muttered, thumbing the control again.
“What’s supposed to be happening?” Barbara said, lifting an eyebrow.
“It’s supposed to start,” Lockhart replied. “We had a rash of attacks on police during the drug wars. Now all the unmarked cars can be started remotely since starting was one way that was used to bomb them. It’s not starting.”
“Maybe the battery is out on your little controller thingy,” Barb said, quirking one cheek in a slight grin.
“Maybe,” Lockhart said. “Stay here.”
He walked over to the car and opened the door with the key, then attempted to start it.
“And, then again, maybe your car has broken down,” Barbara said, walking over.
“This is really annoying,” Lockhart replied. He slid out of the car and underneath, soiling his clothes on the dirty parking lot. After a certain amount of fumbling from under the car he slid back out.
“The ignition wiring harness has been cut,” he said, frowning. “And a section is missing. Since it goes to the computer as well as the solenoid, just hooking up another wire won’t work.”
“No car,” Barb said, frowning slightly.
“No car,” Lockhart agreed, nodding. “Which is stupid since I can just call New Orleans PD and have someone come out and pick me up. Us up.”
“So what now?” Barbara asked.
“You get your bag,” Lockhart said, going around to the back of the car. “We’ll go to the hotel and get a couple of rooms. Then I’ll get the bottle and head down to the Piggly Wiggly and give Lieutenant Chimot a call. You stay in the hotel.”
“Nuh, uh,” Barb said. “Horror movie time. What you just said is ‘let’s split up.’ ”
“Good point,” Lockhart said, grinning. “Okay, plan b. We both go to the phone. I call the PD. Then we get your bag, go back to the hotel and do the transfer. I’m not taking you with me to talk to the drunk. You stay at the hotel.”
“Let’s go,” Barb said, waving in the direction of the store. “But let’s get my bag first.”
She hoisted the backpack on her shoulder and followed the detective the two blocks to the store.
She watched his back as he pulled out his phone card and punched the number.
“What?” Lockhart said after a moment.
“What what?” Barbara asked.
“Listen,” Lockhart said, lifting the receiver.
“The number you have called is no longer in service, please check the number and dial again. Two-three-two. The number you have called is no longer…”
“What number did you dial?” Barb asked.
“The eight hundred number,” Kelly snapped, slamming the phone down and digging in his pocket for change.
“Don’t mind me, I’m just a scared old lady,” Barbara said. “But let me point out that it’s getting dark.”
“I know,” Kelly said, thumbing quarters in the phone. He dialed a number rapidly and then cursed. “Son of a bitch!”
Barbara could hear the same recording.
“Let me try,” she said. “Got any more change?”
Her home number wouldn’t work and neither would her father’s number in Denver. Neither did the operator pick up when she dialed zero.
“Okay,” Kelly said, shaking his head. “Somehow they, whoever they are, are fucking with the phone.”
“Watch your language,” Barbara snapped automatically. “Okay, I would say we are officially in Indian Country and cut off from reinforcements, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Kelly said, trying not to smile.
“In that case, our job is to survive and either wait for supports or get out if we can,” Barb said, nodding to herself. “The hotel isn’t great, but it’s the best we’re going to get. We go there, hunker down, and hope like hell when you don’t check in the lieutenant sends somebody out for you. Will he?”
“Probably,” Lockhart said. “I told him enough to have him worried. But I want to talk to the old man. Stick with plan b. You go get a room, I’ll pick up your bottle. I’ll get a room also, but we’ll hunker down in yours.”
“I assume I can trust you to be gentlemanly,” Barbara said, smiling, as they started to walk back to the hotel.
“Of course!” Kelly said. “I am nothing if not a gentleman.”
* * *
When Barbara got back to the hotel she considered her options. The fact was that she was scared. More scared than when she’d been attacked in college. Nearly as scared as when Allison had been struck by a car. She had come to the conclusion that something was very wrong in Thibideau, Louisiana, and that the wrongness was probably going to reach out for her. All day long
she’d felt a strange uneasiness like being just a little sick. She knew she wasn’t; it was something else. Something weird.
“Dear Lord,” she said, sinking to her knees and clasping her hands, “I ask you to hear my prayer. I believe I am in the midst of evil and I ask only that your divine power comfort me in my trial. I will act on my own behalf if evil men come for me but, Lord, I sense a greater power of evil at work. Shelter me from that, I ask in Jesus’ name, and I’ll take care of the rest. For though I walk through the valley, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Watch over me as the shepherd watches his sheep and I will do my Christian best to stay alive. Amen.”
She felt comforted after that but she’d made a promise to the Lord and it was time to see what she could do to ensure she kept the promise.
“First things first,” she muttered, unzipping her boots. “The f… the boots have got to go.” If she had to run, better that it be in running shoes. If she fell and twisted her ankle, she’d never live it down. Hell, she probably wouldn’t live much longer.
The jeans… were too tight. She had a looser pair. They were darker as well. The tennis shoes were white, but mud would fix that if she had to. Dark blouse, the dark leather jacket. Among other things it would mildly deflect a blow from a knife. If she had to sneak, her face and hair would give her away. She pulled out a black silk blouse and, wincing, began slitting the seams. A few quick stitches with her sewing kit and she had a perfectly adequate hood. She cut eyeholes with the locking-blade knife from her purse, finishing with the dying rays of the sun.
She dumped the drinks out of the backpack, dumping out the remnant water in the bottom on the floor, and slid her purse into it. She pulled out her holster and put that on, slipping in the spare magazines and then, after a moment’s thought, racked a round into the chamber of the H K and used the decock lever to drop the hammer safely. She put the pillows on the bed under the covers, making a lump. What the heck, it worked in movies. Then she grabbed her makeup case and sat down cross-legged in the corner. She had one shade of very deep blue eye shadow that would probably work for camouflage. She rubbed some around her eyes and then all over her hands. It was slightly shiny, but better than skin.
