He reached in to the gun grotto and opened a cabinet on the left side. Ammunition boxes filled the shelves in neat rows, each marked with small white labels. When he backed away, I stepped inside the little space, reading the labels. Blessed. Hollow point/holy water. Silver. Cold iron. White phosphorus. “She was ready for anything, wasn’t she?”
“Until the day she returned to our Lord,” Robicheau said.
I rocked back on my heels, and before I could speak, Marty asked, “If I may ask, how did Sister Evangeline die?”
He sighed. “An unfortunate, tragic accident, and nothing I like to discuss.”
“That’s understandable.” I pulled out a box of ammo. Marty took it without comment and looked around for someplace to put it.
“I was there,” Robicheau said, handing him a khaki-colored military grade backpack with MOLLE straps. “When we got to the ground, I prayed with her until she passed.”
“Creepy,” Marty murmured as he leaned in to take the 1911s from me.
“Got to the ground?” I asked, looking over Marty’s shoulder as he packed the guns carefully into the bag.
“Yes. She fell from a helicopter.”
Both Marty and I stopped, our questions overlapping. “How did that happen?”
“A tragic accident, as I’ve said.” He bowed his head. “She died in the service of the Lord. If I have any choice, that will be how I go as well.”
Right. Didn’t like to talk about it. As he’d radiated peace earlier, now, excitement and anticipation rippled off him.
Guess I hadn’t imagined much of anything. Good to know.
“I think that’s the most any of us can ask,” I said. “I’m sorry to press you further, but how did she fall from a helicopter?”
He walked back to his desk, straightening a book on the corner. “The investigator said her seatbelt failed. When we made a turn, she slid, and I, secured as I was, couldn’t reach her. Somehow, she survived long enough for us to land, but there was nothing to be done.”
“What were you doing up there?” Marty elbowed me, and I smacked my head on the opening of the arsenal trying to dodge. I scowled at him and rubbed my head.
“Surveying the remaining Katrina damage. A coalition of religious leaders asked to assess what the parish still needs. She’d heard of a…nest of some monster or another hiding in the ruins of the ninth ward and came not only as representation for the New Orleans diocese, but for research. We all have our ways of serving Him, of course. I’m not one to judge another for their choices.”
When our eyes met, I shrugged at Marty. “Let him talk,” I murmured and shoved a closed black case at him. Instinct told me there was more to Robicheau’s story, and for someone who didn’t want to talk, he’d already volunteered quite a bit without much prodding.
He still might be innocent, but clichés started somewhere.
“What you’re hunting tonight, this dog, is it related to the nest Sister Evangeline heard about?”
“No, and we’re not hunting exactly. At least not as we normally do.” I picked up the Mossberg, hefting its weight, admiring the light shining along the barrel. Beauty. “It’s a special circumstance. Retrieval work. I won’t bore you with the details.”
I shrugged off Marty’s confusion and mouthed the words “roll with it” as I hung up the Mossberg again. As much fun as she’d bring to the work I couldn’t avoid, this wasn’t the job for that kind of firepower.
“Oh no,” he said, peering around Marty who moved to let him see into the arsenal, “you misunderstand. I’m very interested in what threatens my flock. I’m charged with the well-being of my parishioners and anything that may harm them. Sister Evangeline and I—”
“Father, I apologize.” I duck-walked out of the arsenal. “At any other time, I’d love this discussion. Right now, I have to find this dog so I can take my vacation.”
“Of course. I’m glad to provide whatever support I can.”
“Hopefully, we’ll finish tonight, and this’ll be the last time we raid your arsenal.”
“Sister Evangeline’s arsenal.”
“God’s arsenal?” I offered with a smile.
His right eyebrow jumped. “Guns in the service of God? Given the history, I’m not sure we’d get far in that argument with Him.”
Despite myself, I laughed and shouldered the backpack. “Good point, Father. I hope to return all this to you tomorrow and get out of your hair for the rest of my stay in N’awlins.”
Father Robicheau’s stiff smile didn’t budge. “Let’s hope tomorrow will be the last we see each other.”
8
The red tail lights of the car shrunk into the distance as we stood outside of Saint Louis Cemetery Number One. “You’d think they’d be surprised when someone wants to go cemetery at night,” Marty said, putting the bag on the ground, angling it into the streetlight glow from across the street. Yellow-orange light gleamed off the guns inside.
“Are you kidding? This is probably the easiest place to blend in. Outside of Bourbon Street, of course. And with the cargo we’ve got, I’d rather avoid as many tourists as possible.”
“We should have Uber’d. After Tallahassee, I’m sure my rating is horrible.”
“I told you we could have walked.”
“And I was too drunk to listen. That’s why I puked.” He looked around. “So, you ready to strap up?”
The streetlights at the end of the block changed, and a single car approached on the other side of the street. None of the buildings or fixtures had obvious cameras, but it wasn’t worth taking a chance. I stared at the wall. “I wish I’d known it was white.”
“I told you we should have Googled it.”
“And when do I ever listen?”
“Fair point.” He slung the bag across his shoulder, hefting the lock at the barred gate. “So how’re we dealing with this?”
“We’re not,” I said, my hand out for the bag.
“What?”
I slid the straps over both shoulders, squatted, and laced my fingers together in an upward facing cup. “Alley-oop.”
He stared at my hands, took a step back, and shook his head. “Nuh uh. Last time I ended up with a broken finger.”
“Unless you’ve put in some time at the gym I don’t know about, you are going to struggle scaling this wall.”
“I could just wait out here.”
“With a bag full of guns? In New Orleans?”
He shrugged. “I’ll be all right.”
“Then let me object. It’s a shitty idea, especially if that dog is in there. I’ll need back up, no matter how sketchy your aim is.”
“My aim isn’t sketchy.”
“Right.” I nodded toward my hands. “Step up.”
With a heavy sigh, Marty put one foot in my hands, and I boosted him. As he rolled over the wall, the crash wasn’t as loud or as curse-laden as I expected, but then again, it wasn’t very tall. He muttered on the other side.
I jumped and caught the top of the wall, the rough stucco abrading my fingertips. “All the better to scrape off fingerprints,” I said as I hoisted myself over.
Marty rubbed his elbows and handed me the holsters for the 1911s. “You need to show me how to do that.”
“You need to build muscle.” I flexed and grinned before adjusting the holster, the leather slung low on my hip, a reassuring weight. “Then, someday, you can carry the big boy guns like me.”
“You look like a character from a video game.”
I looked down at myself, guns strapped to each thigh. “Nah. My boobs aren’t pointy enough.”
Even the dark couldn’t hide his eye roll.
Low, stone buildings loomed in the half-light that crested the stucco wall at my back. “Don’t forget,” I said, threading my arms through another holster, “this is a capture mission. Shoot only as last resort.”
“Right.” Marty adjusted his holster. “And exactly how are we going to capture this hell-hound with lethal force? Club it with the
gun?”
“You’re the only one armed for non-lethal force.” I popped open the black plastic case and freed the tranquilizer gun from the foam inside. “I liberated this from Sister Evangeline’s arsenal.” Dart loaded, I slid it into the holster under my arm. “Should be just what we need.”
“Will that work on supernatural creatures?”
I shrugged and eyeballed the darts. “That’s why you’re my back up.”
“How are we getting it back to Helen?”
“Let’s bag it first. We’ll figure that out later.”
“I love how you plan for all the important details.”
I opened my mouth to speak, interrupted by the crunch of gravel.
Marty paused, the second snub-nosed Ruger half-way into his holster.
We waited in the shadows, silent and barely breathing. Another crunch. I pointed at Marty, then down the aisle in front of us. Jabbing a thumb at myself, I gestured to the next row. He nodded in agreement, gun pointed at the ground in a two-handed grip. I chambered a dart in the tranquilizer gun. By the size, it had to be enough. If not, I had five more in my pocket. As long as I didn’t stab myself with one.
We crept around the mausoleums. I kept my foot low to the ground, seeking obstacles and grade changes where the streetlights didn’t reach. Staring hard into the night and straining to hear, silence buzzed through the graveyard.
Another crunch, this one an unmistakable footstep.
I froze. Marty shook his head and pointed to the far corner of the cemetery.
In sync, we stepped between the rows of crypts, guns drawn. Drunken tourists laughed and sang on the other side of the stucco wall. Under the covering rush of a passing car, the crunch and rustle continued, braver and more determined. I wriggled between two of the crypts into the next row, seeing nothing.
A stone rattled across the sidewalk. The crunching steps stopped, replaced by a growl louder and deeper than Helen’s wolf-dog, Fen. My skin crawled. If this thing was bigger than Fen, it would be massive. I hoped the darts would be strong enough to take it down and keep it down long enough to get it to Helen. And that I could reload fast enough to make it matter.
“Oh shit!”
I spun and hurried backward down the path. The menacing growl rose, echoing through the cemetery. When Marty screamed, I sprinted.
One gunshot.
My stomach sank as I looked down the aisles between the close stone mausoleums, my voice a stage whisper. “Marty, where are you?”
He sprawled on the ground at the foot of a crypt, street lights highlighting his back.
I skidded to his side, holstering my weapon and running my hands over him as I called his name. No obvious blood. No noticeable wounds.
He groaned and shifted, his gun scraping on the ground.
“Don’t move.” I fished in my pocket for my flashlight. Covering the bulb with my fingers, I clicked on the light and shined it on my friend. He didn’t look hurt, until I aimed the light in his eyes.
“Ow.” He raised his hand and pushed the light away. “I’m fine.”
Fingers still covering the flashlight, I let a sliver of light fall across Marty’s forehead. “You’ve got a good bruise starting.” With the other hand, I touched it, and he winced. “And a hell of a lump.”
“Not to mention the one you gave me earlier,” he said, rubbing his chest.
I rolled my eyes. “What about the gunshot? What happened? Did you see it? Did it jump you?” I scanned the area, expecting to find the body of the dog. Or at least a blood trail.
“Wasn’t me.” He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. “I saw it, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw the dog, and that thing is huge. No way we’re lifting it over the wall, even if you manage to stick enough darts to take it down.” Marty winced as he pushed himself up to lean against the weathered stone. “Red glowing eyes, by the way. Fucking creepy.”
“And the gunshot?”
“I’m getting there. The dog, or some shadow manifestation of it, was in front of me, growling, glowing eyes. All I could think was ‘oh, shit.’”
“You said it, too.”
“No. Not me.” He rubbed his head. “Someone in black stood behind it with a gun. I saw the gun, turned to run, heard the scream, and I guess I ran into the crypt trying to avoid the shot.”
Whoever fired was probably still here. Possibly watching.
An itch tickled the spot between my shoulders. I resisted the urge to roll them. If someone was watching, it might already be too late, but if not, I might get the upper hand. We had to sound focused on anything but our surroundings. I hoped Marty would catch on.
“What about the dog?” he asked, eyes clear as he winked.
I clicked the flashlight off. “I’ll look around, though it’s probably gone.”
“How? We’re in a walled-in graveyard.”
“It’s a supernatural creature that’s drawn power from cemeteries for millennia. Walls aren’t much of an obstacle.” I hoped he’d see me hold my finger to my lips. Drawing the 1911, I aimed it at the ground away from Marty.
“I guess not.” He tried to get up and staggered against the crypt.
“Stay put. I’m going to see how we can get you out of here without climbing.” I pointed to myself, then a route around the crypts. If whoever fired at Marty was still here, I wanted them off guard. Each slow step made as little noise as possible.
The main gate of the cemetery hung open.
That made one thing easier. And everything else harder.
9
Marty’s bruise glared at me like an accusation, the deep purple a stark contrast to his naturally tanned skin. “You sure you’re feeling okay?” I tried to face yet another failure to protect those around me without looking away.
“I told you, I’m fine and, again, it wasn’t your fault.” He pressed the ice-filled towel against his head, hiding the ugly purple mark. A drop of water rolled down his sunglasses.
“I’d feel better if you’d get checked out.”
“And get medical advice that says I can’t have another of these?” He lifted the slushy, fluorescent drink with his other hand. “Hell naw.”
The sun warmed my shoulders in the most enticing way. Everything I wanted was here. A little shade under the potted palms and the shadows of nearby buildings, a little breeze, a roof-top pool and alcohol on demand delivered by hotel staff. I shifted on the plastic lounge chair and shaded my eyes. The sooner I figured out how to catch this damned dog, the sooner I could spend my afternoons here.
“You could relax, you know. There isn’t much you can do until nightfall.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got legwork to do while you research. Maybe Robicheau knows who’s got keys to the gate at Saint Louis Number One. Or why someone would’ve been there last night.”
“Do you trust him?”
“Nope. Something’s off with him. I can’t tell what, though.” It’d kept me up far too long last night, but come to nothing.
“You’re always saying things like that—”
“And how many times have I been wrong?”
“If you’d’ve let me finish, I would’ve said I agree with you.” After a moment, he said, “But I’m gonna start writing it down just so I have an answer when you ask.”
“Until then, will you check him out, please? And if you find anything interesting, send a copy to Sister Betty?”
He saluted me with his free hand. The wrong one, not that it mattered. “You got it, boss. But isn’t it cliché for the religious guy to be bad?”
“Totally. And yet?” Was I seeing things where they didn’t exist simply because cliché taught me to expect it? I’d thought it over for so long the night before that I didn’t know what I thought anymore. Nothing had changed except I hadn’t slept. There had to be more. Such a persistent gut feeling had to have something behind it.
He nodded. “Something’s hinky.”
“Agreed. As much as I don�
��t like it, he’s our only local resource. Sister Betty said the high-ranking clergy’s out of town to handle Albuquerque. If I can’t get anything out of him, I’ll ask her to intervene.”
Sun glinted off his sunglasses as he nodded. “So you go lone wolf. That’ll end well.”
I flipped him off. “If you didn’t have a head injury, I’d smack you.”
With a laugh, he put the towel of ice on the table beside him. “It’d still be worth it.”
“Call or text me if you need anything, or if you find anything to help us pin down the Black Dog. Or a pattern of ‘sudden deaths’ like the airport guy. Or anything you can dig up about Father Robicheau or Helen.” Quite the vacation. I envied my nerd friend, even with the goose-egg on his forehead. At least he could work by the pool and drink.
“You got it. Be careful, lone wolf.”
“Aren’t I always?”
Though I’d hoped to surprise Father Robicheau by showing up unannounced at Saint Louis Cathedral, my ambition only led to punishment. To my thighs, specifically. By wooden pews. After spending half my childhood in church following Shannon’s death, wooden pews never failed to evoke loathing whether during Mass, waiting for my turn at confession, or waiting for my parents to finish a counseling session. The unforgiving seats doled out more punishment than any priest in the confessional or parochial school nun.
And here I was, again, my hamstrings doing penance while I waited. The nervous young deacon who offered to call when Father Robicheau returned from visiting congregation members only ventured out to check on me once, though I saw him peek out at me from a door behind the altar twice. I tried to relax, to appreciate the stained glass and architecture of the nave. History had a heartbeat here, though not the same as other places I’d visited. More unsettling.
When my legs cramped the first time, I’d walked around. An old woman passed me as we approached the candle rails. She lowered herself carefully to the kneeler, bowed her head, and clasped her hands. I stepped away to let her remember and pray in peace.
A New Templars Page 6
