Maureen holstered her weapon. “I got the plate for that van.”
“Great, great,” Detillier said. He remained nervous.
She realized that the van could be making the block, preparing for another pass now that the shooters knew what they were up against. Detillier had started walking away.
“We take my car,” he said. “I’ll call in the plate from there. We’re wasting time standing around here, especially if they’ve made it to the highway.”
“Right. Okay.” She pulled her phone from her pocket. She could feel herself returning to earth, could hear the sounds of the neighborhood again. “Okay. Okay.” She scrolled through her contacts. She raised her other hand in a “stop” signal. “Before we do anything, I have to make a call. I have to call Preacher.”
Detillier stopped walking. He took a couple of steps back to her. “Maureen, Preacher’s one of the cops who got shot.”
19
“Take me to him,” Maureen shouted from the passenger seat of Detillier’s sedan. “Take me to him right fucking now.”
“I don’t know where he is,” Detillier said, his eyes fixed on the road as they hurtled up North Rampart Street, dodging traffic, running red lights, speeding away from Dizzy’s and the Tremé, headed for the wide boulevard of Canal Street. “He was shot in Mid-City, at a place on Jeff Davis. I don’t know what hospital he’s going to.”
“Get on the radio and find out,” Maureen said. “Find out where he is. Find out if he’s alive.” She pounded her fist on the dash. “Right! Fucking! Now!”
“Let me fucking drive,” Detillier shouted back. “There’s nothing we can do about Preacher right now.”
They caught the green light at the intersection of Rampart and Canal. Detillier muttered under his breath for the foot traffic to keep clear. Maureen braced herself against the dashboard as they sped through the intersection, the sedan bouncing hard over the streetcar tracks, tires screeching as Detillier hung a hard left onto Canal. Maureen saw stars as her shoulder slammed into the door, knocking her head on the window and the breath out of her lungs. They missed crashing into a parked car by half a foot, passing so close that Maureen could see the foam daiquiri cup in the console. She coughed as she fought to regain her breath.
Leaning forward in the driver’s seat, Detillier stomped on the gas, swinging around slower traffic where he could, running lights, headed toward the river.
“This is an active-shooter situation,” Detillier said. “It’s not over.”
“I’ll find Preacher my fucking self,” Maureen said, reaching for the sedan’s police radio. Detillier slapped her hand away.
Maureen almost punched him. “What the fuck was that?”
“Are you not listening?” Detillier said. “If not to me then to the radio. We’re on the job here, we’re in a situation.”
Maureen had not been listening to the radio chatter. The fate of Preacher was everything. She couldn’t focus on the voices coming over the radio long enough to make sense of the frantic calls and commands rasping out of the speaker. She tried to tune in. SWAT was rolling. The harbor police were involved. Demands for roadblocks at the bridge and on the highway at the parish line, and at the Causeway and the Twin Span. She heard codes and orders that she knew weren’t NOPD. Everyone in the area was on deck. Everyone. It made sense to call in other law enforcement, but she couldn’t decipher what any of them were doing. She didn’t know who was going where. From the sound of things, nobody was really in charge.
Near the foot of Canal, at the big palm-tree-flanked casino, Detillier made a hard right onto the much narrower two-lane Tchoupitoulas Street, bobbing and weaving as fast as he could through the business district toward Uptown. Maureen felt her brain beginning to catch up, to function and put things together in real time. She hadn’t asked where Detillier was taking her. He hadn’t said. Now she had an idea, not of the physical destination but of what would be waiting for them when they arrived.
“Where are we going?” she asked. She rubbed her sore shoulder, touched the tender bump rising on her forehead. “We’re going after them, aren’t we?”
“We are,” Detillier said, nodding.
“Where?”
“The Walmart. Pay attention to the radio, get me an update.”
“You’re shitting me.” Maureen gripped the dash again with both hands, her eyes wide because Detillier had them pointed into oncoming traffic. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, the street turns one-way up here, one-way right at us.”
Detillier jogged the sedan to the right, shifting off Tchoupitoulas onto Annunciation, sliding back into traffic headed in the right direction. They sped past the World War II museum, ducked under the highway. When they came out the other side of the highway overpass, Maureen could see helicopters in the sky up ahead, none of them over the Walmart.
“Trust me,” Detillier said, “They’re at the Walmart.”
“That is ridiculous,” Maureen said, shaking her head. “That’s fucking ridiculous.”
Detillier turned the car again and again, darting from side street to side street. Maureen clutched at the dashboard and the door handle, trying to prevent getting more damaged than she already had and trying to hatch an idea of how cop killers had ended up at Walmart.
“Preacher was shot in Mid-City,” Detillier said. “The other shooting was right around here, on Poydras in the business district.”
The overpass that they had just crossed under marked the unofficial border between Uptown and Downtown, Maureen thought. If you wanted to go toward the lake or across the river, or toward Baton Rouge or the southernmost parishes from the business district, you caught the highway here. Several arteries, almost every artery, out of town, Maureen realized, linked in this one place. But, she thought, the city streets underneath the highway tangled into a spaghetti pile of dead ends, one-ways, cobblestone alleys, on-ramps, exit ramps, and construction detours. She knew people born and raised in New Orleans who got turned around enough down there to end up across the river. If you passed straight through and missed the highway, though, Tchoupitoulas shot you out of the spaghetti pile right at Religious Street, which led to the riverside Walmart. She guessed the shooters had panicked and had given up on trying to find the on-ramp that would let them get away.
“They were running for the Ten and got lost, so they went to ground at the most familiar territory they could find. Incredible.” She paused, stunned by her own horrifying thoughts. “Holy shit. Well, either they’re panicked and stupid and got lost or they’re smart and strategizing, and when they were done killing cops they made a planned beeline for the biggest box of guns and hostages they could find.”
They raced parallel to the river, the railroad tracks and the shipping wharves hidden behind a high concrete wall. They were back on Tchoupitoulas. Detillier kept making risky passes into the oncoming traffic. Near the river, large trucks made up a fair amount of that traffic. Their bleating steamship horns spiked Maureen’s already frantic heart rate. Please don’t let us kill someone, she thought. Please don’t let us die. I never dreamed I’d want to find a fucking Walmart this bad.
The store materialized ahead of them on their right, the low, boxy building set deep inside its vast, mostly empty parking lot. The lot was massive, Maureen thought. Weird how few cars were there. Whoever had built the place had anticipated a lot of business they weren’t getting. No, she thought, it’s not the lack of cars that’s weird. It’s the lack of police cars. Of anything with a siren on it.
“Why are we the only ones here?” Maureen asked. She realized she hadn’t seen him reach for the radio. If Detillier was so convinced the shooters had fled to the Walmart, why hadn’t he called anyone else? FBI? NOPD?
He eased up on the accelerator.
“Why are we slowing down?” Actually, she thought, Detillier hadn’t picked up the radio since they’d gotten into the car. He kept claiming not to know anything. Well then, why wasn’t he calling someone and asking questions?
“Th
is Walmart does terribly,” Detillier said. “It’s barely hanging on, and they stopped selling guns after they got looted in the storm.” He threw Maureen a nervous glance. “But I’m guessing the people we’re after didn’t know that. Doesn’t mean they’re not armed to the teeth already. We should count on it.”
“Point made,” Maureen said. Her throat was so dry she could barely get the words out.
Detillier pulled the sedan into the very back of the parking lot, and threw the car into park. He stared straight ahead through the dirty windshield at the Walmart a hundred yards ahead.
“We gonna let anyone know where we are?” Maureen asked.
Detillier didn’t answer. He watched the Walmart, listening to the radio.
Maureen’s eyes dropped to the radio, as if she could read there whatever mysterious signal Detillier was hoping to discern from the chaotic chatter of orders, police codes, and panicked questions filling the car. She ground her teeth. What the fuck were they just sitting there for, doing nothing? Her breath got short, tears of rage again welling in her eyes. She palmed tears from her cheeks. She inhaled her snot and swallowed. She took a deep, deep breath, then exhaled long and slow.
She turned to Detillier.
“Can you just call someone? Anyone? There’s got to be news about Preacher. I need to know. I can’t make anything out of that mess on the radio.”
Detillier raised his hand, gesturing, Maureen realized, for her to be quiet.
“And there it is,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
“There what is? For fuck’s sake.”
“The response to the first nine-one-one call”—he raised his chin in the direction of the Walmart—“from inside the Walmart. I was right. Those fuckers are in there. Someone fleeing the store called it in.” He shifted the car into drive, rolled them toward the store. “Showtime.”
20
They cruised slowly across the parking lot, giving the Walmart entrance a wide berth.
Maureen watched as the automatic doors opened and one person then another jogged out of the store, glancing over their shoulders as they ran. She could tell they were scared, but nobody was sprinting. Whatever had frightened them wasn’t chasing them, and the danger was away from the front of the store. Maureen knew the Watchmen weren’t coming out. Law enforcement would have to go in after them.
“We’ve got a description coming in over the radio,” Detillier said.
Maureen listened as the NOPD dispatcher described the shooters. One male, one female. Possibly a couple. That could matter, be useful, Maureen thought; if they could be separated, maybe they could be used against each other. The dispatcher said the man was white, with a medium to solid build, about six feet, short black hair. The woman was also white, thin, long brown hair, about five-six. The shooters were dressed alike. Camouflage cargo pants, black boots, body armor, fingerless gloves. An invented, secondhand uniform. This was good, Maureen thought. They’d be easier to distinguish from any remaining customers in the store.
Both were heavily armed, carrying automatic rifles, AK-47s or something similar. It should be anticipated, the dispatcher said, that they carried sidearms as well. And while there had not been visual confirmation on these two shooters, the Mid-City shooter, the one who’d shot Preacher, and who had been killed on-site, had been carrying grenades.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Maureen said. “This is unreal.” She looked at Detillier, who watched the front of the store and nodded his head at every detail the dispatcher related. “You ever seen something like this before?”
He went on nodding. “This is how it happened in Vegas. This is how it happened in Memphis. Right down to the fucking Walmart.”
“And how did it end those other times?” Maureen asked.
“Ugly,” Detillier said. They moved closer to the store as Detillier drove in smaller circles. “These things, with people like this, they can’t end any other way. You try to limit the damage.”
Maureen pointed a finger at him, sitting up on one knee in the passenger seat. “You know. You know if Preacher’s dead or if he’s alive and you’re not telling me. Why are you not telling me?”
“I wouldn’t tell you a thing I’d heard,” Detillier said, “even if I had heard something. Because there’s better than a fifty-fifty chance that whatever I’d tell you was wrong. Information in these crazy situations is unreliable. Think about that. I need you to focus, Maureen. I need your full attention on the matter at hand. We’re walking into an active-shooter situation, a potential hostage situation. You gotta be here now. There’s no fucking telling what you’re going to be asked to do. You have to be ready for anything.”
Detillier parked the car.
* * *
He’d put them off to the far right side of the entrance, away from the front doors, the sedan parked at an angle behind a huge black pickup truck they could use for cover. A trio of scraggly parking-lot trees helped to shield them as well. Maureen understood Detillier’s strategy. From where he’d positioned them, they couldn’t be shot at out the front door. They’d see anyone exiting the store before that person saw them. They’d see anyone who’d slipped out the back of the building and came around the right side of the store. Anyone who slipped out the left side would be more than a hundred yards away from them when they appeared. Detillier had left the Watchmen no direct shots or angles of sneak attack.
“We’re not waiting for backup,” Maureen said. “Are we?”
“We’re not charging in guns blazing, if that’s what you mean,” Detillier said. “But we do need to gather as much intel as we can. If they’ve got prisoners in there, we need to know as soon as possible. We need to be able to tell everyone who shows up the lay of the land inside that store. I have gear we’ll need in the trunk.”
Maureen lit a cigarette. Probably her last one for a while, she figured. No sense in nic-fitting while stalking cop killers in the frozen foods section. Smoke drifted into one half-closed eye as she double-checked her Glock, confirming that first bullet remained chambered. She thought of the places she’d like to send it, like right in between some country motherfucker’s eyes. By dressing up and playing soldier, the Watchmen had removed the risk she’d faced outside Dizzy’s. She would know, immediately, if the person she aimed at presented a threat. She slipped her weapon back into the holster on her hip. She wouldn’t hesitate. Not this time.
They got out of the car. They met at the trunk. Detillier popped it open.
“You’re going to have to wear federal colors, I’m afraid. At least they’ll protect you from friendly fire once the others arrive.”
“I got no problem with that.”
Detillier walked away from her, talking into a handheld radio, describing the scene and their plans for the folks on their way. Things were about to get crazy, Maureen thought. In minutes the parking lot would be a forest fire of emergency lights. She took off her leather jacket and tossed it in the backseat. Detillier reached into the trunk, handed Maureen a Kevlar vest. Shaking her head, she tapped her heart. “Already armored.”
She grabbed a blue windbreaker that said FBI in big white letters across the back and pulled it on. She tightened her ponytail.
“The female shooter inside,” Detillier said, returning to the car and pulling on his own armor and jacket. “That description mean anything to you? Any chance that’s your girl, Leary?”
“That’s not her in there.”
“You sound pretty sure,” Detillier said. “Nobody’s been able to find her for a month and a half. Could be she found her way back to the Watchmen and that’s where she’s been hiding.”
“We found her last night,” Maureen said. “In Lafayette Cemetery with her throat cut open.”
“Dead?”
“Indeed,” Maureen said. “I was going to tell you after lunch. Other matters took precedence.” She could hear the sirens approaching from every direction. The boys were coming, with their big guns and their armor that fit. She’d ge
t cut out of the action. “Let’s get going. I feel like I’m standing here waiting for someone else to come and do my job for me. I don’t like it.”
“If we can do it,” Detillier said, “these people are worth taking alive. No matter what they’ve done. What these guys did today? Trust me, it isn’t the endgame; it’s the beginning. If we can get from these two what’s coming next, we can save lives.”
“You don’t have to tell me my duty,” Maureen said.
“These aren’t the two who shot Preacher.”
“I’m no vigilante.”
“Here’s how it’s going to go,” Detillier said. His radio squawked with multiple voices. He turned down the volume. “You are going to approach from the right side of the entrance so that you don’t cross in front of it. When you get there, stay flat against the building. I’m going to loop around to the other side, come at the entrance along the left side of the building. I will clear the entrance. You got that? Me first around that corner. Me. Once I’ve cleared the entrance, I will signal for you to come in behind me. As we enter, you will cover my back, and I will cover yours. Depending on what we find, or what finds us, we’ll use the registers for cover, reconvene, report in, and strategize from there. Got it?”
“I got it,” Maureen said.
“See you inside,” Detillier said. And for the first time, he smiled at her. He’s done this before, Maureen thought as the agent scampered away, and he enjoys it.
* * *
Maureen watched as Detillier made his way across the parking lot. He covered the distance in crouching sprints, using cars and trash cans for cover. No sign of life came from the Walmart. No one else came out. She couldn’t hear anything happening inside the store, but the approaching sirens grew louder. Two helicopters now hovered low overhead, no doubt relaying the scene back to the approaching forces.
Part of Maureen wanted to wait for backup. That was certainly the safer play. She knew a few people in the Tactical Unit. She’d actually worked with Tactical once, serving a warrant in Central City. They had the armor, the gear, and firepower equal to what the two Watchmen shooters had. They were a paramilitary unit unto themselves. But I’m here now, she thought. And a bigger part of her couldn’t wait to get inside the store. She wanted to be the one to make the arrests, and if that didn’t happen, to be the one who took down the people who’d killed her fellow officers. There could be hostages. They couldn’t be abandoned. She had so much to prove. To the brass, to the other officers in her platoon, to her entire department. To Atkinson. To Preacher.
Let the Devil Out Page 18
