Princess of Wands

Chapter One

The body of the young woman had been twisted into a fetal position and strapped with duct tape. Then it had been dropped in a black plastic contractor bag and rewrapped. Which seemed like a heck of a lot of trouble if you were going to just dump the body in the woods.

Detective Sergeant Kelly Lockhart stroked his beard as the coroner’s assistant stretched the body out. The corpse had been in the bag long enough for decomposition to work its way on the ligaments that stiffened the body in rigor mortis. And for the smell to change. But Kelly had seen far worse in his ten years as an investigator. And the department wanted to know, right away, if she was another victim of the Rippers.

Kelly was six two and a hundred and sixty pounds when he was watching his weight. Most people describing him used “thin” because “skeletal” was impolite. He’d started growing his hair when he got out of the army and hardly quit in the ensuing twelve years. It hung down his back in a frizzy, uncontrolled mass and was matched by a straggly beard and mustache.

Technically, since he’d worked his way out of vice and into homicide, he should have cut both back. But he still worked, occasionally, under cover and he’d managed to convince his bosses to let him hang onto the whole schmeer. Since he had a good track record for running down even tough murder cases, the powers-that-be turned a blind eye to someone that looked like a cross between the grim reaper and Cousin Itt.

As the corpse’s legs were stretched out the open cavity of her torso and abdomen became evident and he squatted down to look at the incision. Something sharp, but not as sharp as a knife, had opened the young woman’s body up from just above her mons veneris all the way to her throat. The edges of the cut were haggled; it was more of a rip than a cut, thus the name the papers had slapped on New Orleans’s latest serial killer. And, as usual, all her internal organs were missing.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You know the problem with being me? It’s always being right.”

“Same MO,” the coroner’s assistant said, pointing at the cut. “I’d love to know what he’s using.”

“They’re using,” Lockhart replied, standing up as another car pulled down the dirt road. “And if I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s a claw, a big one like a velociraptor’s.”

“A veloco… what?” the coroner’s assistant said, confused.

“What, you’ve never seen Jurassic Park?” Kelly said. “A dinosaur, you Cajun hick.”

The edge of the bayou made the roads wet and treacherous but the driver of the black SUV expertly avoided the worst of the puddles and parked next to one of the parish unmarked cars. When he saw who was driving, Lockhart tried not to groan. And it looked as if the FBI agent had a boss with him.

“Detective Lockhart,” Special Agent Walter Turner said, nodding to the detective. The FBI agent was black, just short of thirty, with a heavy build from football that was getting a bit flabby. “This is Mr. Germaine. He’s a… consultant we sometimes call in on serial cases.”

Germaine was a tall character, about six four, maybe two hundred thirty pounds, very little of it flab. Sixty or so, clean shaven, short black hair with gray at the temples, and a refined air. The suit he was wearing hadn’t come off a rack. A very expensive consultant, Lockhart suspected. Then the consultant stopped looking at the body and locked eyes with the detective for a moment.

This is one dangerous bastard, Lockhart thought. As an MP he’d spent just enough time around the spec-ops boys to know one dangerous mother when he ran across one. Not the gangbangers, although they were nobody to turn your back on. But this was somebody who would kill you as soon as look at you and whether you put up a fight or not. He kept looking around, not too obviously but obviously enough, keeping total situational awareness like a cat at a dog convention. No, a lion at a dog convention, wondering if he should just go ahead and kill the whole pack. What the fuck was the FBI doing carting around somebody like that?

“Can you tell me anything that’s not in one of the earlier reports?” Germaine asked, quietly.

The “consultant” walked strangely. Kelly had seen a lot of walks in his time. The robotic walk of a tac-team member, arms cocked, fists half closed, legs pumping as if trying not to leap all the time. The street “slide,” feet half shuffling, hips moving. Military guys with their stiff march. Germaine’s wasn’t like any he’d seen before. His hands, instead of being turned in like most people, were rotated with the palms to the rear and barely moved as he walked. Legs were slightly spread, heel strike then roll to toe, stand flat foot as the next rose up in the air and forward. The ankles hardly flexed at all. Back straight but shoulders held down.

It was almost as if he had to think about each step.

He had an accent, faint, not one that Lockhart could place. European anyway, not British. Other than that faint trace his English was perfect. As perfect as his suit and just as obviously a disguise he could take on and off. The accent might not even be genuine.

“If it’s like the others, not much,” Lockhart replied with a shrug. “All the previous bags were clean of prints, body had been washed. Semen in the remaining vaginal tract, multiple DNA, none from any known sex offender. FBI’s already gotten samples,” he added, nodding at the special agent. “What’s your specialty? Profiling?”

“I’m called in when the FBI suspects there are Special Circumstances to an investigation,” Germaine said, walking over to the corpse. He squatted down and pulled out a pair of gloves, putting them on before reaching into the gutted corpse. He fingered the cut for a moment, lifting a bit of the mangled flesh along the side and then pushed the abdominal wall back to examine the underside. If he felt anything about manipulating a violently mutilated teenaged female, it wasn’t evident.

“What are special about these circumstances?” Lockhart said, a touch angrily. “We’ve got five dead hookers and a group of rapists and murderers. Sick fuckers at that. Where are the guts, that’s what I want to know. Draped on display? Eaten? Pickled in jars to await the body’s resurrection?”

“Partially the group aspect,” Special Agent Turner said. “Serial rape-murders are almost always individuals. And usually when there is a group, somebody cracks and burns it.”

“The papers are saying it’s a cult,” the coroner’s assistant replied. “Ritual killings.”

“Perhaps,” Germaine said, reaching up to close the girl’s staring eyes. It was a gentle action that made Lockhart rethink his initial evaluation of the “consultant.” “But cults can be taken down as well,” the consultant continued. He stood up, stripped off the gloves and nodded at the FBI agent. “I’ve seen everything that’s important.”

“Got a bit of bad news,” Special Agent Turner said, wincing. “You know that scale you recovered from the second body?”

“Yeah?” Lockhart said, uneasily. The thing had looked like a fish scale but it was about three times as large as any he’d ever seen. They’d sent it to the FBI to try to figure out what species it had come from. Probably it had been stuck to the body or hands of one of the rapists, a fisherman and God knew that there were enough in the bayous, which would probably be a dead lead. But a clue was a clue. You just kept picking away at the evidence until you got a match. Or, hopefully, somebody got scared and agreed to turn state’s evidence in exchange for not being charged with capital murder.

“The crime lab lost it,” Turner said, grimacing.

“Lost it!” Lockhart snarled. “It was the only thing we had that wasn’t complete bullshit! How the hell could they lose it?”

“Things like that happen,” Germaine said, placatingly. “And, eventually, we’ll find the perpetrators and get a DNA match. One scale will not keep them from justice, Sergeant.”

“What about the odd-ball DNA?” Lockhart asked. “Our lab said they couldn’t make head or tails of it.”

“Still working on it,” Turner replied. “You get occasional human DNA that doesn’t parse right. Your lab doesn’t see as much DNA as the Crime Lab does; they’ve seen a couple of similar cases. We can match it fine for court, if we get the right perp.”

“Which we will,” Germaine added, steepling his fingers and looking at the trees that surrounded the small clearing. “On my soul, we will.”

Barbara Everette stepped out of the tiled shower, patted herself dry with a towel and began blow-drying her long, strawberry blonde hair. The roots were showing again, about two shades redder than her current color with the occasional strand of gray. It didn’t seem fair to have any gray at the ripe old age of thirty-three.

She dropped the blow-dryer into its drawer and brushed her hair out, examining herself critically in the mirror. She was either going to have to cut back on the carbs or find some time to exercise more; there was just a touch of flab developing around the waist and, yes, as she turned and checked there was a touch of cellulite around the top of the thighs. The body was, otherwise, much the same as it had been when she married Mark fifteen years before. Oh, the D-cup breasts were starting to sag a bit and showed plenty of wear from little baby mouths, but it still was a pretty good body. Pretty good.

She dropped the brush and took a cat stance, twisting through a short kata to stretch her muscles. Ball of the foot, turn, swipe, catch, roll the target down to the side, hammer strike. All slow, careful movements, warming up for the trials ahead.

She slipped on a tattered golden kimono, sat down at the vanity and did her make-up. Not too heavy. A bit of eye shadow, liner, very light lipstick. She still didn’t have much to cover up.

Make-up done she stepped into the minimally decorated master bedroom, making another mental note among thousands to brighten it up a bit, and started getting dressed. Tights, leotard, wriggle into casual summer dress on top, brown zip-up knee boots with a slight heel. Her father had taken one look at them when she wore them last Christmas and immediately dubbed them “fuck-me” boots. Which… was Daddy all over.

Another brush of the hair to settle it after dressing, a pair of sunglasses holding back her hair, a slim watch buckled on her wrist, and it was time to go pick up the kids.

Barbara picked up her pocket book as she walked out the door, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. The bag was a tad heavier than it looked: the H K .45 with two spare magazines added significant weight to the usual load of a lady’s purse. But she wouldn’t think about going out the door without clothes nor would she think about going out the door without at least a pistol.

She climbed in the Expedition started it and waited for it to warm up. The SUV was a touch extravagant and simply devoured fuel but at least two days a week she ended up with six or more kids packed in the vehicle. It was a choice of a big SUV or one of the larger mini-vans, with not much better fuel economy. And Mark had flatly rejected the mini-van idea. If the stupid liberals back in the ’70s hadn’t created the CAFÉ regulations, SUVs never would have been economically viable. Serves them right. If they hadn’t created the need, she could be driving a reasonably fuel efficient station wagon instead of this… behemoth.

When the temperature needle had started to move she drove sedately out of the neighborhood and then floored it. She knew that she already had too many points on her license and the local cops had started to watch for the green Expedition as an easy, not to mention pretty, mark. But cars were for going fast. If she wanted to take her time she’d have walked. And it wasn’t as if she wasn’t busy.

The radar detector remained quiescent all the way to the school zone by the high school and by then she’d slowed down anyway. She waved to the nice sheriff’s deputy that had given her a ticket a couple of months before and got in the line of cars, trucks and SUVs that were picking up children from middle school.

Finally she got close enough to the pick-up area that Allison spotted her and walked over, her face twisted in a frown. The thirteen year-old was a carbon copy of her mother physically, with the true strawberry blonde hair that was but a memory to her mother’s head, but she had yet to learn that a volcanic temper is best kept in check.

“Marcie Taylor is such a bitch,” Allison said, dumping her book bag on the floor and climbing in the passenger seat.

“Watch your language, young lady,” Barbara said, calmly. “You may be correct, but you need to learn a wider vocabulary.”

“But she is,” Allison complained. “She said sluts shouldn’t be on the cheerleading team and she was looking right at me! She’s just pi… angry because I got picked and she didn’t! And she’s trying to take Jason away from me!”

Barbara counted to five mentally and wondered if now was the time to try to explain the social dynamics of Redwater County. Up until the last decade or so, the county had been strictly rural with the vast majority of the inhabitants being from about six different families. Three of the families, including the Taylors, had been the “Names,” old, monied for the area, families that owned all the major businesses.

Recently, as nearby Jackson expanded, the area had started to increase in population and the economy had become much more diverse. Chain stores had driven under the small-town businesses of the “Names” and while they retained some social distinction, it was fading. Even ten years before, Marcie Taylor would have been chosen for the cheerleading squad, despite being as graceful as an ox and with a personality of a badger, simply because of who her father was. And at a certain level she knew that. It undoubtedly added fuel to her resentment of a relative newcomer — the Everettes had only been in the county for ten years — getting such an important slot.

Barb had seen, had lived through, countless similar encounters being dragged around the world by her father. Marcie Taylor had nothing in arrogance compared to Fuko Ishagaki. But pointing that out wouldn’t be the way to handle it, either.

“Why did she call you a slut?” Barbara asked, instead.

“Oh,” Allison breathed, angrily. “There’s some stupid rumor that I’ve been screwing Jason!”

“Ah, for the days when a daughter would put it more delicately,” Barbara said, trying not to smile. “Have you been? Because if you are, we need to get you on birth control right now, young lady!”

“No, I haven’t,” Allison snapped. “I can’t believe you’d ask. God, mother, I’m thirteen.”

“Didn’t stop Brandy Jacobs,” Barb said, pulling into the line of traffic at the elementary school. “Not that you’re that stupid. But if it’s before you’re eighteen, just make sure you ask me to get the pills for you beforehand, okay? I’d, naturally, prefer that you not have sex prior to marriage. But, given the choice, I’d much rather have a sexually active daughter who is not pregnant than one who is.”

“God, mother,” Allison said, laughing. “You just say these things!”

“Honesty is a sign of godliness,” Barbara replied. “And you know what sort of a life you’ll have if you get pregnant. Married to…” She waved around her and shook her head. “I won’t say some slope-brow, buck-toothed, inbred, high-school dropout redneck simply because I’m far too nice a person. And far too young to be a grandmother.” She lifted a printed sign that said “Brandon and Brook Everette” and then dropped it back in the door-holder as the lady calling in parents waved. The teacher was Doris Shoonour, third grade, and she immediately recognized Barbara. Everyone in both schools recognized Barbara. She’d been president of the PTO twice, worked every fund-raising drive and fair and could always be counted on as a chaperone on a school trip. Good old Barb. Call her Mrs. Dependable.

Finally she reached the pick-up point for Brandon and Brook and the two got in, bickering as usual.

“Hurry up, stupid,” Brook said, banging at her younger brother’s butt with her book bag.

“I’m going,” Brandon said, irritably. “Quit pushing.”

“Quiet, Brook,” Barbara said. “Brandon, get in.”

The seven-year-old finally negotiated the seats and collapsed with a theatric sigh as his eleven-year-old sister tossed her much heavier bag in the SUV with a thump and scrambled aboard. Both of the younger children had inherited their father’s darker looks and were so nearly alike in height that they were often mistaken for twins.

When the attending teacher had shut the door, Barbara pulled out, following the line of cars.

“Mom,” Allison said, “I want to go to the dance after the game Friday night.”

“No,” Barb replied, braking as a car pulled out right in front of her. “May the Lord bless you,” she muttered at the driver.

“Why not?” Allison snapped. “I’ve got to go to the game anyway. And everybody else will be going to the dance! You can’t make me just come home!”

“Because I said no,” Barb said, calmly. “And no means no.”

“You’re impossible, mother,” Allison said, folding her arms and pouting.

“Yes, I am,” Barbara said.

Except for the regular argument in the back, the drive home was quiet.

“Get ready for tomorrow,” Barb said as they were going in the door to the two-story house. “Brook, get your dance bag. Allison-”

“I know, mother,” Allison spat, headed for the stairs. “Change into my work-out clothes.”

“Brandon…”

“I’m going, I’m going…” the seven-year-old said. “I don’t think I want to take karate anymore.”

“We’ll discuss it later,” Barbara answered.

While the kids were getting ready, and keeping up a steady stream of abuse at one another, Barb got dinner prepped so all she’d have to do when they got home was pull it out of the oven. She often thought that the worst part of her current life was deciding what to cook every night. Followed closely by cleaning up after dinner and then the actual cooking.

So after much mental agony she’d simply decided on making a rut. Tonight was Thursday and that meant meat loaf. She’d made the loaf earlier in the day and now slipped it in the oven, setting the timer to start cooking while they were gone. Broccoli had been prepped as well and she slipped it in the microwave. She set out two packages of packaged noodles and cheese, filled a pot with water and olive oil and set it on the stove. When she came home all she’d have to do was pull the meat loaf out of the oven, get the water boiling, start the microwave and twenty minutes after they were back they’d be sitting down for dinner.

Technically, Mark could have done it all since he’d be home at least an hour before they were. But Mark was vaguely aware that there were pots and pans in the house and could just about make Hamburger Helper without ruining it. She’d wondered, often, if she shouldn’t have at least tried to get him to learn how to cook. But that was water under the bridge: after fourteen years of marriage it was a bit late to change.

By the time she was done it was time to start chivvying the children out the door. Brandon couldn’t find the bottom to his gi or his blue belt. Brook was missing one of her jazz shoes. Allison was dallying in the bathroom, trying to find just the right combination of make-up that would proclaim she was an independent and modern thirteen-year-old without being in any way a slut.

The gi bottom was fished out from under the bed, the belt had apparently disappeared, the shoe was found under a mound of clothes in the closet, and a couple of swipes of eyeliner, some lip gloss and a threat of punishment got Allison out of the bathroom.

All three children were dropped at their respective locations and when Allison was kicked out the door, still sulking, Barbara heaved a sigh of relief and drove to the dojo.

Algomo was a small town but unusual in that it successfully supported two schools of martial arts. For reasons she couldn’t define, except a desire to, at least one night a week, avoid her children for an hour or so, Brandon had been enrolled in Master Yi’s school of karate and kung-fu whereas Barb spent Thursday evening at John Hardesty’s Center for Martial Arts.

She parked the Expedition, mentally cursing its wide footprint and inordinate length, and walked in the back door of the dojo. There was a women’s locker room where she slipped out of the dress and boots and donned tight leather footgear that were something like Brook’s missing tap shoe. Then she entered the dojo.

The room was large with slightly worn wood flooring and currently empty. In forty minutes or so the next class would flood in and she’d help with it for another forty minutes or so and then go pick up the kids.

For now she was alone and she started her warm-up, working through a light tai-chi exercise, stretching out each slow muscle movement. After she was slightly warmed up she sped up her pace, adding in some gymnastics and yoga movements for limberness.

“You know,” John Hardesty said from the doorway. “It’s a good thing I’m gay or I’d be having a hard time with this.”

“You’re not gay,” Barbara said, rolling from a split to a hand-stand, legs still spread. She looked at him from between her hands and chuckled at his expression. “See?”

John Hardesty was middling height and weight with sandy-brown hair. His wife, Sarah, helped out a couple of evenings a week and between them they had five children, one from his previous marriage, two from Sarah’s and two together. If he was gay, it was a very closet condition.

“Why do you do this to me?” John said, going over to the lockers and pulling out pads.

“It builds character,” Barb replied, flipping to her feet. She fielded the tossed pads and started getting them on.

Once they were both in pads, with helmets and mouthpieces in, they touched hands and closed.

John started the attack with a hammer strike and then bounced away lightly, staying out of reach of her grappling attack. He’d learned, through painful experience, not to even think of grappling with her.

In honesty, the reason that Brandon and Brook, and up until recently Allison, studied with Master Yi, was that Master Yi was simply better than John. John had Barbara, a touch, on speed. And he was definitely stronger; any reasonably in-shape male would be. But Barb had started training when she was five, when her father had been a foreign area officer assigned in Hong Kong. Over the succeeding twenty-eight years she had never once been out of training. The quality varied and the forms definitely varied; over the years she’d studied wah lum and dragon kung fu, karate in the U.S. and Japan, hop-ki do in Korea and the U.S. and aikido. But by the time she was Allison’s age, she could have won most open tournaments if they were “all forms.” And if all attacks were allowed.

John Hardesty, on the other hand, was straight out of the “tournament” school of karate. He’d won southeast regional a time or two, come in second nationally, and now owned the de rigueur local martial arts school. He was good, but he was by no means a superior fighter. And he’d come to that conclusion after sparring with Barbara only once.

Master Yi, despite using “karate” to describe his school, had been studying wah lum before Barb was born and was, or at least had been, a truly superior hand-to-hand warrior. If the kids were going to train with anyone local, she wanted it to be Master Yi. In fact, she often wished that she trained with Master Yi instead of with John. You didn’t get better by fighting someone who was your inferior. But, occasionally, she picked up something new.

Barbara followed up with a feinted kick and then two hammer strikes that were both blocked. But the second was a feint and she locked the blocking wrist with her right hand, coming in low with two left-handed strikes to the abdomen and then leaping out of range.

“Bitch,” John said around the mouthpiece.

“Had to call Allison on using that term,” Barb said, backing up and then attacking in the Dance of the Swallow. It was right at the edge of her ability and she nearly bobbled the complicated cross during the second somersault, but it ended up with Hardesty on his face and her elbow planted in his neck. “Don’t use it on me.”

“Christ, I hate it when you pull out that kung fu shit,” John said humorously, taking her hand to get back on his feet. “Bad week?”

“Yeah,” she admitted.

“Well, if you need to kick my ass to get it out of your system, feel free,” Hardesty said, taking a guard position. “I have to admit that fighting you is always interesting. Anything in particular?”

“No,” Barbara admitted as they closed. This time two of Hardesty’s rock hard blows got through her defenses, rocking her on her heels, and she was unable to grapple either one of them. She’d take a blow if it meant she could get a lock; once she had most opponents in lock she could turn them into sausage. But she could feel her concentration slipping and she disengaged. “I’m just tired,” she said, stretching and rubbing at her pads where the blows had slipped through.

“Take a break,” John said, lifting his helmet and pulling out his mouthpiece. “You deserve one.”

“I’m going to,” Barb said. “This weekend. Mark doesn’t know yet.”

“He’s going to be so thrilled,” John quipped, slipping his mouthpiece back in. “You ready to get thrown through a wall?”

“You and what army?”

Chapter Two

She helped with training until it was time to leave and then headed for the locker room. Technically, she helped with training the younger kids so she didn’t get charged tuition. In reality, they both knew that she was training John as much as she was training the kids. Who was the master and who the student? But training other people’s kids had never bothered her. She’d thought about becoming a teacher full-time; she was already an occasional substitute. But Mark made enough money that she didn’t have to work and he preferred that she stay at home. And she believed, in a fundamental and unshakeable fashion, that Mark was the master of the house. If he wanted her to stay home and be a housewife, she’d stay home.

Barbara had been raised an Episcopalian and in her teenage years, when other kids were getting as far away from the church as they could, she’d gotten closer and closer to it. She often thought that if she’d been raised Catholic, God forbid, she’d have become a nun. But her family, her religion and her country were locked in an iron triangle that defined her life. In many ways, it was religion that kept her sane. When times were bad, when she and Mark were at each other’s throats, when Allison had been struck by a car, when Mark was laid off, it was to God she turned for solace. And that solace was always there, a warm, comforting presence that said that life was immaterial and only the soul mattered. Make sure the soul was at peace and everything else would eventually fall into place.

She wasn’t a fundamentalist screamer. She didn’t proselytize. She simply lived her life, every day, in the most Christian manner that she could. If someone sniped at her, she turned the other cheek. If the children bickered or snapped, she smothered her anger and treated them as children of God. And when someone needed a helping hand because another supposed Christian had said no or simply not turned up, she gave that helping hand.

She knew that a good bit of her belief centered around what she called “the other Barbara.” One time in the sixth grade she’d been sent home, almost expelled, for putting a boy in the hospital. He’d been teasing her and when she tried to walk away he’d grabbed her. So she’d broken his nose, arm and ankle. She had not used any training; no special little holds or martial arts moves were involved, just sheer explosive rage. It was the rage, as much as anything, that she used her religion to control. She’d learned it from her mother who had much the same problems and who explained that, besides the necessity for belief in the One God, religion’s purpose was to control the demons in mankind.

Barb worked very hard to control her demons, because she knew what the results would be if she did not.

It didn’t mean she was an idiot about it. The world was not a nice place and never would be short of the Second Coming. To her, “turn the other cheek” meant “let the small hurts pass” not “be a professional victim.” So she made sure her children were as well grounded as possible, gave them all the advice she could, showed them a Christian way of life in all things and made sure they knew how and when to defend themselves.

When she was in college, shortly before meeting Mark, she had been attacked on her way home from the library late one Wednesday evening. The path was lit but the location was obscured by trees and landscaping and the man had been on her before she knew he was there. She could have screamed, she could have tried to run, he only had a knife after all. Instead she broke his wrist, struck him on the temple with an open-hand blow and walked to the nearest phone to call the police.

After the police took her statement she had gone back to her dorm, thrown up and then prayed for several hours. She had prayed for the soul of her attacker and her own. For her attacker she had prayed that he would find a way to Jesus lest the evil in his soul give him to Satan for all time. A soul lost was a soul lost. For herself she had prayed for mercy. For she had, in her anger, given his wrist an extra, unnecessary, twist, that had elicited a scream of pain. She prayed for mercy for letting her anger, which she knew to be volcanic, slip in the circumstances. And for the wash of pleasure that scream of pain had caused her. She’d been really upset by the attack.

The attacker had been picked up at the hospital while having his wrist set. DNA matched him to a string of rapes around the LSU campus so Barbara hadn’t even had to press charges. She still prayed, occasionally, that while in prison he would find his way to Jesus. Every soul, even that of a rotten little rapist, was precious.

When she got home the TV was on, tuned to ESPN. Mark was settled on the recliner, a position he would assuredly occupy until time for supper. She got him a fresh beer, turned on the water to boil and got out the meat loaf. Twenty minutes later she had the kids washed and at the table.

“God, thank you for this food,” Mark said, his head bowed. “Thank you for another day of good life, for all the things you have given to us…”

Barb tuned Mark out and sent up her own prayer of thanks. It was a good life. Intensely frustrating at times, but good. Everyone was healthy, no major injuries, decent grades, Mark had a good and steady job. She felt… under utilized, but bringing three sane and reasonably well balanced kids into the world was probably the best utilization of a life she could imagine.

When Mark was done she picked up her fork and looked at Allison.

“Other than the unpleasantness with Marcie, how was your day, Allison?”

She insisted on conversation at the table, a habit she had gotten from her mother, God rest her soul. Mother Gibson had followed her Air Force husband around the world, often ending up alone with the kids in some God forsaken wilderness like Minot, North Dakota. Often the only conversation she could have was that with her children.

The kids had learned. A simple “Good” or “Bad” would elicit parental disapproval of the most extreme kind. So Allison swallowed her bite of broccoli and frowned, trotting out the prepared speech.

“I think I did okay on my chemistry test…”

When dinner was done, all the kids in bed but Allison, who was doing homework, the dishes in the dishwasher and Mark back watching television, Barbara went over to the couch and sat down.

“Mark,” she said, softly, “I need a break.”

“Huh?” Mark said, looking away from a rerun of Friends, then back at the TV.

“I need a break,” she repeated. “I’m going away for the weekend.”

“What?” he asked, looking over at her again. The station changed to a commercial and she now had his undivided attention.

“I’d like you to pick the kids up tomorrow,” she said. “And take the Expedition in the morning, I’ll take the Honda. I just need a short vacation.”

“Who’s going to cook supper?” he asked. “And Allison asked me if she could go to the dance tomorrow. I said yes. Who’s going to pick her up?”

“I said no,” Barb sighed. “Because I knew you’d ask that question.”

“We just had a vacation a couple of months ago!” Mark protested.

“You had a vacation,” Barbara replied. “I made sure that Allison didn’t wear that thong bikini, got sunscreen on everyone, treated Brandon’s sunburn when he didn’t get it replaced, made sure there were snacks for the beach…”

“Okay, okay,” Mark said. “I get the picture. But that still doesn’t answer who’s going to cook!”

“You’ll go to the game on Friday anyway…”

“And that’s another thing,” Mark said. “I thought you wanted to go to the game. You always do!”

“I go to the games because it’s a duty, Mark,” Barb said. “I don’t enjoy them. You can eat at the game, everyone will anyway. I’ll leave a casserole for Saturday evening. Sunday you can go out. I’ll be back Monday.”

“And I was planning on going to the State game on Saturday! Who’s going to drive me home?”

Barbara tried not to sigh or mention that that was part of her reason for wanting to get away. If the day went to form, Mark would be far too drunk to drive before the game even started.

“Catch a ride,” she snapped. “I’m sorry, Mark, but I have to get away.” She took a deep breath and counted to ten mentally. When that didn’t work she repeated it. In Japanese.

“Okay,” Mark sighed as the show resumed. “Where are you going?”

“Gulfport, probably,” Barb answered. “I’ll get a cheap hotel room and just… read I think.”

“Whatever,” Mark said, watching Jennifer Aniston bounce across the screen to the couch.

“And you’ll need to get the kids to school on Monday,” she said.

“Okay,” he replied, clearly not listening.

She stood up and walked to the bedroom, got undressed, cleaned off her makeup, climbed into bed and picked up her latest trashy novel. Another day down. Just one more until she had a break. She could use a nice relaxing weekend.

Augustus Germaine held the scale up with a pair of tweezers and rotated it against the light, shaking his head.

“I thought that Almadu was dispelled, what, seventy years ago?” Assistant Director Grosskopf said.

“All are not dead that sleeping lie,” Germaine answered, continuing to examine the scale. “What once was can be again. And, clearly, is. The thorium traces are distinct, as is the patterning of the scale. Someone has been very naughty.” He set the scale down on the laboratory bench and looked over at Dr. Mattes. “Concur?”

“Oh, yes,” Vonnia Mattes, Ph.D., replied, shrugging. “And the construct DNA, of course.”

“So it’s a manifestation of Almadu for sure?” Grosskopf asked, pointedly. “That’s a full avatar manifestation. I can’t exactly send my agents in on that!”

“No, it’s clearly Special Circumstances,” Germaine said with a sigh. “I’ll find someone to attach to your investigation. The usual covers.” He frowned and bit his lip, wincing. “But for a full manifestation… I don’t really have any agents, available agents, that are up to dispelling one of those. Not to mention their followers. This is likely to get… noticeable.”

“Five dead hookers are already noticeable,” Grosskopf pointed out.

“Noticeable as in explosions, weird lights, people going insane and lots of dead bodies,” Germaine snapped. “This is not going to be an easy take-down. The last cult involved depth charges, torpedoes and a full cover-up. And even then that beastly writer got ahold of some of it!”

“Whatever,” Grosskopf replied. “Just get it shut down. Fast. Before somebody outside the organization stumbles on it.”

“Well,” Germaine said, shrugging, “if they do, I don’t think they’ll live long enough to tell anyone about it.”

Blessed peace.

Barbara enjoyed driving, especially when she was by herself. She loved her children and her husband, but it just wasn’t the same. A reasonably open road and good car meant time to think, time to pray, time to dream without constant interruption. As she pulled onto the Natchez Trace she pushed a CD into the player and felt the ethereal strains of Evanescence wash over her, rinsing out her soul in music. She’d been told that Evanescence was first classified as a Christian rock band despite its Goth look. She didn’t know if it was true or not but it was probable. Surely only God would have a hand in such glorious music and most of the songs could be interpreted that way. Certainly “Tourniquet” was a direct call to God although “Haunted” always made her wonder.

The radar detector remained quiet all the way to the outskirts of Jackson where the traffic started to pick up anyway and she had to slow down below eighty. She weaved expertly in and out of the traffic for as long as she could, never being aggressive, never getting angry even at the idiots that clogged up the left-hand lane. She didn’t know where she got the ability to sense what other drivers were going to do, sometimes even before they seemed to know. But when a car cut into her lane suddenly she’d know it before the first move. Sudden braking rarely caught her unawares even though she was in an alpha state of road daze. She just handled it until the traffic got so heavy she couldn’t maneuver, then settled in the middle lane and rode the flow into Jackson.

She was planning on picking up 49 in Jackson and taking it over to Hattiesburg then down to Gulfport but at the last minute she changed her mind, picking up I-55 instead and heading for Louisiana. She didn’t know why, but for once she could just follow her feelings. She had a sudden craving for Cajun food, real Cajun food from down in the bayou and decided to go with it. Besides, she’d been to Gulfport every summer for the last five years. She wanted something new.

When she was growing up, all she’d wanted was to settle in one place. Just some stability and not having to wonder what country you’d woken up in. Sometimes she’d wondered if she’d fallen for Mark simply because he represented that stability. Mark was from Oxford, which wasn’t all that far from Tupelo, and when she’d met him the farthest he’d ever traveled was to Daytona Beach for spring break.

Since being married, and never traveling any farther than Daytona, Barbara had started to notice how much she missed it. When the kids were young it was one thing; she was occupied full time taking care of them. But since they’d become more or less self functional for day-to-day activities, she’d started to crave something new. Which meant not going to Gulfport again.

Besides, U.S. 49 was a crawl from Jackson to Gulfport, especially on a Friday.

The traffic on I-55 was heavy with weekend travelers and she was reduced to a relative crawl of high seventies. She continued on 55 nonetheless, following it all the way down to I-10 and then striking out into the unknown. She followed U.S. 90 for a while and then took a side-road, heading into bayou country and trying as hard as she could to get lost. She had a GPS and checked that it was tracking, so no matter where she ended up she could find her way back.

However, the meandering on side roads with their sudden turns to avoid going into a swamp got wearying after a while. She’d had so much to do she hadn’t gotten on the road until around three and it had been a long nine-hour drive to the bayou country. So as midnight approached she started looking for sign of a hotel.

The road she was on wasn’t even mapped on the GPS and the very few stores and filling stations she passed were mostly closed. But, finally, she saw a Shell station with its lights still on and pulled in gratefully. She filled her tank and then went into the crumbling cinder-block building, wrinkling her nose at the smell of dead minnows and less identifiable things.

There was a slovenly looking fat woman with greasy black hair and a dirty smock behind the counter. People who were overweight didn’t bother Barb, Lord alone knew she had to fight to stay in any sort of shape, but dirt did. There was no reason in this day and age that a person couldn’t take at least a weekly bath and throw their clothes in the washing machine from time to time. But they were all God’s children so Barbara smiled in as friendly a manner as she could muster.

“I’m looking for a hotel,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “Is there one around?”

The woman looked at her for a long time without speaking, then nodded, frowning.

“Im de parsh set been Thibaw Een,” the woman said, pointing in the direction Barb had been traveling. “Bein closin soon.”

Barbara smiled again and nodded, blinking in incomprehension. It was the thickest Cajun accent she had ever heard in her life. Back home the locals sometimes put on a thicker than normal southern drawl to confuse visiting Yankees and people from Atlanta. If you talked like your mouth was full of marbles it made you virtually incomprehensible. She wondered if the woman was doing that to her but was too polite to ask for a translation. So she nodded again and walked back out to her car.

Apparently somewhere down the road was the “parish seat,” which would be the center of the local county government. Where, hopefully, she could find something called the Thibaw Inn or similar.

Even in road daze she never really went to condition white: totally unaware of her surroundings. She had been raised by a father who was marginally insane from a paranoia perspective and he’d spent hours teaching her to keep her guard up to the point that it was old hat. But she hadn’t really examined her surroundings and when she did she considered turning around and heading back to bright lights and the big city. The road was flanked on either side by bayou and the arching cypress overhung it, draped with gray Spanish moss, some of the longest she’d ever seen. The bromeliads were waving gently in the light night wind and combined with the croaking of the frogs in the bayou and the call of a night bird they gave the scene an eerie feel.

With the exception of the station, which was shutting down as she stood there, there was not a light in sight. There was a glow back over her shoulder, probably New Orleans, but for all that she could have been standing there in a primordial forest. A splash off in the bayou was probably from an alligator slipping into the tannic water, but it could just as well have been some prehistoric monster.

She shivered a bit and got in the car, starting it and then pausing. Turn around and head back to New Orleans or Baton Rouge? Or go on?

On the other hand, the news out of New Orleans made a black night in the bayou seem positively friendly. And it was a long darned way around to get to Baton Rouge.

On was, presumably, closer and it had been a long day. She put the car in gear and headed west. Somewhere around here there had to be a hotel.

Kelly had started off his detective career in vice and New Orleans’ French Quarter was as close as he could call anything to home. So he walked along Chartres Street with an air of ownership, dodging the occasional group of tourists and looking for familiar faces.

Familiar faces were few and far between, though; the ladies seemed to be running shy of the street. There were a few around, though, some of whom recognized him from previous busts and for once seemed glad to see him. He wandered over to Dolores as she waved to a passing car.

“Hey, Dolores,” he said, grinning. “How’s tricks?”

“Short, small and too slow, like usual,” the hooker replied. “I am, of course, simply a young lady who enjoys dates with generous gentlemen and sex has nothing to do with it, nor does money.”

Dolores Grantville, age thirty-seven, hometown somewhere in Arkansas. Five foot eight, willowy, mostly from a coke habit, dishwater blonde. Six previous convictions for prostitution, one drug arrest, nol pros when she burned her dealer. Blue eyes, face worn far beyond her years. And scared. Really scared.

“You heard about Marsha, right?” Kelly asked.

“Probably before you did, Kel,” the hooker replied, smiling tiredly as a passing tourist beeped his horn. Her face twitched and she watched the street scene, avoiding the detective’s eyes. “You got any leads?”

“If I did, would I be here?” Kelly asked. “What do you hear?”

“Nothing,” Dolores said. “They’re just up and disappearing, Kelly. I mean, Marsha was a young one, they’ve all been young ones. But she was streetwise, you know? She’d been turning since she was fourteen or so. If somebody can pick her, they can pick anybody. Probably some regular trick, but nobody can put a finger on one or we’d all be telling you, okay?”

“Okay,” Kelly agreed. “When’d you see Marsha last?”

“Saturday,” Dolores said. “She was talking with Carlane. Be in the evening, don’t know what time. Earlyish. Nobody’s seen her since. Well… not until the papers.”

“She used to hang with Evie, right?” Kelly asked, considering the information. Carlane Lancereau was a pimp, a long time one. Pretty heavy-handed, but that came with the territory. And he’d been around for years; there was no reason to think he’d suddenly gone nuts and started ripping up hookers. “The one that calls herself Fantasy?”

“Evie did a runner two weeks ago,” Dolores replied. “Lots of the girls have. New Orleans don’t seem like a good place to be right now. I don’t know where she went, maybe Baton Rouge, maybe St. Louis.”

“Nobody saw Marsha after she was talking with Carlane?” Kelly asked.

“You think it’s Carlane?” Dolores responded, eyes wide. “He’s been around since before I got here.”

“No,” Kelly said. “That’s not what I said. I’m just getting old and trying to cut down on the walking. Since I’m looking for the last person she was known to have talked to, which is never the murderer, I’m just trying to figure out who that was. If it wasn’t Carlane, who was it?”

“Christy said she saw her late evening, maybe after midnight,” Dolores replied, frowning in thought. “Up Dumaine Street, off her regular beat. Looked like she was heading somewhere. But last time I saw her was talking to Carlane and she ain’t been seen since Saturday night.”

“Okay,” Kelly said, sighing. “You see Carlane, tell him I’m looking for him, like him to give me a call. Just a friendly conversation. Or I can go find him, or have the black and whites go find him, and it won’t be so friendly.”

“I’ll pass it on,” Dolores said. “You be careful.”

“Always,” Kelly replied, walking off into the crowded night.

Chapter Three

You get anything talking to the girls?” Lieutenant Chimot asked.

They were going over the daily take on the case. The department had set up a task force with Chimot, who was one of the three lieutenants in Homicide, in charge. It was late, but nobody was getting much sleep as long as the investigation was going on. There were five other sergeant detectives working the case but Kelly sort of figured if anybody was going to find the perp it would be him. The other detectives were straight-arrow homicide dicks; in other words they could just about see lightning and hear thunder.

Most homicides were pretty straightforward investigations. There was a dead body on the floor and a person, usually a spouse, standing over it mumbling about whatever had set them off. File the paperwork, go to court, walk the jury through the chain of evidence and you were done. Then there were the gang shootings, which usually came down to somebody boasting and squeezing the name out of a singer.

Serial killers were different. They usually worked alone and they were generally smart, often very smart. They covered their tracks. Talk about profiles all you wanted, they didn’t fit in happy little categories. They could be black, white, Hispanic or more mixed than Tiger Woods. They could be single or married. They might frequent hookers or avoid them like the plague. No two were ever exactly the same, whatever profilers tried to say. They were not all, or even mostly, single white males with a “loner” personality. The Green River killer had been a married white male who was referred to as “exuberant.” The Atlanta killings perp was a single black male. The Los Rios killer had been a married Hispanic.

And this case was right off the charts. Very rarely did serial killings involve multiple individuals. There had been one series in California that involved two killers and a case in Charlotte that had involved six or seven. But in the latter case, one of the killers turned evidence before they’d killed more than one girl. The last case he could think of that had involved high multiples perps and multiple killings was the Manson case.

The one near constant was that they tended to start with hookers and eventually worked their way to… tastier game. Nobody wanted a gutted corpse, but by the same token there was a much higher interest in missing schoolgirls than in hookers. Kelly liked the streetgirls for all they could be a pain in the ass. But they chose their jobs and they knew the risks. He didn’t want to be there when a black bag got slit open to show some junior high girl who had been snatched walking home from the bus. Or some oblivious college girl who had just been trying to have a good time on Bourbon Street.

“Dolores saw her talking to Carlane sometime Saturday night,” Kelly said, glancing at his notes. “And she was seen later, alone, on Dumaine Street. I’m going to talk to Carlane but I’d say it’s a dead-end.”

“Who’s Carlane?” Detective Weller asked.

“Pimp,” Chimot answered. “Been around for at least twenty years. Bastard to his girls, but…”

“But why would he all of a sudden start offing them, right?” Kelly said. “And none of the girls were from his string; they were all independents.”

“Trying to increase his take?” Chimot said. “Not really his MO, though, is it?”

“No,” Kelly agreed. “But I’ll talk to him. Right now, it’s the only lead we’ve got.”

The town couldn’t be called a one-horse town because there wasn’t enough grass for a horse to eat. It was basically a slightly wider, slightly drier spot in the swamp. There was a dilapidated courthouse, a small Piggly Wiggly, a closed gas station and an old mansion that had a sign out front that said “Thibideau House.” Since there was a “Vacant” sign next to it, she had to assume it was the town’s lone hotel and there was a light on that revealed a large, covered front porch.

She parked around the side and went to the front, hoping that the light meant somebody was still awake. The door was open so she pushed on it and listened to the creak with a slight sense of humor. You don’t get good creaks like that every day. They need either real artistry to create or just years of neglect. It was more than the hinges, the whole wall seemed to creak as the door swung open.

She poked her head through the open door and looked inside curiously. The ornate foyer was in as bad condition as the exterior. The house had clearly once been a prime residence to someone addicted to gilt and red velvet. Time and the elements had worked their way on the foyer, however, to an even greater extent than on the door. She cat walked across the floor, just to make sure none of the flooring was going to give way. But there appeared to be no one in sight.

“Cooee?” she called, trying not to laugh. “Anybody home?”

All she needed was to be broken down by the side of the road for the bad movie impression to be complete. No, there should be a—

“You be late, missus,” a husky voice said from her right. Stepping through the door Barb could see an old black woman rocking next to the empty reception desk. “You be very late.”

“I’d say I was lost, but I don’t know if it counts if you’re trying,” Barbara said, grinning and walking all the way into the dimly lit lobby.

“Only counts if you don’t want to be lost, missus,” the black woman said, grinning back. “Been tryin to get lost my-own-self before. Always find my way back home.”

“Nice place,” Barb said. “I don’t suppose there’s a room available?”

“We bout full up of empty rooms, missus,” the woman said, getting to her feet creakily and going behind the desk. She swung an old fashioned ledger around and pointed to a line. “Need your name and address and such and your make of car and tag. If’n you don’t know the tag, jest a description will do.”

Barbara picked up the old pen tied to the ledger with fishing line and after trying to get it to work dug in her purse for her own. Finally she had the ledger filled out.

“Be thirty dollar a night,” the woman said. “Don’t take no plastic. If you ain’t got the cash, you can pay me tomorrow.”

“I’ve got cash,” Barb said, trying not to smile again. It was so charmingly informal it reminded her of Malaysia. The back areas, not Kuala Lumpur which was just New York with worse humidity and drainage. She dug out two twenties, crisp from an ATM and received a crumpled five and five incredibly dirty ones in change. She hadn’t felt so at home in years.

“Lights are out upstairs,” the woman said, picking up a flashlight. “Not in the rooms, just the hallway.”

Barbara hoisted her bag over her shoulder and followed the old woman as she ascended the grand staircase. She could practically hear the tread of the master of the house walking out to the balcony to greet his guests and retainers. There’d have been slaves, or at least servants, scurrying among the guests and a chandelier about covered in candles. Now it had a worn runner and lights that, apparently, refused to glow at all.

“Circuit’s out,” the old lady said, gesturing at the sconces as if reading her mind. “Called the ’lectrician. Lazy bastard ain’t been by in two weeks. Got your choice of views: bayou or town square.”

“Oh, I think I’ll take town square,” Barb said.

The room was just as fusty as she expected, smelling of mildew and neglect. But the linens were fresh and appeared clean.

“Bath is down the corridor,” the woman said, pointing to the door. She suddenly looked at the flashlight in her hand with an expression of worry that made Barbara try not to laugh again.

“I’ve got my own flashlight,” Barb said, pulling a minimag out of her purse and switching it on. It was at least twice as bright as the dim torch the woman had been using. She reached in and flipped on the room light and was relieved that that, at least, worked.

“See you in the morning, then,” the woman said. “I’d not advise going out at night, sometimes the gators get up on the road.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Barbara admitted. “See ya.”

After the woman was gone Barbara turned off the room light and her flash and waited for her eyes to adjust. She wasn’t going to go out in that hallway with her eyes blinded, that was for sure. It was only after waiting a few moments that she thought of one small detail.

Checking the door she determined that the knob was not designed for a key and there was no latch on the inside.

“Now that is unusual,” she said to herself, straining her eyes in the darkness and running her hands over the door. Even in that flea-bitten hotel in Petra there’d been a lock for the door. Oh, well, needs must.

She examined the furniture by the faint light from the window and was unsurprised that none of it would be useful for blocking the door. It required a very specific height and design of chair to block a doorknob and the chairs in the room were heavily stuffed easy chairs, not the straight backed chair that would work.

However, not for nothing was she a reader. The pen she’d used to sign the register was heavy metal, a gift her father had given her when she went off to college and it had a matching fountain pen. She never used the latter but they were both in her purse and with a few poundings from the romance novel she’d been carrying they were both wedged in the crack between the door and the jam. It would be possible to force the door but not quietly or easily. If the old lady had any questions about the noise she could feel free to complain. In the morning.

The window led onto the roof of the porch and that at least had a latch. She made sure it was secured and then got out of her clothes. The soiled linen packed away in a mesh net bag, she pulled on a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt, then laid the H K by the side of the bed along with the spare magazines and regular clothes. Finally, feeling a tad sheepish, she pulled out the holster and laid that next to the pistol. Since it was only for a running gunfight, pulling it out told her she was assuming the need for a running gunfight.

“Just because it’s like a scene in a bad horror movie doesn’t mean I’ll have to fight off Jason,” she muttered to herself. “But I am definitely getting out of this burg tomorrow.”

“My lord, we have a problem,” Germaine said, kneeling in the holy circle, head bowed.

The figure of light seemed to nod in response.

“Our information indicates that there has been a remanifestation of Almadu,” Germaine said. “I seek heaven’s aid in our holy cause.”

“We are stretched, my very old friend,” the voice said in his head.

“I don’t have agents to handle this, my lord,” Germaine said, quietly. “We, too, are stretched. And Almadu is a particularly hard case.”

“Look for the Hand of God in strange places,” the figure said, fading. “All who work His will are not among your host.”

Street people were not morning people and neither was Kelly. But he’d been up at first light, rattling cages. He knew where they lived and the answers might be surly answers but he got them. The only problem was that Carlane seemed to have disappeared.

“It’s the street,” Lieutenant Chimot said, shrugging and taking a deep suck on his coffee. “People come and go.”

“How long’s it been since you’ve heard of Carlane being off the street?” Kelly asked, yawning and digging vigorously in one ear. “Nobody has seen him since he was talking to Marsha, and now Dolores is gone. I got the landlady to let me in her room. All her stuff is there so she didn’t move. And I asked her to pass on to Carlane that I wanted to talk to him.”

“You’re starting to think it’s him,” the lieutenant said, leaning back in his prolapsed chair and looking at Kelly over a pile of paperwork.

“I want to talk to him,” Kelly said, shrugging. “It doesn’t make sense for Carlane to have suddenly gone nutter. But he was the last person seen with Marsha and now he’s missing. I think we can swear a warrant as a material witness and put out a search and detain.”

“You checked to see if we’ve got his DNA?” Chimot asked.

“Yeah, a sexual assault case where the victim refused to press charges,” Kelly said. “I checked. He’s not one of the rapists.”

“If he’s an accessory and he knows we want to talk to him, he’ll have gone to ground,” Chimot said, musingly. “Might be waiting for it to blow over, especially if he knows we don’t have any evidence on him. Go talk to Mother Charlotte. She’s been around longer than Carlane; she might know where to go a-hunting. And put out a search and detain. I’d dearly like to talk to our old friend about now.”

Barb packed her bags and headed out of the room, feeling much better about the town than she had the night before. She’d taken the chance to have a shower and while the water was brown and stunk, it was better than nothing. She’d had worse. Not in a long time, admittedly, but she’d been looking for adventure, whether she’d put it that way or not, and this was certainly an adventure.

But one that she was just as glad to have past so she tossed her bag in the trunk of the Honda happily, got in, inserted the key and turned it. Only to receive a click. Turn. Click. Turn. Click.

“That is just too much,” she said. She’d like to swear but she’d worked so hard to teach herself not to that she found her mouth locking up as she tried. Finally she simply muttered: “Sugar.”

Fine. The Honda had a very comprehensive warranty. She opened up the glove compartment and pulled out the paperwork until she found the 800 number for the extended care service. They’d tow the car to a dealership, which was going to cost them a pretty penny she suspected, and get her a rentacar. She pulled her cell phone out of her bag, dialed the number and hit send.

No signal.

She looked at the indicator with a frown and a shrug. In the country there were plenty of areas where the signal was weak. Eventually it opened up when a cell got free. Fine. She’d wait.

After about thirty seconds with no flicker of the indicator she shook the phone and waved it through the air, hoping the magic electrons would somehow be caught. Still no signal.

“Sugar.”

She got out of the car, noticing that it had gotten hot even in her brief sojourn, and walked back in the hotel.

The same old lady was on the rocking chair and seemed to be asleep.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” Barbara said, softly. “Ma’am?”

“Uh?” the old woman said, sitting up and smacking her lips. “Sorry, was up late.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Barb said, smiling sweetly. “I seem to be having car problems. Is there a phone around? My cell won’t work.”

“Ain’t none of them towers around,” the lady said, peering shortsightedly at the cell phone still clutched in Barbara’s hand. “Pay phone down at the Piggly Wiggly. Ain’t got none here.”

Barb was reasonably sure that the last meant that the hotel had no phone, which seemed remarkably antiquated even for south Louisiana. But she just nodded in thanks and walked out.

By day the town was somewhat more pleasant than by night. The courthouse still looked as if it could use a coat of paint, or maybe a major fire, but there were a few more houses than she’d thought and a bait and tackle shop that doubled as a liquor store. Maybe she’d go fishing. Or get stinking drunk and explain just what she thought of the place. No key on the door, no bathroom in the room, it was worse than Egypt for God’s sake.

No, not God. Take not the name even in thought.

The Piggly Wiggly was… fair. No dirtier than others she’d seen and the pay phone was at least operational. She pulled out the paperwork and thirty-five cents, then called the service company.

Yes, I have a problem with my automobile, one. Yes, I need roadside assistance, one. No, I don’t want to use the automated system. No, I am not at my home. Yes, I’d like to speak to an operator. I’ll wait!

As she punched the various buttons on the Kevorkian disconnect phone-tree she stood with her back to the glass of the Piggly Wiggly, ensuring that she could keep an eye on what was going on around her. It wasn’t because of the situation, it was just how she used the phone. She’d rotated to the right side of the phone despite the fact that it put her back to the glass because that way she could hold the phone in her left hand and keep her right free.

“Thank you for calling Honda Warranty Service International, my name is Melody, how may I help you?”

“My car won’t start,” Barbara said. I was hoping to order pizza, how do you think you can help me?

“Where is the vehicle?” Melody asked with a distinct midwest accent.

“Thibideau, Louisiana,” Barb said. “At the Thibideau Inn.”

“Do you have your warranty number?” the girl asked, brightly.

Barbara read off the numbers patiently.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the girl said with a real note of distress in her voice. “There isn’t a Honda dealership within service range of Thibideau, Louisiana. However, we do have an allied service representative, Thibideau Tire and Auto, who should be able to get you on the road again. Are you at the vehicle location now?”

“No,” Barb said, trying not to swear even mentally. “I can get there before they can, though. But there’s no phone there.”

“That will be fine. According to the computer they should be no more than thirty minutes getting there.”

“I need a rentacar,” Barbara said.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but, again, the location is outside of rental service area,” the girl said, really distressed. “But, I’m sure that… Thibideau Tire and Auto will be able to get you going quickly.”

Left hind leg of a camel. Sugar.

“Thank you for your help,” Barb said, sweetly.

“Thank you, ma’am, and I hope you have a good day.”

Sugar, sugar, sugar!

She pulled the coins out of the drop and inserted them again, dialing zero and then her home number at the tone.

“If you’d like to place a collect call, press one.”

One.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s an answering machine,” the operator said after a moment.

“Can you hold a moment?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” the operator said.

She dug in her purse and came up with a handful of change.

“Can you change it over to a for-pay call?”

“Yes, ma’am. That will be seventy-five cents for two minutes.”

She inserted the coins and then waited until the answering service picked up.

“Mark, this is Barb. I’m not in Gulfport. I went down to the bayou for some atmosphere and Cajun food. I’m fine and I should be home on time on Monday. The car’s broken down but there’s a local service place. I’ll try to call you ag-” Beep.

Sugar.

“Come in, Sergeant Lockhart, come in,” Madame Charlotte said from the deeps of her shop.

Kelly pushed aside a bead curtain and paused in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

“I’d ask you how you knew it was me, but I don’t think I’d like the answer,” Kelly said, smiling.

“I gots a video camera,” Madame Charlotte said, pointing to the monitor mounted over Kelly’s head. “You wouldn’t believe the terrible people try to steal from an old lady.”

“Must not be locals,” Kelly said, sitting down across the table from the medium. “They’d be afraid of being turned into a snake or a zombie or something.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing, Mr. Detective,” Madame Charlotte said, grinning, her teeth standing out against her jet black face. She was a slight woman with gray-shot hair peeking out from under a colorful kerchief and a face wrinkled like the lines on a map. “Not so’s you’d notice.”

“Glad to hear that,” Kelly said, smiling back.

“But I knowed you’d be stopping in yesterday,” Madame Charlotte stated. “Saw it in the cards. Terrible cards, lately, just terrible. You need to watch your step, Sergeant Lockhart, the Reaper is your sign, him who takes the souls.”

“That’s because I’m so thin,” Kelly replied.

“Laugh if you will,” the medium replied. “But you be searching for Carlane. Hisself is gone from here, gone back to whence he come.”

“Where’s that?” Kelly asked. “And why’d he leave?”

“He has the sign of the Wizard,” Madame Charlotte said, laying out the card. “And the Hangman,” she added. “He messing with powerful magic and ain’t got the training. Powerful. I wouldn’t mess with nothin’ like this and I be a mistress of the arts.” The medium laid her cards out and pointed to one. “But there’s another. This be the sign of the Princess of Wands. She’s a powerful force for Good. Good will be by your side, Detective Sergeant Kelly Lockhart. Just you look sharp for the sign of the Princess or… you won’t be lookin’ no more.”

“Do you know where Carlane has gone?” Kelly pressed.

“Aye, back to the swamps that bore him,” Madame Charlotte said. “He’s from down Thibideau way. Look you there, Sergeant Lockhart, but you be watching you back. There’s powerful art stirring in the swamp, powerful and every man’s hand against you. Look for the sign of the Princess. She be your only hope.”

Chapter Four

The first good thing that had happened since getting to this forsaken burg was that when she got to the car the tow-truck had just arrived. The driver was a short man, swarthy and with lanky black hair. He could have been the brother of the convenience store clerk. In fact, thinking back, all of the locals had had the same look, like they were all from the same extended family. Come to think of it, she wished she’d never thought of it.

“It won’t turn over,” she said as the man got out of the truck.

“Could be the battery,” he said in a thick Cajun accent. “Could be the alternator. I’ll try to give it a jump.”

He uncoiled wires as she opened the hood, then hooked up and gave her a sign. Click.

“Connections are tight,” he called from under the hood then shut it. “Got to take it to the shop.”

“Is there a mechanic available?” she asked.

“I’m the mechanic,” the man said, giving his first grin. “Mechanic, tow truck driver and owner. Claude Thibideau. I’ll get you fixed, long as we got the part.”

“And if you can’t?” she asked.

“Order it from New Orleans,” he said, drawling the name as “Nawleen.” “Sometime they can’t get out this far on a Saturday. Don’t deliver on Sunday neither. Might be Monday before I can get it fixed. You okay with the hotel?”

“Just fine,” Barbara replied, lightly, trying not to curse. It was getting very hard. “Very nice atmosphere.”

“What you doin’ down here, anyway?” the mechanic asked as he hooked the car up to tow. The truck was the old fashioned kind that actually pulled the car rather than putting it up on a lift-bed.

“Just… traveling,” Barbara replied. “Seeing new sights. Do you want me to come with you?”

“Be best,” the man said from under the car. “If it’s a part, I’ll give you a ride back to town. Ain’t much to see. Send word when I can get it fixed.”

“I’ve got a book,” Barb replied. “Could I take just a minute?”

“Sure,” the mechanic replied. “Gots all day.”

Barbara had dressed for the anticipated drive in her boots, a pair of jeans, a cream silk blouse and a dark leather jacket. But the outfit was far too warm to go wandering around Thibideau; already the town was steaming in the morning heat. So she popped back in the hotel, tiptoeing past the sleeping attendant or owner or whatever she was and slipped into the bathroom.

A quick rummage in her bag showed that she’d failed to anticipate heat at all. All of the blouses were long sleeve. The jeans she could survive and the boots were fine but she really needed something lighter. Right at the bottom of the bag her hand closed on what felt like a T-shirt. Pulling it out she frowned and shook her head. The shirt had been given to her as a joke by her sister. Once upon a time, Barb had been madly smitten with Middle Earth. When she was fourteen she had sworn that she was going to name her first female daughter Galadriel and she’d wanted, badly, to be an elven princess.

So her sister Kate, who still read fantasy and even went to those convention things, had sent her the T-shirt. Sighing, she pulled it out and changed, quickly, making sure that the color of her bra didn’t show through. It was the coolest thing she had to wear so for once fashion was going to have to take a back seat to comfort. It wasn’t like she was planning on making this place a regular stop or had anyone to impress. And if Thibideau, Louisiana couldn’t handle a… well-stuffed T-shirt with the caption “Aloof Elven Princess” on it, they could… well, that was just too bad.

“Carlane Lancereau was born in Nitotar, which is in Thibideau Parish,” Kelly said, tossing a file on Lieutenant Chimot’s desk. “Madame Charlotte says he’s ‘gone back to the swamps from whence he come.’ ”

“That’s gotta be a quote,” Chimot said, opening the file and glancing in it. “You’ve never said whence in your life. Isn’t much of anything comes from Thibideau Parish.”

“Except hookers, drug dealers and pimps,” Kelly replied. “I want to go down there.”

“Way out of our jurisdiction, Sergeant,” Chimot said, raising an eyebrow. “Why? It’s not like you don’t have enough work here.”

“Gut?” Kelly replied. “I want to see if I can find him. He’s still only a material witness, not even a suspect. Not much we can do but ask questions. And Thibideau’s got almost nothing in the way of police; we can’t just drop the detain order on them and hope they track him down.”

“We got a make on one of the johns Claudette was seeing the evening of her disappearance,” the lieutenant said, rubbing his chin. “Previous arrest for battery and a kidnapping that got downgraded to a misdemeanor solicitation charge. Judge decided he was telling the truth that he’d just picked up a prostitute and had a misunderstanding about the price.”

“Fine,” Kelly said. “Let somebody else run it down, I want to go looking for Carlane. I’ll be back on Monday, latest.”

“Go,” the lieutenant said, shrugging. “But you draw a weapon and you’d better have an iron-clad reason. One that will survive Thibideau justice.”

“You mean they’ve got a judge down there?” Kelly said, grinning, as he picked up the file and walked out the door.

“Ma’am,” the mechanic said, walking into the dirty waiting room and wiping his hands on a towel that was so grungy it was adding to the mess, “can’t hardly tell you how sorry I am. It’s the alternator, all right, and the local warehouse is flat out. Be Monday before they can get one to me. I’ll get you going quick when it comes in, though.”

“Fine,” Barbara said, closing her book and setting it back in her purse. “That will be fine.”

“I can give you a ride back to the hotel…”

“Is there a restaurant around?” Barb asked, her stomach rumbling. There was a concession machine in the waiting room but one look at the contents had convinced her not to try it. She’d rarely seen fly-specks inside of one before.

“The bait shop’s got a bar that serves food,” Mr. Thibideau said, shrugging. “They do a fine jambalaya. You can get bacon and eggs and such as well, but I do recommend their jambalaya.”

She’d had pork fried rice any number of times for breakfast in Thailand, but jambalaya for breakfast would be a first.

“Could you drop me off?” she asked, sweetly.

It was a two hour ride from New Orleans to Thibideau, even in what was clearly an unmarked police car. The roads for the last hour were all two lane and twisted in and out among the bayous. There was very little in the way of signs of habitation and what there was tended to be rattle-down tar-paper shacks. It was hard to believe that no more than sixty miles away as the crow flies there was a major metropolis.

Thibideau was in keeping with the rest of the area, not much more than a wide spot in the eternal swamps. He parked by the courthouse in a spot marked for police vehicles and walked inside, passing an untended reception area and looking for any signs of life. He finally found it in the county clerk’s office where a harassed looking woman in her forties was sorting through paper.

“Detective Sergeant Lockhart, New Orleans PD,” he said, holding out his badge and ID. “Was wondering if you knew where I could find the local sheriff?”

“Died,” the clerk said, shrugging. “Last month. Heart attack. Deputy Mondaine’s doing his job.”

“Sorry about that,” Kelly said, unconvincingly. “Where can I find Deputy Mondaine?”

“Around now?” the clerk said, shrugging. “Maybe down at the bait store getting lunch.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know a Carlane Lancereau by any chance?” Lockhart said, smiling.

“Never heard of him,” the clerk replied. “Some Lancereau up Nitotar way, but they live out in the bayou. Gotta take a boat and asking them questions won’t get you nowhere. Maybe the deputy can help.”

“Could you, perhaps, call him on the radio?” Kelly asked, smiling again.

“Broke,” the clerk said. “I got to find this damned title, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Lockhart replied. “Thank you for all your help.”

The jambalaya was good but it was also fiery with spice and the restaurant didn’t serve unsweetened tea. So she was drinking Diet Coke, which was the best of a bad lot, to wash down the fiery jambalaya, then having another spoon of the jambalaya to wash out the taste of the Coke.

It reminded her of the dinner she’d gone to with her parents. The people were friends of her father, Abyssinian exiles, and they’d hosted an authentic Abyssinian dinner. She couldn’t remember what any of the food was called, but it was good. However, it was also very hot. And the only thing to drink was small glasses of some high proof liqueur. Since she was being on her best manners, she ate everything that was put in front of her. And because she couldn’t handle the spice, she’d washed it down with glass after glass of liqueur. Before she knew it, she was tight as a tick and telling the hostess the woes of her life, often in quite graphic terms.

It was then she’d decided that she really needed to be careful with liquor. Fortunately, Mom had been doing much the same thing and hardly noticed.

To get to the small eating area of the restaurant required going through the bait shop, which was an experience she’d rather never have had. The live bait tanks appeared to never have been cleaned out and she suspected the dead shiners roiling in yellow foam had probably perished immediately upon entry to the tanks. The whole place was filthy with dead cockroaches in the corners and a layer of grime that would require a thousand gallons of bleach to fix. At least the cup was Styrofoam, and appeared mostly clean and she’d taken it without ice.

The woes she had laid upon the hostess were the woes of being a good Christian girl. Besides the usual, no sex until marriage, there was the whole “being a Witness” thing. If you were a good Christian, you couldn’t tell a person when they were being brain-dead. You had to subtly hint that an idea was as stupid as a slug at a salt convention. You couldn’t say things like “here’s a dime, buy a clue.” Or “why don’t you clean this place up, it’s filthy. And take a bath once in a while!” Or “what do you mean you can’t get the part? I want to talk to a district manager right now!” Or “learn to cook! It’s not that hard!” You just had to smile and hope that things would work out for the best.

It was a pain in the… it was frustrating.

She was contemplating the negative aspects to being a good Christian woman when the cop sat down.

He had the same look as most of the locals, large eyes set a bit close together, rounded chin, wide cheekbones that didn’t look classically Cajun. But his hair was shorter than the norm and he was at least clean. But there was something about his eyes. She really didn’t like the look in them. One look from him and her “creep-meter,” as Allison would say, went into overdrive.

“What’s a pretty lady like you doing in a place like this?” the cop asked, waving at the slatternly waitress. “Gimme a plate of jambalaya an’ a Coke, Noffie.” He was spending about half his time making eye contact and the other half examining her T-shirt. Or, more likely, what it covered.

“I was just passing through and my car broke down,” Barbara answered, taking a sip of Diet Coke and giving up on the jambalaya.

“You call your folks and tell them you’re all right?” he asked as the jambalaya was served. Barb noticed that he got quick service; she’d waited nearly ten minutes until the waitress had gotten done talking to one of the regulars.

“Yes, left a message for my husband,” she replied. “Told him where I was.”

“That’s good,” the officer said. “Oh, I’m Etienne Mondaine. I was the chief deputy ’til old Claude keeled over from a heart attack last month. You got any problems, you just give me a holler.”

“Thank you,” Barbara said, taking another sip of the rapidly warming Coke. “I usually can avoid problems, though.”

“Where you from?” the deputy asked, not looking up from his plate. He was rarely drinking and seemed immune to the spice.

“Algomo,” she said. “Little town outside of Tupelo. Wanted to take the weekend off, go see the sights.”

“Not many sights around here,” the deputy said with a wheezing laugh. “Ain’t much to do, neither. Can rent a boat and go fishing or frog gigging. Or… other distractions?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“I brought books,” Barb said, closing off that line of investigation. It was one of the less subtle come-ons she’d heard and she’d heard a lot of them. “I think I’ll just find a comfortable spot and read.”

She’d taken a seat where she could watch the door of the restaurant and wrinkled her brow as a newcomer walked in the place. He was tall and almost skeletally thin with long, frizzy, blond hair going a tad gray and a matching beard and mustache. He was wearing jeans, T-shirt and a jacket but there was a distinct bulge on his right hip. And he certainly didn’t look like a local. Nonetheless, he walked immediately over to their table.

“Deputy Mondaine?” the newcomer said, fishing out a badge and ID. “Detective Sergeant Kelly Lockhart, New Orleans PD.”

The bait and tackle store overhung the water and there only appeared to be one entrance. Inside, Kelly saw just about the nastiest live bait wells it had ever been his joy to examine; the forensics guys could spend a lifetime just cataloging the material in the tanks. There was a door to the left, though, that apparently led to a small restaurant and bar. When he walked through, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust, then he saw the deputy sitting on the far side of the room talking to a rather good looking blonde.

As he approached the table he noticed that the… seriously stacked blonde was wearing a T-shirt with an inscription on the front but it wasn’t until he got over to the table that he could read it in the relative gloom.

“Aloof Elven Princess.”

His first reaction was to try not to laugh; he recognized the logo. It was from a website that lampooned the Lord of the Rings in quite humorous terms. His second reaction, which he hoped was unnoticeable, was total shock.

Don’t weird-out on me, he thought. Plenty of shirts around with princess on them.

“Deputy Mondaine?” he asked, showing the deputy his badge and ID. “Detective Sergeant Kelly Lockhart, New Orleans PD.”

Mondaine could lose some weight; he more than filled his black uniform, and he wasn’t wearing a vest. Of course, in a town like this they probably weren’t the utter necessity they were in New Orleans, either.

“Is that like, ‘I’m from New Orleans PD and I’m here to help you’?” Mondaine said, dryly. “The check’s in the mail?”

“I won’t c-” Kelly started to say then stopped at the expression on the blonde’s face. “Yeah, like that. I’m looking for a guy named Carlane Lancereau. Know him?”

“Lancereau?” Mondaine said, wrinkling his brow. “There’s some Lancereaus live up in the back bayou over Nitotar way. Carlane don’t ring a bell. Why?”

“He’s wanted for questioning in the Ripper murders,” Kelly said, pulling out one of the flyspecked chairs and sitting down. “Not a suspect, just a material witness. Last-seen person with one of the victims. An informant told me he’s come down this way. He may be staying with his family.”

“I’ll ask around,” the deputy said, taking a last bite of his jambalaya. “I’d say ‘you want to come along’ but people are probably going to tell me more if you’re not.”

“I understand,” Kelly replied. “You don’t mind if I ask around town, do you?”

“Not at all. I’ll be back in about an hour,” Mondaine said, standing up and ambling from the room.

“Hello,” Kelly said, looking at the blonde and wrinkling his forehead. “I suspect you’re not from around here, either.”

“No, I’m not,” she said, trying not to grin. “I was just passing through town last night. Stopped at the hotel and this morning my car wouldn’t start. Alternator. They can’t get the part until Monday.”

“Wonderful place to spend a weekend,” Kelly said, dryly. “So much…”

“Atmosphere,” the blonde finished, waving away a fly that was trying to settle on her straw. “I’ve decided to use the word ‘atmosphere.’ And if you end up staying over, don’t go out at night.”

“Oh?” Kelly said. “Why?”

“Alligators,” she replied, smiling slightly with no smile at all in her eyes. “They tell me they come right up in the town. Very bad idea to walk around at night.”

Kelly opened his mouth up to reply, then looked down at her chest again and closed his mouth.

“My eyes are up here,” the lady said, dryly, after the examination had taken up a few seconds.

“I know, I’ve made my decision,” Kelly replied distractedly, looking up a few moments later. “I was reading. Slowly.” He looked around and then frowned again, his entire face crinkling, then clearing. “Let’s take a walk,” he said, standing up and offering an arm.

“I have to pay my bill,” the blonde pointed out.

“Why?” Kelly said, grinning. “The deputy didn’t. Clearly the food is free.”

“I have to pay my bill,” she said, again trying not to grin.

Kelly waited while the lady paid her bill and even left a small tip, which he felt was excessive considering the quality of food and service he had seen. When she was done he accompanied her outside. It was slightly cooler outside under the trees than in the sweltering bait-shop.

“What’s your name, lady wearing the Secret Diaries T-shirt?” Kelly said as they walked to the edge of the parking area and stopped under a tree.

“Barbara Everette,” Barb replied. “57 Wildwood Lane, Algomo, Mississippi.”

“Barbara,” Kelly musingly. “Barbara… can I call you Barb?”

“Yes?” Barbara answered.

“Barb, I’m going to tell you a story,” Kelly said. “I am going to tell you this story, despite the fact that I find it fantastical, because I want you to know I’m talking to you because of the story and not because of your… remarkable endowments and pretty face. Although those certainly help.”

“Okay, tell me the story,” Barbara said, dryly. “And avoiding reference to my endowments will help your case.”

“Well then, once upon a time, this must have been, oh, yesterday?” Kelly said, looking up at the sky and nodding. “Yeah, yesterday. Once upon a time I went to visit a medium, bordering on small. Now, before you get hooked up on the ‘police using a psychic’ crap, let me explain that this medium, Madame Charlotte, is very good. But not, in my opinion, because she taps into mystic understanding that mortal ken should not wot of, no, but because she’s been tapped into the street for literally decades. She knows everyone, understands people and can make some pretty astute guesses. You with me so far?”

“Oh, yes,” Barb said. “You can even use words of more than one syllable.”

“Beauty and brains, how wonderful. Anyway, I went to visit Madame Charlotte to try to figure out where my old friend Carlane had run off to. Carlane is a pimp, a rather nasty one but there’s no reason to suspect he’s become a serial killer. However, I’m starting to get a real desire to speak to Mr. Lancereau, because people are hiding him.”

“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,” Germaine 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?”

“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.

She rummaged through her bag looking for useful items. Makeup… all the use it was going to be. Nail polish… nothing came to mind. Lighter. That went in a pocket. Locking knife, that clipped to her right pocket. Nail polish remover. Potentially useful but where to carry it? She slid it in the backpack and added the remaining bottles of water, wishing she’d picked more up at the store. Sodas as well. Hair-spray… oh, yeah. Take.

She put everything useful in the backpack and then dumped the bag off to the side, wishing she had a roll of duct tape. No particular reason, but duct tape had a thousand and one uses. One of them came to mind and she crept quietly over to the dumped out empty water bottles and collected them. If she found a roll of duct tape…

She realized what she was contemplating and froze.

“First degree murder,” she muttered, frowning as she sat back down in a lotus position. Well, if it came to premeditated murder or dying, she was just going to do the deed.

Yes, “thou shalt not kill” correctly translated as “thou shalt not murder.” But that was what she was contemplating. If she had to fight her way out of town, she wasn’t going to do it like a cowboy in the westerns. She was going to do it the way daddy taught her: Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape. Never come at a frontal position. Use concealment as long as possible. Never give an enemy an even break.

Murder them before they knew you were there.

Murder. The bottles could be used as field expedient silencers. Using a silencer was, de facto and de jure, proof of prior intent. First degree murder.

She was getting angry, too. The deep, cold-hot anger that she worked every day to control but this came with a righteous strain that somehow made it stronger and more potent. She could feel the demon straining at its leash and she knew that soon it would be let loose. Murder, she knew, wasn’t the true stain on the soul, it was the tarnish that came with the feelings surrounding it, the anger and the sick feeling of power to give or take life. That was the center of the sin against oneself, against God.

But there were times, and this seemed like one of them, when letting the demon out of the jar was acceptable and appropriate. She wondered how hard it would be to get the lid back on.

She was contemplating that moral and legal dilemma when she suddenly realized it was full dark.

And Kelly hadn’t returned.

Kelly stepped to the rotten door on the side of the boathouse, hand on his service Glock, and ducked inside, looking around.

The room was gloomy and covered in spider webs, half the roof gone. The old man was in a corner, shaking and moaning. But he was the only one there.

Kelly walked across the concrete floor, searching the shadows for threats and then shook the man on the shoulder at which he screamed.

“Shut up!” Kelly said, quietly.

“Oh, God,” the man said, rolling over and grasping at the detective. “Please tell me you brung a bottle! Please! I gotta have a taste!”

“Here,” Kelly said, drawing the flask out of his waistband and then holding onto it as the alcoholic clawed at it. “Just a taste,” he said, opening it and letting the old man have a swallow.

“God, that’s good,” the man said, trying to hold on as the detective wrestled it away. “Please, let me keep it! I need it to make the voices go away!”

“Not until you tell me what is going on,” Kelly said, squatting down. He let the man have another drink then pulled the bottle back and capped it. “What’s your name?”

“Claude Chauvet,” the man said, hugging his arms to his body. “I’m from up Houma way. Used to do construction, fishing, whatever I could do for money. Had a wife and kids once, then the bottle started to get to me. Been wandering for a while. Fetched up here about a year ago. Old sheriff dropped me in the tank til I was dried out. Fed me up, got me a job on one of the boats. Couldn’t keep me off the sauce but I worked, you know? Wasn’t a great place, but it was as good as any to die and I knew I was gonna go soon. Too much booze, liver’s going.”

“So what’s this with voices?” Kelly asked. “And do you know where Carlane Lancereau is?”

“Sure,” the old man grunted in laughter. “But gimme another taste. I need some help to tell it.”

Kelly let him have another swig and took the bottle back.

“Tell,” Kelly said.

“ ’Bout six months ago, things started happening. People got stranger than they’d been, really angry sometimes. Were a couple of murders, which hadn’t happened in a while. People started to talk about strange lights over by the old church and that fella Carlane started turning up real regular. Drove a fancy car, had fancy clothes. Sheriff couldn’t stand him, said all the Lancereaus were plumb bad. Then some kids went missing. Some people thought they were runaways, sheriff thought different. Got really angry with Deputy Mondaine about it. Couldn’t find nothing, kids had disappeared like they never was. Parents moved away, said they’d been getting threats about making a stink. Then the voices started…” He trailed off and looked longingly at the bottle and Kelly let him have another taste.

“Ain’t really voices,” the old man said in a strained voice. “More like visions.” He looked up at the cop sharply and coldly. “Everybody’s got demons, mister cop. You know that. Things they think about that ain’t exactly… right. You do, too.”

“Everybody,” Lockhart agreed.

“Well, imagine you’re pulling in a basket of crawfish and your boss is yelling at you to hurry it up and you can see yourself cutting the bastard’s throat. Just like it’s real. Feel the blood running down your hands, just like you’d already done it. Feel a rush, like a drug, at killing him. Then all of a sudden you’re back pulling in line, like nothing happened.”

“I’d say you were having DTs,” the cop replied.

“Ain’t like them,” the drunk said, shaking his head. “Sometimes you see things can’t be real. Big shapes you just know if they see you nothing’s gonna save you. See yourself doing… bad things. Got to where it was like it was all the time. But when I was drunk…”

“The visions went away,” Kelly said.

“Yeah,” Claude said, shaking. “That’s why I got to have a bottle. Yeah, I’m a drunk, but I need the bottle so the voices will go away. Sometimes they’re voices, speaking a weird language, calling me. Then the old sheriff died. Strong as an ox he was. A right bastard if you crossed him but he was a good man and healthy. And he just up and died. After that it got bad. Started hearing… screams from the church of a night. Bad screams. And chanting, weird chanting, like humans trying to say the words in my head, but we can’t say those words right.”

“Okay,” Kelly said, standing up. “Here’s your bottle-”

“He won’t get a chance to drink it,” Deputy Mondaine said from across the room.

Kelly turned around slowly and lifted his hands at the sight of the twelve gauge pointed at his midsection. And Mondaine wasn’t alone. Kelly recognized the owner of the bait and tackle store and one of the clerks from the Piggly Wiggly. At least five men, all with guns pointed at him.

“You can die right now,” Mondaine said. “Or you can pull your gun out real slowly and drop it on the floor.”

Kelly slowly pulled the automatic out with two fingers and dropped it on the ground, then turned around with his hands over his head.

I should have stayed with the Princess, he thought as something crashed into the back of his head. All he saw was white.

Barbara sat in the corner in a lotus position, praying, until she heard the creak of the door downstairs. Then she stood up, quietly, and catwalked to the window. She’d tested the floor and found all the spots that creaked and she carefully avoided them. She also stood back out of the slight light from the window to survey the top of the porch. Sure enough, there were several figures, at least four, clambering up onto the roof via a ladder.

“Lord, I ask that you infuse me with the warrior soul of David this night,” she said, quietly. “And forgive me my actions, speech and thoughts. Because, Lord, I am seriously going to kick some unrighteous ass in Your Name, Amen.”

That last prayer done she reached down inside, set “Good Barb” off to one side and opened up the jar. It was time for Bad Barb to come home.

All the fear seemed to wash away, leaving something hard and cold and ancient in its place. Her breathing slowed, details seemed to jump out at her, a vase on a shelf, the smell of the bayou, the scuffling of feet outside her door.

She catwalked back over to the shadow in the corner and waited, hand going to the sidearm and then withdrawing. Use that only if necessary.

With a crash a chunk of cinder block came through the window and at the same time someone tried to open the door. There was a thudding sound from there as three men piled through the broken window, one of them yelping as he apparently cut himself on glass. Just as the first man was throwing himself on the pillows on the bed and shouting in surprise, three more came through the door and piled into him.

Funny as the resulting scramble was, Barb was in no mood for entertainment. So she quickly walked across the room and kicked one of the bystanders in the balls from behind. Hard.

All six of them were howling and cursing so loud that they never noticed him go down. She gave him a hard kick in the temple as she went by, nonetheless. Then she got seriously to work.

She slammed a closed fist, a hammerblow, down on the neck of one of the figures at the back of the group, right at the top of the neck where the spine inserts to the skull. Concussion on the first through third vertebra almost always induces instantaneous unconsciousness and it did in this case. It could also cause death if the blow was hard enough and Barb was not pulling her strikes. Mrs. Nice Lady was no longer in residence.

One of the group seemed to sense that something was going on behind him and turned. Barb caught his left wrist with her right hand and twisted it up and back while holding the elbow, dislocating it on the fulcrum of her left hand. He howled like a banshee as she gave the elbow an additional twist, then was cut off in mid howl as her open palm struck him on the temple.

The group was finally aware that the person they were wrestling with on the bed was one of them and was trying to come to terms with being under attack, but she wasn’t going to give them much time.

A man was reaching for her from the right and he got a dislocated thumb for thanks then another kick to the balls followed by an elbow in the chin that drove him into unconsciousness. This left Barb balanced to the right and she used it to high kick to the left, catching one of the group in the throat and undoubtedly breaking his hyoid bone. That was a kill for sure and certain if somebody didn’t do a tracheotomy. But she didn’t let it slow her down.

The last two attackers were the one on the bed, who was getting off as fast as he could, and the guy who had been grappling him. She feinted a kick at the balls at the standing man and then followed the motion forward with an open hand blow to the nose. As the man’s hands came up to his shattered nose she punched him in the solar plexus and drove a hand up under his descending chin. Then she wrapped his head in one arm and stepped forward, over and back, rotating his neck through three dimensions and snapping it like a twig.

The last attacker was scrambling for the window but she was in no mood to deal with him later. She stepped forward and kicked him in the small of the back, throwing him into the wall, then punched at a pressure point in the upper back, temporarily immobilizing him with pain. Then she dislocated his shoulder, kneed him in the groin as she twisted him around, broke his instep and drove a hammer blow into his upper neck as he bent over from the blow.

She looked around the room and nodded. There was some groaning but most of the figures weren’t so much as twitching. At least two were dead, probably more. The thought suddenly made her queasy so she put it out of her mind, she had no time to throw up, and took one more look around.

“Time to leave,” she muttered, looking at the dark hallway and then the slight light from the window. “No real choice there,” she said, quietly, picking up her backpack and moving to the door as silently as she could. She looked at the broken glass and then leapt up and forward over it, legs stretched like a hurdler, body bent to avoid the upper sill. But while she was still in midair she saw the figure by the ladder rising up, holding a rifle or shotgun in his hands.

She landed carefully and drew her sidearm with a practiced and automatic motion, cocking the lever and firing twice at center of mass. She was rewarded by seeing the target fall off the roof with a quiet grunt of surprise and a small cry. He couldn’t know it was she who had come through the window and he’d hesitated so he wouldn’t shoot one of his friends. That wouldn’t happen every time. Especially now that the relative silence of the night had been ruptured by pistol fire.

She decocked the pistol and holstered it, buckling it in place, then ran to the edge of the roof, jumping down and landing in a roll. She came up on one knee, drew her pistol and scanned for targets all around. The previous target was on the ground, groaning, so she ran to him and looked for the weapon he’d been holding.

“A pistol in a gunfight is only good for getting a shotgun,” she muttered, scanning the ground. “A shotgun is only good for getting a long gun.”

She found the long gun a few feet from his body and picked it up, examining it and trying not to curse.

It was an AR-10, the identical model that Kelly had in the trunk of his car. What were the odds of that?

She went to the groaning figure and quickly rifled his body, looking for ammunition for the rifle. He was wearing a camouflage blouse that was just about covered in blood, so she wasn’t going to be borrowing it. There were two spare magazines, one in each blouse pocket. Those went in the back pockets of her jeans.

She straightened up and pulled back the charging handle of the AR-10, ensuring that there was a round in the chamber, then headed around the back of the hotel as voices and flashlights closed in on the front.

There was an overgrown garden in the back that terminated in the bayou. She moved through it as silently as she could until she was on the far side, away from the voices, and then suddenly bent over, pulled up her mask and was sick as quietly as she could manage.

When she was done throwing up she pulled the backpack off her back and took out one of the bottles of Pepsi. She carefully opened the top to quiet the hiss and let the shaken bottle relieve some pressure, then quickly opened it and used it to swill out her mouth, spitting to get the taste out. Then she capped it, put it back in the bag and listened to the night.

There was shouting from inside the hotel and she could see flashlights up on the second floor. None of the words were coherent but she thought she recognized the voice of Deputy Mondaine.

Big surprise there.

It was definitely time to get out of town. The problem was wheels.

She walked quickly to the edge of the swamp and rubbed mud on her running shoes, wiping her hands off on the grass. Then she picked up a twig by feel and slid it into the barrel of the gun to check that it was clear. It was.

That done she hoisted the rifle into a tactical position, butt by her shoulder, barrel down, and headed west, away from the voices. She wasn’t sure what was to the west, but it had to be better than this place.

Chapter Seven

Kelly awoke to screaming.

He had the worst headache of his life, like a pounding hammer in his head, and the screams were making it worse. But he couldn’t blame Dolores; he’d be screaming too.

He was in the nave of the old church, handcuffed and, from the feel of it, somehow shackled to the floor. The floor of the back of the nave had been removed, revealing an empty hole and, from the sounds of it, water. Apparently at one point the church had been built out over the swamp and for some reason the current group of madmen had opened it up.

There was a low wooden altar in front of him with Carlane standing in front of it, wearing black robes with green symbols on them, his hands raised above his head and chanting in some strange language. On the far side an old-fashioned whipping post had been erected and the hooker from New Orleans was chained to it, hands overhead, and two men wearing robes were working her over, in turn, with a set of cat-o-nine-tails. Each time the hard-swung leather thongs touched her flesh she let out a scream. There was blood running down her back and over her legs.

There were three other men in robes flanking Carlane, their heads bowed, chanting a low, monotonic response, and a group of worshippers, about twenty, down in the main area of the church, were waving their hands overhead and repeating the response.

“Agathalu Almadu!” Carlane chanted. “Asertu Almadu! Thagomod Tthu!”

“Asertu Almadu!” the robed figures chanted with the worshippers repeating.

“Souls for you, Almadu!” Carlane said. “Come to us, Almadu! Bring us to power!”

“Asertu Almadu!”

The nave was lit with candles and Kelly shook his head, trying to believe he was imagining the scene. But the screams were real, and the crack of the whips in flesh.

“Feel the pain, Lord Almadu!” Carlane shouted. “Calling to you, Lord Almadu! Pain for you, Lord Almadu! Give to us the power!”

“Asertu, Almadu!”

“He comes!” Carlane shouted, throwing his arms wide and his head up as if struck by something invisible. “Bring her!” he said in a deeper tone.

Dolores was unshackled quickly, falling to her knees in weakness, but the two men with whips expertly hoisted her up and dragged her to the altar. Then, as the other three joined them, four of them grasped her arms and legs, the fifth pulled up his robes and roughly mounted her. Dolores barely let out a whimper until her body began to rock against the hard wood, rubbing her lacerated back against it and eliciting a weak shriek of pain.

“We prepare her, Lord Almadu!” Carlane shouted. “Come to us, Lord Almadu! Asertu, Lord Almadu!”

“Asertu, Almadu!”

One by one the men mounted the hooker, changing off to hold one of her wrists or ankles. Kelly, his mind professionally analyzing the scene while simultaneously being horrified by it, noted that that was five of the six rapists. He was fully aware that he’d found the answer to the Ripper case. All he had to do was wait to find out who the actual killer was and who the sixth rapist was. Not that it really mattered, every single person in the building was an accessory in fact and all five of the rapists would be tried as if they were the murderer with all the rest probably getting life sentences. And Carlane, of course, was going to the chair.

Assuming that anybody found out about this and lived. Since he was pretty sure he was a dead man. He really didn’t want to be raped, though.

“Fthagna!” Carlane shouted. “He comes for his sacrifice! The master comes!”

The fifth acolyte quickly pumped to a finish and got off the moaning woman as the water in the opening began to boil. Kelly lifted himself up to get a better look and then wished that he hadn’t.

He told himself that he was not going insane but he really wanted to. The thing rising up out of the water was nightmare. His mind kept trying to put a definitive stamp on it, to compare it to something that it found familiar, but it was too strange. A fish face, with glittering, glowing green eyes that were alive with malicious intelligence. Gill fringe, a line of raised dorsal spines, connected by webbing. Tentacles around the mouth. Huge, humanlike, arms with broad hands and webbed, taloned fingers. It was monstrous, the humanoid torso at least six feet across. More tentacles sprouted from the shoulders and down the back or maybe it was long, moving, hair. None of that described the blasphemous unreality of the monster.

At last it had emerged from the opening, which was just about wide enough for it, and stood on two frog feet, rearing thirty feet in the air. Then it bent down and its member engorged and Kelly suddenly understood who or what the last rapist was.

Dolores let out a shriek of pain and fear as the massive member penetrated her and began thrusting, hard. The beast’s bellows overrode her screams, though, drowning them out as it thrust and thrust and finally came with a last bellow.

Kelly cracked his eyes open and then closed them again as the the thing inserted one talon in the woman’s belly and ripped upward, crunching through the sternum with a sound like popping plastic wrap. Dolores let out one final shriek of agony and then the thing inserted its hands in her chest and ripped it wide open, reaching in and tearing out her heart to stuff the beating organ in its mouth.

Kelly tried not to retch at the wet smacking sounds as the thing fed on the entrails of the hooker. Finally he couldn’t control it and threw up all over the rotting wood in front of his face.

“Lord,” Carlane said, as if that had signaled him. “We bring you another soul. Not as good as that one, but a soul nonetheless. Bring him,” he added to the acolytes.

Barb had followed the edge of the bayou, skirting behind houses and even into it once around a boathouse, headed west. But there were no vehicles, or signs of life, in that part of town. Finally, she slipped along the side of a house, blessing the apparent absence of dogs in the town, and peeked out into the road.

There were men in the square, about seventy yards away, and others were moving from house to house, obviously searching for her. Some were too close for comfort and they were clearly moving faster than she was. She could try to hide, but she suspected they would find her; there just wasn’t much good concealment around.

But she was well away from the men and in a much darker area than they were. And they were using flashlights which would blind them. Even the men in the square were in light, some of them standing by trucks with the lights on. One of the trucks was pointed, vaguely, in her direction. But it had only one good light, the other pointing up and to the side. And the good light was casting a pool of light about half way between her position and theirs. Her best bet was to cross to the other side and head east along the bayou. Try to double back on them. Maybe find one of the cars or trucks with keys in it.

She held the AR-10 down by her right side, away from the searchers, and put her head down, then stepped out away from the house, slowly.

Keep your head down. Move slow. Not stealthily, just slow. Bend over. Change your silhouette. People see what they expect to see. Use shadow, there’s one, a tree casting a faint shadow of reflected city light. Don’t hurry. Be the night. I’m invisible. You can’t see me.

It worked. It took her nearly five minutes to cross the open area but there were no shouts of discovery, no fire from the searchers. Whatever their prior plans, after the chaos she’d left in her room they had to be planning on killing her on sight.

She moved quickly past a house and then down to the bayou, turning left and hefting her weapon. She figured that she’d come back up by the old church where she’d be behind them.

She had made it to the area behind the courthouse when she heard the first scream. There was a faint crack of a whip along with it. And it seemed to be coming from the church.

“Oh, no,” she muttered. “You are not going to play paladin. Get the hell out. Bring reinforcements.”

She moved forward cautiously, skirting the group by the square with extreme care, then moved up away from the bayou as her skin started to prickle. Suddenly she saw herself chained, Mark on top of her thrusting into her like she was being raped. She forced the image out of her mind and gave a brief prayer asking forgiveness. She knew her demons and she’d fought them her whole life. Suddenly there was another flash, the pleasure she’d felt twisting that one bastard’s arm completely out of socket. It hadn’t been, strictly, necessary. She’d let her anger take charge.

She kept moving, fighting vision after vision. Herself submitting in a way the Bible never envisioned. Killing the stupid bitches like Marcie Taylor’s mother that thought they were so holier than thou. Sex with Kelly, him taking her, hard, holding her hands down and using foul language, her own voice joining in.

She couldn’t stop the visions, but with each one she said a prayer for forgiveness, asking that the Lord exorcise the demons that worked on her soul and help her fight the evil that lurked in every human. The Lord would forgive her her occasional bad thought, she knew that. Jesus had died for mankind’s sins and he had promised forgiveness to his chosen people. She had lived her life as a Christian, a good Christian lady and wife. She had brought her children up as good Christians, and good people, which sometimes wasn’t the same thing.

“Lord, give me strength,” she prayed, quietly. “Come into me and give me the strength of Samson, the wisdom of Solomon, the power of Jesus to forgive my tormentors even as they nail me to the cross. Help me, Lord, please, in this hour of my need. Be my staff of strength.”

She was at the wall of the church without even realizing that she’d been walking there, her mind half in reality and half in the land of vision. But as she stepped up to the church she felt a shock, hot and cold running over her body as if cold fire had been poured into her veins. For just a moment she wondered if she’d gone insane, as bestial bellows echoed in the church and through the night swamp. But then the visions were gone, replaced by a sense of peace. But not an inactive peace. She felt a presence urging her to something, something vital, and she slipped to the side looking for what she knew must be there.

She didn’t know much about cars or swamps or monsters taking over holy ground. But she knew churches. And they all had a side door.

Kelly struggled as hard as he could but with four men holding him there wasn’t anything he could do. He was thrown down on the blood-spattered altar and looked up into the face of the beast that had just slaughtered Dolores. What was that thing about spitting to show you weren’t afraid? He couldn’t have spit for the life of him. His mouth was dry and he realized that he’d pissed himself. He didn’t care, he was about to die and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

“PD is going to chop you up and feed you to the gators,” Kelly said, looking at Carlane.

“By the time they come here, we will be gone,” Carlane said, laughing and holding up a hand to forestall the beast. “My Master is complete, fully manifest. No power on earth can stop him. But we will go. We will hide and bide our time. Build our strength. And then… the day of the Dragon will come again.” He waved to the beast and stood back, avoiding the blood that was about to be shed.

She had seen a steel gas tank outside the building when they had been asking futile questions. All she had to do was get inside. What she was planning was going to make her a felon at the very least. It would probably be a capital charge. Again, she wondered if she was going insane, but she knew, with rock hard certainty, that this was the Lord’s work. And if the Lord wanted her to do it, she would.

The side door, unfortunately, was locked. But that presented no real problem. She took one of the empty pop bottles out of her bag and held it against the opening on the barrel of her .45. Then she waited for another of those bestial bellows and fired a round into the lock. The sound was not as quiet as it should have been. The bottle caught most of the exiting gas that created the distinctive “crack” of a pistol shot, but some of it worked out around the edges with a sound about like a squib. This was when she needed duct tape and she chastised herself for neglecting it. However, the lock crumpled, the rotted wood shattering around it, and she dropped the bottle on the ground.

The room beyond was dark and the bellows from within the church were unnerving. But she found what she was looking for down one of the hallways. The kitchen was rank with the smell of rotting food but it had been in recent use. She turned on one of the burners and ensured that the gas was hooked up then set the AR-10 down and waited for another bellow.

What she got instead was a shriek of mortal agony but that would do. As the sound echoed she tore at the oven with hysterical strength, dragging it out and away from the wall. Then she clambered over it until she found the copper gas line, using her knife, which had a serrated portion, to saw at the line until she smelled gas leaking out. She sawed some more, pushing the line apart and hearing a hiss.

That left only one thing to do. She picked up the AR-10, stepping into the hallway as the smell of gas became overwhelming, and flipped it off safe and onto semi-auto. Then she walked to the door that should lead to the nave, under which faint light was trailing, and shook her head.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,” she whispered. “For I am the baddest bitch in the valley.”

With that she kicked the door in.

Well, at least it’s not going to rape me, Kelly thought as one giant talon reached down for him. Then there was a shot. And another. And the thing straightened up, turning its fish head to the side.

He craned his head around as one of the acolytes fell across him, his face pulped from a round through the back of his head, and saw the strangest thing he’d ever seen, including the giant monster that had been about to gut him.

It was a ninja, holding what looked very much like his AR-10, with a white shining all around him like a giant halo.

Make that “her.” The tits were distinctly noticeable.

Barb leapt through the door and took a kneeling position, scanning for targets. It was what her father would call a target rich environment. The nave was crowded with worshippers and there were several men up in the nave. There was also a giant fish thing which seemed to be preparing to rip Detective Lockhart wide open. But, for some reason, her barrel tracked onto the back of the head of the man standing at the altar and her finger stroked the trigger.

The head burst like a melon, pitching the man forward, and the giant thing straightened up as she shot two of the robed figures. Then it reached down and casually raked its talons across Detective Lockhart’ stomach, following that with picking up one of the robed figures and biting his head off.

By then the worshippers had started to react and she turned left, firing five rounds into five bodies and clearing some space. That done she darted towards the altar, dodging a grab by the giant fish thing, to reach Detective Lockhart.

He was badly torn on the stomach and the thing was standing right over him. So Barb flicked the lever to full auto and emptied the rest of the magazine into its belly.

The thing let out a bellow of pain, but the wounds closed as fast as the rounds struck, just making little pock marks like rocks dropped in a pond. The thing reached for her again and she dove to the side, rolling to her feet and slipping another magazine into the well.

As she dove to the side, the thing appeared to forget about her, stepping down off the chancel and picking up another worshipper. It gutted the man with a move like a fisherman gutting his catch and then ripped the man’s chest open and started feasting.

Barb trotted to the wounded sergeant and pulled him off the bloodstained altar, dragging him away from the kitchen side of the building.

“Can you stand up?” she asked, pulling as hard as she could. But he was a big guy and she was running on pure adrenaline.

“No,” Kelly said, blood foaming at his mouth. “Go. Get out.”

“Fuck that,” she spat, lifting him into a fireman’s carry and heading for the other side of the church. There was a door there that led directly into the nave. It was padlocked, but she was more than willing to blow the hinges off if that was what it took. The worshippers had headed for the back of the church, fleeing their “god,” so they weren’t going to be a problem.

But her move had brought her to the attention of the fish monster and it shambled towards her before she could even make it to the stairs down from the chancel.

“Begone!” she shouted, rolling Kelly down to the floor and holding up her left hand, the right holding the AR-10 like a pistol, tucked into her body. “Begone in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ! Go back to the Hell you belong in!”

The thing seemed to shudder at her shout but raised a giant hand to strike her down.

So she pulled the trigger.

What came out was nothing she’d ever seen before, a line of white fire, as if each of the rounds were white tracers and every one ran true. At the touch of the fire the thing shrieked and backed up. So when that magazine was done she slapped in the last and gave that to him, semi-auto this time, every round aimed. By the time she was done, he had backed up halfway down the nave and was on his knees, black smoke pouring from his chest, abdomen and head. But even as she watched, the damage was healing.

She hefted Kelly again and shambled for the door as fast as she could. Finally she got to it and smashed the lock with the buttstock of the gun, shattering it and making the weapon useless. So she tossed it to the side and stumbled out into the night.

Kelly was a dead weight, unconscious or dead she wasn’t sure. But there were cars and trucks parked under the trees and she kept heading for them on weaker and weaker legs, reaching down to draw her .45. There was a bellow behind her and she looked over her shoulder, with difficulty, to see the monster tearing at the door she had exited through. It seemed a little pissed.

There had been candles in the chancel. A couple of them had fallen over but gone out in the blood. The rest… propane was heavier than air. But even though most of it would pool along the ground, some was bound to raise up. When, when?

As she was thinking that the world went white and she was thrown off her feet.

She could only have been unconscious for a moment because when she got to her knees pieces of the church were still raining down around her. The fish thing had disappeared but from the screams from within the burning building, she guessed that he was having a fine old fish-fry.

“All that catfish and so little time,” she muttered.

She looked at Kelly and shook her head at all the damage. Besides what was obviously a flailed chest he’d caught some splinters from the exploding church. Feeling for a pulse at the neck she got nothing. It didn’t seem fair to have carried him this far and have him die on her.

“Fuck,” she muttered. “Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck…”

Some of the former worshippers were still on the ground from the explosion; others were getting to their feet. She walked over to the nearest one and put the barrel of her gun to his forehead.

“Give me your fucking keys,” she ground out.

When the dazed man had handed them over she picked him up by the front of his shirt.

“Which one?” she asked.

“Red truck,” he muttered, pointing. “What happened?”

“I killed your fucking god,” Barb said, throwing him to the ground and trotting to the truck. She realized as she did so that it was the mechanic. “AND MY CAR HAD BETTER BE READY ON MONDAY!” Well, at least the truck should work.

Mondaine turned at the shots from the church and swore.

“The bitch got behind us!”

“Who the fuck is she?” Henri Lancereau cursed.

“I don’t know,” Mondaine said, trotting for his police car. “But she is going to die tonight. If we can’t give her soul to the Master, then we’ll just have to send it to hell.”

He hurried to his car and drove to the church, pulling up out front in a squeal of tires. But even as he started for the front door a wave of people came rushing out. Suddenly, with the sound of a hail of bullets, his head exploded in pain.

He sank to the ground, moaning, at the white fire that filled his head. He was usually one of the acolytes and his link to the Master was strong. Now it filled him with pain as the Master was filled with pain. But it stopped and he stumbled to his feet, shaking his head to clear it.

“What’s happening?” he yelled as people streamed by. “What’s happening?”

He pulled his shotgun out of the car, heading for the front and then angling to the side. It sounded like the Master was at the back left for some reason. He was trotting around the side when the building erupted.

When he came to, he felt a horrible wash of dread. The link he’d felt to his Master this last six months was gone. It felt as if the Master was gone. He suddenly remembered, unshielded by the power that had filled him, all the things he’d done, all the women he had raped and killed before the Master’s first manifestation and raped and helped to kill since. The pleasure that he’d gotten from it, and still did. He had gone to the Master freely.

But with the Master gone, retribution was sure to fall on all of them. Unless… it would be hard to cover up. But nobody in the town would talk; they were all implicated. A fire in the old church. People dead. They could clean up the remains of the hooker. He wasn’t sure what would be left of the Master.

If…

That bitch. There was one fucking witness. What she would say would seem insane, but she could point fingers, talk about things best left buried.

Where the fuck was she? Dead in the church?

But then he saw a figure, striding across the parking lot. A look, a move.

Her.

He stumbled to his feet, looking around. Many of the Cult of Almadu had not come freely to the worship and apparently, bereft of their cozy link to the Master, many of them had gone insane. Others were sitting with their heads in their hands or stumbling around drunkenly.

He had to stop her. He saw the bitch getting in Claude Thibideau’s red pickup and hurried back to his squad car.

It was a long way to the next town.

One of the things Barbara had been careful to carry along was the hand-held GPS she used for navigation. She started the truck, put on her seatbelt, pulled the GPS out of her backpack, unfolded the little suction cup thingy and slapped it on the windshield. Then she put the truck in gear and floored it, spinning gravel and squealing tires as she hit the blacktop.

The GPS was taking a while to find satellites, but that was okay. The first possible turn wasn’t for a few miles. She put the headlights on bright, pressed the accelerator down and settled down to put miles between herself and Thibideau. She wasn’t sure what she was going to tell the authorities. Tell them it was attempted rape by the deputy? Anything to get them into the town, asking questions. Or, maybe, just walk away? No, that was the wrong thing in the eyes of the Lord.

Oh… heck. The things she’d said. And done.

“Dear Lord, please forgive me for some of my words, thoughts and actions this night. I really was… Well, I’m sorry…”

She was a half mile out of town, approaching the first curve, when she saw lights behind her, closing fast.

The parish car was an unmodified Ford Crown Victoria, but there was no way that a pickup truck could outrun it on the bayou roads. It was lower to the ground and could take the turns faster, not to mention being faster in the straightaway. Slowly, he gained ground. And there was nothing around, nowhere for her to go but straight on. He’d push her off the road, put a bullet in her head if she was still alive and then feed her body to the gators. He wasn’t getting anywhere close to the bitch after what she’d done to Claude and Marceau and the rest. What was she, a fucking ninja? Soccer mom, my ass. The truck could get pulled out and dumped. Or fixed up. Whatever. No witnesses meant no witnesses. Probably some of the people in town would have to be… cleaned up as well. More gator food. Save that for later.

He’d closed from better than a mile to less than a hundred yards. All he had to do was run her off the road.

“You’d think a mechanic would soup up his own truck,” Barbara muttered as the police car started to drift to the left. He was going to try to hit her on the rear end and spin her out. At the speed she was going, she was likely to go into a roll. And that would be that.

“Fine,” she muttered. “You wanna dance. Let’s fu… let’s dance.”

She slammed on her brakes and pulled to the left, fighting the truck as it tried to get away from her.

The truck suddenly braked, swerving to the left and caught his right front quarter panel. He was going nearly a hundred miles an hour and the slight change in vector pulled the car into an out-of-control spin. The last thing Deputy Sheriff Mondaine saw was the tree-trunk headed for his windshield.

The impact had jarred the truck and Barbara fought it for as long as she could. She’d gotten it down under forty, skidding all over the road and headed for a curve, when the right front tire hit the grass on the shoulder and sent the truck into a spin. It made it halfway through and then started to roll. Barbara saw grass and trees and then the water reaching up for her.

Epilogue

Barbara lay in the hospital bed, looking up at the ceiling and occasionally rattling the handcuff on her left wrist. For the past three days she had tried to explain to people that she was not crazy. For which act she had been chained to her bed and visited by a stream of psychiatrists.

“Mrs. Everette,” the doctor said, gently. “I know you think you saw what you’re saying you saw. But under extreme stress, hallucinations can occur. You’ve been under a lot of stress, lately. We’ve spoken to your husband and he tells us that you were already acting… erratically…”

“I am not crazy,” Barbara said, trying not to cry. But who was she to judge? The first thing a crazy person was sure of was that they weren’t crazy. Who was she to think that the Lord and Savior would give her the power to dispel a demon? She knew that she tried to live her life in a Christian manner, but she was no warrior of God. She knew that.

“No, you’re not crazy, Barbara,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “Apparently there was a group of rapists and murderers that were keeping the town under their thumb. But the only person who saw this god-monster was you. Now, the police are aware that you may have committed some acts that you could be charged with. But they’re willing to overlook that, given that you stopped the Ripper killings. However, with your continued delusionary state…”

Barb tuned him out. They were going to let her go, only if she promised not to talk about what she’d seen. Realistically, there wasn’t anyone she could tell. Who would believe her?

“Barbara, I’m going to come back in a while,” the psychiatrist said, standing up. “If you’d like, I could prescribe a sedative…”

“No, thank you,” she said. “My body is a temple of God. I’ll take a pain killer if I need it, but no mind-altering drugs.”

“I’m sorry, but it may come to that,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “We’ll talk later.”

She lay back, closing her eyes against tears, her abdomen shuddering with the need to cry. Kelly was dead, his chest flailed by the monster. She’d failed him. That was the thing that kept coming back to her, not the victory, if there had been one, but the sight of his pain-ravaged face telling her to “go, go.”

She opened her eyes and glared at the door as there was a light knock.

“Come in,” she ground out. She was done with being Mrs. Nice to these people. Maybe God would forgive her that as well.

The man who entered was not, apparently, a doctor. And older guy, very well preserved, though, with distinguished gray at his temples and black hair. Nice suit.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Augustus Germaine. I’m here to congratulate you.”

“On what? Being crazy?”

“You’re not by any means crazy, Mrs. Everette. And I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to pull the strings to get you out of here. A warrior of the Lord who dispels an avatar of Almadu deserves far better. However, up until yesterday I was in Serbia tracking a werewolf that was causing a spot of trouble. Would you consider having dinner with me? I have a job offer I think you might entertain.”