Let the Devil Out (Maureen Coughlin #4)(29)

“More recently, my ass,” Preacher said. “Timothy McVeigh was a Sovereign Citizen.”

“There have always been outliers,” Detillier said. “Individuals. Duos and trios. Cells, if you want to call them that. We’re starting to; the language is changing. The terms we use in the U.S. are becoming more familiar in ways that nobody likes. The outliers, the extremists, they’re impossible to predict, nearly impossible to find before they act. And yes, Sergeant Boyd, I admit, we spent recent years watching for international dangers and for threats coming into the country. As a result, we are now woefully behind on what’s been growing here at home. We’re human like you. There’s only so much we can do.

“What worries us much more now is the growth, the exponential growth of these armed and dangerous militaristic offshoots like the Watchmen Brigade. These patriot groups not only don’t fear law enforcement, be it local or federal; many of them antagonize law enforcement.” He gestured toward Maureen. “They target law enforcement. And their influence is growing.

Detillier ticked off names and places on his fingers. Maureen grew ill as they added up. “That rancher in Utah and his gun buddies. The Oath Keepers, who are now national, the West Mountain Rangers in Montana, the Indiana Rangers, the Massachusetts Fighting Wolves, the Radical American Patriots, the Guardians of the Free Republic in Texas.” He shook his head. “The list goes on, and it grows. Now we have the Watchmen Brigade in south Louisiana.”

“The conspiracy in Vegas,” Maureen said. “The cops killed in the ambush, in the restaurant. That was these people you’re talking about. These are the people who are after me.”

“They got our attention around here before that,” Detillier said. “When those state police got killed in LaPlace. But, yes, the killers in Vegas called themselves Sovereign Citizens. The man they just caught in Pennsylvania who killed those state troopers at their barracks. Him, too.”

“LaPlace was three years ago,” Preacher said. “Vegas was last summer. Pennsylvania was last month. You’re not making much progress. They’re still there, and probably elsewhere in Louisiana, and now they’re here in New Orleans, too.” He nodded at Maureen. “She’s got a front door full of bullet holes to prove it.”

Maureen shook her head. “Not anymore. Rehab is done on the outside. Can’t even tell it happened anymore. I don’t even wanna think about what it cost the landlords to get it done that quick.”

“What about the inside?” Preacher asked.

“That’s got some work left,” Maureen said. “There are bullet holes above the fireplace. In my bed frame.”

“That’s gotta frighten the boys away,” Preacher said.

“Well, good luck with that,” Detillier said, loud enough to get everyone back on point. “If the events of last month have checked the Watchmen’s move into the city, it’s not for long. We’re planning aggressive countermoves. We would like your help with that.”

Maureen stretched her legs under the table, crossing her ankles. “In what capacity?”

“This is not the part where I make you a federal agent,” Detillier said. He reached into his suit-jacket pocket, produced a notepad and a pen. “This is the part where I ask you some questions. Hopefully, you give me useful answers, and we move on from there.” He clicked the pen. “What can you tell me about Madison Leary?”

Maureen crossed her arms. Not the question or the name she’d expected to hear. Leary was a New Orleans case. Skinner had told her the feds had dead Gage’s father on the hook, and that he was the person they wanted to talk about.

“She came here from LaPlace on the run from the Watchmen,” Maureen said. “Allegedly carrying a sizable wad of cash that she’d stolen from them. As far as we were able to figure, both Cooley and Gage were in New Orleans looking for her and the money. But she’s not who you want. A man named Caleb Heath, he’s the one you want.”

“Coughlin,” Preacher said, caution in his voice.

“Leary knows the Watchmen,” Detillier said. “She lived with them in LaPlace. She was one of them. The last place she lived before she came to New Orleans was with the Watchmen.”

“She’s a crazy drifter who fell in with the wrong guys at the trailer park,” Maureen said. “That’s not the same as joining a terrorist cell. She came to New Orleans to get away from them. To escape, and they hunted her here.”

“According to your friend Detective Atkinson,” Detillier said, “this poor, unfortunate victim you describe, she’s the lead suspect in the murders of Gage and Cooley.”

“Then ask Atkinson about her,” Maureen said.

“We did,” Detillier said. “And she sent us to you. She said you knew her first.”

Maureen turned in her chair and looked at Preacher, expressionless behind his dark glasses. In the park, they had theorized about how Maureen had drawn the FBI’s attention. Atkinson was the answer, then. Maureen wondered what else the detective had told the feds about her. Not too much, not everything she knew if Detillier wasn’t coming after her with cuffs.

“If you want the Watchmen,” Maureen said, turning back, “if you really want to hurt them, find Caleb Heath.” She waited for Detillier to write the name down. “Caleb Heath, son of Solomon, the owner of Heath Construction and Design. They have a house on Audubon Park. You need me to spell it for you?”