Let the Devil Out (Maureen Coughlin #4)(57)

She followed the form of the driver with her gun, gritting her teeth, breathing hard through her nose, her palms slick with sweat.

And what if it isn’t the Watchmen? she thought. What if you’re wrong? What if it’s some knucklehead in a dirty old van full of tools? Some poor dope in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She watched that side door. She watched the driver’s-side window, waiting for the glass to slide down, for the barrel of a gun to appear over the top of the door.

If that door moves, if that glass moves, I’m shooting.

And what if he’s rolling down his window to spit out his gum? Or flick away his cigarette butt? And you blow his head open for him because of it?

Look my way, driver, she thought. Look my way.

“Look at me. Look at me, look at me,” she whispered.

Show me who you are, she thought. Because I don’t wanna die here but I don’t wanna kill an innocent person, either. Because if I kill the wrong person, everything is over. For him and for me. Everything. My career. My life. The great New Orleans experiment. Everything. Shot to hell. I’ll die in prison for this mistake, she thought. That’s if I don’t jump in the Mississippi River first for killing an innocent bystander.

Am I gonna go out like that, she thought, because I let those bully militia limp-dick f*cks scare me so badly I ran out into the street shooting at people like a madwoman?

That’s what these f*ckers want, she told herself. That’s their power. This is how terrorists win. With you standing in the street, terrified, a gun in your hand, looking for someone, anyone, to shoot. Doing their killing for them, brainwashed and murderous, no better than a suicide bomber. If you make that f*cking awful mistake, she thought, it’s them that got you. It’ll be them that f*cked you, them that killed you and everything you wanted and were and would be.

Don’t shoot, she thought. Don’t pull that trigger. Stand your ground.

She lowered her gun and walked out into the street.

She heard Detillier calling her name from what seemed a mile away. The van window rolled down, glinting in the sun as it moved. The driver was revealed. He was a smiling guy with a bushy beard in a blue watch cap and a camouflage hunting jacket. No ski mask over his hairy face. He blew Maureen a kiss. She almost shot him for it.

The van picked up speed and headed down Esplanade toward the I-10. Maureen memorized the plate number. She’d give it to Detillier. He’d call it in. Shooting the guy was one thing. Pulling him over and putting him through the ringer—hell, he’d never realize what a favor she’d done him. She heard Detillier calling her name from closer. He was heading toward her. She figured she should turn and look for him, but she didn’t. Each thought she had seemed to take a long time to form and compute, like skywriting.

Maureen felt stunned by the quiet around her, to be standing in it, realizing how convinced she’d been that the air would roar with gunfire. A car, one of those tiny toylike Smart cars, rolled right up to her, the driver leaning on her horn, her phone at her ear. Maureen’s reverie broke. She glanced down at her gun, then raised her eyes to meet the driver’s. She saw the driver see the gun. The woman shrieked and threw her hands in the air, which Maureen enjoyed. She stood there in the street, staring down the driver until Detillier caught up to her.

He seemed afraid to come any closer and called her name from the sidewalk. Finally, she stepped back to the curb. The Smart car sped away.

“So it wasn’t them,” Detillier said. He ran his hand over his shining bald head. “Man, we scared the shit out of those people in Dizzy’s.”

“I don’t know who the f*ck that was in the van,” Maureen said. “I have no idea. Could’ve been them. Could’ve been f*cking with us. Could’ve backed down when we spotted them. They don’t strike me as the type who get too brave when the prey starts shooting back.”

“Speaking of,” Detillier said. “You can put that gun away now.” He glanced up and down the avenue. “We have to get you off the streets.”

Maureen holstered her weapon. “I got the plate for that van.”

“Great, great,” Detillier said. He remained nervous.

She realized that the van could be making the block, preparing for another pass now that the shooters knew what they were up against. Detillier had started walking away.

“We take my car,” he said. “I’ll call in the plate from there. We’re wasting time standing around here, especially if they’ve made it to the highway.”

“Right. Okay.” She pulled her phone from her pocket. She could feel herself returning to earth, could hear the sounds of the neighborhood again. “Okay. Okay.” She scrolled through her contacts. She raised her other hand in a “stop” signal. “Before we do anything, I have to make a call. I have to call Preacher.”

Detillier stopped walking. He took a couple of steps back to her. “Maureen, Preacher’s one of the cops who got shot.”





19

“Take me to him,” Maureen shouted from the passenger seat of Detillier’s sedan. “Take me to him right f*cking now.”

“I don’t know where he is,” Detillier said, his eyes fixed on the road as they hurtled up North Rampart Street, dodging traffic, running red lights, speeding away from Dizzy’s and the Tremé, headed for the wide boulevard of Canal Street. “He was shot in Mid-City, at a place on Jeff Davis. I don’t know what hospital he’s going to.”