Let the Devil Out (Maureen Coughlin #4)(59)

The store materialized ahead of them on their right, the low, boxy building set deep inside its vast, mostly empty parking lot. The lot was massive, Maureen thought. Weird how few cars were there. Whoever had built the place had anticipated a lot of business they weren’t getting. No, she thought, it’s not the lack of cars that’s weird. It’s the lack of police cars. Of anything with a siren on it.

“Why are we the only ones here?” Maureen asked. She realized she hadn’t seen him reach for the radio. If Detillier was so convinced the shooters had fled to the Walmart, why hadn’t he called anyone else? FBI? NOPD?

He eased up on the accelerator.

“Why are we slowing down?” Actually, she thought, Detillier hadn’t picked up the radio since they’d gotten into the car. He kept claiming not to know anything. Well then, why wasn’t he calling someone and asking questions?

“This Walmart does terribly,” Detillier said. “It’s barely hanging on, and they stopped selling guns after they got looted in the storm.” He threw Maureen a nervous glance. “But I’m guessing the people we’re after didn’t know that. Doesn’t mean they’re not armed to the teeth already. We should count on it.”

“Point made,” Maureen said. Her throat was so dry she could barely get the words out.

Detillier pulled the sedan into the very back of the parking lot, and threw the car into park. He stared straight ahead through the dirty windshield at the Walmart a hundred yards ahead.

“We gonna let anyone know where we are?” Maureen asked.

Detillier didn’t answer. He watched the Walmart, listening to the radio.

Maureen’s eyes dropped to the radio, as if she could read there whatever mysterious signal Detillier was hoping to discern from the chaotic chatter of orders, police codes, and panicked questions filling the car. She ground her teeth. What the f*ck were they just sitting there for, doing nothing? Her breath got short, tears of rage again welling in her eyes. She palmed tears from her cheeks. She inhaled her snot and swallowed. She took a deep, deep breath, then exhaled long and slow.

She turned to Detillier.

“Can you just call someone? Anyone? There’s got to be news about Preacher. I need to know. I can’t make anything out of that mess on the radio.”

Detillier raised his hand, gesturing, Maureen realized, for her to be quiet.

“And there it is,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

“There what is? For f*ck’s sake.”

“The response to the first nine-one-one call”—he raised his chin in the direction of the Walmart—“from inside the Walmart. I was right. Those f*ckers are in there. Someone fleeing the store called it in.” He shifted the car into drive, rolled them toward the store. “Showtime.”





20

They cruised slowly across the parking lot, giving the Walmart entrance a wide berth.

Maureen watched as the automatic doors opened and one person then another jogged out of the store, glancing over their shoulders as they ran. She could tell they were scared, but nobody was sprinting. Whatever had frightened them wasn’t chasing them, and the danger was away from the front of the store. Maureen knew the Watchmen weren’t coming out. Law enforcement would have to go in after them.

“We’ve got a description coming in over the radio,” Detillier said.

Maureen listened as the NOPD dispatcher described the shooters. One male, one female. Possibly a couple. That could matter, be useful, Maureen thought; if they could be separated, maybe they could be used against each other. The dispatcher said the man was white, with a medium to solid build, about six feet, short black hair. The woman was also white, thin, long brown hair, about five-six. The shooters were dressed alike. Camouflage cargo pants, black boots, body armor, fingerless gloves. An invented, secondhand uniform. This was good, Maureen thought. They’d be easier to distinguish from any remaining customers in the store.

Both were heavily armed, carrying automatic rifles, AK-47s or something similar. It should be anticipated, the dispatcher said, that they carried sidearms as well. And while there had not been visual confirmation on these two shooters, the Mid-City shooter, the one who’d shot Preacher, and who had been killed on-site, had been carrying grenades.

“Jesus f*cking Christ,” Maureen said. “This is unreal.” She looked at Detillier, who watched the front of the store and nodded his head at every detail the dispatcher related. “You ever seen something like this before?”

He went on nodding. “This is how it happened in Vegas. This is how it happened in Memphis. Right down to the f*cking Walmart.”

“And how did it end those other times?” Maureen asked.

“Ugly,” Detillier said. They moved closer to the store as Detillier drove in smaller circles. “These things, with people like this, they can’t end any other way. You try to limit the damage.”

Maureen pointed a finger at him, sitting up on one knee in the passenger seat. “You know. You know if Preacher’s dead or if he’s alive and you’re not telling me. Why are you not telling me?”

“I wouldn’t tell you a thing I’d heard,” Detillier said, “even if I had heard something. Because there’s better than a fifty-fifty chance that whatever I’d tell you was wrong. Information in these crazy situations is unreliable. Think about that. I need you to focus, Maureen. I need your full attention on the matter at hand. We’re walking into an active-shooter situation, a potential hostage situation. You gotta be here now. There’s no f*cking telling what you’re going to be asked to do. You have to be ready for anything.”