John Ringo - Princess of Wands

“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?”