Walter Williams - The Rift

A party was going to creep up to the rear of the building, let themselves into the back door, and start flinging tear gas grenades up the back stair into the library. Then another group would charge the building and shoot down the Warriors as they came staggering out.

It was easy enough to counter the scheme. But as Nick placed his soldiers in the windows and told them to keep alert, he felt sadness drift across for the poor fools who were going to try to storm his stronghold.

They’d even waited for moonrise, so that they could be spotted all that much more easily.

His people saw three figures slipping across the back lawn, aiming at the rear door, and held their fire until they couldn’t miss. A volley of shots boomed out, echoing in the wide space of the library. Nick felt his ears ring. One of the party fled, and the other two lay stretched out on the lawn.

The larger storming party never left their assembly area behind one of the residential homes across from the front of the library. Instead they swarmed into whatever cover they could find and started shooting, a truly impressive amount of fire that crackled through the night, but all completely useless, most of it going into the air or thwacking solidly into the library’s concrete walls. Poor fire control, Nick thought. The Warriors fired back, increasing the racket. It required some effort for Nick to get his own people to stop shooting. Eventually the deputies’ fire dwindled away.

No one inside the library had been hurt. The sharp smell of gunpowder stung the air.

Nick asked someone for the time. It was a little after two in the morning.

“We want to talk!” he shouted out a window. “Send someone to talk to us!”

*

Warm night air drifted through the Larousse house. Return fire from the library had knocked out most of the front windows, letting out the air-conditioning. Omar’s headache beat at his temples.

Merle had been killed trying to sneak into the library. Omar felt as if he’d just had his right leg shot out from under him. He didn’t know what to do. Those people in the library, under their … their general … were just too heavily armed.

“What I want to do, Omar,” said Sorrel Ellen of the Spottswood Chronicle, “is volunteer to talk to those people.”

“No, Sorrel,” said Omar. “No way.”

Sorrel gave his high-pitched laugh. The grating sound sank into Omar’s head like a sharp knife.

“I’m a trained interviewer,” Sorrel insisted. “I can find out what they’re up to.”

“I know what they’re up to,” Omar said. “They’re a bunch of killers. They killed my deputies, and if-” He gave up. “Sorrel, I’m too busy to talk to the press right now,” he said. “I need you to leave the building.”

“But this is your headquarters! Your nerve center! I want to be present at your decisions!”

Omar firmly took Sorrel’s arm and led him to Georgie Larousse’s kitchen door. “Keep your head down as you go,” he said. “Those people are killers.”

And there, as he saw to his deep surprise, he saw Miz LaGrande crossing the lawn and heading in his direction.

“Mrs. Ashenden!” he said.

Even in the predawn darkness Miz LaGrande looked frail, not quite recovered from the dysentery. But she was dressed finely in a linen summer dress, with her hair done and a straw sun hat pinned in place, even though there was no sun. She carried a little clutch bag, and she was crossing the Larousse back lawn with precise steps of her sandaled feet.

Omar’s special deputies, the heavily armed locals he’d summoned to his aid, stepped back to permit the old woman to pass.

“What are you doing here at this hour?” Omar asked. “You’ve been ill- you should be in bed.”

Mrs. Ashenden walked to the back door, looked up at Omar. “May we speak, Sheriff Paxton?” he said.

“I’m very busy, Mrs. Ashenden. We have a bad situation here.”

Her lips pursed. “So I gather. That is the situation we need to discuss.”

Omar’s head whirled. He drew back from the door. “I hope we can make this brief,” he said.

Mrs. Ashenden entered, and Sorrel Ellen, damn him, turned around and followed her. “This is not a safe place for either of you to be,” Omar said. “We’ve got a bunch of coldblooded killers in the library, and-”

Mrs. Ashenden carried with her the scent of talc and rose water. “I have had a visit, Sheriff,” she said crisply. “From a refugee who had been at the A.M.E. camp.”

Omar stood in astonished silence. Think! he told himself.

“The gentlemen described some of the activities inflicted on the people in the camp,” Mrs. Ashenden said. “The shootings, the riots. The- the activities that provoked this violent response.”

Sorrel blinked for a surprised moment at Mrs. Ashenden, then reached for his notebook.

“I don’t know anything about that,” Omar said. His voice seemed to be coming from another place, from far away. “I haven’t been to that camp in days. You know that. You know I’ve been at Clarendon.”

She looked up at him, eyes glittering in the moonlight. “That’s possible,” she said. “But in any case I fear that the situation has gone beyond our ability to cope with it. We shall need to open negotiations with those people in the library, and also summon aid from the emergency authorities, perhaps the national government. They can send in soldiers, FBI men, trained negotiators.”

Keep the fence up, Omar thought. Keep it up till dawn, at least. Then get over the Bayou on Merle’s boat and get out of here.

“They are murderers, ma’am,” Omar said. “They killed my deputies. They killed Merle out on the lawn not two hours ago. I am not negotiating with them.”

Mrs. Ashenden gave a precise little nod. “That is precisely why you should not negotiate,” she said. “That is why I want someone else to talk with those people in the library.”

“You know it will be a black eye for Spottswood Parish if we have to call in help. I think my department is capable of dealing with this once the sun comes up and we can get a better look at the situation.”

“Excuse me,” Sorrel said, his pen poised on his notebook. “Could I have some clarification regarding these shootings and riots that Mrs. Ashenden mentioned?”

Omar felt sweat breaking out on his throat, on his forehead. “You know two people got killed when we fenced the camp,” he said. “You know there was a riot when Dr. Patel and the Red Cross came to inspect the place. If anything else happened down there, Jedthus didn’t tell me about it.”

“Sheriff Paxton,” Mrs. Ashenden said, “you’ve lost control of the situation. Will you call for assistance, or will you not?”

Omar drew himself up, and hitched his gun belt higher on his hips. “Mrs. Ashenden,” he said. “You have no official standing in this parish. You can’t give me orders. Now, why don’t you go home and go to bed? You’ve been ill and should get your rest.”

“I will speak to members of the parish council,” she said.

“We have just had a major earthquake. I imagine they’re very busy.”

“I will use the nice satellite phones the Emergency Management people gave us.”

Omar looked down at her. Exasperation and headache beat each other to a standstill in his skull.

“Just let me alone to deal with this situation, Mrs. Ashenden,” he said. He reached out and took her arm. “I would appreciate it if you would leave and let me get on with my business.”

Mrs. Ashenden seemed a little taken aback as Omar took her through the kitchen to the back door- perhaps none of her inferiors had ever laid hands on her this way. Omar dropped her arm, then held the screen door open for her to pass out of the house.