Let the Devil Out (31 page)

She should've known. There couldn't be many people in New Orleans harder to kill, Maureen thought, than Preacher Boyd.

So now what?

Preacher being conscious was a stroke of luck, actually. Seeing him alive and breathing with her own eyes had been the point of her visit. She hadn't planned on being able to talk to him, though she wanted to. She needed to know more about what had happened at the restaurant if she was going to do anything about it. After tonight, she wouldn't have the freedom to move, the liberty to investigate the day's events that she had now. She had wasted hours obsessing over Solomon Heath. Was there another connection out there to the Watchmen, other than Leary, other than Heath, that she had missed?

She heard murmurs again in the hospital room. Someone was definitely in there with Preacher, talking to him. She studied him, a sheet-covered mound in his bed, framed in the doorway. Maybe she shouldn't talk to him quite yet. He needed rest, she figured, more than he needed anything else. She should leave him alone and work the streets like a law-enforcement professional. Like Preacher had trained her.

“You gonna stand out there the
entire
shift feeling sorry for yourself?” Preacher called from his bed. “Or you gonna come in here and offer your condolences?”

Maureen peeled herself off the wall and walked into the room, her hands clasped in front of her belt buckle, shamed like a child called in to see the principal. She said, “Condolences are for the survivors of the dead.”

“And there will be plenty of those to go around,” Preacher said.

Maureen stopped short, not because of his words, but because of Preacher's company.

In an armchair pulled alongside the bed sat a hefty man in loose jeans and a dirty gray Saints T-shirt. The man reminded Maureen of hired muscle, of a security guard or a bouncer, maybe a gangland legbreaker, gone to seed. He had dark chocolate skin, a large round and bald head, and an expansive, expressive face with wide brown eyes. He was about Preacher's age. He needed a shave. His stubble had a dusting of gray at the jawline. He nodded to Maureen and said nothing.

At the edge of the bed, he and Preacher held hands.

“I thought you couldn't see me,” Maureen said to Preacher. “I'm sorry to intrude.” She broke into a smile. “Man, I was expecting so much worse. The stories going around. You wouldn't believe.”

“I couldn't see you,” Preacher said. “But I sure could smell you. How many cigarettes you smoke tonight anyway?”

On cue, Maureen coughed. “All of them.”

Preacher turned his head to the man beside him. Their hands stayed clasped. “Officer Coughlin, this is Doctor Anthony Green.” He turned back to Maureen. “My partner.”

Maureen almost said
In what?
but she caught herself. “Well, shit.”

Preacher grinned. “You had no idea? Coughlin, I must say I'm surprised. And here I was admiring your discretion.”

“I have no gaydar,” Maureen said, shaking her head. “None.” She shrugged. “Even after all those years in the bars in New York. It's kind of embarrassing. It's a blind spot.”

Anthony patted the back of Preacher's hand, careful of the IV, a smile curling his lips. “This is the one in such a hurry to be a detective? The talented one? Your last great trainee.”

Maureen nodded, hands on her hips. “I can see the attraction.” She walked over to him, her hand extended. “Nice to meet you, Doctor. You work here at Touro?”

Anthony gripped Maureen's hand, rising slightly from his seat. He shook his head at her question. “I'm an orthodontist. I have a practice in the Gentilly, near where we live.” He raised his eyebrows. Tears welled in his eyes. “What happened to this one today. Years, decades with hardly a scratch. Then this.”

Preacher reached out, wincing from the effort, touching the back of his hand to Anthony's face. He lowered his arm, settled his hand on his chest, tossing a quick, commiserating glance to Maureen before exhaling to release the pain of moving. “I was the lucky one today. Fucking bad fucking day. Goddamn.”

“Fifteen years,” Anthony said. “For fifteen years I've been making fun of him because every time we go out to eat, this one has to sit with his back to the wall, somewhere he can see the door. You're not Wild Bill Hickok, I said. This isn't Tombstone. Then today happens.”

“So this means I don't have to hear that anymore, right?” Preacher said.

Anthony shook his head.

Maureen raised her hands. “What did happen, Preach?”

Preacher raised three fingers. “I took three, believe it or not. One in the left side, one in the left hip, one in the right thigh. The two on the left, they were through and through. Graze wounds, really. Caught mostly body fat and took some of it with them. The one in the thigh, that was a bit more complicated. That one they had to go in and get. I got it around here somewhere.” He pushed himself up against the pillows stacked behind him. The pain took his breath away and he gasped. Sweat speckled his forehead. “Maybe another time.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Maureen said. Anthony was squeezing the armrests on his chair. Maureen sensed his patience with her visit was waning. “Preach, relax,” she said. “I'll take your word for it.”

Preacher glanced at Anthony, then looked at Maureen. She could tell he felt Anthony's impatience. And that he wanted to tell the story. That he had been waiting for another cop to walk in at the right time. He'd been waiting, she thought, for me.

Preacher licked his lips. “Guy walks into the joint calm as you please. Solo. Long coat like a gunslinger. I think about it that way now, I didn't then. Nobody did. Nobody was thinking gun. Why would they? Because he has a long coat? It's wintertime, practically. And all the shit that's gone on in this country and we still don't think about it. But something about him tripped the wire, eventually, you know, if not at first? He caught my eye. He had that hinky vibe. Not that I had much time to analyze; he came right for us, and the place ain't that big.”

“Like he knew you were there,” Maureen said. “Knew who you were.”

“Yeah,” Preacher said. “Yeah. The way he crossed the room, the look on his face, he wasn't choosing from a random array of targets, he was searching for someone specific. At first I figured he was meeting people, and that's who he was looking for. But then he locked on target when he saw me.”

Anthony wiped his hand down his face. “You're making me ill.”

“Then he made a move,” Preacher said. “I could see it—the first, like, microgestures, something in the shoulders or his hips or something—and I knew shooter's stance was his next position. My brain added it up, the little things wrong about him. I hesitated for what felt like half a second. Less. Wesley had his back to the whole thing. I saw him see something in my face. He had a forkful of pork chop hanging there halfway to his mouth the whole time, white bean gravy dripping onto the tabletop. I couldn't decide what to do: if I should say something, or try and push Wesley aside.”

He paused, catching his breath. Anthony set himself to rise from his chair, changed his mind and stayed seated. Preacher said, “That's what cost us, in the end. I was too slow. My brain had it put together, but this fat, old cigar-smoking body … In that half moment, the shooter got his gun up and let loose.”

“Preacher, please,” Anthony said.

“Wesley caught the first couple of rounds in the back,” Preacher said. “I think he saved my life taking those. I would've taken those bullets in the guts. He definitely bought me time to return fire. I got my gun up and squeezed. It was so fucking fast. One moment this mope was walking in, the next my whole lower half is on fire, I got three holes in me, I'm on my back, blood is on the walls, plates are breaking, people are screaming. I only knew the shooter was dead 'cause he had stopped shooting.”

Pausing for breath, he looked at Anthony, as if checking to see if his partner could stand the rest of the story. Preacher turned back to Maureen. He seemed to sink even deeper into his pillows, a wounded bear settling into the snow. “I was never more scared in my life than when it was over, when I was lying there bleeding. I thought, what if there's another one, what if he's not alone? I thought I was dead, thought I was dying, I thought I was dreaming, I thought I was having a heart attack. Fuck.” He was out of breath.

Anthony held up his hand. “I think maybe this visit has gone on long enough. Thanks be to God, y'all will have plenty of time to talk about this, but, Preacher, you've been shot. Three times. You need to rest.”

“I'm good,” Preacher said.

“Maureen … Officer,” Anthony said, “we're glad you stopped by. We are. I know he was worried about you. And I'm glad to meet you.”

“I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“I'm right here, Anthony,” Preacher said. “Don't talk about me like I'm not.”

Maureen pressed her lips together, suppressing her laughter. Heinous as the situation was, she could hardly believe that hours after she was frantic with grief and worry that he was dead, she was standing there watching Preacher have a spat with his dentist boyfriend. Fucking New Orleans.

“Maureen will come back before her shift tomorrow night,” Anthony said.

“She has to go out there again
tonight
,” Preacher said. “These people came after her first. I
told
you about that. They're out there.”

“Anthony's right,” Maureen said. “And the Watchmen tipped their hand. They're gonna go to ground now, these fucks. I'm safer tonight than I've been in weeks.”

“Because terrorists always do the logical thing,” Preacher said.

“Because they're cowards,” Maureen said. “And cowards run when you chase them. They scatter when they lose the advantage. All fucking bullies are the same.”

“Okay, okay,” Preacher said. “One more thing. There's something I need to tell you tonight, Coughlin. Something you could tell Detillier about.”

She decided not to tell Preacher about Detillier's disappearance. Why give him any more to worry about? And if Preacher gave her good-enough cause, she'd go looking for him one more time. “Whatcha got?”

“I'm going for a soda,” Anthony said, clearly flustered. He got up, the chair squeaking loudly on the floor, and walked toward the door. “Make it quick, you two.”

“It's out of love,” Preacher said. “He's been waiting to meet you. He has. It's the circumstances, like you said. He doesn't even drink soda.”

“I think he's doing great,” Maureen said. “If it were me, I'd be spitting nails and out for blood.”

“You mean you're not?” Preacher said. “How are you holding up, by the way? You look terrible. Like, I hope I don't look as bad as you.”

“He's gonna be pissed if I'm here when he gets back,” Maureen said. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“Always the artful dodger,” Preacher said. “When we were talking to Detillier, he wanted Madison Leary because she connects to the Watchmen, right? She was the only lead we had left. Quinn, Ruiz, Bobby Scales, Caleb Heath, the other loose ends are tied off.”

“She's not talking to anyone,” Maureen said. “Ever. You know my feelings on this. We should be squeezing Solomon Heath. Now. We'll never have more leverage than we do tonight.”

“Fuck him,” Preacher said. He raised an admonishing finger. “In fact, you make sure you stay away from him. You have impulse-control problems. Besides that, I have a better idea. An easier target. One less likely to get you in trouble if things go … sideways.”

“I'm all ears.”

“Who connected Caleb Heath and the Watchmen to Bobby Scales?” Preacher asked.

“Quinn. We've gone over this a hundred times.” This was old news. How much blood had Preacher lost? Maureen wondered.

“But it
wasn't
Quinn,” Preacher said. “There was a middleman. Remember?”

Maureen got it. Fucking A. “Shadow. Quinn and Ruiz had Shadow on a string. He was the matchmaker, the one who connected Heath and the Watchmen with Scales. And that motherfucker is out there on the streets.” She sat in the chair, inched it closer to Preacher's bedside. “That's a great idea in theory. Shadow is definitely a forgotten link to the Watchmen, but, man, that cat is harder to find than Leary.”

“That's where you're wrong,” Preacher said. “This shit with the white Camaro, around that grocery store, I'll bet anything it's drawn him out of whatever hole he's been hiding in since Quinn put Bobby Scales in the Mississippi. A shift in power, a change in ownership of the territory in front of that store? I
promise
you Shadow is hovering on the edges of that shit. It's what he does. The problem has never been seeing him. It's getting anything to stick to him. He just glides over the surface of things. It's why he's called Shadow.”

“Little E might know something,” Maureen said. “You think he's the way to go?”

“No doubt. He's dug into the neighborhood like a tick. That's why I wanted you looking for him over at the grocery store before this other shit went down.”

“What if he doesn't know,” Maureen asked, “or he won't say?”

“Coughlin, I'm in a hospital bed,” Preacher said. “For the forseeable future. I gotta do your job for you from here?”

“I don't want to fuck this up is what I'm saying. I wanna move as fast as possible and make sure I get results.”

“Cops are dead over this,” Preacher said. “Today isn't the end of it. They'll come after us again, and Shadow connects to the men who did it. You said it yourself: there will never be a time when you have more authority, and more freedom to use it to get the answers you need, than you do right now, tonight. Use it, Coughlin. Tell the rest of the squad. Hit the neighborhood like a fucking hurricane. Answers, Officer. By any means necessary. Believe.”