Crescent City Connection (37 page)

“So he’s a wild card.”

“And possibly a loose cannon.”

Shellmire shook his head. “You’re the loose cannon, Langdon. Are you going to behave?”

She was only half-insulted. She wanted to do this her own way, though what that was she couldn’t have said. She just knew that she did, and that it must show. And then there was her past record.

When they were assembled in what resembled a war room—maps on the walls, pointers, coffee, and telephones—they put together a plan. A simple plan, but a woefully incomplete one, due to variables they couldn’t control.

By ten o’clock, they had the two phone numbers assigned to the duplex in Mel Gibson’s name, lists from the assessor’s office, names and numbers of all the neighbors—in short, a complete dossier of the block where The Jury was holed up.

Officers had been dispatched to get everyone to leave their houses on this block and the three surrounding streets.

As soon as that was done, police would simply close off the block and surround it. When they were in position, along with all the TAC units they could muster—NOPD’s and the FBI’s for starters—a hostage negotiator would phone the house. And then what happened was anybody’s guess.

Goerner turned to the psychologists. “Doctors Taylor and Wootten?”

The FBI shrink shook his head and drummed his pencil. He looked pale, but that was probably his natural state. “I’ve got two words for you,” he said. “Remember Waco.”

Cindy Lou nodded. “We’ve got to consider these people a cult. When you’ve got somebody as crazy as Jacomine, you’ve got a lot of blind followers and a guy who thinks he’s God and probably has a headful of chemicals. They don’t mind dying, because they think they’re saving the world. You’re on a mission from God, the FBI’s pretty small potatoes.”

“Dr. Taylor?”

He was smiling, his body turned toward Cindy Lou. “Dr. Wootten has a way of cutting through bullshit.”

“So what you’re advising is—”

Taylor whirled to face him, turned off his smile, and finished Goerner’s sentence: “Don’t fuck up.”

The room was starting to smell sour from sweat.

“And read their minds,” said Cindy Lou.

Goerner stared at her, looking uncertain, evidently pretty sure she wasn’t making a joke, but unable to explain her words any other way.

“I hear they make listening devices powerful enough to pick up a conversation in a house across the street. Surely the FBI has some of those babies.”

“Thanks for your input, Dr. Wootten. I assure you, all legal methods of intelligence gathering will be employed.” Goerner fixed his mouth in a prim line, which Skip took to mean a device was already being installed, probably in a house next door.

* * *

Daniel turned over in bed, his body sore, his brain muzzy, his mood somewhere between desperate and hopeless. He recognized in himself the depression that had dogged him at various times throughout his life. Lovelace had it, too; it was genetic, the shrinks said. When it hit, he didn’t even want to get out of bed. That idea he’d had yesterday, the one about throwing himself from a car, still seemed a viable plan—except that he could no longer get access to a car.

He half wished he’d done it.

He couldn’t see any good coming from this thing. Somehow it had gotten seriously out of hand. What was kidnapping children about? Lovelace, he could see—she was his own daughter. But why this little black girl? Why endanger her?

She wasn’t in danger, Daddy said, not for a second, she was gonna be just fine. But Daniel had shot a man trying to get her. He might be just fine eventually—according to the TV news, he probably would, but he’d already had to go through a lot of pain, and there was going to be more. And Darnell Roberts was dead. What was the point of it all?

He was even starting to wonder if there’d been any point in killing Nolan Bazemore. He had been so proud of that.

But his father seemed to have gone crazy. Or perhaps had always been crazy. Now Daniel was the first lieutenant of a crazy man, living with a cadre of people who worshiped a crazy man and thought he could do no wrong.

Daniel thought,
Who am I to doubt?

But he did. He had spent his life alone, or nearly alone, except for that brief period with Jacqueline, and groups were not his talent.

He had turned Shavonne over to the sisters, who tried to feed her and take care of her, but all she would do was scream and cry and wet herself. So they taped her mouth and locked her in a room.

And Daddy called a prayer meeting. Everybody came, all the people from the other side of the house, and all the ones from this side, and the ones who lived outside as well, the entire inner core of The Jury, once an appropriate twelve people; now eleven. They were crammed into Daddy’s living room that he used for an office, sitting around on Home Depot nine-dollar plastic chairs and pillows on the floor.

First they prayed on general principles, which lasted thirty minutes if it lasted one. And then Daddy said, “We lost a brother today. We were twelve good men and true and our number has shrunk.” Then with no planning at all, they held an impromptu funeral service, which included eulogies to Darnell, with Bible readings, hymns, everything you might have in church—Daddy was a preacher and he treated this like a church service.

Daniel had to admire him—his skill and his energy—though, after Jacqueline left him, he had stopped believing in God. He was here because he thought his dad wasn’t doing the God thing anymore. He thought this thing was about justice.

When Darnell had been properly remembered, and Daniel, for one, was near starving, Daddy started in again. “We are in for a siege, seekers of justice. Are y’all up to it?”

Everyone cheered.

“We have come to a time in our movement when a blight must be removed before we can go on. Little Shavonne Bourgeois, an angel in our midst, will be the instrument of that delivery, which will be done before the sun sets tomorrow. I can promise you that. Before the sun sets tomorrow. Do you believe me?”

A great cheering went up that left Daniel cold. Yet not wanting to call attention to himself, he went along with it. “Some of us may not live. Are you ready for that?”

Cheering again.

Daniel felt his hands go cold. What was happening here?

“But most of us
will
live. We will leave this place with a police escort. Yes! And we will have with us our daughter, Lovelace Jacomine, from whom we have been so long separated, and we will also have vanquished that instrument of Satan himself, Detective Skip Langdon!”

He waited for silence. “Sometimes, in fact, I’m not sure Langdon is
not
Satan. But then I remember she is only a woman. And I know that we will destroy her. Like the children of Israel, we will go into the wilderness. We will take shelter in another safe house that our brothers and sisters have prepared for us in a faraway city—” this was news to Daniel “—and we will accomplish this because the Lord is with us.”

Daniel couldn’t stand it. “But, Daddy, how are we going to get there?”

“Do you doubt that we will, boy?”

“No, I just—”

“There is always one among us. A doubter. Possibly a traitor. Let me tell you about my son. My son is a brilliant strategist. He led both of our commando raids today. The first was not successful and resulted in the death of our brother Darnell. Yet this was not the fault of our brother—my son Daniel. He acquitted himself well in that raid.”

This time, Daniel realized, the cheering was for him.

“He was prevented from his mission by the female demon, Skip Langdon, well known to all of us. We quickly recouped and made plans for the removal, once and for all, of Detective Langdon. And my son was sent on a second mission, a benign mission in which our little sister Shavonne was to be assisted in coming to us. A mission to be accomplished with no bloodshed. And yet there was bloodshed! Specifically against my orders.

“Anyone, even my own dearest son, can make a mistake. And my son did. My son shot a man, inflicted pain for no reason. Now Errol Jacomine does not play favorites. Errol Jacomine is willing to admit that when his own dearest, most cherished son has made a mistake, even that son must be punished. Is there anyone here who agrees with me?”

Daniel had not realized how ominous cheering could sound.

His father said, “Daniel, it isn’t my decision.”

Daniel stood up, furious. “The hell with this. I’ve about had it, anyway. This is it. I’m leaving the movement.”

“You’re what, son?”

Daniel didn’t answer. He strode toward the door, and had his hand on the knob when someone grabbed him from behind.

“Dashan! Come on, this is me, Daniel. You got to be kidding.”

They tied him to a chair and questioned him.

“First things first, boy. What did you mean you’re leaving the movement?”

For the first time, Daniel felt fear, understood that his father hadn’t been kidding when he said he didn’t play favorites. Low profile was best. “I didn’t mean anything. I was upset.”

“If you were leaving, you must have had someplace to go. Where were you going, boy?”

“Nowhere. Back to Idaho.”

“You were going to Langdon, weren’t you? You are the betrayer.” His father’s voice rose, full of hellfire. And then he lowered it, almost to a whisper. “Weren’t you even going to kiss me first, boy? Like Judas?”

Daniel didn’t reply.

“Daniel, Daniel, what are we going to do with you?”

Leave me alone. You’re right—there’s nothing for me out there.

But he held his peace.

“Son, we’ve got a tradition in the Following. And that’s who we are—we might be The Jury, but we’re still God’s children. Still the Blood of the Lamb Evangelical Following. You haven’t been with us for most of our history, so you don’t really know our traditions. Sister Kathleen, tell him our tradition.”

Kathleen was a woman of fifty who looked ten years older. She was a white woman who seemed beaten down by life, tired before her time with childbirth and work. She said, “We choose our own punishments.”

His father said, “Do we still have our paddles, Matthew?”

“Yes, Daddy. Or we could use belts.”

“Need those to keep our pants up.” His father laughed, as if this were light conversation. The other Jurors laughed as well, and the sound was as sinister as their cheering.

“See, what we do,” his father said, “is we let each person have a turn either with paddles or belts. As many strokes as he or she deems necessary. Keeps it fair that way. Everyone knows what could happen if he or she decides to betray us, knows how hard he or she has worked for what we have. So he is both punishing and reminding himself how important it is not to make a pact with the devil.”

I can do this
, Daniel thought.
I can just breathe deep and get through it.

“That’s one option. The other’s even more fair. It depends on the mercy of the good God. We can untie you, son, and you can pick your challenger. The Romans of old set Christians to the challenge.” He paused, ever the showman. “Course, they loaded the dice a little more than we do. We don’t have any lions here. We do not require you to fight to the death. But you may choose a gladiator’s contest, if you like. If you are innocent, know that God will give you the strength to overcome your opponent. And if that happens, know that we will cheer your victory.”

Daniel thought of a medieval witches’ punishment he’d heard about: You threw the suspect in the water, and if she didn’t drown, it proved she was guilty.

He thought crazily,
What’s the punishment for winning?
And somehow knew that it wasn’t such a dumb question.

Nonetheless, the contest was the only choice he could stomach. He was a good fighter and in good shape. Dashan was the biggest of the bunch—he would almost certainly be able to take Daniel, but at least it would be a fight rather than passive submission.

“What do you choose, boy?”

“I choose the contest.”

“Very well. Let the games begin.”

Daniel remained tied up as he watched the others clear the dining room for the match. Since it had hardly any furniture in it, that didn’t take long, but Daniel used the time wisely. He took deep breaths, psyching himself up. He was almost looking forward to it when everyone suddenly left.

Every single person.

He had his eyes closed, didn’t even notice them disappearing. He simply noticed that it seemed unusually quiet and when he opened his eyes he was alone. Sitting there in the pitch-dark. They had turned the lights off so quietly he hadn’t even heard a click.

He thought,
Maybe I can get out of this
, and began to work on his bonds, which were only a couple of extension cords, anyway.

Dashan was good, though. They held. Daniel had succeeded only in making his wrists bleed when he was seized with panic. Where the hell had they gone?

They came back in improvised robes, in most cases bathrobes, in some, women’s caftans or muumuus lent to the men. They were holding candles and singing “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

It would have been laughable, the song itself and the way they were dragging it, except that it had the quality of a dirge. The entire procession was way too serious, too incongruous, to be anything but grotesque. He felt an underlying menace that he couldn’t put his finger on, but that had nothing to do, he thought, with his personal danger. It was a wild electricity in the room, an energy, almost a presence, and it was like a dog with rabies, something feral and carnivorous driven by a force it couldn’t understand.

They stood around him in a semicircle.

His father addressed him. “Daniel Jacomine, you have chosen a gladiatorial contest. The women among us are ineligible for the challenge and I am likewise ineligible. Of the remaining men, you may choose your challenger.”

For a fraction of a second, Daniel felt something like hope. There has to be a catch, he thought. There just has to be.

“Choose wisely,” said his father, “and the good God will protect you.”

Wisely. What would be wise? There was bound to be a double cross, but he was too frazzled to try to figure it out, too wired by the wait and the ritual.