“So why are you telling me this?” Chimot asked.
“Two reasons. The first is that if you close on his place of worship, you are liable to encounter resistance beyond what you’re used to dealing with. Think of it as attacking a group of ardent terrorists, for that is in many ways what they are. And there are no police tac teams on earth that are prepared to handle Almadu. Very few earthly weapons will harm him. He is vulnerable to fire and electricity, but shooting him will only make him angry. He also can charm people, make them believe he is a good god, control their actions and so forth. He prefers sacrifices that die in terror, but he is not averse to charming attackers and then eating them, stealing their souls to do his service in the Dark Realms.”
“That’s what he’s been doing to the victims?” Chimot said, swallowing.
“Yes,” Germaine answered. “The other problem is that anyone who gets close to him is in danger. I don’t have any agents available who are trained and capable of assisting right now. To defend oneself against the power that Almadu can use requires ardent belief in another god. A Catholic priest or a Protestant minister or a Wiccan high priest or priestess who really believed might be sheltered from his power, might be able to channel a shield against it. Might. One of my agents would be, if I had an agent of the caliber to take him on. But your average Joe Cop would be as undefended as if he was in a firefight with no vest. It’s important that you understand that. Do you?”
“I hear what you’re saying,” Chimot admitted. “But I’m having a hard time believing it.”
“That, of course, is the problem,” Germaine said, smiling sadly. “It requires that the agent not only believe, fundamentally, in evil as a separate power but that the agent believe, again fundamentally, that there is an equivalent power of good and that it can defeat evil. Without that belief, an agent, or the noted Joe Cop, is unshielded.”
“Crap,” Chimot said, shaking his head. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Which is?” Germaine asked.
“We have a possible lead in the case,” the lieutenant said, swallowing and putting out his cigarette. “One of the people that was talking with one of the victims has disappeared. And, come to think of it, one of our informants mentioned that he was dabbling in ‘old time religion.’ We have reason to suspect he went back to his hometown, which is right down in the bayou…” He paused and looked at Germaine, raising an eyebrow.
“With access to water and eventually the oceans,” Germaine said, nodding. “Anywhere in Louisiana practically fits that description, but it’s logical that it may be the center. Go on.”
“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.”