A Touch Too Much

by Theresa Glover

  “You could say that.” Sister Betty holstered and secured her Glock before approaching, her hand out. “I don’t think we’ve officially met.”

  “There’s no time now, either.” LaFontaine stomped through the bloodied street to stand between Boudreaux and Sister Betty. “What in blazes happened here, Miss Kelley, and who gave you authorization—”

  His words stopped, as if snapped off. When I looked, he stood eye to eye with Agent Hardin and neither moved.

  Sister Betty shrugged.

  “Officer LaFontaine,” Cooper said, vaguely amused. “May I call you Beau?”

  The dumbstruck officer gave a rigid nod, his mouth gaping.

  “Good,” Cooper purred. “As a fellow officer of the law, I realize the strain you’re under to keep this city safe can lead to a certain…sensitivity.”

  Another robotic nod.

  Officer Boudreaux approached, and I avoided eye contact. His hand drifted back to his weapon. “What’s he doing?” He stepped closer, focused on Cooper and LaFontaine ringed by flying monkey corpses.

  I shook my head in response, catching the echo of my thoughts in Sister Betty’s eyes. There might be more to Agent Cooper Hardin than we thought.

  “You’re going to cut Miss Kelley some slack, respect her credentials and mine, and let us do our jobs.”

  “I don’t know what you’re doing—”

  Hardin’s hand flew up in Boudreaux’s direction, his open palm seeming to freeze and silence the younger officer.

  Right. Note to self, don’t piss off Hardin.

  Also, determine what kind of juju this dude had before our “partnership” went much further.

  “Did you hear me, Beau?”

  Officer LaFontaine’s head bobbed again, but the movement seemed beyond his control.

  “You can do better than that,” Cooper chided.

  Sister Betty stepped closer. Cooper flicked a hand in her direction. She stopped and tilted her head as if listening to a distant sound.

  Boudreaux shook his head, frowning in confusion. I touched his arm. His muscles tensed under my touch, and our eyes met, his an unfathomable brown speckled with green.

  I swallowed hard and fought the urge to rub the tingle of electricity racing up my arm. “Don’t,” I said.

  “He’s my partner.” His voice sounded distant but determined as he released his weapon. “He’s doing something to my partner.”

  Disagreeing would have been a lie, but I couldn’t defend Hardin either. Sister Betty took another step toward Cooper, despite the warning gesture still aimed her way.

  “Officer LaFontaine.” The cadence of Cooper’s voice made my muscles heavy and softened Boudreaux’s tension. “Beau, you’re going to go easy on Miss Kelley and her team, aren’t you?”

  LaFontaine nodded again, a more natural, fluid motion accompanied by a soft “uh huh.”

  “Good.” Cooper patted LaFontaine’s shoulder. “When we finish this conversation, you’ll feel relaxed. In control. Confident. Appreciative of the beneficial partnership you’ve found. Won’t that be nice?”

  “Yes,” LaFontaine said, his voice dreamy and distant.

  “Why’s he hypnotizing my partner?” Boudreaux pulled away, quickly navigating the dead monkey obstacle course between him and LaFontaine.

  Before Boudreaux reached them, LaFontaine blinked, shook his head, and smiled. “I believe we met th’other day, Agent Hardin.”

  Sister Betty answered my wordless question with a shrug and a shake of her head. Whatever Cooper was, or what he’d done, wasn’t something she was familiar with.

  LaFontaine clapped Boudreaux on the back, the thunderous sound an ominous preamble to his jovial laugh. “Relax, son, will you? You’ve met Agent Cooper Hardin, haven’t you?”

  Gorillas. Flying monkeys. And Beau LaFontaine yukking it up with a federal agent.

  Things get weird in New Orleans.

  “What do you think Cooper is?” I asked, trying to find a comfortable position in the back of the government SUV that didn’t gunk up the seats too much. Cooper arranged for a ride to the hotel and conduct through service entrances so we didn’t disturb the normals with our bloody, brain-splattered clothes. Still, I couldn’t relax into making a mess. Getting brains out of leather, even black leather, sucked. I didn’t envy whoever had to clean after Sister Betty and I got out.

  “Not sure.” She leaned her head back on the seat and sighed, her arms folded across her stomach. “Logically, he’s probably a human with magic.”

  I nodded, though I doubted it. Not only because I would have sensed something magical about him, but because not much in my world followed logic. Occam’s razor wasn’t my go-to tool. “What he did back there…”

  “Yeah,” she said when I didn’t finish the thought. “I’m not sure what to think about it.”

  “Marty’ll have his work cut out for him.” I wondered how much he’d seen en route. We hadn’t found an opportunity to discuss between his arrival and departure.

  “True,” she said.

  The car turned down Canal Street and stopped. I leaned my head against the tinted glass and watched the red street car rattle down the road beside us.

  “So…” Sister Betty’s words dissolved into awkward silence as we stared out opposite windows.

  “Hmm?”

  “What’s with you and Boudreaux?”

  “What?” I didn’t look at her. The shift in her tone said it all. She’d never admit it, but furtive jealousy colored her cautious question.

  “You and Boudreaux. The spark between you.”

  From her reflection in the window, I knew she studied me. I concentrated on the bustling foot traffic taking advantage of our red light. “I don’t even know him.” Something happened, though I wouldn’t have characterized it as a spark. Maybe a rush of post-fight adrenaline, or a surge of hormones because I needed to get laid, or the misfiring of my sleep-deprived brain, but not a spark. Only one spark mattered in my life, and my gut told me I’d be the one to get burned.

  “Okay,” she said, and her reflection turned away.

  I turned to her, hoping she’d finally say what she really felt for once. “What’s that supposed to mean?” We’d danced this dance for years, and it always ended with her stepping back.

  “Nothing.” She reached for the handle over the door as the car turned through the intersection before making a quick right down a side street.

  “No, it means something. What are you saying?”

  “Caitlin,” she said softly, “I only asked a question.”

  One long look into her slate blue eyes, and I yielded, knowing it was an escape. If she didn’t want to go there, we wouldn’t. I could wait, but I wouldn’t be idle while I waited for jealousy to spur her to action. “I hate it when you do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “This.”

  The orange glow of the parking deck lights made my eyes ache, but I stared into them. It was easier than looking at her.

  Neither of us spoke, even when the car stopped and we got out. A hotel staff member waited by a door marked “Service Entry.” In silence, we followed him down long, narrow hallways to a service elevator. He ushered us in, turned a key, and the doors closed. When they opened on our floor, he gave brief directions to orient us, then disappeared behind the closing elevator doors.

  Sister Betty followed me to my room. “Be careful, Caitlin,” she said as I fumbled with my keycard. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  “That’s all you ever say.” I stepped in, closing the door and leaving her in the hall.

  I only had time to strip before my cellphone rang. Thumbing it to speaker phone, I dropped the device on the bed and stepped into the marble bathroom. “Yeah, Marty, what’s up?”

  “I’m at the cathedral. You and Sister Betty need to get here. Now.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “We’re under attack.”

  9

  I’d never seen an attack quite like the o
ne on the St. Louis Cathedral. From the second we jumped out of the car on Royal Street, we heard it. A clicking, buzzing swarm shrouded the building’s white stone edifice in a greenish-gray living insect shell.

  “What are they?” Sister Betty raised her voice over the gnawing insects.

  I didn’t need an entomologist to know. “Locusts.”

  Locusts, but not your average locusts. We ran down Pirate Alley, noticing only that the bugs ignored St. Anthony’s garden behind the church and, from the crowd of gawkers around its iron fence, the lush expanse of Jackson Square Park seemed untouched.

  “Locusts,” Sister Betty repeated.

  We shared a significant look.

  “Got any Raid?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes and pulled out her phone. “I’ll see what our options are.”

  Onlookers approached the cathedral as if stunned. Most stood in awed silence watching fine white powder drift from the stone like snow. Fortune tellers scrambled to fold tables and umbrellas, though because of the humming insect drone or the ominous clouds scudding across the darkening sky, I couldn’t tell.

  One of the artists at the corner of St. Ann Street abandoned his paintings, sketching madly as he walked closer. Only the children seemed undisturbed. The cluster of squealing, laughing dervishes darted around the adults, playing, oblivious to the strange happenings. The little girl I’d seen the day before stopped when she saw me. Still wearing her white dress, her hair hung in wet strings, the fabric of her dress rendered transparent with water. Instead of taking in the spectacle of the bug-ensconced cathedral, she stared at me. Her companion, a boy roughly the same age, stopped when she did. The bright green plastic squirt gun dangling from his hand dripped water.

  I elbowed Sister Betty and gestured to the kids. “There.”

  “What?” She unplugged the ear not pressed to her phone and looked where I pointed. “I don’t see—”

  I walked away, trying not to look like some child-abducting criminal as I hurried toward them.

  The little girl didn’t move. With unnatural gravity, she lifted her own squirt gun and aimed it at me. Closing one eye, she whispered “bang.”

  At my hesitation, she lowered the squirt gun, covered her mouth, and giggled.

  No wonder people made movies like Children of the Corn. Yesterday’s creepy nursery rhyme had been less unnerving.

  Her companion retreated a couple of steps and looked around, his light brown hair swishing across his forehead. He ran, his squirt gun clattering to the ground in his wake. She followed, glancing over her shoulder once before I lost sight of her.

  I scooped up the abandoned toy and returned to Sister Betty.

  “I don’t understand.” Her brow furrowed as she stared at the plastic gun in my hand. “What do you intend to do with that?”

  “Bless it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a water gun.” I gave it a shake to slosh the water inside. “Bless it.”

  “Caitlin, I don’t see what you think a squirt gun is going to do against this.” She waved a hand toward the bug-encrusted church.

  “Don’t you see? This is someone’s nightmare. Someone feared the plague of locusts. Someone religious. They’re hidden in the church, and the bugs are trying to get at THEM.” I held up the water gun. “And if it’s a religious fear, a religious symbol like holy water will help protect them.”

  Her scowl of confusion bloomed into understanding, then wilted. “I’ve never done it before, and I don’t have blessed salt, or the—”

  “But you have belief.” I thrust the gun at her. “You believe in God. You believe God will protect all His children. Invoking that protection should be enough.”

  “That’s not how this works. I don’t have—”

  “You have to try.” I caught her wrist and pressed the water gun into her hand. “You have faith. You have belief. We need to get inside.”

  Her eyes searched mine, and I read her doubt.

  I held her hand between both of mine. “Please. Believe.”

  With a soft sigh of defeat and a resigned nod, she closed her eyes and bowed her head.

  An approaching siren jolted the bystanders to action. Tourists raised cameras and phones for a final look, one final picture for social media, then fled. Even the artist tucked his sketchbook under his arm and scurried back to pack his canvases and painted panels onto his ancient cart while casting cautious looks over his shoulder.

  A pair of young men in khaki shorts and pastel polos stopped in front of a shop door on St. Ann Street, paper shopping bags dangling from the crook of their elbows. As people fled, they crossed the narrow pedestrian street, mouths open in comic shock.

  “Here.” Sister Betty pressed the water gun into my hand and pushed it toward me.

  Before I tore my eyes away from the two frozen men, I saw him. The nightmare emerged from the store behind the shopping couple, looking the same as when I encountered him in the airport and again in the hotel lobby.

  We locked eyes.

  A scream preceded the crash of stone on stone.

  My eyes snapped to the cathedral as the living sheath of locusts closed over the gap where the clock’s lintel once formed a perfect peak. Chunks of broken masonry cracked the gray stone paver next to the cathedral door. Smaller pieces fell and rolled away, cutting lines through the fine, powdery dust that haloed the building.

  “They’re devouring the church,” Sister Betty said, awestruck. “They’ll tear it apart.”

  Biting back a curse, I took the water gun and ran to where the door of St. Louis Cathedral should be under the crawling, scaly skin of bugs. Bracing myself, I aimed and pulled the trigger.

  The first spray of water blew back in my face.

  I recoiled in surprise and wiped my arm across my face. Muttering about wind, I turned, changed the angle of the gun, and squeezed the plastic trigger again.

  And got much the same result.

  Not exactly what I’d expected.

  Only the incessant shriek of the siren drowned out the incessant hum of the bugs. If I hadn’t glanced up to wipe water out of my face again, the next hunk of the façade would have killed me. Instead, I dodged. It crashed to the ground and shattered, spraying me with dust and stone shrapnel.

  Sister Betty grabbed my arm, but I pulled free, raising the plastic gun to fire again. The splintering crack and crash behind the cathedral heralded the death of one of the low palms in the garden. She jerked my arm again, the stream of water going wild as she diverted my aim. “You’re going to get killed. We can find another way.”

  I yanked my arm back again, the muffled thunder of boots on the stone behind me announcing the arrival of the firefighters. Taking less care, I squirted the bugs swarming the door. Water splashed several with a hiss, and as they dropped to the stone pavement, others poured into the vacancy, blanketing the handle with chittering greenish-gray bugs.

  A wisp of smoke rose from the pile of blackened bugs on the ground.

  Sister Betty looped an arm around me, leveraging her body weight to knock me down. We rolled across the square as a heavy block of column fell where we’d stood. She curled up, clutching her side as firemen dragged a hose past us and sprayed the building with water, showering us with kickback.

  Nothing happened.

  Torrents of runoff poured into the stone square, but the bugs only parted around the point of impact and splash zone. Everywhere else, they continued gnawing, powdered stone making the air silty.

  “There’s got to be some other way of getting them off the walls,” Sister Betty said, pale and breathless as she sat up.

  “Bless the water.” I stood and pulled out my phone. The screen must have taken the impact when I fell. Spidery cracks webbed the glass, but it still responded as I called Marty.

  “What?”

  “The water. They died when I hit them with the water you blessed. Bless the water coming out of the hose. Make it a giant holy water squirt gun.”

  “I can
’t, Caitlin. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “But it did,” I insisted over Marty’s answer in my ear. “You did it with the water gun. Those bugs burned when holy water hit them. They were smoking. You have to bless the water.”

  “Holy water?” Marty must have covered the mouthpiece of his phone, muffling his voice.

  Sister Betty stared at me, ready to protest again.

  I held out a hand to her. “You did it before. You can do it again.”

  She squared her shoulders, pursing her lips as she took my hand. “This is crazy.”

  “I know.” I pulled her to her feet. “Sometimes, crazy’s our only option.”

  She held her side for a moment, and I waited. Shaking her head, she walked to the fire truck, stopping short to avoid colliding with a running firefighter.

  “They’re demon bugs?” Marty asked.

  “No.” I turned away from the noise to make it easier for him to hear me. “I think they’re someone’s nightmare. If they’re attacking the church, whoever conjured them must be inside. Find the person who’s afraid of locusts. Convince them it’s a nightmare.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  “I don’t know.” I scanned St. Ann Street. The two fashionable guys with their boutique bags looked flustered and stared down the street toward the river. The nightmare was gone, but I could guess where he went. “I’ve got to chase the nightmare. I saw him on St. Ann Street.” Before he answered, I ended the call and shoved my phone in my pocket. Sister Betty laid hands on the heavy canvas hose and closed her eyes as I ran past.

  I had only turned the corner when the sound started.

  Under the roar of the water, the hiss, sizzle, and pop of locusts sounded like microwave popcorn. What I didn’t expect was the scream of the dying bugs. The sound drilled through my skull and stabbed at my brain. People emerged from shops and ran, hands over their ears as they tried to escape the sound.

  By the time I got to the corner of St. Ann and Decatur Streets, it was too late. Too many people thronged the street to see where the nightmare had gone.

  Sister Betty sat in the pew, her arm around the androgynous young African-American person with a tight cap of curls, long eyelashes, and a strong jaw. The young person curled against Sister Betty as if under a protective wing, drinking in her murmured words of comfort. Father Callahan and I stood a respectful distance away with Marty, our backs mostly to them to provide more privacy.