Krewe of Hunters 1 Phantom Evil (18 page)

Jackson leaned closer to her.

“No, it makes him a butt-kissing, lying-ass, deceptive little goon. But it's good to get a true picture of those around the senator, and have a feel for what they would and wouldn't do.”

“Sounds like the little rat would do about anything.”

“Precisely,” Jackson said.

Martin DuPre said, “Gentlemen, shall we move on?”

Angela whispered again, “Are we going to Bourbon Street?”

He grinned. “Are you game?”

“We're going to a strip club?”

“Let's see.”

He motioned to their waitress and quickly paid the tab. They waited until they saw the men exit, and then they followed behind.

“Thank God for the foulmouthed fat man,” Jackson said. “We can follow them easily.”

“Cruel!” she said.

Jackson shrugged. “His weight is fine. His attitude is enough to make your skin crawl.”

She didn't reply. She thought that she was coming to like him so very much because his words were true—and simply him. Nothing mattered to him about a person other than what
was inside them. He had no patience for the manner of big-money oilmen Martin DuPre was entertaining.

She wrinkled her nose. “Oil.”

He glanced down at her, grinning. “Ah, well, it's apparent, my dear, that you're not from this area. Oil is half the livelihood. And there are good men working in it—good men who aren't graft-laden and trying to go the wrong way. We need solutions in the future, yes. But oil money isn't necessarily evil.”

“Did I sound like that? I guess I did. I don't know enough,” she admitted.

“We'll all have to find solutions in the future, but it's careless overseeing and major problems in regulation that cause the problems—as with everything.” He stopped, distracted, staring ahead of him.

“What?” she asked.

“There's someone else following Martin DuPre.”

“Who?”

He pointed to a young woman who was about half a block ahead of them and half a block behind DuPre and his crew. She was young—maybe eighteen or nineteen—and had a small pudge, apparent because she was otherwise slim with long blond hair and a delicate face. She had paused for a moment to look in a window as DuPre and the men stopped at a corner for a car to go by; when they moved, she moved.

Jackson whistled softly.

“Do you know who she is?”

“I do—and I don't.”

“What?”

“She's a member of the Church of Christ Arisen. She opened the door for Jake to go in and pay them a visit today.”

 

Jake was glad to see that the meeting to recruit new Aryans was not going to be a huge success.

There were not quite fifty people in attendance. He stood by Jenna, responding with applause and enthusiasm to all the speeches given about maintaining the country for the “rightful” owners, and keeping a pure race.

He thought that Jenna was going to explode. Her fair skin was darkening to blood-red hue, and she held his arm, her nails digging into his flesh.

“Have you ever heard anything so insane?” she whispered to him. “The rightful owners! Is he forgetting the Native Americans—those people the
white
settlers basically stole all the land from? My God, I don't think I can sit through this. What is the matter with them? Don't they know that the days of slavery are long gone, and that we have laws guaranteeing equality?”

She was growing louder. He pinched her.

“Ouch!”

“You're going to get us thrown out!”

“I think I want to be thrown out.”

“We're here to observe.”

She tightened her lips and held silent. He smiled, feeling her beside him. Another outburst couldn't be too far behind.

And once again, it wasn't. “Oh, please! How can they do this here? New Orleans has come a long, long way and it's the most amazing city in the world for people from everywhere, of every color and sex and even sexual orientation, and there's still French spoken, and Spanish, and—”

“Shut up, please!” Jake pleaded.

She fell silent again. He was glad that the people who had
come out were excited about the speakers—who were actually good at spouting rhetoric—because they didn't seem to notice Jenna's outrage. A young fellow was up at the microphone then saying that the world was what it was—a mess—and that there were all kinds of people in the world, and everyone had a right to be in the world, and they, too, had the right to seek the pureness of the Aryan race. They asked nothing of anyone else, they sought to hurt no one—they wanted their right to assemble and seek the life—the pursuit of happiness they had in mind for themselves.

To that end, they had to be very selective in voting for their representatives.

He began to preach a rabidly conservative doctrine—one that would leave even a staunch Bible Belt Republican squirming in horror, much less a moderate of any party.

Jake turned around to take a look at the others in the room, and he nearly jerked Jenna's arm.

“What?” she gasped, but she followed his gaze.

There, seated in the far back of the room, was the bodyguard. Blake Conroy.

 

The pretty little pregnant girl followed Martin DuPre and his group.

Jackson and Angela followed the pretty little pregnant girl.

They made the turn off Chartres to head up to Bourbon, all keeping their respective distance. At Bourbon, the blonde girl paused. She seemed infinitely sad.

“Go talk to her,” Jackson told Angela.

“Talk to her? What do I say?” Angela asked him.

“See if she's lost, or if she needs help. I'm going at DuPre
and his group. I'll wait for you in front of the cowboy bar with the mechanical bull.”

“You think that DuPre and his friends are going to go ride the bull?” Angela asked.

“No, it's next to a club that's behind a courtyard there, and supposedly offers the best and most expensive
dancers
in the city.”

“Oh.”

He gave her a little shove. Angela glared at him, and went over to the girl. Bourbon was already growing busy and loud. Rock ballads streamed out into the street from a variety of clubs, all trying to be louder than the next. Hawkers were handing out flyers, urging patrons to come in and enjoy their entertainment and their most incredible cheap drinks.

The girl stood near a hot-dog cart, staring after the group that had joined in the throng walking in the street, blocked off for pedestrians only.

“Excuse me,” Angela said. “You look lost. Can I help you? Are you looking for a certain place?”

The girl stared blankly at her for a moment. Then she flushed. “I—no, I'm not lost. I live in the city.”

“Oh, well, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pester you. It just looks as if you're a bit tired and disconcerted, and…pregnant,” Angela said.

The girl's flush became brighter.

Angela offered her a hand. “I'm Angela Hawkins. Are you sure you don't need any help?”

The girl shook her head. “No, no, I just have to head back uptown. I shouldn't have been down here.”

“Can I get you a ride? Get you into a taxi? Where do you need to go?”

The girl looked down Bourbon Street, and then suddenly sagged against Angela. “I guess I don't feel very well.”

Angela looked down the street. There was a restaurant on the corner one block down, on Royal. It had a bar, but it was a far quieter place, more for dining than drinking.

“Let's get you some water.”

She led the girl, who leaned on her heavily, to the restaurant. The seating was open, and she led the girl to a secluded table near the rear. She ordered water from the waiter, and suggested the girl might like soup or gumbo or something with substance.

“Oh, no, I couldn't—” the girl said.

“Please,” Angela insisted.

In a few minutes, the waiter had them supplied with water, and the girl had a salad and soup coming.

She stared at Angela then with huge brown eyes. “Thank you!” she said. And she flushed. “I'm Gabby Taylor.”

“How do you do?” Angela said pleasantly. “I guess you don't come to this area often,” she added.

The girl shook her head. “Well, I did. Once. But that was before…”

“Before?”

“I'm a member of a church,” she said primly.

“Oh. I see. No drinking?”

“Or dancing. We…we try to serve, you see.”

“Serve who?”

She was shocked. “Why—God, of course!”

“How are you serving him?” Angela asked.

“Well, by…not drinking or dancing and serving—” The girl shifted in her seat.

“Serving who?”

Gabby looked down at her folded hands.

“Are your parents here, in the city?” Angela asked.

“I don't see them anymore,” she said.

“Why not? They must be thrilled about the baby.”

Gabby winced, fixing her gaze on her hands once again. “They don't know about the baby.”

“Most grandparents would love news of a baby. Did—did they throw you out of the house, or…or what?”

“No, no—I belong to the church,” she blurted.

“And the church doesn't want you to see your parents? Oh, Gabby! That doesn't sound very good.”

Gabby looked at Angela and there were suddenly huge tears in her eyes. “I believed…I believed that they were right. I believed in…serving.”

“Serving how?” Angela couldn't quite prevent the sharpness that came into the question. “Every church, temple and so on that I've ever heard about preaches love—love between parents and children as well as God!”

Suddenly, the tears began to drip down Gabby's cheeks. “I thought…I don't know, it all seemed to be all right, but I can't just give…we were all supposed to love one another, but it doesn't feel right. Tonight, I had to see…I had to see what he was doing.”

“He? The baby's father? Is he the head of the church?”

Gabby shook her head. “I—I'm sorry. I can't tell you.”

“It's my opinion that you should go home. To your parents. Do they know that you're still in the city?”

“They tried to get me away from the church,” Gabby admitted. “But it was against the law for them to harass me or the church. I am eighteen.”

Eighteen, pregnant and learning that the promised land was
not so ideal, and that she had human emotions and needs that went beyond promises of redemption for her devoted duty to—to whoever was pulling the strings.

The soup came. Gabby wiped her cheeks and started to sip it. She was starving, or so it seemed. Angela tried to be patient, letting her get down a good portion of food before talking to her again.

“Gabby, are you married to the child's father?”

“Oh, yes! Well, not in the eyes of the corrupt law—but in the eyes of the church.”

“Hmm. Does the baby's father have other wives?”

Gabby's eyes widened.

“He does. And you've realized that when you love someone, you don't want to share. And, tonight, you've also realized that the man you thought you loved is someone different entirely?”

“He has to—he has to keep the job he has. It's—it's just part of his—job,” Gabby said.

“That's a crock!” Angela said flatly. It was confusing. His job was part of his job? He worked for the senator—and for the church. But his work for one or the other was felonious. If the senator had asked him to get involved with the church, the man had certainly taken the task to heart! But…

What if the church was his real passion and his work for the senator something he was doing because of the church, as Gabby suggested?

She hadn't meant to speak so quickly, or so coldly, but it turned out to be the right thing. The girl sat back, folding her hands in her lap. “It is a crock, isn't it?” she whispered.

“Gabby, any organization that wants to cut you off from people who love you can't be offering you the best that is out
there. I know how easy it is to get caught up in wanting to belong, to feel important, to be a part of something. But it sounds as if this hasn't been a great experience. Tell me, do you love your parents? Did you love them before all this came about?”

“Oh, they wanted me home, they didn't want me out with some of the people I was hanging with…I guess I was smoking a lot of pot…a few other things,” she shook her head. “So, at first…well, I did quit the pot.”

“Since you're pregnant, that's a very good thing. Tell me, do you want the baby?”

“Oh! I—I—I, yes. I do want the baby.”

“Gabby, go home. Go to your parents. They are probably praying every single day that you will come home.”

“Just—just go home?” Gabby whispered.

“Just go home. Do you want me to come with you?”

Gabby smiled suddenly. “No, I can do it.” Her smile faded. “Do you really think that they'll take me back now I'm coming back with nothing but…a baby?”

“They'll love you, and they'll love the baby,” Angela assured her, hoping she was telling the girl the absolute truth. But Gabby hadn't left home because of abuse. She had done so because she had been young and impressionable. Her parents had come for her.

“I'm going to do it,” Gabby said. “After tonight…”

“Gabby, is Martin DuPre the father of your baby?” Angela asked.

Gabby stared at her and gasped. But then she shook her head. “No, no, no. I really can't tell you the father of the baby. I really can't. Please. Believe me.”

“Why?”

Gabby was growing agitated. “I—I don't know. There were a lot of maybes.”

She was lying, but she was terrified to admit that the father was Martin DuPre.

It came back again to one question. Did Senator Holloway know that his aide was associated with the Church of Christ Arisen? Not just associated—heavily involved? And if so, how involved was he?