One Blood

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Three

Monday

Lake City, LA

Bill Edwards slammed the phone back in its cradle. He should have exerted the same force when talking to Randy, but passive aggressive was about as aggressive as he got where the Governor was concerned.

“Keep things quiet for me, Bill,” Randy had said in that subtle Machiavellian way of his. “Keep things quiet and reap the rewards for your loyalty.”

That was Randy’s standard line whenever he needed one of his “favors,” and Bill had definitely been compensated well for his discretion over the years. This time, however, the risk was not worth the reward.

“Today is going to be a day of tests for all of us, Bill... Can I count on you?”

Bill paced the length of his modest office contemplating the answer to this question as the phone rang and rang. Every now and then it would stop ringing abruptly, only to start again a few seconds later. He had to tread carefully so as not to pull a serious C.L.M.—Career Limiting Move. Bill had not gotten as far as he had by pulling C.L.M.’s. He was smarter than that.

The phone rang again.

Since speaking with Randy earlier, he’d called off all city patrols. He also had Dispatch routing all emergency calls directly to him so he could screen everything that came through. Dispatch packed his voicemail and he listened to call after call, writing the pertinent details down in his logbook. So far, this morning had brought in six cases of drunk and disorderly; two burglaries (one that turned out to be a dispute between two lesbian roommates up at Lake City College); ten car-related emergencies; and three fires. By themselves, these calls would have made the morning a doozy, but these were in addition to a series of other calls—the calls he’d been screening for in the first place.

One call was from Morris Fontenot, who was screaming over loud bursts of heavy artillery to report a drive-by shooting at Simmons Park. “It’s a war zone out here!”

Another call was from Evan Leday, a truck driver, reporting the spontaneous combustion of the old schoolyard. “There was a friggin’ mushroom cloud over that place, man!”

But the morning’s winner went to Ms. Beulah Boudreaux. She’d reported seeing the ghost of a white girl walking down her street wearing nothing but a Houston Rockets jersey. “One second she was floatin’ down the street and then there was this loud blast. When I looked up, the girl had disappeared into thin air.”

“Bill, the last thing we need is one of your guys trying to play supercop on this one.”

Easy for Randy to say. He didn’t have to explain to his superiors and constituents why he was letting a group of rogue FBI agents, kidnappers, and gangbangers run wild all over the city. Which is why Bill needed to keep a lid on the chaos until things were back under control.

Regardless of what his conscience said, Bill did not have the luxury of saying no to Randy Lafitte. Ever. After all, if it wasn’t for Randy, Bill would be rotting in jail for the murder of his wife, Paula. A fact Randy never let him forget. When Randy made a mess, Bill reached for his broom—no questions asked.

Still, this was a mess of epic proportions. Bodies were piling up all over town. It was only a matter of time before the press got wind of it.

Right on cue, Bill’s cell phone rang. It was Captain Rick Morgan, head of Lake City’s SWAT division.

“Chief,” Rick Morgan began in his usual grave baritone. “Big explosion over at St. Mary’s Hospital. My wife called me hysterical. She swears it was a terrorist attack.”