"Yeah."
"The wolf talked?"
"Read my effing lips. It effing talked, Smitty. The thing used to be human. Dr. White's really outdone herself this time."
"Remo," Dr. Smith said quietly, "I agree that Judith White achieved some shocking physiological changes in her subjects. But to make a man into a wolf-it seems unlikely."
"Figure it out for yourself," Remo said. "I've got one of the chatterboxes in the trunk of the rental. Test him out. You're gonna find all kinds of DNA or genetic material or whatever little buggies people normally have that wolves don't."
"Is it-"
"Dead as a doornail, and it'll be getting ripe by morning. Have somebody come pick it up." Remo gave Smith the location in Westwego he expected to be leaving the car and described his plans for moving into the bayou-and forcing Leon Grosvenor into the open.
"All right." Smith sighed heavily. "It'll take some doing, but I'll have it picked up and sent to a private lab for testing. When will you be able to report in again?"
"First phone booth I find in the bayou," Remo said.
"How will you get the test results?" Smith asked. "They could be revealing as to the nature of these creatures."
"I know their nature, and it ain't natural," Remo said. "My objective is to make them dead. Except Leon. Him I want to ask questions and then make dead."
"You still think he'll give you a lead on Judith White?" Smith asked.
Remo felt grim and he said, "No. But it can't hurt to ask. Can't hurt me, anyway. Now, Leon, it's gonna hurt."
"YOU SURE about this, Reverend?"
"Course I'm sure," the portly televangelist told Jeremiah Smeal. "It's perfect, son. I know exactly what I'm doin'. Just you wait and see."
The Reverend Rockwell could sympathize with Smeal's misgivings, staring at the empty auditorium and hearing all that whoop-to-do outside. As far as he could figure out, no one had ever tried to stage a mass revival in New Orleans during Mardi Gras, much less right smack-dab in the middle of the French Quarter, but that was what appealed to Rockwell. He would be the first, which meant he would be noticed. That meant free publicity!
The campaign TV spots were eating up his money faster than he had expected, and he didn't like those rumors that the IRS was gearing up to scrutinize his books at JBN. Rockwell had a team of born-again accountants handling the money side of things, with strict instructions not to leave a paper trail, but there was always something for a bloodhound to latch on to if you let him sniff around for very long.
Rockwell's temporary answer to the two-fold problem, ready cash and federal scrutiny, was Mission Mardi Gras, two nights of hellfire and damnation-with an option for a third night, if the crowds were large enough-that would replenish empty coffers and supply him with a whole new audience. The program would be run in its entirety on JBN, of course, but local TV news had also been alerted to stand by for something big from Reverend Rockwell.
The auditorium was one block south of Charles, near Audubon Park. It wasn't huge compared to some of the New Orleans theaters and concert halls, but Rockwell had chosen it both for its proximity to the French Quarter and for the nightly rental rate, which he found very reasonable.
And with any luck at all, there would be news cameras on hand to catch the show.
As if in answer to his thoughts, Smeal said, "You think they'll come?"
Rockwell didn't have to ask who they were. News people with minicams. The sacred talking heads. "They'll come," the televangelist replied. "God told me so."
That wasn't strictly true, of course. The scheme had come to him while he was on the toilet, battling the chronic constipation that had plagued him ever since he tossed his halo in the ring to run for governor. Rockwell had been straining like a modern Jacob wrestling with the angel and refusing to give up before he got his blessing, when it hit him. First, the flood gates opened down below, and then a light went on upstairs: a Mardi Gras revival! Free airtime!
He would present the greatest story ever told to fans and new recruits alike, while just outside the door old Satan staged his biggest party of the year.
He scanned the silent auditorium, imagining a crowd that spilled into the aisles, all swaying, chanting, lifting hands to Jesus, opening their wallets, purses, cracking piggy banks.
"I want this whole place SRO tomorrow night," the reverend told his flunky.
"SRO?"
"Standing room only," Rockwell explained, and offered up a silent prayer for patience in the face of rank stupidity. "I don't care if you have to drag them off the street in costume," he continued. "Better yet, I want a few of them in costume. Maybe half a dozen."
"Right," Smeal said. "What for?"
"To show the power of the word," Rockwell said, remembering that patience was a virtue of the saints. "Poor sinners out there drinkin', fornicatin' in the streets, dressed up like demons out of hell itself, but even they find Jesus in New Orleans. Even they receive his message. Even they are saved."
He fell into the singsong pattern of his TV sermons automatically, from force of habit. "Even they can testify to Christ's redeeming glory. Everyone out there in television land will feel the power of His message."
"Amen!" enthused Jeremiah Smeal. The Reverend Rock was on a roll.
"YOU SURE about this, Elmo?" Maynard Grymsdyke sounded dubious.
"Hell, yes, I'm sure," Breen said. "The polls tell me we're twenty points ahead of that ol' son of a bitch in New Orleans, nearly twenty-five statewide. Besides, it's Mardi Gras."
"I still think-"
Elmo frowned and raised an open hand to silence Grymsdyke. "Just this once," he said, "don't think."
"But Elmo-"
"Son, I been in Louisiana politics for almost forty years," Breen said. "One thing I know beyond a shadow of a doubt is how to get things done. I don't know how they play the game where you come from, but here in Louisiana, money greases the machine. This weekend, I'll be spending time with three of our top five supporters in the state."
It would have been all five, but two of them were sadly "unavailable"-one shacked up with his latest teenage girlfriend, while the other had a sit-down with a group of silent partners in Miami. Breen would catch them in another week or two.
"I understand, sir. But a hunting trip? I mean, it's not-"
"Politically correct?" Breen finished for him. "Jesus, Maynard, why don't you wake up and smell the coffee for a change? You think the folks who matter give a damn about all that shit down here?"
"So, you'll be out of touch all weekend," Maynard said, deciding it was useless to protest further.
"We'll be out of touch," the would-be governor corrected him. "You're going with us, Maynard."
Grymsdyke shook his head fervently. "The campaign! I've got a thousand things..."
Breen smiled. "None of that, now. It'll do you good to meet the boys, get out and breathe some fresh air for a change, instead of all this air pollution shit. I got an extra 12-gauge you can use. Who knows, you may get lucky. Make a man out of you yet."
Grymsdyke flushed, insulted and uncomfortable with the plan, but he knew better than to argue. "I swing by for you in the limo," Breen said. "Make it half-past four, so we aren't late to meet the others."
"Half-past 4:00 a.m." Grymsdyke's enthusiasm knew no bounds.
"And where is it we're going, once again?"
"Out to the bayou country, Maynard. Down below Westwego. It's a different world, believe me. You'll see things you never seen before, I guarantee."