The Heavens Rise

silence from the other end. But Ben didn’t care about any of it. He was trying to strategize in his head. Can’t go behind the floodwalls ’cause we might miss the ship and then we’ll get trapped. And how much range do we have anyway and what good can I do if I can’t see inside of the ship or the bridge or where they are? I’ve got to get high up and the whole city’s below sea level. Have to get downtown. One River Place. The Hilton. Or the bridge. That’s it, that’s it. The bridge. Have to get on the bridge. But what will we do then? Something. That’s all. That’s all anyone can ever do. Something, goddammit.

“They passed the Upper Nine about fifteen minutes ago,” Greg said, sounding stunned by Ben’s eruption. “That’s Audubon Park. They’ll hit the base of Canal Street in a few minutes.”

What frickin’ cousin? What frickin’ cousin? What frickin’—

“If you have a terrorist protocol, activate it. Activate it now.”

Greg inhaled sharply, but before he could respond, a familiar, static-spiked voice echoed through the room on the other end of the line, sending a spike of cold fear through the center of Ben’s gut.

“Heeeeeelllllooooo everyone? Is anyone theeeeeerrrrree?”

There was a rustle against the phone, probably because Greg was setting it down on a table. But Ben could still hear everything: the click of Greg answering the radio call from the man he thought was his brother, and then Greg’s voice saying, too softly, too controlled, “Hey, man. It’s your brotha. How’s everything going out there tonight?”

“My brother, huh?” came the coy, probing response.

He doesn’t know his name, doesn’t recognize the voice. He doesn’t know his name because it’s not him anymore.

“Yeah, man,” Greg answered, trying to play it cool even though his voice had the tension of a high wire. “How’s that Panamax treating yah, A- Team?”

“Oh, it’s just fine,” Anthem’s voice said, and then in the background, Ben heard something else. Crying. A man crying. Not just crying. A pathetic, terrifying and yet somehow universal sound: a man pleading for his life. “Listen up, brotha”—and this snide ridicule of Greg Landry’s Lakefront accent was all it took to confirm Ben’s most horrifying fear—“there’s something I want y’all to hear!”

The gunshots came so close together it was impossible to tell how many there were.

30

Gunfire swallowed the quartermaster’s cries for mercy.

Amazing how the body just drops like that, Marshall thought. He was crouched in the back corner of the deck. He had, only seconds before, closed the interior entrance to the main deck, and now he was studying his handiwork with a calming sense of satisfaction. No grasping at the chest, no arms opening to God above. Just sudden deadweight hitting the floor like a ton of bricks.

And now Anthem Landry towered over the crumpled form of his third and final victim, the gun in his right hand, the walkie-talkie in his left; the latter erupting with terrified demands for information from Vessel Traffic Control.

Marshall saved the quartermaster for last not because he was the smallest, but because he’d been alone at the wheel while the captain and chief mate had been huddled in discussion close to one of the exits. Four shots had taken down both men, then Anthem had crossed the deck in several long, effortless strides, aiming the gun at the terrified, screaming quartermaster as he threw the lock on both doors. All these tasks had been completed effortlessly by the blood-lashed, gun-wielding pilot, probably because a man whose arm wasn’t aching from the gun’s recoil was controlling his every move.

And now the call had been made, the final murder recorded for posterity’s sake. The interior entrance was locked, which meant anyone who tried to break in from the side staircases would be exposed to gunfire on the landings outside. It had all come together so beautifully; he allowed himself several moments to just savor it. Even the blood splatters throughout the bridge were just a faint, delicate glisten in the radar screen’s green glow.

Up ahead, the Crescent City Connection blazed high above the rippling black waters.

He couldn’t wait too long. The clock was winding down. The heart of the city that had stupidly declared Anthem Landry a hero would soon be exposed to the ship’s giant prow.

Anthem Landry raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth, pressed the button and began to speak. “Answer me a question, brotha, motha, and whoever else can hear me on this beautiful night. Don’t you have days when you’re just ready to be done with this place? With this whole fuckin’ city, I mean. Don’t any of you get tired of pretending this place wasn’t meant to fall into the fucking sea? Anyone? Anyone?”

•   •   •

Could they get there ahead of the ship? Were they ahead of it right now? There was no getting Greg’s attention back. He was too busy trying to break in on his brother’s full-scale mental breakdown. And he was failing. Anthem wasn’t interested in being interrupted. Marshall Ferriot wasn’t interested in being interrupted.

“ . . . You know how fucked up it feels to have everyone call you a hero, only to turn around and realize you’re the hero of a giant shit pile full of niggers and drunks? It’s like being handed a medal and realizing it’s covered in piss. A piss medal. Hey, maybe I just invented a new term. How about that?”

“What the fuck, man?” Greg Landry wailed into the phone. “What the fuck is happening?”

“It’s not him, Greg.”

“What do you mean it’s not—” Voices on the other end of the line interrupted him. They were gruff, authoritative, trying for a sympathetic tone and failing in their eagerness to get Greg Landry out of the control room. He was losing his shit.

“Who is this?” a new voice said.

“My name’s Ben Broyard. I called about a threat we received against Anthem Landry at our offices earlier tonight—” When the guy didn’t ask all the questions he should have been asking, like What office? and What does threat mean? Ben understood the level of terror that now gripped everyone at Vessel Traffic Control.

In the background, the venomous diatribe continued. “ . . . Fact is, we ignored our own history. No city ever should have been built here. This damn river! It’s just a giant toilet for the rest of the country. And we’re the sewer! And do you know what that means? Do you know what that means for every last one of us? We live in shit! That’s what!”

When the stranger spoke again, his attempt to enunciate every syllable only caused his voice to wobble even more. “I’ve known Anthem Landry most of my life. And that’s Anthem Landry’s voice we’re hearin’. So tell me, just who in the hell is this threat against?”

Shouts erupted in the control room and, after a few seconds of this melee, Ben heard a recurring phrase: He’s turning. He’s turning the thing. He’s turning.

“Where?” Ben shouted. “How’s he turning it around so quickly?”

“He’s not turning it around. And it’s empty.”

“Empty. Isn’t that good?”

“No. It means its got no weight. It’ll ride up over anything it hits and just keep on going. And they were just starting to drain the ballast so the bow’s still sticking up out of the water and . . . Aw, Jesus . . .” The man groaned. “Aw, no, no, no . . .”

“What?”

“He’s turning for the east bank. He’s headed for Spanish Plaza.”

Spanish Plaza. The spot where Marshall Ferriot’s death plunge had been broken by his own father. How fitting. How fitting, you monster. And that’s what this is about, isn’t it? You’re not just taking out Anthem. You’re sending Nikki a message. And Ben had no choice but to relay it.

To Nikki, he said, “Spanish Plaza. The Hilton.”

Her eyes flashed, but then her icy calm returned, even as she drove like a kamikaze pilot.

“Have you evacuated the riverfront?” Ben asked.

“A tactical alert’s been sent out. NOPD’s been mobilized. But we’ve got the Hilton, One River Place . . . It’s the middle of the night. Those folks are asleep.”