The Veil
Page 80
“What did you do?”
“We had land, and I liked camping, hunting, was a pretty good shot, good tracker—not as good as Gavin, but pretty good—and knew my way around southern Louisiana. So I did pretty much whatever they wanted that would pay the bills. I escorted convoys, worked as a scout, hunted when a convoy couldn’t make it in. This is when I met the gardener—that Sensitive I told you about.”
I nodded.
“About six months into the war—this would have been April—Containment got worried. We’d lost battles at Shreveport and Vicksburg.”
I nodded, remembering. We’d had a shortwave radio in the store—that was when stations were still broadcasting in the Zone—and we’d listened to the reports. The reporter had cried when giving the casualty numbers. There were apocalyptic cults carrying signs through the Quarter, promising the end of the world had been coming. I’d been terrified, and barely more than a kid. But eventually the tide had turned, and we’d closed the Veil.
“Containment was aware that I was pretty well-known in New Orleans. Connected, I guess.”
“Because of your family? Because you’re an Arsenault?”
He nodded, linked his hands together, stared down at the floor. “New Orleans had always loved magic—hell, half the tourism in the Quarter was built on it—ghosts, vampires, voodoo—and Containment wanted to know if any residents were sympathetic to the Paras. If they might do anything that would subvert our defenses, or help the Paras.”
He wet his lips, looked up at me. “Do you remember the Hanlon family?”
I frowned. “The ones involved in the cult?” They’d decided the end of the world was coming, and they wanted to be at the front of the line. They killed two human soldiers as a “sacrifice,” began funneling food and supplies to the Paras.
“Yeah. I investigated them . . . and then I turned them in.” He shifted in his seat. And when he couldn’t get comfortable, he rose, walked to the windows in the front of the store, looked out at the city.
“I investigated them because they were on a list Containment gave me.” He turned, looked back at me. “Your father was on the list, too.”
My heart seemed to stop beating. “So you spied on my father? On me?”
“I kept watch on him,” he said carefully. “Containment wasn’t interested in you.”
That didn’t make it any better. “You were watching him because he might have been a traitor. Because Containment thought he might be a traitor.”
“We were in the middle of a war.”
“Damn it.” I stood up, paced across the room, then paced back again. “He died in the war,” I pointed out when I was facing Liam again. “Because he was fighting for us. There was no reason at all for him to be on any list.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“How isn’t it simple? Your investigating my father as a traitor? That seems pretty simple.”
“Because I should have turned him in. Your father was a Sensitive.”
I stared at him. “What? No, he wasn’t,” I said, my voice barely competing with the roaring in my ears.
“He was. He hid it very well. From you, from everyone.”
“No. No, that’s a mistake.” I pointed at him. “You’re wrong. He would have told me if he was a Sensitive. We were really close, Liam. He would have told me.”
“I’m sure he wanted to protect you. To keep you away from all this. From exactly this conversation we’re having right now.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “This isn’t right.”
“We had land, and I liked camping, hunting, was a pretty good shot, good tracker—not as good as Gavin, but pretty good—and knew my way around southern Louisiana. So I did pretty much whatever they wanted that would pay the bills. I escorted convoys, worked as a scout, hunted when a convoy couldn’t make it in. This is when I met the gardener—that Sensitive I told you about.”
I nodded.
“About six months into the war—this would have been April—Containment got worried. We’d lost battles at Shreveport and Vicksburg.”
I nodded, remembering. We’d had a shortwave radio in the store—that was when stations were still broadcasting in the Zone—and we’d listened to the reports. The reporter had cried when giving the casualty numbers. There were apocalyptic cults carrying signs through the Quarter, promising the end of the world had been coming. I’d been terrified, and barely more than a kid. But eventually the tide had turned, and we’d closed the Veil.
“Containment was aware that I was pretty well-known in New Orleans. Connected, I guess.”
“Because of your family? Because you’re an Arsenault?”
He nodded, linked his hands together, stared down at the floor. “New Orleans had always loved magic—hell, half the tourism in the Quarter was built on it—ghosts, vampires, voodoo—and Containment wanted to know if any residents were sympathetic to the Paras. If they might do anything that would subvert our defenses, or help the Paras.”
He wet his lips, looked up at me. “Do you remember the Hanlon family?”
I frowned. “The ones involved in the cult?” They’d decided the end of the world was coming, and they wanted to be at the front of the line. They killed two human soldiers as a “sacrifice,” began funneling food and supplies to the Paras.
“Yeah. I investigated them . . . and then I turned them in.” He shifted in his seat. And when he couldn’t get comfortable, he rose, walked to the windows in the front of the store, looked out at the city.
“I investigated them because they were on a list Containment gave me.” He turned, looked back at me. “Your father was on the list, too.”
My heart seemed to stop beating. “So you spied on my father? On me?”
“I kept watch on him,” he said carefully. “Containment wasn’t interested in you.”
That didn’t make it any better. “You were watching him because he might have been a traitor. Because Containment thought he might be a traitor.”
“We were in the middle of a war.”
“Damn it.” I stood up, paced across the room, then paced back again. “He died in the war,” I pointed out when I was facing Liam again. “Because he was fighting for us. There was no reason at all for him to be on any list.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“How isn’t it simple? Your investigating my father as a traitor? That seems pretty simple.”
“Because I should have turned him in. Your father was a Sensitive.”
I stared at him. “What? No, he wasn’t,” I said, my voice barely competing with the roaring in my ears.
“He was. He hid it very well. From you, from everyone.”
“No. No, that’s a mistake.” I pointed at him. “You’re wrong. He would have told me if he was a Sensitive. We were really close, Liam. He would have told me.”
“I’m sure he wanted to protect you. To keep you away from all this. From exactly this conversation we’re having right now.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “This isn’t right.”
