The Last Nightingale by Anthony Flacco Read Free Book Online Page B

some and stay awake. I'm gonna have orders for you.”
    The lieutenant turned away to check a sheaf of notes in a leather-bound notebook, and walked off muttering, "And then by God, I'm gonna get some sleep myself. Somebody else can try to shovel their way through this shit pile.”
    Alone now, Blackburn strained to see out into the night. Countless points of orange glow marked the horizon in all directions. There were deep fires that hadn't succumbed to the rain yet, even though the surface fires were mostly extinguished. After hours of light drizzle, thick trails of steam rose from the downed buildings all around the edge of Portsmouth Square. The stench of burning things drifted everywhere.
    The scene was how his boyhood pastors had described Hell to him. He rose to his feet, painfully stiff, and headed for the coffee wagon.
    Before he took three steps, the young lieutenant called out, "All right then, Sergeant! The next thing on this list is the Mission Dolores. Their messenger said it's
muy importante.
Take your coffee and hike over to Sixteenth Street. Check up on the Mission's cleanup progress. The town bigwigs want to make sure our civic heritage is protected.”
    The lieutenant stepped close to Blackburn for emphasis, and went on, "Offer them police assistance to guard the place, but listen to me:
Convince them that they don't need it.
Truth is, we couldn't get around to helping them for days, and we don't need word about police weakness getting around.”
    “I'll try, sir.”
    “Don't
try,
Sergeant, accomplish your task. Encourage them. Flatter them if you have to. Slather them with bullshit if that works. Just convince them that they can handle it on their own. People congregate at a famous old church like that. They trade gossip, you get it? If the city realizes how badly overwhelmed we are—”
    "Well God damn it, Lieutenant, is there some mysterious reason we can't draft civilians and maybe make some real progress?”
    The lieutenant raised the lantern to include Blackburn in the glow. He glared at him. "Your problem is your mouth, Sergeant. Now, I know what a fine job you did here, but your mouth could be the one thing that winds up holding you back. Get your coffee and get going. When you accomplish your task at the Mission, take a few hours off. Best up. Check the ruins at your apartment, though you'll likely be wasting your time.”
    “Thank you for the advice, sir!" Blackburn said with too much enthusiasm. He saluted, waited for the return, never got one. The lieutenant was gone. Blackburn lowered his arm, turned around and headed for the coffee table. That was something, anyway.
    Instinct told Shane to lie still on the Mission floor and do his best to fake being sound asleep. He heard boot steps, along with the scraping of a pair of sandals. Through squinted eyes, he watched the same kindly friar who had given Shane his blanket roll. Now the priest shuffled along beside a police sergeant—the same man who had just been in Shane's dream, the one who was actually in the Nightingale house.
    He was too stunned to react while the footsteps came close . . . The footsteps paused . . . Shane could hear the big man's breathing.
    “So that's it, then?" the sergeant's voice boomed. He stepped into view, just a few feet away.
    The Mission assistant quickly drew close to the sergeant and raised a finger to his lips, then pointed down to Shane's makeshift bed. Shane dropped his eyelids closed the rest of the way and heard the sergeant mutter "Oh," then lower his voice before continuing. "So you haven't really had any other problems here, right?”
    “Sergeant Blackburn, I get the distinct impression that you don't want to hear what I've been telling you.”
    "Oh, now, don't say that. You just don't realize how much good work your volunteers already accomplished here. Maybe they helped keep thieves away, just being here! Amazing teamwork! No outbreaks of trouble, no fistiights, no need for a police presence at