Something Blue

Chapter 30

Jacob

"I say we burn the place do—"

"Silence," Jacob said smoothly, lifting his coffee for a sip and eyeing his assorted sheep across the rim. He had learned early that raised voices were rarely the path to respect. Better to be calm, quiet, and as smooth as oil.

Mulligan snapped his trap shut, eyes downcast.

Another trick Jacob had learned along the way was to let a sinner arrive at the conclusion of his own wrongdoing. Force a man's face too gruffly into the baptismal waters and he would sputter and drown. Stand back and let him submerge himself and watch a follower be born.

"Did God bless you with a keen intellect, Mr. Mulligan?" he asked, focusing on the man he had interrupted. Mulligan's face flared beet red with indignation before his gaze dropped and his jaw unclenched on a sigh.

"He did not," he said quietly.

"God blesses us all with the tasks He believes we can execute, does He not?"

"He does, sir."

"What is your task, Mr. Mulligan?"

"To obey, sir."

"And yours, Mr. Weston?"

The gruff young man with the three-week beard crawling down his neck and the mouth full of rotting teeth also averted his gaze, focusing on the glass of whiskey in his hands. "To obey, sir. I only think—"

"Your job is not to think," Jacob interrupted once more, shifting in his seat to cross one leg over the other and lean back. The voice in his head raged, but he closed his mind against the onslaught. Work meetings were not the time for the devil's antics. "Your job is not to obey."

Weston frowned and clenched his jaw and nodded.

"What happens when members of the flock veer off the course set by the shepherd, Mr. Weston?"

The man swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing beneath the thick black scruff that coated his neck. "They lead the flock astray, sir. To the wolves."

"Have you proven yourself worthy of the role of a shepherd?"

"No, sir."

Mulligan, idiot that he was, squared his shoulders and frowned, eager to defend his friend. "Sir, that wasn't his fault. She got in the way."

"Who pulled the trigger, Edward?" Jacob asked, turning the question to his most vocal, most loyal, and most problematic follower.

Mulligan sagged. "Pat did, sir."

"And when Patrick Weston pulled the trigger, who died?"

"The devil's concubine, sir."

"And who was supposed to die?"

Mulligan slumped fully, his broad shoulders rolling inward and his gaze dropping to his lap. "The devil's spawn, sir."

"And now we have a problem, don't we?"

"Yes, sir."

The roar of the devil's voice was deafening and Jacob took another sip of his coffee in an effort to quell the screaming. "Back to the matter at hand... these whores clearly won't listen to reason. They must be driven out by force."

"We can't use too much, though," Mulligan offered, rising a bit from the slump of his humiliation. Although he was merely stated that which they all knew. "Sheriff's willing to overlook a little bloodshed on the behalf of the righteous, but if we slaughter a whole passel of whores, someone's bound to squeal about it out of town and we'll have marshals on our tails."