Read Online Banshee by Terry Maggert - Free Book Online Page B

and I secured spare barrels to boot.”
    Here it comes , French thought as Colvin Watley rose to his feet. The buffoon wove his fingers together and rested his hands on a belly that sagged over a tired belt.
    “I know I speak for everyone when I say that acquiring such . . . quality weapons is a real coup for our militia.” Watley’s tone left no doubt about his conclusions, but Harriet let him speak. He’d eventually hang himself once his ego got in the way. “Might we find out exactly what our community has paid for this augmentation to our already robust defense?” He beamed at the room with the patience of a favored grandfather.
    French didn’t hold back, since there was nothing to gain from dancing around the truth. He knew what hornet nest he was about to kick. “I guaranteed one-fifth of a single field from the northeast section, up to ten acres, from now until October, or whenever we pull the last harvest.” Some crops continued to produce heroically until snow fell. Small, productive fields like the one French had just carved apart for materials were the backbone of the entire New Madrid food supply.
    The eruption was instantaneous. Watley wiped his eyes with a practiced gesture while patting the air for calm. Harriet couldn’t interdict his call for silence without appearing petty, so she seethed, while the other four council members let alarm wash over their faces.
    “Did I hear you correctly? Twenty . . . percent . . . until October?” Colvin’s voice dripped with derision. “French, I know you’re somewhat new here, but our growing season, even during a fine year? Well, it ends in October. You’ve just given away a fifth of our canning and drying vegetables from a significant field.” He turned to the crowd, whose murmur was growing into a buzz of locusts. They were just as hungry for a sacrificial lamb, but French stayed silent.
    His patience went unnoticed by the smug Watley, who had dismissed the militiaman as little more than a talented hillbilly. “I only care about this community,” Watley began, “and so I find it might be prudent at this time—”
    “You didn’t let me finish,” French said. His voice was just loud enough to carry.
    “How’s that?” Wesley Yarnell asked. It was the first he’d spoken since entering the Grange. His tone was cautious. Ever the paranoid, he sensed danger that Colvin’s bluster would mute.
    “I said you didn’t let me finish my report. About our trading.”
    Quiet descended on the hall.
    Watley waved a hand magnanimously before Harriet could interject. That time, Amy Delacroix hissed at the grandstanding Watley. Amy was a council member, married, in her mid-thirties, and brooked little idiocy in the name of politics. With two sons and a daughter, she didn’t have the luxury of swanning about while the beasts of hell were scheduled for a monthly shopping trip to restock whatever they used for larders.
    “It isn’t your decision, Colvin, no matter how highly you think of your own position here!” Amy barked.
    There were shouts of assent throughout the hall, and Colvin knew he was in danger of losing whatever edge he’d had.
    “My sincere apology, Councilwoman. I spoke out of turn, and I respectfully yield to Mr. Heavener.” Watley pointedly turned away from Amy Delacroix, who hadn’t missed the implication that control of the floor was his to grant.
    While Colvin stood with a beatific smile on his face, Wesley studied the adversarial council member for a long moment before affixing his gaze on French.
    The second set of doors to the Grange swung slightly outward, and a smiling face poked through. One of French’s best engineers, a stump of a guy known as Ralston, gave the thumbs up gesture and then closed the door behind him.
    French addressed the hall again, this time in a louder voice. “I also gave the salvage team one of our Hecate fifty cals, one hundred rounds, and—”
    The tumult was instantaneous. That was heresy of the first