by John Ringo
“Perhaps you should have considered that before he came to me for counseling,” Barb said, feeling a righteous anger building in her. “He is a fine young man who is questioning his faith. Do you support him in his faith, Dartho? Were you on the range teaching him? Where were you Dartho? What were you doing when he needed someone to talk to? Is this about him, Dartho or about you? He spoke of giving of his essence and, in return, getting a smidgeon of power. Where is the power going, Dartho? Are those acolytes you call yours, not your god’s, I notice, about worship of your god or worship of you, Dartho?”
“I am a high priest of Qua-Lin,” Dartho screamed. “Do not begin to try to understand the mysteries of my god, Christian! It would blast your tiny mind!”
“I don’t care about your mysteries, Dartho,” Barb snapped. “But if the worshippers are losing faith, perhaps their priest should do something about that! Not come screaming at someone who gave a person a moment’s thought, a moment’s help, a moment’s comfort! Perhaps you should have considered tending to your flock, priest, instead of whatever earthly pursuits you were practicing, priest! Christian I am and Christian I shall be. MY faith is not tested here, Dartho!”
“Whoa,” Sharice said, hurrying from the longhouse. “No religious battles in the compound. I could feel both of you from inside the Philosophy House.”
“Tell her to leave my worshippers alone,” Dartho snarled.
“I can talk to whomever I want,” Barb snapped. “I do not proselytize. I do not condemn. I simply Witness. And if Witnessing is causing your worshippers to reconsider their very faith, then maybe you should consider what that means, Dartho.”
“Both of you back off,” Sharice said, raising her hands and then parting them, her eyes closed.
Barb felt herself physically pushed back, away from the priest and onto the bridge, and a feeling of peace descended over her. Not in anger but in searing determination, she reached into her core and summoned her own channel, driving out the externally imposed peace and summoning her own patience and understanding to replace it.
Sharice’s eyes snapped open at that and she opened her mouth, closing it when she saw Barb’s expression of Zen-like stillness.
“I do not permit the power of another god within my soul, Sharice,” Barbara said, calmly. “My faith derives from the Lord Jesus Christ and I shall have no other before Him. But thank you for intervening.”
“Barb, you were going to supper,” Sharice said, just as calmly. “Dartho, were you?”
“No, I was looking for her,” he spat.
“In that case, please go away from the Philosophy House and let Barbara get her dinner,” Sharice said. “You’re leaving on assignment tomorrow. Until you do, you two stay away from each other.”
“I want you to tell her to stay away from my acolytes,” Dartho insisted. “I won’t have her wooing them over to her damned slave religion.”
“If you are speaking of Ghomo,” Sharice said, “he has not only talked to Barb. He spoke to me as well, and to Guinevere. He is questioning his faith. That, alone, will probably sever his link to Qua-Lin. He has potential and will either return to Qua-Lin or find another god. You cannot force a person to believe in your god, Dartho. Nor will you try. Is that clear?”
Dartho ground his jaw for a moment and then turned his back on the two women, striding away.
“That was… unpleasant,” Barbara said, stepping off the bridge.
“It happens.” Sharice sighed. “And when it does, those of the losing faith always blame others.” She paused and frowned, smiling faintly. “I think you scared him, as well. And he reacts to that with anger.”
“I can understand being upset,” Barbara said. “So am I. But why scared?”
“You’re aware that your eyes were glowing, right?” Sharice said, carefully. “They changed color, from blue to something like black, and they appeared to glow. Not as if you were channeling an avatar; it seemed to be something entirely in you.”
“Dartho takes the power that they give, doesn’t he?” Barb asked, ignoring the comment as they both walked towards the Philosophy House. She had been told that in times of extreme anger her eyes appeared to glow; it had nearly caused Mark to be shoved through a wall once. She hadn’t realized she was that angry at the priest and said a small prayer asking forgiveness. “The power that his acolytes sacrifice to their god. He takes it and uses it for his own purposes.”
“Yes,” Sharice said, simply. “But so do we all. Your power comes not from you, but from your God, from the Holy Spirit, if you will. And that power is supplied by thousands, perhaps millions, of True Believers such as yourself. So don’t castigate Dartho for drawing upon the power given to his god by his small handful of followers. He uses that power in the service of Good.”
“I’m not sure I completely agree,” Barbara said, frowning. “The power of God is…”
“The power of belief,” Sharice said, firmly. “The power given to God by the willing sacrifice of souls, dedicated to His purposes. That is the Power of God. Trust me.”
“God created the heaven and the earth,” Barb argued.
“Why?” Sharice asked, smiling. “Or, perhaps I shouldn’t ask the question. Hold to your Belief, Barbara Everette and I shall hold to mine. Each in her own way to the work of Good, yes?”
“Okay,” Barb said, troubled. She liked and respected Sharice and her words had been so… definite. But that was Sharice’s belief, not her own. She mentally nodded to herself and put the words aside to pull out some other time and examine.
“You’re being assigned as well,” Sharice said, sighing. “I was going to go over that this evening. You’ll only be here two more days. Wednesday evening you’ll fly to Virginia to meet your FBI contact and go out on assignment.”
“I was told that a more senior person normally travels with a junior,” Barbara said, diffidently.
“Yes,” Sharice replied, smiling, as they reached the doors of the longhouse. “You’re getting along very well with Janea. Would you accept her as your initial trainer? She’s not as experienced as I would like but… Dartho for example would not be a good match.”
“Janea is acceptable,” Barb said, holding up both hands in mock surrender. “But maybe… Hjalmar?”
“He’s taking an independent assignment to New York,” Sharice said, pausing in the entry area. “Julie and James are on the same assignment as you, but taking a different investigation area. There is a necromancer at work who is visiting science fiction and gaming conventions, or so the FBI believes. You are taking a convention in Roanoke. They are going to Georgia. There are other teams as well. This necromancer has killed seven girls, at least, and sent their souls to the nether hells. Someone needs to find him and put him in his place. Preferably six feet under. His demon can have that soul for all I care.”
Chapter Six
You ready to go?” Barbara asked, banging on the bathroom door.
She hadn’t shared a room with a female her own age in years and she had a hard time not coming on the Mom with Janea. When she’d examined the assignment, she’d managed to get down to two Pullmans and a carry-on. But Sharice had still needed a borrowed van from the center to get them to the airport. Janea had seven bags, which were now stacked around the room in the Holiday Inn Express in Dumfries.
She had gotten up early this morning, knowing that it was going to take some time for her to shower, shave her legs and armpits and do her hair and makeup. Janea, who “didn’t do mornings” had woken up much later and had been in the bathroom ever since. Barb had gone out to breakfast and returned, bringing coffee and some rolls, and as far as she could tell, Janea had been in the bathroom the whole time.
“Ready!” Janea said, throwing open the door. “What do you think?” she asked, posing.
Barbara had dressed in a conservative suit she had previously only used during her brief stint selling real estate. Pinstripe jacket and skirt, skirt falling to just below the knee, cream button-down shirt, fairl
y comfortable pumps in anticipation of a fair amount of walking. If more walking was required, she had a bag with cross-trainers in it.
Janea’s idea of “conservative” dress for a meeting at the FBI training facility in Quantico Virginia was: five-inch black spike heels, a black, pleated miniskirt, quite short while not being entirely scandalous, that gave the vague impression of being from a very naughty schoolgirl’s wardrobe and a white shirt so sheer it was impossible to miss the underwire, push-up bra. Especially since she’d unbuttoned the shirt far enough to show an enormous amount of cleavage and a hint of lace. Her hair and makeup were, however, superb.
“We’re going to be late unless we hurry,” Barb said, pushing up her sleeve to look at her watch.
“You don’t like it,” Janea said, crestfallen. “Is the shirt unbuttoned too much?”
“It’s lovely,” Barb replied, heading for the door of the room.
“I can change,” Janea said, following her. “I’ve got other outfits. Some of them might be a little skimpy for the FBI, but…”
“It’s not a problem,” Barbara said, “but I’m driving.”
“Oh, great,” Janea sighed, handing over the keys. She had driven them from Dulles to Dumfries in the rented Grand Am, the trunk and back of the car packed with luggage. She wasn’t looking forward to having the “church lady” drive, probably slowly in the left hand lane, as they tried to find their destination.
Barbara didn’t comment except to take the keys and get in the car. But the reason she was driving was that Janea couldn’t keep her mind on the road. She was usually all over the lane, if for no other reason than checking her makeup, couldn’t maintain speed and had a tendency to miss turns. They’d had to turn around three times to make it to the Holiday Inn, which was right off of U.S.-1 and not particularly hard to find.
When Janea was settled, definitely not wearing a seatbelt, they’d had that conversation yesterday, Barb pulled out of the parking spot and headed for the entrance, slowing only for the speedbumps. When she reached U.S.-1 she pulled out into a narrow slot in traffic, tires screaming and smoke rising from the asphalt.
“Freya preserve us,” Janea said, her eyes wide, grabbing at anything solid to hold herself in place as Barbara slid dexterously into the left-hand lane then back to the right, weaving through traffic. Despite rush hour traffic, she managed at times to get up to seventy in the forty-five mile per hour zone.
“We’re a tad late,” Barb said, calmly.
“Do you always drive like this?” Janea said as Barbara swerved into the turn lane to evade a car going the posted speed in the left-hand lane.
“Yes,” Barb replied. “More or less. Less when I’m on time. More when I’m in a hurry. I haven’t gotten into the oncoming lanes. Yet.”
She managed to avoid that fate, spotting the sign for Quantico’s main entrance and screaming through a narrow spot in oncoming traffic to make the left turn. She slid to a stop a few feet from the bumper of the car at the rear of the line waiting to enter the base and the Grand Am rocked for a moment on its springs. At the shriek of tires, the three Marines checking people into the base turned to look, their heads almost simultaneously tracking like turrets to identify the sound, note the Grand Am, then back to what they were doing.
“Thank you, Freya,” Janea said, breathing out finally. “We have arrived alive.”
“I’ve never had an accident,” Barbara said, calmly, a faint smile on her face.
“That’s incredible,” Janea replied, looking at her. “I’ve had, like, five.”
“Really?” Barb asked, moving the car forward as the line crept up to the gates. “Call it another gift. I am but a Servant of God.”
“Yeah, right,” Janea scoffed. “God tells you to drive like a maniac? There’s a real little devil hidden under that church lady exterior, ain’t there? Did your daddy teach you to drive, too?”
“No,” Barbara said. “A boyfriend. He was a stockcar racer.”
Janea collapsed into her seat theatrically and threw up her hands.
“I’d hate to be in the car if you were in a real hurry,” she said, digging into her purse for ID.
“It is interesting,” Barb admitted, rolling down the window as she reached the Marine guard. “Hi, Barbara Everette and…”
“Doris Grisham,” Janea said, leaning way over so the Marine could look down her shirt. She held out her driver’s license but it was a moment before the transfixed guard could remember to take it.
“We’re here to see Special Agent Halliwell at the FBI Academy,” Barb continued, handing over her own driver’s license.
The guard shook himself and consulted a clipboard then shook his head.
“If you ladies could pull over into the lane on the left,” he said, pointing to the appropriate spot. “Somebody will be with you shortly.”
Barbara pulled forward to the spot and parked the car, waiting as patiently as she could, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Janea dug in her purse, pulled out an emery board and began touching up her nails.
“He’s probably wondering when the FBI started calling in escorts,” Janea said after a moment.
“I certainly hope I don’t look like an ‘escort,’ “ Barb said, primly.
“When you’re with me you do,” Janea replied, grinning. “Or maybe my manager.”
Barbara just rolled her eyes and glanced in the rearview mirror. Two of the guards were heading their way.
“Heads up,” she said.
“I’m sure they are,” Janea answered, arching.
“Sorry about that, ma’am,” the sergeant said, nodding at both of them but looking down Janea’s shirt. “We had to call the FBI Academy to get verification on you. Could I see your ID again?”
Barbara handed over the IDs and ignored the fact that the other guard was looking past her as well. She wasn’t used to being ignored by men and she found it… annoying.
“There’s a thirty-five mile per hour speed limit on base,” the sergeant said, handing back the licenses as the private with him filled out a parking slip. “It’s strictly enforced.”
“I understand,” Barb replied, smiling at him winningly. It wasn’t worth the effort; his eyes were glued to cleavage. “How do I find building F-134?”
The sergeant went through a bewildering explanation for a moment and then shrugged at her expression.
“Just follow the signs to the FBI Academy,” he said, still having a hard time making eye contact. “You can find it from there.”
As they pulled out, Janea leaned back and put her license away, then looked at Barbara.
“I’m annoying you, aren’t I?” Janea asked.
“No, dear,” Barb answered, reaching over to squeeze the other woman’s hand. “I’m simply finding it a challenge in many ways I hadn’t expected. You are a very good friend and the challenges are good for my soul.”
“That’s another way of saying yes,” Janea said, leaning back in the seat. “I just get this way around men. It’s broken up so many relationships for me you wouldn’t believe. But I enjoy attention.”
“That is, I suppose, a goodly thing to your goddess,” Barbara said, ignoring the posted speed limit and cutting through the turns to the FBI Academy. “I, on the other hand, am realizing I’m not as perfect as others thought. Or even as sinless as I had thought. I hadn’t realized I was as vain as I am. It’s something I need to work on. So for that, if nothing else, I thank you.”
“You’re weird,” Janea said.
“You keep saying that,” Barb replied as she finally spotted building F-134. It was a brick building like most of the others on that part of the base, single story and long with several doors, most of them marked with blue signs. She hunted around until she found the door marked “Federal Bureau of Investigation Research and Analysis Lab” and then found a parking place.
When they reached the door she found it locked and pressed the button next to it, presumably a buzzer. After a moment the door clicked to t
he buzz of a solenoid and they went inside.
The entry room was hard tile floor, acoustic tile ceiling and bright fluorescent lights. There was a desk with a woman sitting behind it, a rather pleasant faced younger woman who looked like a receptionist.
“Barbara Everette and Doris…” She locked up on Janea’s last name for a moment, “Grisham. International Society for the Study of the Paranormal.”
“You’re expected, ladies,” the woman said, smiling. “Through the door.”
“Mrs. Everette?” the man on the far side said, taking Barb’s hand as she came through the door. “And Miz Grisham?”
“The same,” Janea said, smiling and bowing faintly as if to a courtier. “I prefer to be called Janea.”
“Janea, then,” the FBI agent said, virtually ignoring the way she was dressed. “I’m Special Agent in Charge Jim Halliwell. Let me take you back to the lab so we can get started.”
“I take it we’re not going to be working directly with you?” Barbara asked as they went down the long corridor. To the left were offices while to the right was a cube farm. As they passed one of the side corridors in the cube farm, an agent with his arms full of documents ducked back from Halliwell, then did a double take at the sight of Barbara and a triple take at Janea. By the time they’d reached the end of the corridor, there was a general buzzing from the cube farm and Barb looked over her shoulder to see various people, male and female, “prairie dogging” over the tops of the cubes.
“No, the agent assigned to your portion of the investigation is Special Agent Greg Donahue. He has the asset of having attended conventions previously.”
“And is he aware that there are… Special Circumstances to this investigation?” Barbara asked, carefully.
“Yes, he is,” Halliwell answered, opening the door to the lab.
The room had microscopes and various instruments with readouts on the front. Also a large number of computer monitors. And that was about all that Barb could determine from it.
“The FBI crime lab in D.C. does most of the direct crime investigation,” Halliwell said, leading them across the room. “This lab does research into oddball aspects of forensics. Trying to determine if the DNA from pollen on a victim can be traced to a particular area or plant, that sort of thing. It also handles most of the Special Circumstances… oddball aspects. Fortunately, the techs are rather closemouthed about what they do.” He pushed open a conference room door and waved the ladies in ahead of him.
