Jack Dalton, Monster Hunter, The Complete Serial Series (1-10): The History of the Magical Division

by T S Paul

  Robert patted the dashboard of my van. “Nice setup you’ve got here, Agent Dalton. Everything compact and easy to find.”

  “I like to think so. It’s all come in handy so far. Someone in logistics really planned this out for me. And it’s Jack. Agent Dalton is too big a mouthful all the time. Does that make it easier for you?” I asked.

  “It does. Call me Robert. So, who are your people, Jack, and what brought you to me?” He asked.

  Keeping a firm hand on the wheel of the van, I reached into the small cooler with my right hand and pulled out one of the sandwiches and a soda. Slipping the soda bottle between my legs to hold it in place, I unwrapped the wax paper sandwich covering. “The US government brought me to you, Robert.”

  “Patrick makes good sandwiches. That one smells like roast beef. May I?” Robert pointed down at the small cooler.

  “Be my guest,” I took the distraction to open the bottle using an opener I had secured to the door.

  Robert pointed past me at the device, “Handy.”

  “I do a lot of driving. Want me to open yours for you?” I gestured.

  Using his thumb, Robert popped the top right off his bottle. “No thanks.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. Weres.

  “Do you have any clue to the whereabouts of this rogue? I know that they wouldn’t just send you along for comic relief now would they?” I asked.

  Robert chuckled at me and shook his own head, “Comic, no. I volunteered actually. What do your orders say about the attack?”

  Keeping both hands on the wheel as I steered through traffic I thought for a moment. "I was to confer with the local office, but they described an encounter at the train station. Our subject was spotted after two servicemen were attacked and infected during a USO stopover. There weren't any details provided beyond that. He's supposed to be a local agricultural purveyor."

  Robert barked out a sharp laugh. "Agricultural purveyor? That has to be the FBI's way of saying farmer. Why can't they just say 'farmer?'"

  “Politics most likely. Something I try to stay as far away from as possible. So, the report’s a bit thin. I assumed we would pick the station’s attendees brains along with whatever the local office has and figure out a plan. How hard could that be?” I asked.

  Two hours later I found myself eating those simple words. How hard could it be?

  It turns out there were hundreds of station employees to choose from, and all of them apparently saw nothing.

  “I don’t understand how the people you had in that area of the station didn’t see anything at the time of the incident. How?” I asked the station manager.

  The St. Louis trains administrator was a short round individual with a severe problem with law enforcement for some reason. He smiled. "Have you looked at the station here? St. Louis is a major freight line for all things west of here. During the war, we shipped and prepped troops traveling west faster and more efficiently than any other station. This place was vital to the war effort," He waved at the window in his office looking out at numerous train cars moving about.

  “There isn’t a war going on anymore though. Why all this activity here?” I asked.

  “Everything comes in by rail. Food, merchandise, people, and fuel are the chief items. We’re a distribution point for half the businesses in the state. I have dozens of employees whose sole job is just to keep track of the trucks that pick things up. The people that come through here are anonymous. Don’t get me wrong Agent Dalton. I feel for the families of the two men bitten. It’s why my company provides an insurance benefit for those killed with the LV virus. Putting them down is the only option for those workers. It was luck that our protection team was on hand to take care of the task. The FBI boys around here are too squeamish to do it.” The administrator grinned suddenly. “The bounty was nice too.”

  Quickly I gripped Robert’s arm and pulled him back. I could see that the Alpha was going to be a problem here.

  “What is the bounty for Weres here in Missouri?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

  “Fifty bucks a head. It used to be lower, what with the war and all. Some of those beasts were actually working with the troops that protected us. A few of us made a profit even then. Have to protect the nation and all that. Did either of you boys serve?” The administrator asked.

  “Only with the FBI, it’s my calling,” I answered.

  Robert nodded and spoke a single word. “Army.”

  “Excellent. I did a tour as a quartermaster for the Missouri Volunteers. We ran the USO efforts and kept everything running properly.” The administrator nodded and smiled.

  As what the man said worked its way through my brain, I watched Robert. He acted as if he was stalking the administrator by carefully stepping and looking, his eyes taking in every tiny detail about the office and man.

  “Did your protection team question the men before ‘putting them down’ or did they just kill them?” I asked.

  "I was told they were part of an illegal card game in one of the older club cars out in the storage yard. A Were had been involved in the game and bit the two men as he escaped the car. That's all I know," he replied.

  Stepping sideways, I blocked Robert’s access to the man for a moment. "Did you know that only half of those bitten actually become Weres and that there's a new vaccine that, if administered in time, will prevent transformation? You murdered those men without any provocation. Being bitten is not a death sentence like it used to be. Missouri just passed a bill two weeks ago eliminating the bounty system on Paranormals. You broke the law, and I intend to see you prosecuted for it."

  The administrator’s smile dropped away when his mouth opened to protest. I didn’t give him time to do anything. Quickly I hauled him out of his chair and cuffed him. “No use struggling. Those cuffs were designed to control Paranormals. I doubt you could break them. Sit quietly until I have someone here to arrest you.”

  I shot a glance in Robert's direction, but he only stared back at me. Shaking my head, I pointed towards the waiting area outside the office. Robert took my hint and stepped outside.

  Using my authority as Director of the Magical Division I had the man’s own secretary call the local police for me. He was in shock as they hauled him away charged with murder for hire. The law was new, but I was sure the local district attorney would throw the book at him and those that helped him. Defrauding the federal government was the least of his worries. Now that the result was under arrest I continued to need the cause. Only Robert could help me track down that portion this hunt.

  The man in question sat in my van staring at me. He hadn’t said a word since local St. Louis police took the rail administrator into custody and tracked down the security force.

  “Are you ok?” I asked him.

  Robert reached up and stroked his beard for a moment as he watched me. “I’m not sure. You stopped me back in the office but made sure justice was served. Did you know?”

  “Did I know what?” I asked.

  “That the railroads were killing my people? I can show you figures if you like, but there have been literally hundreds killed in the last couple of years. We don’t have rogues, Jack. At least not in the sense that humans think of them,” Robert waved toward the train station and all the people milling around.

  I let out the breath I was holding. “Sort of. Ana, my boss, filled me in on some of it as background. I didn’t lie to you that I knew little about this specific rogue or where he might be. I’m aware that most Packs don’t have rogues. My Pack in Texas had a few lone wolves, but they weren’t considered being rogue. That term is something entirely different.”

  “Your boss sounds like someone I’d like to meet someday,” Robert replied.

  I laughed. “She’s something, I’ll tell you. Ana has a multitude of jobs at the main office. One is collecting little bits of information and facts that don’t always make sense in the beginning but later prove worthwhile.”

  "It's hard for me to cl
assify you as Pack and I do apologize for it. I'm not sure if Ron told you, but there have been only a small handful of non-Weres admitted into any Pack. Friends of the Pack, yes. But not full members. It's very rare. I've seen it happen twice in my life," Robert informed me.

  “I heard you say you’d served. May I ask what branch? My dad was in France in 1946.” I asked him.

  “You should really ask what war. I was a brand spanking new lieutenant in Fifth Kentucky when it was formed in 1862. We were attached to General Breckinridge’s command initially. We fought from Vicksburg to the retreat at Atlanta. Sherman’s boys were just too tough to push back.” Robert had a look of longing on his face. He turned to look me in the eye. “Having men die under your command is one of the hardest things you can ever witness. April twenty-ninth, 1865 was the last time I fired a musket in anger. It was a different time. My convictions were different. We were trying to make a different world for our people. All our efforts failed, and the cause was lost.”

  “You’re not talking about the Confederacy, are you?” I asked.

  "No, I'm not. It was a different world two centuries ago. States’ rights and slavery might have been the human reason for the war, but not everyone who was in command of the Southern forces was human. History is written by the victors, Jack. Always remember that," Robert instructed.

  All I could do was nod. It was easy to forget that many Paranormals were long-lived. Vampires and Weres especially. This man in front of me had seen much in his life.

  “Forget I said anything kid. The past can be overwhelming sometimes. Thank you for what you did back there. The local Alpha might have a lead on our fugitive. Do you want me to contact him?” Robert asked.

  I looked over at my companion. “I didn’t know there was a reservation around here.”

  “There’s not. You’re going to have to pretend you weren’t ever in the town or met any of these people. If you truly want to catch the guy and continue to do your new job the proper way, you have to pick a side here, kid." Robert was using the tone of voice that behaviorists at the Academy warned us about. Add a little Alpha kick, and he could control just about anyone. I was surprised I even caught it.

  Shaking my head to clear the imaginary butterflies, I responded. “What if I say no and go it alone? I told you before that your tricks didn’t work on me, Alpha. Doing my job is my side.”

  The subtle power stopped and made Robert smile. "I had to try. We all answer to someone, Agent Dalton. Those that lead me told me to make an effort. If you report it, we’ll deal with it then. If you still want my help, head northwest. The town we’re looking for is called Foley. If the Alpha there doesn’t know where to look or who our culprit is, then it will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose to try to take some pressure off my head. It really did feel like someone was squeezing it like a grape. I wasn't ready to become a mindless servant just yet though. Letting out a sigh, I shook my head. "Let's go to your contact. If I involve the FBI, law or not, they may shoot you, and then MY boss will be upset. You might be the scariest man I've met recently, but she truly scares me. Which way do I go?”

  Robert gave me directions as we pulled out of Union Station. “That station is pretty neat. What was it like in its heyday?”

  "You've got balls, kid. That'll serve you well in this business. It was built in the 1890s. It became a showplace of a station. It had restaurants and a hotel right there inside the station. It was an innovation for the time. Before the war even started, twenty-two railroads were using that station. It may be a bit rough around the edges now, but once upon a time it was magnificent." Robert motioned with his hands as he spoke.

  "It sounds like it." We were heading north, but there was a total mess of construction equipment and detours everywhere. "What's going on over there?"

  Robert spat out his open window in disgust. “Humans. Your people spend money on the damndest things sometimes. About thirty years ago, the city council along with the mayor of St. Louis had a brilliant idea to build a monument that idealized Western Expansion. The President even set aside prime riverfront property for its use. They’ve been raising money forever and only found an architect ten years or so ago for it. All this mess is the result of having to move several lengths of tracks and building a tunnel under the whole thing as well.”

  “A tunnel? Right next to the river? Is that even possible? They’ve got some kind of chutzpah then. That’s crazy. What’s it supposed to look like? I can imagine a gigantic horse-drawn wagon up there,” I pointed.

  “’Chutzpah,’ that’s a good term for this project. It’s a bit crazy, but they made it work somehow. I think Fredrick Douglass said it best, ‘If there is no struggle, there is no progress.' It explains why they threw themselves into this." Robert looked at me and laughed. "You wanted a description, didn't you? Sorry. Sometimes I talk just to listen to myself. It's supposed to be an arch. Sort of like a gigantic silver horseshoe in the sky."

  “Interesting. At least it’ll be big with this much of mess. What highway did you say I needed to look for?” I asked.

  Robert looked up from the map in front of him, "I didn't, but stay on Interstate 70 until we cross the Missouri river. Once we pass through St. Charles and St. Peters, we’ll take the interchange onto State Highway 79.”

  Corn, wheat, wood, and hay. Those were the fields I saw off of Route 79. Lots and lots of farms at work out here. We were on a two-lane blacktop heading north along the river.

  "So, where am I going, Robert?" I asked.

  “I told you already. A little farming town called Foley. It’s not that much further. If I were you though, I’d slow down a bit before you pass that next rise. The local sheriff thinks he should be in the State Police and likes to find reasons to arrest people. Just a warning,” Robert explained.

  Nodding I started looking for speed traps. The speed limit was fifty-five and to be sure I was doing less than that, but I looked up when I heard the sound of a siren.

  “I told you. You better get your credentials out because if he looks in the back, you’re toast,” Robert informed me.

  Carefully I pulled over to the side of the road and waited. My van was clearly marked FBI on all sides. It would be interesting to see how this local officer reacted.

  The patrol car pulled up behind us, and the officer got out. He wore the typical peaked cap with aviator sunglasses that many departments were now wearing. You have to hand it to Hollywood for making them so popular.

  “License and registration please,” the local asked.

  I flipped my credentials out the window showing him the badge then the identification, “FBI. I wasn’t speeding so why pull me over?”

  The officer started to stutter so badly his glasses fell off his face, “Eff bee eye? I… I… I… Di… Didn’t know.”

  Putting on my best smile I looked out the window at him, “It’s ok. Was I speeding, officer?”

  Scooping his glasses up, the man straightened up and peered into the cab of my van. “The chief told me to pull over any out-of-towners. Sorry.” The man leaned down more and looked past me toward Robert.

  “Is that you there, Mr. Moore?” The officer asked.

  Robert chuckled at my expression, "That it is, Roscoe. Now I know Chief Dan didn't tell you to pull over everyone. Not after you tried to arrest those state investigators. This man really is the FBI, so you best be turning us loose now, you hear?"

  It was my turn to smile when the seemingly well-educated man sitting next to me slipped into a slightly southern sounding local dialect.

  The local finished his conversation with Robert and ran back to his patrol car. I could hear the engine start up and it suddenly tore past us heading north. The car was at least twenty years old and at one point had been a taxi. I could see the faded words peeking out under the police logo. “Something I should be aware of?”

  Robert shook his head no. “That was Roscoe. He’s actually a part-time officer for t
he Winfield Police Department. That’s the next town up ahead.”

  "Part-time? I can't imagine how that works. Do I want to know?" I asked.

  “Not really. This area is all farming. Money’s tight and city budgets are even tighter. He won’t bother us again,” Robert answered.

  "Hmm. How is it you’re known here? I assumed you were from Kentucky since that was where I picked you up and you served. Was it all a lie then?" I asked as I slipped my left hand down towards one of my sidearms.

  Robert pointedly looked at where my hand was and replied, "I'd rather you didn't shoot me, Jack. I paid a lot of money for this suit, and bullet holes will only ruin the line. You're safe. Trust me. Foley's the very next town. Now don't blink or you'll miss Winfield."

  He was right about the town. There was only a stop sign between the next local highway and where the one we were on started. Just a couple of local storefront buildings and a small train station. Nothing to write home about. A few of the houses near the tracks looked prosperous, but the rest were a bit run down. We crossed a small bridge nestled up close to the railroad trestle, and then we were back to cornfield country.

  “Farming is hard on the farmer and his entire family. Locals keep to themselves as well. It’s the perfect place to hide a Were Pack as long as you keep it private,” Robert said.

  Foley was worse than Winfield. I was surprised they even bothered to build a town there. There wasn’t even a stop sign.

  Robert pointed to my left, “Pull up next to the post office. The man we need is in that bar over there.”

  Peering out the window I could see there was a very small establishment just to the right of the building proclaiming to be the post office.

  “How many people live around here?” I parked the van in front of the postal building.

  “Officially?” Robert asked.

  I nodded as I got out and grabbed my everyday bag. I’d started carrying it after my adventure in Jersey. You never know when some things might just come in handy.