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

by T S Paul

  "I'll have to clear it with the Alpha, but I think we can do that. What’d you hit him with? I bet they heard that explosion all over the county!” Hollywood exclaimed.

  “It was a grenade. I have some made of silver,” I replied. Stepping over to the van I opened up the back and carefully unloaded the Thompson and stored it away. I didn’t put back on the standard suit. From now on I thought I’d wear the fatigues.

  Robert was waiting for me outside the bar in Foley. None of the other townsfolk were present, but I assumed that he knew what had happened. Not much is hidden from Weres inside their own territory.

  “Good work, kid. Too bad you didn’t arrest him though,” Robert stated.

  I looked at the older Were through the open window of my van without getting out. “You knew he’d fight, didn’t you?”

  "The law may have changed but not how law enforcement treats us. Our people are rotting on the reservations. Getting them off is my number one priorities. The same goes for many of the other free Alphas as well. Rogues give us all a bad name. We try hard to cut down on any exposure. We could've taken care of this mess easily here, but we needed you to do it. Your new Division gives some of us hope for the future, Jack. We want you to succeed. Don't worry about giving me a ride out of here. I've got a funeral to plan and another Alpha to see. Take care of yourself, Jack. We'll have a drink sometime," Robert reached through the window and shook my hand.

  I watched him re-enter the bar and just sat there for a moment. Politics and real life never mix all that well. This job just took on another dimension that I was unaware of. Who Robert was precisely and who he reported to were but two facets of a much bigger picture than I was allowed to see. I needed to have a face-to-face with Anastasia, and I needed to do it soon.

  This ends Book Five of Jack Dalton Monster Hunter.

  Jack Dalton, Monster Hunter

  Book 6

  My name is Jack Dalton and I’m a Monster Hunter!

  Today I’m driving down Route 666 on my way toward Springfield, Illinois. Headquarters and Anastasia have requested that I investigate a rash of poltergeist activity in and around Lake Springfield. This will be my first otherworldly investigation since taking the job.

  Ghosts are one thing that aren’t counted as paranormal by the government. Shortly after the great reveal in 1914 there were a wide variety of fakes and cons that unscrupulous types used to bilk honest folk of their hard-earned money. We have a list of confirmed species that is taught at the academy and ghosts aren’t on it. But I’m supposed to investigate, regardless. Spiritualists and mediums are illegal everywhere, due to their complicity in the Demon War. Communication with the other side is but one way that Demons can be contacted. The Germanic leader who brought the Demon Prince across was a member of one such spiritual group. Most countries thought they would “bite the head of the snake” early, and forbid any and all practices. Witches and Wizards are exempt from the ban but are supposed to limit themselves to approved activities. I can just imagine Marcella Blackmore turning herself in. Pulling out a notepad, I made a note to investigate what the approved activities actually were. It might prove interesting.

  “This report is from the local sheriff, Jack. Springfield is the state capitol of Illinois. Time to show the flag and prove your worth to the Director,” Anastasia said.

  I winced. “Is he reconsidering my job?”

  Anastasia paused for a moment. “You have exceeded expectations, Jack. He was of the opinion the job would be too much for you. There was actually a report saying just that, waiting for his signature. The Director hates competition and the Magical Division could potentially be just that. But President Long wants it because it’s an election year, so he’s given you a free hand so far. Don’t color too far outside the lines, Jack. What his replacement will do is a complete unknown. Stay the course.”

  “So ghosts?” I asked.

  “Don’t exist. I’ve never come across one in all my years. But I’m just a lowly Vampire. There are more paranormals than you can shake a stick at in the world,” Anastasia replied.

  I scratched my head. “Then why send me to Illinois?”

  “Politics. Governor Stratton wants this cleared up in time for the next session. Paranormals aren’t very popular in the state,” Ana replied.

  “May I ask why?” I asked her.

  “It’s complicated. During Director Hoover’s very public fight against corruption and organized crime over the past few years, some evidence was found that implicated them. The Italian Mafia bosses are part of a group called the Strega. As far as we can tell, they are dark Witches based out of Italy. As you know, our interaction with the Witches Council is almost nonexistent. They don’t care for our laws and won’t give our representatives their location. The Strega are but the tip of the iceberg. Fae warriors have been spotted in some of the downtown areas and there are reports of Gargoyles on half the older buildings,” Ana replied.

  “Those are all Magical things. Why wasn’t I called in on them?” I asked.

  “Have you ever seen the list of corruption arrests for Illinois? Let me tell you, it’s huge. Add in a Magical component and it could be a disaster. The Director wants to put a patch on it in Chicago and move on. There is way too much popping up in other areas to draw his attention. He needs to appear to be making a difference. Having you shooting up most of downtown would negate that. You are better to be seen taking care of happenings locally in Springfield. In this case, Mr. Hoover’s word is final,” Anastasia said.

  “What am I up against this time?” I asked.

  I could hear a rustle of papers as Anastasia pulled out my assignment. While I waited I wound the telephone cord around my fingers. The twistiness of the cord was irritating. “There are several years’ worth of strange happenings, but the most recent ones are centered around Lake Springfield and Highway 666. You should investigate those first.”

  “Do you know if the lake is associated with anything other than the highway?” I asked.

  “The lake itself isn’t a natural formation. It was created by the state in 1930 to provide drinking water to the surrounding area. That stretch of Highway 666 has actually been renamed Interstate 55. Fifty-five is part of the reorganization plan the president requested of the military. It took far longer to get troops in place after the Demon incursion than was planned. The Generals failed to take into account lack of interconnectivity of the highway system. There is a master plan to make it possible to cross the entire country by highway in less than five days,” Ana replied.

  “Five days? That would make my job unreal,” I stated. Even now with all the conveniences of 1960 like televisions and highways, driving across the US was monotonous and could take weeks.

  “The future is now. That’s what they’re saying about it here in Washington. Get to Illinois and stop the hauntings,” Anastasia ordered.

  So that’s why I’m on the new highway fifty-five, crossing over Lake Springfield at this very moment. Looking out to my right, I could see a small lighthouse sitting on the edge of a vast lake. Roadside signs proclaimed motels such as Sabattini’s, Bedini’s, and Polands. Each boasted of having access to clean nude bathing beaches. That both intrigued and disgusted me at the same time. Whenever I sunbathed naked in either Texas or Missouri, I ended up with sand in unmentionable places. Not as fun as it sounds.

  My orders from Ana were to meet a fellow FBI Agent by the name of James Randi at a place called Cozy Hot Dogs. It was, according to Ana, a local favorite and an excellent place to start my investigation.

  Agent Randi stuck out like a white cat in a pile of coal. Still wearing his FBI suit in hundred-degree Illinois weather, the man looked like he was about to drop dead of heat prostration. He was surrounded by townsfolk in beachwear, shorts, or cut-offs. If eggs weren’t frying in the parking lot, it was for lack of trying. I found it amusing that the place was right next to an ice cream shop. Something cold would feel good right about now.

  “Agent Dalton? I’m J
ames Randi.” The Agent stuck his hand out to me as I climbed out of my van.

  Looking Randi in the eyes, I took his hand and gave it a strong but brief squeeze. The hand, like the rest of him, was just dripping in sweat and felt clammy and moist. I resisted the urge to wipe my hand off, and patted him on the shoulder instead. It too was damp. “Let’s go over to the shade, James. You look like you’re dying in that suit of yours.”

  On closer inspection, the building in front of me was actually two structures, joined by an open-air-of-sorts dining room. I pointed toward an empty table in the darkest part of the room and the local Agent followed me. “Take that jacket off and let your body cool down. Even Director Hoover will understand if you need a break from the heat.”

  There had been a directive bandied about when I was up in Boston about active duty Agents looking professional at all times. I wasn’t regular FBI, and I was the head of my own Division, so my standing orders were comfort over professionalism. I wore light grey Army fatigues with a jacket over them, every day. Easy to hide my guns and lots of extra pockets for things like grenades. I only had my side arms holstered today. It was hot, but I’d had a seamstress modify my jacket with mesh underarms and cooling slits along the sides. It resembled a duck hunter’s gear, but comfort was my goal, after all.

  “But…” Randi started to object.

  I whipped out my credentials which listed me as a Division head. “I outrank you. You can put it back on when I leave. The Director will never know. Cool off.”

  I stood and went to the hot dog window. ‘What’s a corn dog?’ I said to myself. Corn and hot dogs don’t go together, or at least they don’t in Texas. Fifty cents got me two cups of pop, a corn dog, and a paper tray of fries. So much has changed over the past ten years. A nickel could’ve gotten me half of that by itself.

  “This has to be the strangest thing I’ve seen today,” I remarked to the other Agent as I held up the corn dog. “I assume this thing is fried?”

  Agent Randi cocked his head to one side and looked at the thing on a stick. “They’re pretty famous around here. You have to dip it in mustard to enjoy it. Where are you from, anyway?”

  The vendor had included a small cup of both ketchup and mustard, so I experimented. “Texas originally. I move around a lot. My office is the van behind me.”

  “My boss got a call from Washington and told me to brief you on the ghosts around here. Do you think you can stop them?” Randi took a long drink, but his eyes never left mine.

  I wasn’t ready to answer him just yet, so I asked my own questions. “What makes you think it’s a ghost?”

  Randi looked around the small dining area and lowered his voice. “Things move. Sometimes it’s just a tiny bit, but we’ve got reports of bicycles flying through the air and lights flashing in the sky.”

  I smiled. “You can speak up, Agent Randi. What I do isn’t a secret. These lights, have you seen them yourself?”

  Randi shook his head. “Not the lights. I’ve seen things move, though. Over at the high school a whole rack of basketballs flew into the air and started bouncing into the hoops all by themselves.”

  Pursing my lips, I gave him a wry look, “Are you sure?”

  “Ask my wife. It happened. It was the last game of the season and the Senators were up three points. Suddenly every ball in the place was flying through the air. Scared half the town silly,” he replied.

  “I assume the Senators is the name of the team?” I asked.

  Agent Randi nodded yes.

  “Were there lights as well as floating balls?” I asked him.

  Randi leaned forward and frowned. “You don’t believe me!”

  Holding up my hands I tried to calm him. “I’ve seen lots of unexplained things over the past year. I’m just trying to get all the details now. Are the hauntings only at the high school?”

  Agent Randi shook his head. “No. We thought it might be isolated to the school at first. It’s built on top of a cemetery.”

  The investigator in me perked up. “A cemetery?”

  “Many of the locals think that Abe Lincoln is the one haunting the school. They tell stories about how he’s angry at the city and wants justice for his child. In 1850 one of his kids was buried in what was called the Hutchinson Cemetery,” Randi answered.

  “I’m confused. Why did they build on top of graves and why would Lincoln want justice?” I asked.

  The agent took a sip of his drink and motioned toward my fries. I nodded to him and made a motion for him to continue.

  Agent Randi finished chewing and looked up at me. “They moved the bodies to Oak Ridge in the early 1900’s but there have always been rumors that they just moved the headstones. The school’s been there since 1915, so unless we tear it down, we’ll never know the truth. You did know that Lincoln got his start here?”

  “Of course. History has always been my thing. It’s part of what makes me good at my job. So where else have there been hauntings?” I asked.

  Randi started counting on his fingers. “Here at Cozy’s, out near the lake, one of the malt shops in town, the town library, some of the bathing beaches, and a few of the neighborhoods.”

  I gripped my chin as I thought. “If it was our former president doing the haunting,” I said, “you would think he’d be at his old house and maybe the Capitol building. Those places you mentioned all seem too modern.”

  Agent Randi ate more of my fries and got up for another soda. I looked out between the buildings at a group of teens playing stick ball while I thought. If a ghost was responsible for this, it couldn’t be one of the ones from the cemetery. The places he listed didn’t exist prior to 1900. Even the lake was artificial. The Park Service supervised the Lincoln home. I made a note to speak with them, if only to put that rumor to rest.

  “I was thinking about what you said.” Randi sat down at the table. He set a bottle of soda down along with a fully loaded hot dog.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  Gesturing with his hands, Randi explained. “Basic FBI craft. Look for the common denominator. What do all the places have in common? Not Lincoln.”

  “No. Our sixteenth president is not in search of revenge. I made a note to check with the Park Department, since they would know for sure if the graves were actually moved or not. But if it is a ghost, it isn’t Abe. From what you told me, all the locations have something to do with either children or families. We should concentrate on that,” I explained.

  There was a sudden clatter as Agent Randi dropped his soda bottle onto the table. Looking sharply in his direction I could see he looked shocked. “What’s wrong?”

  Randi shook his head. “There is no we, Agent Dalton. My boss was super clear on that one. I’m to fill you in and split. They refuse to pay me for more time than that.”

  I spread my hands. “It’s the story of my life at the Bureau. Don’t worry yourself about it. Do you have the files associated with the case?”

  Randi nodded. Quickly, he shoved the remainder of his hot dog into his mouth and stood up. He grabbed his coat, slipped it back on, and said, “I’ll get the box.”

  Turning my chair, I watched him reach into the rear of a parked car and remove a large cardboard box. Agent Randi set it down next to my van. The Agent stared at me expectantly.

  Sighing, I policed up the trash and slipped it into a receptacle. No need to make work for the kids behind the counter. At least I was able to get a full rundown this time. Usually, they just dump the information on me and run.

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” the Park Service officer replied.

  I smiled and said, “No, there isn’t. But I have to follow up on every lead and this is one of them. Can you confirm they actually moved the bodies like they said they did?”

  The man in the brown uniform glared at me. “You boys at the FBI don’t know how to do a lick of research, do you? It’s all on the plaque at the tomb. When the State of Illinois reconstructed everything in the 1930’s, they moved the L
incoln and Todd children’s bodies into it. Only the eldest is buried elsewhere, and that is at Arlington National Cemetery.”

  “Have you seen any ghosts, ranger?” I asked.

  “Question time is over. Would you like a tour of the house?” The man asked.

  The files that Agent Randi had left me were extensive. The reports of poltergeist activity went back a bit over ten years. Like the more recent reports, the older occurrences were in some of the same spots. If it wasn’t a ghost it could be something Fae or Witch kin. Both groups like to play jokes on humans. This was the state capitol. There was supposed to be a Witches Council representative on site somewhere around here.

  In the oldest part of the Capitol building, I found their office. The entrance to their chambers was near the restrooms. There were two sets. In some way, I think there should have been a sign or something. Just as Lincoln’s house is preserved, maybe these should be as well, and not just for famous poopers. Racial divide is something we try to sweep under the rug and forget in this country. The Civil Rights Act of 1925 changed everything. After the great reveal, followed by the Purge, Americans were scared. People all around them could turn into monsters. Color and race took a backseat to species. The CRA granted complete equal rights for all HUMANS and intended to put us on an equal footing with the Paranormals. Certain phrases and lines inside the Act placed restrictions upon known Paranormals like the Weres, and were instrumental in starting the camps and reservations. Humans were united, but the Paranormals were pissed.

  Before I could even knock on the door a voice spoke to me. “Come in, Agent Dalton.”

  I opened the door and stepped inside. The office looked like any other office that I might find in this building, save for the magic. A cup was stirring itself while lunch was being prepared by invisible hands. Bread floated to a plate while a knife sliced a chunk of corned beef. Each slice floating onto the bread with ease.