by Gary Starta
“After all these years and you still don’t know why they did this,” I said, repeating his words to intimate some compassion. He shook his head, possibly in disbelief that he still had come no closer to understanding his son’s abduction.
I myself had a hunch someone wanted to rid this world of the sick bastard Brahms had sired. Of course, I couldn’t say this. I couldn’t be that callous. My empathic abilities told me this fifty-something silver haired man who stood before me was sincere and filled with much regret. Based on outward appearances, anyone could see he was still visibly shaken at what his son had become. I concluded in those seconds that maybe Mollini hadn’t developed into such a monster until he had grown. There had been no reports of any problems during his youth. It’s like he was a ticking time bomb, waiting patiently for the day he would go off. I surmised this man possibly did know, deep down, why his son had been kidnapped. Hell, he might even have a valid reason not to divulge just who those abductors were. If I were correct, he might find the courage to give those answers in time. I would give him some slack considering I had literally bartered Agent Diggs’s life for this Intel.
I settled into the vehicle’s passenger seat, deciding it would be best to monitor Brahms as he drove. I intentionally let my jacket fall open, enough to let him see my holstered weapon.
As he turned the ignition, he said, “You don’t have to worry about any tricks, Agent Diggs. I have no means to change shape again. In fact, I’m quite famished come to think of it. I could use a meal. Might we stop at a diner?”
My stomach offered me one option. I took its advice.
~ * ~
About an hour later, we pulled into what appeared to be another dimension. A chrome building with red trimming shimmered in the sunlight. Frosted glass made it impossible to see inside the restaurant. Brahms, sensing my apprehension, assured me the food would be splendid and that he had dined here during several foliage treks. “It’s not as old as it looks,” he said, “the architecture is simply a throwback to the nineteen-fifties, possibly a selling point for parents of baby boomers.” I nodded with feigned fascination as he pointed out the mini pastel blue fifty-seven Chevy sitting atop the diner’s signage. It promised breakfast twenty-four hours a day. I just hoped it wasn’t the same breakfast.
“So does this place have a name?”
“Max’s. Everybody knows that. It’s legendary. Oops… I’m sorry. I’m forgetting you’re not from here…” Brahms eyes grew vacant. Without another word he hopped out of the car and strode purposely to the front door.
He remained silent until coffee came.
After he dumped seven packets of sugar into it, I decided it was time to resume questioning.
“So how did you… you know… change?”
“I have a friend, she’s pagan. She gave me a glamour spell.”
“A glamour spell…?”
“Oh. I keep forgetting. This kind of thing is stuff of fairy tales for you. Glam spells are for concealing your identity, among other things. It’s used all the time.” He shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. “It’s not illegal, you know.”
My furrowed eyebrows must have told him I didn’t appreciate flippancy.
“You need to be very forthcoming with me, Mr. Brahms. For one very good reason...”
“And that is?”
“Your survival. I will agree to keep you in protective custody only if I deem that you are a victim here. That means you must tell me everything you know.” I had no intention of letting him go, but I needed to threaten him; I think it’s an innate need for woman to do such things to men--no matter which universe they come from.
“I am. I will… It’s just painful.” He began to read a menu.
“You must see how your use of magic might lead me to conclude differently.”
“Okay. Okay.” He dropped the menu. “My pagan friend is very dear to me. She’s supported me through some very rough times. I could introduce her to you if you’ll allow me to take you to her.”
I shook my head. “Not possible. I have no doubt Mollini isn’t finished with you. He’ll be back for you. So in the interest of your welfare, I will keep a personal watch on you. I don’t think your witch friend will be capable of protecting you when…”
He cut me off. “You know nothing of her--or of me!” He flicked his finger against a spoon resting on a saucer. Its rattle startled several nearby patrons. “I seriously doubt you have the means to protect me. Or anyone.”
“Look, she gave her life to help you--and I allowed it. Now, you’re in my custody, understand? You’ll do things my way.” I felt my cheeks flush in anger. I suppose embarrassment fueled some of my rage. He had toyed with me when taking the form of Agent Grant and I had acted as if I were a lovesick teen.
“You hate being judged?” He paused. “You’re not alone! I have been scrutinized all my life.” He paused again just when I thought he was going to divulge a case breaking secret. Instead, he said, “You shouldn’t feel awkward about feeling attracted to Agent Grant. For all intents and purposes, you were.”
“But that was just you--in disguise.”
“No. The spell captured the very essence of Agent Grant. When you looked into his eyes, you saw his personality, not mine.”
“So that’s why I couldn’t assess your true nature?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Oops, shouldn’t have said that. I wasn’t about to tell this man about my other supernatural abilities. Bad enough he knew I was psychic. Still couldn’t be sure which side he stood on.
I tried to deflect some awkward silence by perusing the menu.
I grumbled and mumbled about how hard it was to find the dieter’s menu. I finally settled on grilled chicken over salad. The healthiest thing Max served I deduced, finding everything from fowl to fries to be dipped in the house specialty--deep fried batter. Deep fried zucchini--deep fried onions--deep fried shrimp.
“You should live a little. I’ll share the deep fried chicken basket with you. You know it is funny how food and smells remind you of the past. I imagine a time when Patty, my pagan friend and I picnicked by a river. We had fried chicken, potato salad, dill pickles, just scrumptious fare…”
He finally stopped talking when I set my menu on the side of the table. A waitress appeared instantaneously to take our order. She had apparently overheard our discussion. “You’ll be sharing?” she asked. I said, emphatically. “Not anytime soon.”
He stared at me with a parental gaze. It screamed-have it your way-during our wait for the food.
Great… You make a healthy choice and still get guilt.
During my dinner, I reached across the table, causing Brahms to flinch.
“Is something the matter?” I asked. “Perhaps, a side of guilt,” I answered for him, my tone facetious. Two could play at that game.
“Well, if you must know, I don’t like to be threatened.”
“Threatened?”
“Yes. Back there at the creek. You nearly pistol-whipped me with that branch. After the ordeal I experienced…”
“Pistol whipped? Threatened? You don’t know the definition… or me for that matter.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brahms asked, munching on a curly fry. “The worst is yet to come?”
“Yeah…” I flipped my fingers through my hair as a means of restraint. It didn’t work. “Well, if you really want to push me, you’ll find out. I don’t know if you realize this, but I’ve had a fairly rough time the past few days. I’ve been ripped out my world, seen myself die, watched a demon continue his reign of terror in two dimensions, and now I’ve got to baby sit some…”
He continued munching his fry, daring me to finish my thought.
“Ah. You don’t think too highly of me. You think I spawned a demon.”
“Well, the thought had crossed my mind. I mean, if you’re human, then you must have had a demon lover at some point.”
“Believe what you want to believe. I made my son wit
h the best intentions.”
I wiped my hands on my napkin, nonchalant. I wondered if Brahms had just committed a Freudian slip, perhaps giving me more information than he intended. Who goes around saying they “made” someone, anyway? People, normal people, say they fathered someone. But who am I to say? I mean I don’t go around copulating with demons. All right--at least not voluntarily. So I suppose the terminology might differ in this dimension. Still…
And then the connection nearly floored me. The parallel. This man’s relationship with his son mirrored that of the Judge Manners and his half incubus son. In both instances, parent and child were separated for years, the result: a cultivation of some very bitter feelings. Could Mollini simply want revenge upon Brahms for the kidnapping, somehow blaming him for the separation? But no matter, even if that were the case, I believed Mollini had some other sinister plans for this world. Manners and Brahms alluded to the fact that some being gave Mollini the power or means to escape. I couldn’t believe spite could be the only motivation or payment for this demon’s services. I had to believe Brahms might be privy to some other bigger plan. I decided to play coy with him, at least until we got back to DC. Ah. Dread. DC. How would I tell Briana about Diggs? I only knew I had to do it in person. I simply couldn’t lay such bad news on her via telephone.
I started to ask the waitress for a check when Brahms stopped me. He had a look in his eye, urgency. Would he finally spill some information I could really use to stop Mollini? I waited with bated breath. Instead of revelation, he offered frivolity. He told me it would be a sin to skip dessert. “Max has a lovely dessert tray.”
He picked key lime pie. I chose restraint, or in other words, sugar-free strawberry banana gelatin. I nearly rubbed my hands in anticipation. (That’s me being sarcastic, in case you didn’t know.)
“Ooh. You don’t know what you’re missing,” he said, digging a fork into the concoction. “Tell me, Agent Diggs. Have you ever had key lime pie?”
“I suppose so, as a kid. I guess it really didn’t make much of an impression on me.”
“Well, you should do yourself a favor, and try the key lime pie made in this world. You know what makes it so divine?”
I shook my head. I just couldn’t relate to any notion of divinity as this point.
“It’s the avocados. If you gave them a chance they would take away your doom and gloom outlook on life.”
Perfect. The parent emerged once again to take his rightful place to mock me.
“You see avocados are very beneficial, nutrient wise. They’ve always helped me do my best work. They contain a vitamin, you know it as niacin or B3 in your world; but here--it’s an even more powerful antioxidant. It’s known as B67. It helps the brain think. Some even say that it enhances certain abilities. People who have been known to be clairvoyant, for example, often find their talents enhanced by just a slice of key lime. But you won’t find avocados in just any key lime. It’s only in Max’s. You see, he has a secret recipe, and if I were to ever divulge what other ingredients he uses, well then, let’s just say I would have to kill you.” His laugh grew from his diaphragm, diabolically wicked in tone and nothing befitting the man’s demure demeanor.
I began to wonder if his reference to clairvoyant beings had been coincidental. I also wondered how sane this man was. But most important, I found this a good opportunity to dig for answers concerning the man’s past. He had just mentioned how the pie had aided him mentally. I surmised his work to be scholarly. He did look the part, garbed in neutral colored clothing. A taupe sports jacket--horribly out of season--and his hair, frizzy and unkempt, Einstein like.
“I bet you’re a professor of some sorts.” I laughed the way a friend would when bestowing a compliment. “Am I right?”
“Yes… I am actually. Dr. Brahms. I teach.”
“Fascinating… where?”
“Maryland Institute of Neuroscience, ah… currently.”
“Your expertise, if you don’t mind?”
“Biopsychology.”
“Indeed. That’s why you know so much about food’s impact on the brain.”
“Hmm. You seem to be familiar with the topic.”
“Only because my former partner majored in biochemistry; she always made it a point to remind me of it.”
“I see. Very well, then.” He smiled, but his grin grew thin as he excused himself to use the men’s room. I knew he had just revealed more than he intended. I paid the check with the cash Brahms had left strewn about the table. I then spent a few nervous moments eyeing the door, hoping my dear professor wouldn’t exploit the opportunity to flee.
He returned. I thanked him for the meal. We both spent the next hours in cordial conversation, closing the distance between us and the nation’s capital. Apparently. Brahms deduced, the dinner had ignited our pleasure centers.
“It’s the brain’s way of giving us a slice of nirvana,” he said in a nerdy, playful sort of way. I would even conjecture to say that it had been laced with a healthy dose of paternal concern. At this juncture, I couldn’t picture the man purposely fostering an evil being. Perhaps, Mollini’s birth had been a simple mistake, unplanned parenthood. I would give him the benefit of the doubt. Because, as we neared DC, I decided Briana’s apartment might afford the best protection for him. So with the aid of only feelings and instinct, I once again agreed to place an FBI agent in a precarious situation, taking the gamble that Brahms was the good guy here and that he needed our protection. I just wondered how long it would be before Mollini somehow caught up with him. I knew stowing him away at Briana’s would only be a temporary fix. Yet, right now, it appeared a better option than bringing him to Diggs’s house. If Mollini could find people by sense, he surely could sniff out where Diggs lived. And if that were true, I just had to hope he never had any association with Briana. It was the first question I asked her when we arrived at her door. She answered, no. Brahms appeared behind my shoulder immediately afterwards. She motioned for him to come on in. Apparently, she sensed no danger from the stranger. I explained how he had been taken hostage and how Diggs had saved his life.
Then I told her how it had cost Diggs’s life. She held a hand to her face to stop a tear; with the other she held my hand.
“We always know this could happen,” she said.
“But it doesn’t make things any easier, does it?” I said.
Briana shook her head. “She was my other half; always centered me.”
I knew exactly what she meant. I felt the same about my dear Geoffrey.
We hugged and both of us cried. Thankfully, Brahms stood by silent through it all, gentlemanly. When our sobs subsided, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, offering it to Briana.
She excused herself to shuffle off to a linen closet and returned with blankets and pillows. “You’ll be taking residence up here, for now.” she said to Brahms. He asked if he could call his girlfriend. We both shook our heads. If Mollini could telepathically hear our thoughts, the notion of a simple eavesdropping, albeit it via telephone seemed ludicrous; yet, still a prudent precaution. Because we both upheld a duty, sworn to protect those in trouble--a lifelong pledge even for those of us who have left the Bureau --we sometimes have to follow protocol no matter the circumstance. We do it because it helps center us. Nevertheless, I still hoped Briana might offer some nontraditional assistance to one: keep Brahms safe, and two: capture Mollini. If what Diggs said was true, that the FBI did indeed operate a preternatural crime division to deal with the ever growing demon population, there just had to be some manual lying around Briana’s apartment that could help us. There just had to be, because if there wasn’t, I seriously doubted that all the avocado-laced key lime pie and herbal essences of this reality would ever provide me a much needed moment of solace.
Still unsettled you ask? Yes. You might say so.
Thirteen
I headed back to Diggs’s luxurious Manassas home after sharing some grief time with Briana. We agreed to co-write her field repor
t later in the day. That report would place Briana at the scene of Diggs’s death and make no mention of my existence. Now my next problem--besides Mollini--would be how to keep a low profile until I could find some way back to my reality. But first I would settle for a much needed nap.
As I navigated Brahms’s sedan into the driveway, I hoped Diggs’s neighbors weren’t of the nosy variety. In a few hours, Briana would report the agent’s death, making any appearance by myself a remarkable one. I could hear them now. Speaking of resurrections and specters, I made a mental note to ask Brahms about his witch friend, maybe she could lay one of those glamour spells on me.
I felt uneasy about soliciting the aid of Briana for this. I couldn’t be sure if the Briana McFadden of this world readily cast spells. I based this upon the fact she had provided a mundane solution for getting into Diggs’s home, offering me an extra set of keys. This made me ponder her curious relationship with Manners. The incubus apparently employed magic on a regular basis, teleporting to and fro, not only in this world, but mine. This conclusion nearly floored me as I jiggled a key to unlock the front door. Could Manners transport me back home?
Lost in thought, I believed the door to be responsible for a low moaning sound, a creak or possibly a squeak of rusty hinges. As soon as I looked up, I revised my theory. The door had not offered me the menacing welcome. The low moaning sound emanated from a large cat--black panther to be exact. About five feet in length, it sported a bluish shimmer about its coat and had translucent red eyes.
