by John Ringo
However, there was a very definite feel to the crowd that they did not normally dress that way. A tugging of waists and bustlines was noticeable. As was the fact that most of the women didn’t normally wear heels. And despite the early hour, most of them were buzzed if not drunk. Most of the women were hanging onto the arms of their dates less because they were besotted with love than because they’d topple over if they didn’t.
There was nothing so déclassé as a buffet line. Instead, waiters in white tuxedoes circulated with trays of tiny hors d’oeuvres and drinks.
“Do you need anything, sir, ma’am?” one of them asked.
“Pepsi if you’ve got it,” Kurt said.
“Coke, sir?” the waiter said with a pained expression.
“I guess,” Kurt replied.
“Same for me,” Barbara said. “What was that about?”
“I sort of did it on purpose,” Kurt whispered. “The Reamers are Coke-bottling money. Saying the P word in this room is on the order of pounding a copy of the doctrines of Martin Luther onto the door of the Vatican.”
“Be nice,” Barb said. “Is it just me, or do most of these people look…?”
“It has a definite prom feeling, doesn’t it?” Kurt said. “Just older. Heads up. Incoming.”
“Mrs. Everette,” Vartouhi said, extending a languid hand. “I am so glad you could attend.”
“My pleasure,” Barb replied. “You have a wonderful home.”
“I merely have the joy of residing here,” Vartouhi said, gesturing to the man at her side. “It is Thomas’s home. Thomas Reamer, Mrs. Barbara Everette and Special Agent Kurt Spornberger of the FBI.”
“A pleasure,” Reamer said. He was small and slight with pale hair and eyes. His hand, when Barbara shook it, felt as thin and light as a bird’s.
“Barbara is a missionary from Mississippi,” Vartouhi said. “Agent Spornberger is originally from Chicago, if I’m recalling that correctly.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kurt said. “Finest city on the face of the earth. No offense to Chattanooga, of course.”
“Chattanooga was once a terrible place to live,” Reamer said, his eyes lighting. “The factories poisoned the air and water. The buildings were black from the soot. It’s taken many years to repair the damage and bring it into the light. You’re based in the Pioneer Building. Beautiful architecture—my great-grandfather built it and did a fine job. But when I was young, you could barely see it for all the soot.”
“Thomas has made it his goal in life to beautify Chattanooga,” Vartouhi said. “He is a major contributor to the Aquarium and the Hunter Museum.”
“Was that your design?” Barbara asked. “It’s beautiful.”
“No, not mine,” Reamer said. “But I was involved in the construction from day one. A good design is only the start of a building. You have to stay on top of every aspect of the construction. You wouldn’t believe how people try to cut corners. You’re a missionary, Mrs. Everette? To Chattanooga?”
“I’m actually a consultant to the FBI,” Barbara said. “My missionary work is separate.”
“They are working on the Madness cases,” Vartouhi said.
“Oh, are there any leads?” Reamer asked. “I don’t know why I bother to ask. The problem is the poisoning of the land, foul emanations of the bygone days surfacing to rot the heart and mind. There are still many who cannot understand the importance of clean air and clean water. The Goldheims—”
“Darling,” Vartouhi said, putting her hand on his arm.
“I can’t talk about an ongoing case, sir,” Kurt said, shrugging.
“You’re Kurdish, Ms. Cass?” Barbara asked. “Vartouhi is a Kurdish name.”
“Actually, I’m from Summerville,” Vartouhi said with a laugh. “A small town just south of here. My parents named me Vartouhi because they liked the name.”
“I would have guessed Middle Eastern from your looks,” Kurt said.
“Actually, Irish and Native American,” the woman said, smiling. “It’s a common mistake. People with some knowledge of the world sometimes guess Italian or French. More commonly these days, people assume Hispanic. Few note the Kurdish name,” she added with an interested glance.
“I’m something of a student of the Middle East,” Barb said. “Ancient history. The Hurrians are related to the Hittites.”
“I don’t recognize either group,” Vartouhi said, her face blank.
“Hurrians are Kurds,” Kurt said. He grinned at Barb’s look of surprise. “Anthropology degree. The Hittites were a branch of them that at one point conquered most of the Middle East. I notice that your entry has some Hittite elements. The double archway. The intervening friezes…”
“Hittites stole most of their architecture from other cultures,” Reamer said. “Good stone workers, but if you observe their pre-conquest architecture, it’s fairly simple Neolithic stuff…”
“Darling,” Vartouhi said, placing her hand on his arm again. “I doubt that they want to hear a lecture on architectural development.”
“Actually, I find it fascinating,” Barbara said. “I’ve heard the same theory before. I’m under the impression they were most influenced by the Sumerians.”
“It’s unlikely,” Reamer said. “Most of their later motifs incorporated some Sumerian motifs. But there is an unexplained jump in technology…”
“Darling, the Kincaids are here,” Vartouhi said. “We need to say hello to them.”
“Oh, yes,” Reamer said. “Of course.”
“Enjoy yourselves, Special Agent, Mrs. Everette,” Vartouhi said. “Live for each moment.”
“In this life I am dead, Ms. Cass,” Barb said, nodding. “I live for the hereafter.”
“What in the hell…?” Kurt said as the pair drifted away.
“Don’t,” Barb said. “Not here.”
“So what do we do now?” Kurt asked.
“Mingle?” Barb said. “Talk?”
* * *
They stayed an hour. Most of the talk was of the Madness cases, and when it became known that Kurt was working the cases he got used to saying “I can’t discuss an ongoing case.” Finally, when it seemed they’d been there long enough to be polite, they left. The guards at the elevator performed the same pantomime with the security keys, which meant that nobody got to leave the building unless they were allowed out.
They descended to the ground floor in silence and stayed that way as far as the car.
“Okay, give,” Kurt said as soon as they were in the car.
“Not here, either,” Barb replied. She started up the car and drove out of the parking garage, then stopped on the street facing the building. “Notice anything?”
“No,” Kurt said. “It’s an office building.”
“You’re the FBI agent,” Barb snapped. “Use your eyes. The elevator was marked for seven floors, a basement, a mezzanine and the penthouse. Count the floors.”
“Seven,” Kurt said a moment later.
“Where’s the mezzanine floor?” Barb asked.
“Sometimes that’s built into…” Kurt said, then looked again. “There’s no way to fit one in.”
“So where does the mezzanine button go to?”
“Where now?”
“The office.”
* * *
“Now give?” Kurt asked when they were back in the offices.
“You notice anything about our conversation with Vartouhi and Reamer?”
“Like she kept cutting him off?” Kurt asked. “I’d love to have an hour alone with him in an interrogation room.”
“And you’re not going to get it,” Barb said. “He’d have a very high-priced lawyer present, at the very least. More than that.”
“Like she knew who we were, where we were from, what we were working on?” Kurt said. “Yeah. Noticed.”
“Most of that stuff she can get from public sources,” Barb said. “Credit records. Ownership background.”
“Stuff we can’t access without a special f
inding,” Kurt said bitterly. “But, yeah, I know.”
“But that we’re working the Madness cases is privileged information,” Barb said. “Right?”
“More or less,” Kurt said. “It’s not special compartment like SC, but it’s not commonly available.”
“So she has access to that from some source,” Barb said.
“Could be any number of ways she’d get that information,” Kurt said. “Like I said, it’s not compartmented information. Through Reamer, she’s obviously tied into the business and legal structure in the town. Secretaries talk. Bureau secretaries talk to legal secretaries at other firms. Lawyers golf. If it’s not SCI, there’s no reason that it wouldn’t come up.”
“In casual conversation?” Barb asked.
“You saw how much interest there is in the cases,” Kurt pointed out. “But that’s not all. You were nervous as hell in there.”
“On the rest, I’m not sure how much I can talk about,” Barb said. “There are indications that this case has something to do with a civilization the Hittites destroyed. And there is an unexplained jump in Hittite architectural development. If I remember my reading right, Hittites were primarily a warrior race, and they absorbed various aspects of culture from other races, mostly by enslaving them. Gods, art and architecture. But there’s one strain of architecture that has never been adequately explained. And there’s not much known about the civilization that’s connected to these cases except that the Hittites wiped it out. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
“What the hell does architecture have to do with psychotics?” Kurt asked, grabbing his head.
“Watch your language, Agent Spornberger,” Barbara said. “The architecture of the entryway is similar to Hittite, but… Look, I’ve been doing some really weird reading as part of this job. Stuff I never thought I’d have to read up on. But that doesn’t make me an expert by any means. The thing is, I don’t think that entryway is Hittite. I think it’s…something else. There is something nagging at me, though.”
“What?” Kurt asked.
“I can’t place it,” Barbara said, grimacing. “I wish I was more of an expert at this. The house, there’s something weird about the architecture.”
“Well, there’s the missing floor,” Kurt said.
“Something else,” Barb said. “Can you get blueprints at this time of night?”
“For tactical reasons the Bureau gets copies of all new building permits and their schematics,” Kurt said, firing up his computer. “So…yes.”
* * *
“There,” Barb said, shuddering. She pointed at the screen. “Do you see it?”
“Shit,” Kurt replied, nodding. “That building looks just like the symbol Vartouhi was wearing the other day.”
“Three lobes,” Barb said. “I think that ‘house’ is laid out as a temple. And nobody should know what that kind of temple looks like.”
“Who in the hel…heck are you talking about?” Kurt asked.
“Uh…” Barb said, then shrugged. “Need to know. The powers that be determine who has need to know.”
“Your powers that be?” Kurt asked, angrily.
“Yours, actually,” Barb said.
“Oh, great,” Kurt said. “I’ve got the responsibility, but nobody’s giving me the information? Why?”
“That’s a very interesting question,” Barb said. “But not an important one at this point. Thing is that nothing’s adding up here. I’m going to sleep on it. I’ll see you tomorrow, but not early. I need to talk to somebody.”
“Great,” Kurt said. “You go ‘see somebody.’ I’m going to go get out of this monkey suit and get a beer. There’s not much else for me to do.”
* * *
As Barb unlocked her door, a black van with tinted windows pulled up beside her.
“That was somewhat nervous-making,” Brother Marquez said as the passenger-side window rolled down. “If we’d had to do an entry, it was going to be tough. We’d have to blow the stair doors and go up eight flights.”
“I take it you’ve seen the blueprints,” Barb said, crossing her arms.
“For tactical reasons the Bureau gets copies of all new building permits and their schematics,” Brother Marquez said. “When we go somewhere, we get copies of their copies. Also something I’d prefer you not share with your friend Kurt. Hop in.”
* * *
The back of the van was laid out as a mobile command post, and two men were watching screens as they pulled away. Barb strapped herself into a seat as Brother Marquez swiveled his captain’s chair to the rear.
“The entry to the house, the entire house in fact, has architecture that I’d describe as Hittite,” Barb said. “But it’s not. Slight differences.”
“Osemi?” Brother Marquez asked, raising an eyebrow. “Where would they get Osemi architectural data? The Hittites destroyed every trace of the civilization.”
“That’s a very good question,” Barb said. “The thing is, I don’t think that’s their power center. It didn’t have the feel of an active temple. I’ve been in an active temple. There’s a definite…vibe to one. There wasn’t one in Reamer’s house. A slight vibe, but not anything strong. Much stronger at Rembrandt’s.”
“But those houses well predate any indications of supernatural occurrences,” Brother Marquez pointed out.
“Which is why I don’t think it’s in that building cluster,” Barb said, frowning. “I’ve got the sneaking suspicion it’s under them. But the entrance has to be close. Probably under Rembrandt’s or one of the other buildings. But we don’t have enough information to get a search warrant.”
“Who needs a search warrant?” Brother Marquez said, shrugging.
“I’d rather we try to avoid a black-bag operation,” Barb said, referring to a covert entry on a building. The term went back to the early days of law enforcement when the tools would be carried in black leather satchels.
“As do I,” Brother Marquez said. “But those are public buildings, no? You’ve never heard of a health and safety inspection?”
* * *
Barb hoped that her hair tucked up under a Chattanooga Food Safety Inspector ball cap and a matching blue shapeless coverall was going to disguise her enough. It might work as long as she avoided Vartouhi.
The buildings didn’t have basements as such. Just subground levels, partially open. That was as good as it was going to get. She was tapping one of the solid rock walls when the restaurant manager caught up with her.
“Can I ask what you’re looking for?” he asked, seeming amused.
“Rat holes,” Barb said, shining a light under the wine racks. “Rat droppings. And structural unsoundness.”
“We’re on rock,” the man said, with a shocked expression. “And we don’t have rats, ma’am!”
“Sedimentary rock,” Barb replied, glibly. “Water flow can cause sudden openings in it that lead to unsoundness. And you’d be surprised what rats will bore through to get to food.”
“Oh,” the manager said. “Well, I can assure you we don’t have rats. I am very strict about that sort of thing. But if you need anything, just holler.”
“I will,” Barb said, tapping at the walls with a stick until he was gone. Then she opened her Sight and tried to get something from the surroundings. There was still the feeling of otherworldliness. But now that she was in the basement, it didn’t seem…malevolent. She realized it was more just…power. Not even really power she could use. Just raw power, like the hum from electric lines. You tended to get nervous around it, even fearful.
She started as her phone rang with Germaine’s ringtone: “Danse Macabre.”
“Yes, sir?” Barb said.
“I understand you’re at Bluff View,” Germaine said.
“Yes, sir,” Barb replied. She wasn’t even going to bother to wonder how he knew.
“I have arranged a meeting for you at Tony’s in ten minutes. Ask for Mrs. Arquero. I believe you shall find the conversation…enlightening.”
>
* * *
Tony’s was a fairly high-end restaurant for Chattanooga, and Barb felt rather out of place in her coveralls.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Arquero?” she told the maitre d’.
“This way, Madame.” The maitre d’ may have found the coveralls a bit underdressed, but nobody in the restaurant industry was about to piss off a health inspector.
“Mrs. Everette.” The speaker was “a woman of a certain age.” Barb placed her as anywhere from thirty to sixty. Dark hair, short, wearing a suit that probably cost more than Barb’s entire wardrobe. “Christina Arquero. I believe Germaine called you?”
“Yes, he did, Mrs. Arquero,” Barb said cautiously, sitting down at a wave.
“My husband and I are the owners of Bluff View,” Mrs. Arquero said. “And we are of course quite concerned about a health and safety inspection from such an eminent inspector.” She gave a slight smile.
“It’s a…fascinating place,” Barb said. “Very…fascinating.”
“It’s a labor of love,” Mrs. Arquero said. “We took a bunch of run-down and honestly unsafe apartment buildings and old houses, and turned it into a place of beauty and repose.”
“The food is excellent,” Barb said. “I really love Rembrandt’s. It almost tempts me to gluttony.”
“Almost,” Mrs. Arquero said. “Do you speak Spanish, Mrs. Everette?”
“One of the languages I never learned,” Barb said, wondering at the change of topic.
“Arquero is generally translated as ‘The Archer,’” the lady said, taking a slight sip of wine. “However, the etymology is complex. It is also the term, in what Americans call soccer, for a goalkeeper. This etymology comes from its Castilian definition, which is ‘a guardian at the gates.’”
“Ah,” Barbara said.
“The reason for Augustus’s call becomes more clear,” Mrs. Arquero said, giving a very slight chuckle. “We have lived in the South for many years, and I must admit I am sometimes given to Southernisms. If you will permit the indelicacy, you are barking up the wrong tree.”
“That…yes,” Barb said. “The problem being, I really don’t have another tree to bark up.”
“Tell me what you know,” Arquero said.
“Janea was attacked,” Barb said, carefully. She avoided the word “mystic.” “When she was found, she was wet as if she had been in the river. This place is across the river and had a certain…air.”
