by C. J. Cross
Claire looked uncomfortable again. “An FBI agent.”
“Really?” Dana felt her eyebrows rise. “Did he say why?”
“Nope. Only that he was here to speak to the ‘witch doctor’,” Claire muttered, her painted black fingernails emphasizing her air quotes.
Dana’s cheeks burned. She was well aware of her horrible nickname, but most people had the decency to use it behind her back. “Maybe you should tell this FBI agent that I’m not available,” she said haughtily.
“I don’t think that’s gonna work.”
“Why not?”
Claire shrugged. “He just looks like the type who doesn’t take no for an answer, if you know what I mean.”
She did. One didn’t get to be head curator at the Smithsonian without knowing how to play the game, but Dana preferred working with the dead. They were more predictable. Having dedicated much of her life to studying rituals of death, Dana often found she didn’t have patience for the living. But she was trying to make an effort these days. Mostly, for Claire’s sake. She loved that she’d found such a dedicated intern, but Dana didn’t want the girl to turn out like she had. Claire deserved a chance at a normal life.
Deciding it was best to gain as much information as possible about her visitor, Dana quizzed her intern further so she could be prepared for her apparently inevitable meeting. “What else did you notice?”
“About Secret Agent Man?” Claire’s painted lips twitched into a momentary smirk, the deep cherry hue of her lipstick reminding Dana of a splash of blood in the snow. “He’s hot. Like hot enough to melt a popsicle in a freezer, hot.”
Dana laughed, caught off guard by her normally reserved intern’s enthusiasm. “Wow. That’s some description.”
“Best one I’ve had all day,” a gruff voice retorted.
Dana’s attention was drawn to the man in an expensive-looking suit who unexpectedly darkened her doorway. Clearing his throat, he grinned at Claire, making the young girl blush. “Thanks for that, by the way. And you were right about me not taking no for an answer.”
“Excuse me,” Dana interrupted. “You need permission to be on this level of the library.”
“I swear I told him to wait upstairs,” Claire squeaked.
The man pulled out a badge and strode forward. “I have permission. Special Agent Jake Shepard. FBI.”
3
Jake extended his hand, firmly gripping the woman’s cool palm as his preconceived notions of the “witch doctor” vanished. He still hated the idea of having a partner. He didn’t make a habit of relying on others for help, but he certainly didn’t mind the company of a beautiful woman from time to time. And this woman, with her soft, supple frame, dark hair and even darker eyes was the epitome of beauty.
She was not at all who he’d been expecting, but Jake was pleasantly surprised the witch doctor looked nothing like the decrepit windbag he’d imagined being saddled with.
“Doctor Dana Gray,” she said, returning his firm grip.
“So you’re the witch doctor, huh?”
“It’s not a nickname I appreciate,” she replied, standing taller.
“Fair enough.” Jake had earned his share of unflattering call signs in the Army as a private. More than a few he hadn’t been fond of stuck around long enough to rub him the wrong way. He made a mental note to do his best to leave “witch” off the good doctor’s name. It shouldn’t be too hard considering she looked like all of his adolescent librarian fantasies come true with those glasses pushed up into her messy brown hair.
Refocusing, he gestured for Dr. Gray to take a seat. She remained standing. Another point for the good doctor. Jake contained his smirk. He loved a challenge. “I was told you’d be able to assist with an ongoing investigation.”
She blinked those big brown eyes at him. “Assist the FBI?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m sorry but this is the first I’m hearing of it.”
Jake swore under his breath, not at all surprised the Bureau had sent him in blind. This wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last. The caseloads were many and the manpower never enough. “I apologize for the unannounced visit. You should’ve been sent a briefing.”
Pulling up a chair, he took a seat at the giant old desk piled high with dusty leather-bound books. He was puzzled by the absence of electronics in the room. And was she wearing a pager?
Maybe the Bureau had emailed Dr. Gray a memo. Little good it would do if she was stuck in the Stone Age. Dr. Gray’s office reminded him of an Egyptian tomb. He wondered how anyone could work in such a creepy time capsule.
Her workspace looked more like a museum than a place to conduct business. The only normal item on her desk was a picture frame. Jake picked it up, observing the smiling couple. The woman in the photograph was the spitting image of Dr. Gray, or she would be if the witch doctor ever smiled. “This your sister?”
Dr. Gray snatched the frame out of his hands, placing it face down on her desk. “It’s none of your business.”
“Okay ...” Her reaction was as strange as her field of study. Jake’s training told him she was hiding something, but he wasn’t going to make his job any easier by questioning her. Resisting a shiver from the cool, dry air circulating through the room, he returned his focus to his mission. “I can get you up to speed on the investigation.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?” he asked, trying to feign patience. Jake liked a challenge, but not more than he liked putting criminals behind bars. He never understood it when others didn’t share that same sense of duty.
“Actually, yes,” Dr. Gray replied with annoyance. “I’m in the middle of a noteworthy Nordic discovery that could help link modern shamanic contexts.”
“That’s what’s so great about history, Doc. It’ll be there tomorrow.” Jake was momentarily entertained by his own sarcasm, but Dr. Gray was not. The way she crossed her arms indicated she didn’t share his humor—or maybe any sense of humor. “Look, all I’m trying to point out is that some old Viking scribbles can take a backseat to the warm bodies I’m dealing with.”
Dr. Gray drew in an offended breath. Jake could tell she was gearing up for an argument, but he knew the best offense was a good defense. “Listen, Doc, I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here, but I have six victims and a feeling there will be more. Help me get a lead on the Romeo and Juliet Killer, then I’ll be out of your hair, and you can go back to doing whatever it is you do here.”
The woman’s dark eyes widened, showing her first hint of interest. “Your case is Shakespearean? That’s fascinating, but you might be better off contacting one of my colleagues in the Elizabethan literature department. My area of expertise is in Occult History and Ritualistic Artifacts.”
“Trust me. I’m aware.”
She crossed her arms again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jake dropped all pretenses. “It means dragging you out of the library wasn’t my idea. I’m just following orders to have you assist me on this investigation.”
“I still don’t see how I can help you.”
Jake stood. “Once you see the crime scene, you’ll understand.”
“Crime scene?” Genuine fear flashed across her features. “I don’t go to crime scenes. I’m a historian. I study artifacts and rituals.”
“Well, today’s your lucky day. Someone’s been bringing your satanic rituals to life.” He tossed a case file onto her cluttered desk.
Dr. Gray rushed to her desk, but not to look at documents in the folder. She seemed much more concerned about protecting her precious books that were making a home there.
Was Cramer out of his mind? Working with this woman wasn’t a viable option, and Jake was done wasting time.
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. That is if you care at all about helping the living.”
4
“It’s not going to work, Cramer,” Jake yelled into the speaker as he fought t
he endless Pennsylvania Avenue traffic. “The witch doctor was just another dead end, so feel free to pass that on to whatever genius set up that waste of time.”
“Relax, Shep. She’ll come around.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Did you leave a copy of the case file with her?”
“I didn’t have much choice considering she refused to come to the crime scene.”
“She’s consulted on other cases for us before.”
“It certainly didn’t seem like it.”
Cramer sounded like he was holding in laughter on the other end of the call. “Let’s just say Dr. Gray has a reputation for doing things her own way, but I assure you, her input will be invaluable to this case.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Get some rest, son. We’ll regroup at o-six-hundred.”
Jake disconnected the Bluetooth call, trying to ignore the flare of anger his boss’s fatherly comment triggered. He respected Cramer, but there was only one man who’d earned the right to call him son, and that was his uncle.
When Jake’s biological father refused to take responsibility for the result of his off-base extracurriculars, Jake’s Uncle Wade took over. Master Sergeant Wade Shepard helped raise Jake in his early years, when Jake’s mother was too shattered by heartbreak to do so. Jake counted himself lucky that her big brother Wade stepped up. It had formed an unbreakable bond between the two men—one that continued to this day.
Guilt stabbed Jake as he realized how long it’d been since he was home. But ever since he’d returned from his last tour, Nevada didn’t feel like home. How could it when his unit had returned one man short?
Pushing the painful memories aside, Jake switched lanes and headed toward his favorite outlet for the anger building beneath his skin—the shooting range.
Freshly showered, Jake toweled off and padded barefoot through his empty apartment. At the wet bar, he poured himself a glass of bourbon. He hadn’t bothered turning on the lights or dressing. Walking around naked was one of the perks of living in his own private bachelor pad.
He stood in front of his floor to ceiling windows, enjoying his eagle eye view of the National Mall. No matter how many times he saw it, DC at night took his breath away. Especially from the vantage point of his high-rise apartment.
For a rare moment, he allowed himself to study his reflection in the glass. Not just the definition of the muscles a lifetime of military service had sculpted or the way the remaining beads of water glistened on his tan skin, but he let his eyes travel over the damaged flesh his bad choices had left behind.
His scars were many, depicting a roadmap of his life. The problem was, there were just as many scars buried deep below the surface, waiting to detonate like an IED on anyone who got too close.
Deep down, Jake knew that was why he was keeping his distance from home. He didn’t want to unleash his demons on Wade or his mother. They’d raised him to be a better man than he was right now. That’s why he didn’t plan on going back until he got his head right.
It was a long road back to the man they remembered. Jake had been walking a new path for four years since he left the service. But he still had a long way to go.
Pulling himself from his inner darkness, Jake took his first sip of bourbon, savoring the warmth that spread through him. It instantly eased his mind. He grinned faintly as he heard his uncle’s voice in his head. There’s nothing quite as divine as a bottle of bourbon. That’s why it’s called spirits.
Wade had taught Jake to drink his bourbon neat, Like a real man.
Thinking about Wade tugged at the guilt Jake had just spent hours trying to bury. He quelled it with another sip of bourbon. A few hours at the shooting range, then his home gym hadn’t been enough to rid him of all his demons. But his anger had at least subsided enough to allow him to think clearly again.
As he sipped his bourbon, Jake’s thoughts drifted back to the murder investigation, and of course the infuriating witch doctor, whom he couldn’t seem to get out of his mind.
She was gorgeous and no doubt a genius in her field, but in his opinion, working with her wasn’t worth the hassle. Which brought Jake to two important conclusions. Working this case with someone as attractive and frustrating as Dana Gray was a recipe for disaster. Ergo, working the case alone was the only solution.
Now he just had to convince Cramer of that.
5
Dana couldn’t help herself. The folder was sitting on her desk, tormenting her curiosity. Of course, that’s probably why the obnoxious FBI agent left it there. Claire had been right. The man was conventionally attractive, but in Dana’s opinion, he was about as appealing as the idea of curling up with a slab of granite.
Agent Shepard carried himself in a cold, chiseled sort of way. He seemed like the type who enjoyed tormenting people. And with those good looks of his, he was probably used to getting what he wanted. But Dana wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. Between his rude comments about her work and his superiority complex, she had half a mind to ignore the folder just on principle.
There was little she hated more than being talked down to about the importance of her work. Yes, she studied the mystic rituals of the past. But societies that ignored the mistakes of their past were doomed to repeat them and lose any hope at a thriving future. By researching why certain occult rituals and artifacts were believed to hold power or value, she was uncovering key subcultures that still exist in current civilizations.
In today’s society, these practices didn’t go by archaic names like witchcraft, voodoo or alchemy anymore. Now they identified as cults, sects and extremist religious groups. All were real-world issues that her studies could help shed light onto—light the world desperately needed if world news headlines were to be believed.
It wasn’t completely unheard of for specialists like herself to cooperate with police or government officials. Findings in her field helped gain a better understanding of groups like the one involved in the Waco Siege and structured a path of rehabilitation for those who were misinformed or inducted into such practices against their will.
Dana had consulted on findings for the FBI before, but never on an active case. She was usually called in after the fact whenever strange artifacts were discovered. Her most memorable had been a case involving a Russian man who attempted to assassinate a congressman. After his conviction, she was granted access to his apartment. It was full of priceless Russian artifacts. She’d spent months examining the findings and comparing them to the Slavic and Baltic artifacts the Smithsonian had access to.
In that case, she’d been called in to authenticate the artifacts since the man had claimed he was a Russian spy. And though his belongings were legitimate Russian relics, it was discovered the suspect was little more than a fervent collector diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. The man would now spend the rest of his days at a secure facility for the criminally insane.
Dana carefully closed the book she’d been studying and pushed her readers into her hair. She removed her gloves and rubbed her eyes before putting on her regular glasses again. Despite her best intentions, she was too distracted to get any real work done on the Nordic text she was deciphering. She’d read and re-read the same page a dozen times, unable to keep Agent Shepard and his words at bay.
That is, if you care at all about helping the living.
Of course she did. Not that he had any clue, but that’s how she ended up in this field. Dana knew better than most that studying the dead was a way to serve the living.
Her eyes automatically lifted to the framed photo on the corner of her desk. The one the arrogant agent had rudely manhandled. It was one of the few photographs she had of them. Growing up, her family didn’t have a lot of money. Photographs were a luxury they could rarely afford.
After Agent Shepard left, Dana returned the frame to its rightful spot. She’d grown used to the way the smiling faces of her parents haunted her, a constant reminder of the importance of her work. It
had been their deaths that had set her on this path, and through her research she believed she was honoring them.
Sighing, she reached for the FBI case file. Inhaling deeply, she prepared herself to open it, knowing that her parents would want her to do what she could to help. Just because she’d yet to solve their murders didn’t absolve her of the obligation to help others.
Tracing her finger along the edge of the green folder, she flipped it open, inhaling sharply at the crime scene photograph staring back at her. Despite her field of study, Dana had never been the type to believe in destiny, but she found it difficult to ignore that her life’s trajectory had been preparing her for this very moment.
She knew she was staring at two unknown victims, but it was her parents’ lifeless faces that she saw lying in the twin beds. And the pentagram sketched on the floor … it was the very thing that had haunted her dreams since she was thirteen years old.
Overwhelmed with emotion and sudden nausea, Dana shoved back from the desk, stumbling to her feet.
“Dr. Gray? Are you all right?”
Dana whirled to see her intern in the doorway. How long had she been standing there? She quickly moved back to her desk to close the folder. “Claire, what can I do for you?”
“Nothing, I just wanted to let you know I was done for the day unless you needed me.”
Dana glanced at her watch, surprised by the time. “No, that’ll be all. You can go home.”
“Do you want to walk out with me?” Claire asked. “I don’t mind waiting.”
Dana shook her head. “I have a bit more to do.”
