Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  “Ah, welcome my friends!” greeted a booming, lightly accented voice. “I am very much pleased to see you.” A handsome, well-dressed man stood in the main hallway, holding his arms wide open. He was a bit older than Connor, and his athleticism was noticeable under his tan suit, which contrasted heavily with the darkness of his skin.

  Upon seeing him, Connor felt as if his foot went through the tile, and he staggered, catching himself before playing it off nonchalantly. “Must have been the wet floor,” the man explained politely, allowing Connor to save face. “We are cleaning up after the mess, and there are quite a few hazards about, I’m afraid. I’ll have someone place a sign. Please be careful of your footing.”

  Connor nodded, feeling a twinge of a headache commencing at his temples, and regained his composure. He pulled out his badge and introduced himself. “I’m Special Agent Connor—”

  “Yes, I know,” the man interrupted congenially and then apologized immediately. “Ah, pardon my rudeness, but I make it a point to be familiar with law enforcement. I find that a bit of caution works wonders in preventing any unpleasant incidents.” He grinned and offered his hand. “I’m Moise Kabamba. I am the proprietor of this establishment.”

  Moise’s handshake was firm, as if he had nothing to hide, yet Connor felt the seeds of suspicion sprouting nonetheless. “How did you know we were coming?”

  “I have my connections,” he replied secretively. “But don’t worry. I’m not trying to hide anything. On the contrary, I want this investigation over as quickly as possible so that the unfortunate Mr. Cole can finish his claim with the insurance company, and I can open my own.” He paused thoughtfully. “Though I honestly don’t know why federal agents would concern themselves with a minor accident.”

  “Oh, it’s just routine,” Connor replied dismissively. “A bit of quality control, you could say, to make sure everything is on the up and up.” Even though Moise knew that they were federal agents, Connor realized that he couldn’t know the reason for their visit. Many people had never heard of the BSI, and they were willing to accommodate him based on his Homeland Security status alone, so he could push his authority quite a bit. However, it was worrisome that Moise had been forewarned of their arrival, at least from an agency standpoint: Others should not be alerted to their presence because they might panic and do something inadvisable to prevent apprehension. Fortunately, it didn’t appear that this was the case. “We do random samples every few months.”

  Moise paused, rolling the idea around in his head, and then smiled. “That makes sense,” he agreed. Without further delay, he gestured toward the back of the gallery. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you where it happened.”

  Connor began to follow, with Orion in tow, when his attention was abruptly seized by one of the art pieces on display. The statue was carved from some type of stone—possibly marble, though it looked more like a common material, such as limestone—and the subject was an ordinary house tabby. The details were arresting: The cat’s hackles were raised, the individual hairs standing on end along its back, and its tail was puffed out like a bottlebrush. Its delicate ears weren’t quite pressed against its head, and its mouth was wide open and hissing; Connor could almost feel its breath as it spat angrily. A second wave of vertigo washed over him, but he shook it off with some difficulty and commented, “This statue’s pretty lifelike, isn’t it?”

  Moise stopped, turned, and grinned when he saw the piece being admired. “Ah, yes. That is one of my first successful works,” he declared. He took a few steps back, joining Connor and sinking into nostalgia as he admired his handiwork.

  Connor stole a glance at Moise, squinting at him as if the thought he’d just lost would return, and asked, “You did this?”

  “Yes,” Moise confirmed and then smiled self-deprecatingly. “I know it’s a bit vain, but Félicité was paid for by my art, so I thought it would be appropriate to display it here in the main entrance.” He indicated the rest of the foyer. “All of these pieces are mine. The other artists are further into the gallery.”

  “This is incredibly detailed,” Connor remarked, turning his attention back to the statue. There was something strange about it, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was supported by a pedestal, putting it at eye level, and its placement invited closer examination. The subtle bands of color in the stone mimicked natural fur pigmentation, and if not for the dull, dead look in its eyes, Connor would have believed that the animal was alive.

  “Thank you, Agent Connor.”

  Connor felt there was something under the surface—something important that he was missing. “It’s almost like…” He trailed off as his words failed him.

  “Like it is living,” Moise finished, amusement bubbling into his tone. “Yes, that is a compliment I have heard many times, Agent Connor, and I never tire of hearing it,” he continued proudly. “It is very flattering, and we artists have very sensitive egos.”

  Connor continued to falter, his mind grasping desperately at strings he couldn’t catch, and he could not construct the line of questioning he desired, nor could he even justify his sudden change in direction. Surprisingly, it was Orion who spoke up and steered the conversation back on course. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kabamba, but you were going to show us where it happened.”

  “Of course, Agent…” Moise fumbled. “Ah, I did not catch your name.”

  “Starr,” Orion replied. Connor noted that Orion had not corrected him on the erroneous title, and he smiled to himself; his student appeared to understand that it was sometimes necessary to allow their subjects’ assumptions to work to their advantage.

  “Agent Starr,” Moise corrected himself. “My apologies. They did not tell me you would be accompanying Agent Connor. Please follow me,” he said and ushered them into the south wing. Though Connor spotted several more of the uncannily intricate statues along the way, he did not allow himself to become distracted again, and when they viewed the scene of the accident, he noticed immediately that the floor had been mopped and the water was still drying. “Please excuse the mess,” Moise apologized, his arm sweeping the room. “We were in the process of cleaning it up when we were notified that you were coming and that you might want to see the scene.” He shook his head and gestured toward the pile of metal and wood that had been the scaffolding. “I’m afraid it is not well preserved because of that,” he explained.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get it sorted,” Connor replied, noting the state of the area. Several footsteps—most likely those of the first responders—led from where the accident had occurred, and a number of them had been erased by the diligent efforts of the janitor, who must have started from the front entrance and worked his way back. A part of the lake of paint had also been wiped clean, and the remainder was still tacky, providing a partial reconstruction of what had been repositioned following the accident. Much of the metal and wood had been stacked against the wall, with white footsteps confirming this, and the emptied tins had been collected and stashed in another corner. There was blood mixed into a gentle rose hue where it met the dye surrounding the body, and the paint provided a misshapen and slowly shrinking halo where the victim had lain.

  Connor turned to Moise, still certain he was missing a connection. “Tell me, were you here when it happened?”

  “No, I was at home,” he replied, and Connor knew from his body language that he was being honest, so that was not the reason he felt uneasy with this man. “The only one here was Ms. Shah,” Moise continued, unfazed by Connor’s scrutiny. “Unfortunately, she’s not here. She took a sick day.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, if you’ll pardon me, I’m late for an engagement, and I must leave you,” he announced. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small engraved silver case, from which he retrieved a card with elegant script on expensive coated stock. “If you have any questions, here is my card, but I suggest you wait until
tomorrow to speak with Ms. Shah.” He hesitated, providing the opportunity for Connor or Orion to interject, but they declined the invitation for the moment; Connor would have to let his impression of Moise percolate, and he could better focus on the case without him present. “Have a good morning, gentlemen,” Moise concluded before taking his leave.

  Connor watched him depart, hoping to catch a detail he’d missed previously, and when nothing revealed itself, he turned to Orion and asked, “Now, mate, what can you tell me about this scene?”

  Orion remained in the entranceway, his eyes tracing the same path that Connor’s had a few moments ago. “That paint tells you a lot about the aftermath, but it’s not going to tell you anything if it’s really telekinesis, right?” he asked, markedly with more confidence than he’d had during their previous cases. His eyes settled on the camera in the corner facing them. “Maybe the cameras could, though,” he suggested.

  “There’s a good lad,” Connor said. He crossed over the threshold into the accident scene and confirmed what he’d suspected: The cameras had been removed for safekeeping during the renovation. “There aren’t any cameras in the room anymore, so we’re not going to get much recording of the event,” he told him, pointing to the corners where the cameras had previously been installed. As he walked back toward his partner and crossed into the other display room, he examined the positioning of its two cameras. Though they were focused on their displays, they might have captured the incident to some degree from their respective angles. He didn’t believe the images would be of much worth; it was likely they would have only captured images of the floor in the other room, if anything at all, and while it was worth checking out, it would not be of primary concern or assistance at the moment.

  “They might’ve captured something if she had been was foolish enough,” he allowed, “but I think we might have to just do things the old-fashioned way if we can’t find any real evidence.” He smiled wickedly, causing his partner to reflexively frown in dread.

  “Interview?” Orion guessed, disappointment evident in his voice; he anticipated that he would be the one conducting it.

  Connor’s expression shifted toward empathy while retaining its mischievous edge. “Come on, now. Don’t be like that,” he said and clapped him robustly on the shoulder. “You’re doing much better.” He nodded behind him at the scene, adding, “And we’re here now, so we might as well get a look around before we take off. We don’t want to miss something.” Connor didn’t believe that they’d find anything additional, because, as Orion had observed, telekinesis didn’t really leave physical evidence, but it would allow the younger man time to compose himself and create interview questions. Despite needing preparation, his social anxiety had decreased appreciably as his confidence had increased.

  The younger man nodded and knelt down, examining the few footprints that remained. He slowly worked his way back toward the main puddle, combing the area studiously, and Connor was proud that the young man had learned so much. While his technique wouldn’t yield anything this time, the practice was important, and he was creating his own routine and procedures. Connor retreated quietly into the south wing, intending to head back to the main entrance. “Where are you going?” Orion asked, cocking his head curiously as he stood.

  Connor shrugged. “Don’t worry ’bout it,” he assured him. “I’ll be right back.” While he did see the faint outline of what appeared to be bare footprints on the wooden floor, instead of following their path, he found himself drifting back toward Moise Kabamba’s main exhibit to see whether he could recall his misplaced thought.

  - - -

  Orion was understandably irritated that Connor had implied that he’d be conducting the interview, but he was also visibly relieved when Connor revealed that he’d only be observing. While holding Orion in suspense hadn’t been necessary—it had been a little thrill that he’d allowed himself—the suggestion had spurred preparation, and that had been the point of the exercise; Orion would eventually question people on his own, and he needed practice whenever he could get it. The only reason he wasn’t taking an active role this time was because the younger man had never seen Connor interview a subject whom he already suspected was an Other, save for his sister, and he doubted Orion had been taking notes then. While Connor relied heavily on body language, the strategy he employed with Others varied: With elementalists, he tried to trick them into revealing themselves by baiting them; with Sitara Shah, he needed to craft probing questions that would trap her into a confession. It was also a dangerous game: If he didn’t properly assess his subject’s triggers and control limits, he risked injury or death.

  Sitara Shah was a slight woman with light skin, dark hair, and the distant gaze of someone who hadn’t slept well for several nights. She was polite but firm when she answered the door, insisting, like any good New Yorker, to see his identification before allowing him entrance to her spartanly decorated apartment. Like her employer, she had questioned the involvement of the federal government and had accepted the tenuous explanation that insurance industry oversight had provided. She offered the two men refreshments as she showed them into her sparsely furnished living room, which smelled faintly of eucalyptus, and they took a seat on what appeared to be a secondhand couch, whose questionable odor briefly overpowered the scented air freshener. Once settled, Connor retrieved his notepad from his jacket pocket and reviewed his notes, while Orion sat quietly next to him sipping water.

  “We just have a few details we’d like to go over, if you don’t mind,” Connor said, poised with his pen in hand while watching her closely.

  Sitara shook her head. “Of course not,” she replied amiably. “I’d like to help Otis and Mr. Kabamba in any way I can.” Her smile was unsteady yet genuine when it appeared, and she clasped her manicured hands in front of her as she set her wide, doe eyes on him.

  He nodded sharply, indicating the beginning of the interview. “First, where were you when this all happened?”

  “I was in my office reviewing some paperwork when I heard a crash, so I ran to see what had happened,” she answered. “That’s when I saw Otis buried beneath the scaffolding.” She cleared her throat in a low murmur and averted her gaze, wrapping one slender arm around herself. Since that did not provide enough comfort, she began stroking her bicep, tracing small circles with her fingers as she returned her attention to Connor.

  While he immediately recognized the signs of someone still distressed from recent trauma, he was not equipped to deal with it, nor did he have the inclination; that was left to professionals, and due to his own deficiently beneficial experience, he had a dubious opinion about the effectiveness of their efforts. “Was there anyone else present?” he asked, pressing forward, and he paid careful attention to her mouth, eyes, and fingers, which were the first body parts to display signs of deceit.

  “No,” she replied quickly and cleared her throat again. “I’d just swept the floors and cleared everyone out. I’d actually thought there were more construction workers there, but they’d already gone, and Otis said he was just finishing up before leaving like the rest of them.”

  “Has anything like this happened before?”

  Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion, and her fingers slowed their massaging and then came to a standstill. “What do you mean?”

  “Accidents, of course,” he replied, slipping facetiousness into his voice. “I mean, I saw in the report that this was the first such incident, but we both know that not everything’s always recorded.”

  He winked cheekily, hoping that by intimating that he approached his job in a relaxed fashion, he would encourage her to open up. It evidently didn’t work, as she replied blandly, “As far as I know.”

  “What about here at home?” he inquired, briefly scanning the room for unsecured objects. Several paintings, all in the same artistic style, adorned her walls, while her tabletop and c
offee table held no decorations, save for one photograph of a handsome couple who he assumed were her parents. However, he noticed that the secondhand quality of her couch also extended to her other furniture, with her coffee table in particular showing signs of repeated abuse. It seemed odd, given her respectable position at Félicité, but he was cognizant that an opulent workplace didn’t necessarily correspond with an appropriate paycheck.

  She scowled. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “You know, things moving of their own accord,” he explained casually, insinuating a hidden layer to the conversation. She grew uncomfortable, shifting in her seat and fidgeting until she fixated on one of her chipped nails. “An unattended cup falling off a counter or a picture falling off the wall,” he suggested, gesturing to the nearest painting. He stressed his final word, hoping to incite a reaction: “‘Accidents.’”

  “What are you implying?” she responded, holding steady.

  “Nothing, Ms. Shah,” he replied dryly. “It was just an observation about your colorful childhood.”

  Sitara flushed. “That has nothing to do with what happened to Otis,” she declared. Fleetingly, her eyes darted away from his, and she covered her mouth as she softly cleared her throat, delaying the conversation briefly as she recovered.

  “Oh, I’m not implying anything of the sort,” he insisted smugly, making notes on his pad.

  “Then why bring it up?” she asked crossly.

  “You’re right. That was inappropriate,” he apologized, fixing his face into a suitably remorseful expression. “Please, tell us more about that night,” he insisted, inviting her to resume her testimony in a reasonable, professional tone. She continued, with Connor interrupting only for clarification, and he recorded any discrepancies for later follow-up. While she was clearly lying, she didn’t dive heavily into details that could trip her up, nor was she too vague. In fact, Connor couldn’t discern what she was lying about, and he intended to corroborate her entire story, but he was certain that she wasn’t an Other, despite her adverse reaction to the mention of her childhood haunting.