Agents of Shadow (The Keepers of White Book 1)

by Richard Crofton

  “Then hold onto that thought my friend,” Father Paul replied, “and I’m sure you won’t allow the particulars of who is selected to hinder your path.”

  Madsen waved a hand in the air with a snort. “What’s done is done. I’ve moved on.”

  “And the evidence?”

  “Taken care of as usual,” Madsen reported. “Her body has been disposed of thoroughly.”

  “And no one will suspect you had anything to do with her disappearance, correct?” the priest asked for validation.

  “Really Paul, this isn’t my first rodeo. You speak as if you have no faith in my skills.”

  “Not at all,” Father Paul spoke pleasingly with a disarming tone, “I really am just curious.”

  “Of course you are.” Madsen did not care for the priest’s prying nature, but he was used to the man’s respect for carefulness. He was always prone to check and recheck every action taken by their circle, only being satisfied when he was absolutely certain that not one task was left undone correctly, and that there was no trace whatsoever that could lead to their discovery and thwart their plans. Madsen did not disagree with his methodical nature, but believed himself to be a little more lackadaisical with such matters. Their agency was too strong to be disrupted, having infiltrated their members in many positions of authority throughout countless, powerful corporations, as well as county, state, and federal departments. They were connected, with hands in the pockets of hundreds of “friends in high places.”

  Still, to placate his curiosity, Madsen verified that he had everything well covered: “Everything has been properly disposed of,” he assured. “Of course our loyal chief of police took her phone and some ‘samples’ of her, to do what he does best. The next morning, her fiancé, Neal is his name, came by my office asking if Jamie was at class the night before, because she never came home. I foresaw he would show up, so I was conveniently ‘packing’ my office, giving the impression that I was about to leave for my conference in Indianapolis. All of my students were informed that I would be there.”

  “Ah yes,” Father Paul nodded, “and of course there is no conference.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Though it seems convenient you would be gone for a few days immediately after the girl’s disappearance, especially since you’re the last person anyone saw her with, you’ve little worry about the police being suspicious of you…”

  “Again, thanks to our chief of police,” Madsen finished his thought. “It was even more convenient that the young man stopped in to ask about her. I innocently told him that she stayed after class, as I assume he would have gotten that information from at least one of her classmates, but only for a minute. I told him that I only kept her after to congratulate her on her most recent paper she handed in; that it was very well researched and formulated. Then she left to catch her bus. He was frantically worried about her, so I sat him down and… talked to him a while.”

  “Did you now?” the priest smiled. “I suppose it was a successful talk?”

  “Quite. I slowly got into him. At first it was very subtle, but I soon warped his feelings of worry into those of guilt, fear, and the unexplainable need to go into hiding. By the time I was done with him, he believed he and Miss Partell had a huge fight the night before, and that, even though he couldn’t remember the details, that he must have done something terrible. He left my office looking rather pale, poor boy.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Father Paul interrupted as he looked down the pathway. “Here comes our chief now.”

  “Good,” Professor Madsen replied. “You can satisfy your curiosity further by verifying he played his part.”

  Chief Biddle approached in short, quick steps. He was not in uniform; instead donned in jeans and a thick, gray hoodie that did not completely protect him from the chill wind that wisped through the park as his cheeks and nose were blush from the elements. However, his bald head was hidden by a black, wool hat. He was a short, stout man in his fifties, and though his physique suggested a pudgy midsection, he was well fit like the two men he was about to meet up with. If he was carrying his weapon at the time, no one would know, for he would have kept it concealed. “Father. Professor,” he acknowledged the two on the bench as he arrived.

  “Chief,” Father nodded back. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Sorry if I kept you both waiting.”

  “Not at all Bill,” Father Paul smiled. “You’re on time as usual. Besides, we’re still waiting on one more.”

  “One?” Madsen looked at the priest curiously.

  “Diana should be here shortly,” the priest informed. “Judge Dickson and Senator Homan will not be able to join us today. They have work-related obligations, but I’ll be keeping them updated on everything.

  “And Bill,” Madsen looked over at Chief Biddle, “as you’re the only agent from the Second Circle present, I take it you will pass down any business we discuss today?”

  “If need be,” he replied. “I’m only here because Father asked me to come.”

  Father Paul nodded. “This is really just an informal meeting. I’m glad you made it though, Bill. Stephen and I were just discussing how the clean up went the other day. I take it your visit to the young lady’s apartment went smoothly?”

  “Pretty much,” the police chief confirmed. “My men and I planted all evidence according to Stephen’s instructions.” He directed his next statement at Madsen. “The kid you told me about wasn’t home, and getting the door open was terribly easy; nothing other than a basic lock on the knob.”

  “It was timed perfectly, as usual,” Madsen boasted. “He was on campus, at my office when I had you go to their place.”

  “I figured as much,” Chief Biddle shrugged. “Anyway, we placed the girl’s phone in her school bag, and stowed it in their bedroom closet. Then the strands of hair were scattered, pieces of her fingernails embedded into the bedpost. We found a baseball bat in the closet too; using some of her blood, hair, teeth, bone fragments… well, you get the picture… the bat made a perfect murder weapon. His fingerprints were all over the handle.”

  “And with Professor Madsen’s suggestive influence over the boy,” the priest added, “I’m sure he’s running scared. It should make his guilt even more apparent when the police finally catch him. Probably won’t take long.”

  “Actually,” Chief Biddle informed, “I found out that he turned himself in this morning.”

  “Did he?” Madsen asked with only slight surprise.

  Biddle continued: “According to the report from the precinct in Gettysburg, he came right into the station and said, ‘I can’t remember, but I think I killed my girlfriend.’ He was holding the bat out to the clerk at the front desk and shaking all over. They said the kid looked like he hadn’t slept in a while.”

  “How noble of him,” Father Paul mentioned. “Stupid, but noble. Makes things easier too.”

  “Mostly,” Chief Biddle said. “Of course the kid has no idea where her body is. He said he didn’t remember killing her, only that he had a dream that he did… or he thought he was dreaming it. The interrogation officer who was taking his confession asked him if he dreamt where he placed the body too, but the kid just shook his head.” He stopped a moment, unsure if he wanted to speak his mind on the matter, but felt it was important to: “You know, with a missing body, it won’t be long before the local departments will be conducting an area-wide search. It’s already all over the news.”

  “Hadn’t turned on the television yet today,” Father Paul shrugged. “No matter; of course the body will never turn up. Sooner or later the media hype will die down, especially since the law has someone to convict… just like the others.”

  “But you’re not worried,” Chief Biddle inquired, “that anyone might piece it together? Four girls gone missing in less than four months, a murderer always apprehended, none of them claiming to remember committing the crime or where they hid the bodies? Eventually, someone might see a pattern.”

 
“The girls were all selected,” Madsen explained, “but there is no connection among them. They have all been from different parts of the northeast region, and will continue to be. I don’t think that there is enough of a pattern for anyone to become too suspicious.”

  “Maybe not, but I did overhear one of my detectives make a comment about missing persons on the news a lot recently. He was watching the T.V. at the station at the time.”

  “Your point?” Father Paul asked impatiently.

  “Well,” Chief Biddle continued, “he’s an officer here in Lancaster; not an investigator in any of these cases since they’ve happened in different cities and states. If someone who’s not involved is able to make that observation, then what’s to say the one handling Jamie Partell’s case, or the ones handling the other three cases, won’t be able to be even more aware? Maybe one of them will see the pattern: that for each case there’s a relative or loved one who is accused of the murder but can’t remember committing it.”

  Father Paul leaned back on the park bench for a minute and considered this. “I understand your concern Bill,” he empathized, “but we have plenty of pull. No police detectives will ever really be able to put all this together. We’ll make sure our contacts keep them going in circles, until the cases go cold.”

  “I know,” the police chief admitted. “I don’t mean to be so paranoid. It’s just that we’ve never gotten this far in the Cycle. Never gotten further than the second sacrifice. So there was no pattern to be seen. This time we’ve gotten to the fourth, and already one of my detectives made a comment. We still have nine more to go. What happens if… when we get to five… or even ten? It’ll be a lot harder to cover our tracks.”

  Father Paul slowly rose from the park bench and stepped to the trashcan nearby. He pulled the white bag from which Professor Madsen recently ate his lunch and reached inside to grab a few remaining potato chips. “Let me demonstrate to you, the irrelevance of your concern, Bill.” He crushed the chips in his hand, then raised his fist to his lips. Gently, he blew warm breath into an opening in his hand with the crumbs inside. “What I’m doing, you’ll be able to do one day. If we members of the First Circle complete the Cycle of this Dark Year, then you and the other four in the Second Circle will advance and take our place in the following Dark Year. The few abilities you have now will come much easier for you, with very little effort, and you’ll continue to learn new ones.”

  He opened his hand and let the tiny pieces of the chips fall to the grass next to the bench. Immediately, the small cluster of pigeons hopped over to their second offering of food. Each bird pecked away at the morsels while Chief Biddle watched intently. Professor Madsen also watched with minimal interest. He knew what the priest was doing, and what the fate of the pigeons would be. He seemed more entertained by the puzzled look on the police chief’s watchful eyes.

  “Chief,” Father Paul spoke soothingly, “you’re a smart man, but you’ve been a cop for so long that you’re thinking too much like one. I’ll remind you that long before you or I were even born, our agency has had connections everywhere. Many members of the Outer Circles are ones who have control over such things. Trust me; the media will not be a problem, and certainly neither will a local county detective in your department. You need not concern yourself with such matters. Stop fretting so needlessly before you give yourself an ulcer.”

  In mere seconds, the helpless birds began foaming from their little beaks. A few of them fluttered their wings violently and uncontrollably, with no understanding of the effect the food that they lusted for was having on their frail, feathered bodies. One by one, the pigeons toppled over, some hissing in great effort to find air into their collapsing lungs, and soon became still and lifeless.

  “After we leave here,” Father Paul explained, “an occasional jogger may stop in his tracks at this spot upon seeing these birds. He will wonder what happened to them; he may even try to discover a rhyme and reason as to how they perished. But even if the world’s best veterinarians were to perform an autopsy and run tests, they would wind up empty handed; completely perplexed. There will be no trace of any poison or disease that they will find. No detective or doctor will be able to even come close to any logical hypothesis, because they have no knowledge of us or our gifts. There is no poison, no disease. Only the dark art that we have mastered and can use for our benefit. Our ways are secret and alien to everyone else, and therefore the mystery of how these poor things expired will go unsolved.”

  Chief Biddle stood speechless as he switched his gaze of astonishment from the dead creatures to the appointed leader of the Primary Circle. Madsen could sense the priest’s somewhat gleeful satisfaction, and determined it was not unlike that of a street magician who performed a trick and won his crowd with it.

  “Our operation is run the same way,” Father Paul continued. “Like these pigeons, the unfortunate cases of our chosen thirteen will not be cracked, because the authorities who investigate such things stick with what they know: logic, science, motive, method; not supernatural powers. Even if someone were omniscient enough to learn of us, he would be mocked and dismissed as mentally ill if he were to suggest the deaths of these women were caused by such bizarre forces. So you can relax, my friend.”

  “Yes sir,” Chief Biddle complied, “Sorry for doubting.”

  “No apologies necessary, Bill. It’s good to have someone bring such concerns to light, even if they are easily dismissible. It keeps us from becoming careless.”

  “Perhaps,” Madsen interjected, “just to be safe, and to placate our good chief of police here, we should change the pattern. After all, we don’t need to have a patsy to place the blame for our future activities.”

  Father Paul nodded. “Very well. Our fifth selection won’t have one. We’ll arrange for her to simply… go missing.”

  “Speaking of which,” Madsen transitioned, “has one been chosen yet?”

  “She has,” the priest affirmed. “One from my congregation. She should make quite a transfer,” the priest mentioned. “She’s slightly older than your student was.”

  “You know her then?” Madsen asked rhetorically. “So you’ll be doing the honors of abducting this one, I assume?”

  “Well, I’ll be setting up the stage,” Father Paul smiled. “I’ve gotten to know her quiet well. She participates in our weekly Bible Study meetings, and is well involved in the church. However, the ‘honors’ as you say, will be done by our usual man in the Outer Circle.”

  Chief Biddle tensed. “Him again,” he said as he looked away.

  “You disapprove, Bill?” Father asked with no surprise.

  “I wouldn’t put it that way Father, but we’ve been using him a lot, and he is a bit… well, he does seem to have his own agenda at times, and his methods are pretty… violent.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Madsen chimed in again. “I have to side with Bill on this one, Father. The young man is difficult to control.”

  “He’s young, but he’s very good at what he does, gentlemen,” Father Paul countered. “He aided you well the other night, Stephen.”

  “True,” Madsen admitted, “he was very quick and efficient in sedating Miss Partell in my car, but the drive to the ceremonial site was not what I would call enjoyable with him riding with me. I felt uneasy the entire time.”

  “Did you?” Father Paul asked with interest.

  “Quite,” Professor Madsen emphasized. “The boy appears… detached. He chose not to sit in the passenger seat after transferring Miss Partell to the back. He remained back there with her, stroking her hair while she lay unconscious and humming “Free Falling” by Tom Petty. There was a point when he started plucking strands of her hair from her head, one by one; then he lit the strands on fire with a lighter. I asked him what he was doing; he explained that he was bored. As he continued to do this disturbing activity, he struck up a conversation with me that gave me reason to be wary.

  “He remained focused on burning strands of hair, b
ut he said matter-of-factly, ‘You know, I’ve been doing dirty work for you people for years now…been your monkey boy all this time. When do I get to see the big show?’

  “I looked in the rear view mirror and said, ‘You already know the answer. You have to wait until you’ve moved up to the Secondary Circle. It will happen.’ I paused a minute but then continued, ‘And we pay you well for what you do. We take good care of you. Be patient.’

  “He said that money didn’t interest him much, and that he was getting bored. He said, ‘I want more control of what I can do… more power. You keep me in check, and only let me in on so much. And don’t act like my turn isn’t that far away. Members don’t advance to a higher circle until you Inner Circle pricks get it right and complete a cycle. When was the last time that happened? Oh yeah, not in your lifetime.’ Then he had the audacity to announce that he might be more patient if the Primary Circle didn’t keep blowing it every time a Dark Year comes around.

  “I grew agitated with him. I told him, ‘You’ve been trained quite a bit for your age, and the rewards of both money and the knowledge we teach you of our art are proportionate to the amount of work you do for the agency. If you feel it’s not enough then, by all means, see how much power you can obtain on your own.’

  “He didn’t say anything back to me after this; he just kept burning pulled strands of Miss Partell’s hair. I decided to try to talk some sense into him, saying; ‘You know, you’ve only been with us for less than four years, and you’ve moved up quicker than the average agent. Many of the ‘higher-uppers’ favor you and your talents. So don’t you blow it by running your mouth like this. You should be grateful. There are many who have been practicing with the agency for decades before they’re given so much responsibility. Hundreds more are never chosen, and remain peons. Actually completing the cycle of a Dark Year is uncommon, but power can still be obtained regardless. You just have to earn your time like everyone else.’

  “He still said nothing back. He just went back to humming that Tom Petty song while singeing hair strands.”