by Eric Flint
They walked in together.
“I love dive bars,” Temple said as she dragged a rickety wooden chair out from under a table and sat.
Was she being sarcastic? Jasper had a hard time distinguishing between her normal attitude and sarcasm.
“It does the trick after a long day. Spend a few minutes in here and you’ll forget all your troubles.”
“I bet,” she said.
Even though smoking had been banned for years, the acrid stink lingered, trapped in the wood and fabric of the place, smoke mixed with beer mixed with myriad scents of people and food smells.
Jasper nodded at the lone waitress, who within a minute slid two glasses and a bottle of Stranahan’s Colorado Whiskey on the table. “Thank you, Katie. And bring two of my regular snacks, please.”
“So,” Temple stared at the full bottle of whiskey, “you’re a real hotshot around here.” She picked up the bottle and studied it for a moment. “Wait a second. You’re from Tennessee. Shouldn’t you be having Jack Daniels or something? Whoever heard of a Colorado whiskey?” She pulled the stopper and sniffed. “Not bad, but still—”
“Give it a try. Yes, I’m from Tennessee, but that doesn’t mean I can’t branch out a bit. I’m not a total rube.” He grinned. “Here, check the bottle. Whoever bottled the whiskey usually writes what group they were listening to while doing so—”
“Queen,” Temple said. “That’s a neat idea.” She poured healthy amounts in their glasses, a good two fingers worth each, then took a sip and nodded appreciatively.
“Took me a while to find it, but Stranahan’s is good stuff.” Jasper raised his glass and offered a toast. “SAG, there’s a lot I could say, but I won’t.”
Temple shook her head.
“What, not a decent toast? Fine. Here’s to field agents and HQ agents getting along,” Jasper said. “Real end of the world kind of stuff.” They clinked and swigged.
“You’re all right, I think,” Temple said.
“Just all right, huh?”
“Too early to tell for sure, but you referenced Ghostbusters for a second time today, right?”
“I watched it last week, so the quotes are still fresh. So tell me, do you and Vance travel around the country or go OCONUS for this SAG thing you’re assigned to?”
“Not much so far, and I created the position, so I kind of assigned myself to SAG.” Temple grinned.
“I thought SAG reminded me of the X-Files—I mean, you’re a pariah and once had such great potential.” He winked.
Temple laughed. “I’m a pariah, but from what I’ve read, so are you.”
“We’ll make a great team—”
“Don’t get any ideas, sport,” Temple said. “I already have a partner. You’re only on TDY, remember?”
“Whatever, for once I’m trying to get along and play well with others,” Jasper said. “So how do you know all about me?”
“Once your report hit the servers, Vance pulled up some stuff on you.”
“Accessing personnel records isn’t allowed—”
“Viewing records is permissible with valid reasons.”
“And you think me filing a report about a missing child and two suicides is a valid reason for viewing my personnel file?”
“Look, I didn’t view your personnel file, so relax,” Temple said.
“But—”
“But nothing. I viewed some of the cases you worked and the writeups for some of them. You, Special Agent Wilde, have a history of going against the wishes of your superiors.”
Jasper sniffed.
“Yeah, I feel the same way,” Temple said. “Being a black woman in such a white Bureau—a white man’s bureau—hasn’t been easy.”
“Stop a second,” Jasper said. “White man’s Bureau?”
“Yeah, you’re the type of person I see running around playing agent.” She arched one of her eyebrows.
“The Bureau can’t help who applies for the special agent position. It’s my fault the FBI hired me?”
“True, but are they actively recruiting minorities?”
“Aren’t they? Why are we having this discussion, anyway?” Jasper asked.
“Beats me.” Temple sipped the beer. “Heading down the inequality road is so easy.”
“If you say so. I don’t typically think about race or gender or religion or whatever gets people upset.”
“Why would you? You’re a white male.”
“So tired of hearing what I am.” Jasper sighed. “I can’t win.”
“At least you admit defeat.” Temple smiled. “Fine, I’ll lay off. My apologies, but being a black woman hasn’t always been the easiest in a hard-charging historically male-dominated law enforcement agency. I did a stint in the Army, too. Enlisted.”
“Wow, I’m impressed.” He was, actually, a little. “Marine Corps myself. So, are we gonna get along and take care of these investigations? Bust up some crazy cult or something? Bash some skulls?” He wanted off the race subject. Jasper understood much more work had to be done in civil rights. However, as far as government agencies went, he thought the FBI did a decent job of hiring people from diverse backgrounds. Long gone were the days of hiring only white male lawyers and accountants.
Of course, he was a white male himself and honest enough to understand that had to shape his perceptions, at least to some degree. He didn’t doubt the world looked different to a black woman. Sometimes a lot different.
“You drunk already?” Temple grinned. “Does thinking of the Marine Corps make you violent?”
Jasper sipped the whiskey, the color of polished leather, allowing the complex notes to linger on his tongue before the liquid slid down his throat. He took a deep breath.
“I have anger issues, but not because of the Corps.”
“Oh? In the mood to share?”
He brought the glass down on the table with a thunk. “I’m surprised you don’t already know.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Like I said, we didn’t look at your personal details, only some work product.”
“Fine. And here I thought we were beginning to get along,” Jasper said.
“Aren’t we?”
“Okay, I’ve had a rough couple of years. Was married, she left.”
“Kids?”
“No.”
“A good thing, right?” Temple asked.
He shrugged. “I suppose kids were something I had on my mind.”
“You have time still. I mean, how old are you, anyway? Twelve?”
He chuckled. “Valiant try, but I think my baby face vanished right about the time my marriage fell apart. And now I’m a pariah at work, too. Some of my coworkers love screwing with me when I show up at the office.” He licked his lips and took a healthy swig of the whiskey. His eyes watered.
“You and me, both.” Temple raised her glass and clanked with Jasper’s. “Here’s to social pariahs, may we graduate to full-on misanthropy.”
“I’ll drink to pariahs and misanthropy,” Jasper said. “So what’s your story? How did SAG come about, other than being an idea of yours?”
“Let’s say I’m a favorite of the Assistant Director of CIRG.”
“As in he isn’t a fan of yours? I can’t seem to read you, and whether or not you’re being sarcastic.”
“Yep, that’s one of my problems.”
“This is gonna be fun.” Jasper grinned. “I may not be the superstar of the field office, but I’m good at my job. I’m persistent, and believe it or not, can work well with others.”
Now it was Temple’s turn to snort.
“Hey,” Jasper said, “I need the right people around me and I’ll play nice and make fast friends.”
“You seem to have the right touch with the locals, an admirable quality, which means you’re probably not arrogant.”
“I’ve worked quite a few investigations with them, specifically the cop you met earlier, Pete. A good guy, but he’s not into the investigations we’ll be working.”
�
��You mean the suicides and the other, uh, thing?”
“Exactly. So, with Pete abstaining, I bet his department took note and backed away from these messes, especially when you offered to take the investigations off their hands. I understand the East Chicago Police perspective; they believe nothing good could come from working those matters. It’s a no-win scenario.”
“Oh, yeah, a total Kobayashi Maru scenario.”
“I see you have some Trek up in that head of yours.” Jasper grinned. “But if these investigations are no-win situations, why would you want to look into them?”
He knew the answer, and in this way he and Temple were alike. He didn’t believe in no-win, and discovered yet another way the failed marriage hit him hard—he’d lost. Failed. Ever since Lucy had left, he’d been picking up the pieces. Jasper filled his time with work and a bunch of meaningless hobbies designed to keep his mind going. But now, in front of this strong woman, Temple, he hoped his face showed none of the pain lingering below the surface on perpetual simmer.
“I don’t believe in no-win,” she said. “That’s exactly why I came into the Bureau. I’m relentless when I latch on.”
“My assignment to the team should be quite interesting. I hope Agent Ravel can keep up.”
“Don’t worry about him; he’s had a year of me.”
“So, during your one year, any interesting cases fall in your lap? I mean, as interesting as the incidents around here?” Jasper asked.
Temple sipped her whiskey and rolled her eyes upward in thought. “We—uh—well—yes.”
Jasper laughed and clapped the glass down on the table, the whiskey sloshing.
“It’s like this,” she said, “we thought we had something good. We really did. So, we go out to Los Angeles.”
“You can probably stop right there,” Jasper said. “Good enough for me. Let me guess, a vampire or werewolf, but ended up being some Hollywood C-list semi-celebrity gone off his or her rocker, am I right?”
Temple cocked her head. “Come on, this wasn’t a vampire or werewolf.” She turned away, obviously attempting to shield a laugh from Jasper. Her head swiveled back. “Okay, I’m all right now.”
Her eyes watered and she fought back a grin. “So we went down to Venice Beach.”
Jasper snorted. “Sounds like a bad movie—I mean, quite a few oddities hang around Venice Beach, but—”
Temple stopped him with a hand, palm first aimed at his face. “We were told something had been pulled out of the water and there were concerns, but they wouldn’t tell us anything more.”
“Who is they?”
“This was LAPD—the Pacific Division.”
“Oh, this is getting better and better.”
“Yeah, so they take us to this holding area they have over near Muscle Beach and show us this thing.”
Jasper leaned forward, eager for the punch line.
Temple covered her eyes, but she didn’t hide her wide smile. Her head dropped and her shoulders heaved in full laughter.
“What was it? I have to hear this now.”
“It was—” Temple snorted. “Humanoid in form.”
“Humanoid?”
“Yes, but a deep green.” Temple pinched her nose. “Oh, Lord, the thing reeked.”
“So the thing was dead, right?”
“Oh, this thing was dead all right,” she said. “But I still can’t believe they didn’t recognize this thing was wrapped in seaweed—or if they did, they simply didn’t want to deal with it.”
“So, was it some sort of dead prehistoric fish thingy?” Jasper asked, and couldn’t contain a chuckle.
“Did you say, thingy?” Temple’s brow wrinkled, and she snorted. “Oh, not prehistoric, but old, and wrapped in seaweed. It appeared somewhat humanoid, or at least shaped like a torso. So Vance snapped on some latex gloves and peeled off the seaweed. This thing was like a mummy from the deep. For a little while we thought this was a torso of a person, but I’m still not entirely sure what the cops thought.”
“Did they think they caught a monster from the ocean, like one of those Fifties science fiction flicks? Or better yet, a dead merman?”
“I wish I’d thought of the merman thing while they stood around gawking, but we weren’t sure what we were going to find under all the seaweed. I braced myself as Vance peeled off layer by layer of seaweed, some of which had been wrapped around the torso for a long time. The stench confirmed the rotten vintage.”
“I can imagine how awful the reek must have been,” Jasper said.
“So Vance peels away the final layers, and stares, licking his lips. His head cocks to the side as if he’s confused. He says, ‘This is just a misshapen and unrecognizable fish, dead for ages, but sort of preserved in seaweed.’ Then he slapped his gloves down on the mess and as he walks out, says, ‘I’m getting some sushi, who’s with me?’”
A tune played, distant, and computerized. “When the Saints Come Marching In.” Temple’s cell phone no doubt. That had to be one of the lousy stock ringers from the crappy phones the Bureau had entered into a seemingly endless contract.
“Hold on,” she said, “this could be Agent Ravel.” She fumbled with the phone— “Go.” She sagged in her chair. “We’ll be right there.” She took a deep breath and hissed the air through her teeth.
“Problem?”
“There’s been another kidnapping.”
Chapter 12
The black woman Alan had snatched from a deserted street in Gary squirmed in the back of the borrowed Chevy Astro, whining and crying, despite her ample bonding. But the khâu ignored her, just as he’d ignored Rao’s caution to stay away from vans. Even though the police would likely be more sensitive to another stolen van after yesterday’s failed sacrifice to the nâga, the vehicle had been easy for him to snatch. The navy blue Astro had been sitting for quite some time behind the house of his elderly grandmother’s sister, Hazel. Auntie Hazel was in the hospital, so she wouldn’t be missing the vehicle. He’d headed over to Gary, and specifically a section of Gary more resembling 1980s Beirut than a modern American city.
But thoughts such as those were frowned upon in the Câ Tsang. Creativity had no place among the sticks of the group. The simple act of carrying out the Tip of the Horn’s orders would convey upon the sycophantic khâu a greater chance of attaining the rank of khäp, an adept.
Night snatched East Chicago as swift and certain as he’d taken the woman. Streetlights raced overhead as traffic lights turned green before him: Destiny was getting him to the meeting place with alacrity.
“Praise the nâga,” he whispered.
Beneath the scents from the streets lingered the scent of a woman’s perfume—his great-aunt’s. The khâu pinched shut his nose, but the thought of sucking in the heavy musky stench through his mouth only disturbed his already queasy stomach. Damn the old woman for wearing such heavy perfume. The black woman he’d taken off the street reeked of fast food and sweat, which turned to the sweet smell of fear. He’d drugged her, of course, but the paralysis concoction given him by Rao had worn off quickly, and now she struggled.
The abandoned hotel was near. The police had departed hours ago, seemingly giving up their vigil. The master was livid over the incompetence of the two acolytes who’d botched the sacrifice to the unfettered glory of the nâga—who out of necessity had feasted upon the unpurified wretch of a man near the animal control facility up the road from the hotel.
This khâu volunteered to erase the failures of the other sticks, but doubt crept into his mind. What if the cops lay in wait for him? What if a trap waited for the Câ Tsang, the Iron Thorn?
But Rao would not purposely send him into the hands of the cops or worse, the FBI, would he? No. What would be the point? Glory was needed. Glory and redemption and power. The nâga expected compliant and steady Sha ’Lu once the gate opened.
Lights peeked in and out of the Astro’s side mirrors. He checked the trailing vehicle’s silhouette, fearing the bumps riding atop the roof, b
ut saw none. The khâu sighed in relief, but the cold fear returned, sending a shiver down his back. An unmarked police vehicle? Or an FBI vehicle, all of which were unmarked and not always a make or model easily recognized? He wouldn’t know until he reached the hotel, and what would he do if the vehicle behind him was the police? Would he keep driving or would he park and have to perform something drastic?
He released the vise grip he’d cinched down on his nose and instead white-knuckled the steering wheel. Being caught was not an option. He had no distinguishing features, no identification, and no fingerprints. The police would have no record of him either. The FBI, though, what would they have on him? Anything? No.
The sound of his own rapid breaths filled the air and he tapped the button on the armrest, sending the driver’s side window down. The gushing air rushed by him, filling his nose with the scents of a town running on burnt chemicals.
He thought of the two khâu immolating themselves as an offering to the Iron Thorn, but in vain, as the nâga tore through only to find no sacrifice, no Sha ’Lu, waiting for him. The nâga rampaged through the night in search of meat to extract bjang from.
Impure kill. Impure bjang.
The khâu failed in barring these thoughts from his mind despite the repeated attempts at tamping down any free thought. The meditations failed him and the mantra fled his mind.
The light ahead at the intersection of Euclid Avenue and East Chicago Avenue signaled the end of this stage of the journey. But the light was red where all the others ushered his rush to glory and flicked green before the speeding mini-van. He glanced in his rear-view mirror. The car following him turned off—his fears unfounded after all.
Good. He’d continue on, and did not slow down for the red light before him. Two hundred feet perhaps. The light would change for a khâu of the Câ Tsang.
His foot pressed the accelerator into the floorboards and the speed shot up another five miles an hour. The red light refused to yield at fifty feet but a second later he sailed under the light—a flash of yellow appeared on the crossroad, Euclid Avenue. Excellent.
