The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic)

by Hopkins, J. E.

  “My sources tell me,” said Akina, “that there’s a too much thinking going on. The DNI is thinking that he should do as his president requests. Plus he figures it’ll be easier to have his way with the DTS with a weak leader in place. The president’s thinking that, if he wants to get any legislation passed, it would be wise to do as the majority leader requests. And the majority leader’s thinking this is a good way to get rid of a pain in the ass. Confirmation easy and assured.”

  John laughed. “It’s never good news when politicians get clever.” He paused. “I’ll be in his office at nine. You may so inform our leader-in-waiting.” He hung up, lay back in the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  Well, fuck.

  Nebelhorner had first surfaced on the DTS radar when he became the Kansas Superintendent of Education. He’d used his reactionary opinions to suck up to the meanest side of Kansas voters and to springboard into the governor’s chair. John and Marva had been forced to use every threat in their considerable arsenal to keep Transition education in the schools. Nebelhorner’s election to the Senate, where he was universally ignored, had been a relief.

  John called Stony to give her the good news. His own reaction to the appointment was mild compared to Stony’s. He interrupted her mid-rant. “Quit trying to cheer me up. I’ll pick you up in forty-five minutes for a nice, leisurely breakfast. Akina’s welcome to join us if she happens to be lying next to you.”

  For a minute he thought he’d been disconnected.

  “She can’t. She has an early meeting at the office. I’ll be ready in an hour.”

  He could hear the grin on Stony’s face.

  • • • • •

  The acting director of the DTS looked at his watch, then stared at John. It was five minutes after nine.

  “Agent Benoit, I clearly made an error asking you to be here at seven-thirty. I apologize. In my haste to get rolling, I wasn’t sufficiently sensitive to your situation.” Senator Wyatt Nebelhorner smiled at John.

  As my grandmother used to say, beware of smiling dogs.

  They sat in Marva’s conference room on opposite sides of the long walnut table. The room had been stripped of anything personal. No vases with flowers. None of the pictures of Marva’s nieces and nephews that had crowded the credenza at the end of the room. Empty picture hangers dotted the barren walls. John’s heart ached with her absence.

  “Thank you, Senator. It was a late night last night, and this figures to be another long day. I was sure you would understand. Congratulations on your appointment and good luck with the confirmation hearings.”

  John was sitting away from the table, his legs a bit apart, his cane balanced on the royal blue carpet. He let go, then caught it by the brass dragon’s head in a steady rhythm. It was a ritual that he used when he wanted to relax and focus. Balance. Release. Grasp. Balance. Release. Grasp.

  Nebelhorner waved his hand, as if banishing a pesky fly. “A mere formality, I’m sure. You’re aware that the DNI has asked that I step in and provide leadership for the department while my friends in the Senate do their job?”

  John nodded. “I am. Welcome to the department. Of course, if any issue was to emerge that required something more than your unofficial guidance, we can simply call on the DNI.”

  The Senator’s smile dropped from his face and his face reddened. “I was able to use the time this morning when you weren’t here to get updates on the Georgetown attacks from Special Agent in Charge Piper. Of course, I wouldn’t normally violate the chain of command, but you were sleeping late.”

  “Not a problem, Senator.”

  He looks like a sun-burned Dwight Eisenhower.

  “What say we cut the horse shit.” Nebelhorner’s voice slipped into the deep, sonorous register that only accomplished politicians could achieve. “You’ve been a pain in my ass for much of my public life. You’re the most arrogant, stubborn, and wrong-headed man I’ve ever known. I have no confidence in your ability to handle this case. You’re too old for this job, out of your depth. I want a letter from you announcing your immediate retirement on my desk by the close of business today.”

  John laughed, lifted his cane, and placed it on the table. “I’m sure that’s true. The part about being a pain in the ass, that is. There were days when I’m sure Director Bradley would’ve agreed with you.”

  “And? Come on, Son. Out with it.”

  “I’m not your son, Senator. Save the condescension for your Senate pages. Does the DNI share your point of view?”

  “The DNI isn’t the director of this agency. I don’t plan to bother him with minor personnel matters.”

  “Nor are you, Senator. Don’t stay late waiting for my resignation. You’ll be disappointed.”

  “Have it your way for now, Agent Benoit. My confirmation has been fast-tracked and should be complete in the next week. We’ll talk again then.”

  • • • • •

  “How did you and the new El Jefe get along?” Stony asked.

  “Could’ve been better. You get in touch with Piper?”

  Before John went to his meeting with Senator Nebelhorner, he’d asked Stony to find a temporary office in the DTS warren and check in with the FBI SAC. When he and Nebelhorner had finished, he’d tracked her down in an empty office on the third floor.

  John had told the Senator that he’d checked in with Piper for the latest information, but his last contact had actually been one-thirty in the morning, when he and Akina had shared the news about Marva’s notes.

  “Yeah. He’s pretty cranky when he doesn’t get much sleep. Caught him in the middle of his corn flakes.”

  John rubbed his nose, a long-agreed signal between the two of them for Stony to stop chattering. “I’m not really interested in his sleep habits.”

  “The phone logs from Scholard were useless—no cooperation from the Pakistanis. But the Ashraf Rahman in Marva’s notes looks like the real deal. He’s a linguistics guy, specializing in ancient languages of the Middle East and the Indian subcontinent. Works for the Institute of Asian Civilizations in Islamabad.”

  “Did Piper’s people confirm his current location?”

  Stony nodded. “There’s a nine hour time difference, so it worked out pretty well. They used a burn phone to call the Institute and ask if he was in the office. He’s apparently taken a couple of days off, but it sounds like he’s in Islamabad.”

  John lifted the receiver on the desk and punched the number for the director’s office.

  Akina answered on the first ring. “Acting-Director Nebelhorner’s office.”

  “It’s Benoit. How you doing?”

  “Ask me in a month,” Akina said. “You?”

  “Hanging in. You did good work finding Marva’s notebook. It looks like we have a lead to the Rahman guy who Jessup Scholard contacted. Connect me with the Senator, if you would be so kind.”

  “Nebelhorner.”

  “It’s Benoit. You recall Piper telling you about the name Ashraf Rahman in the director’s notebook?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wanted to keep you posted. Stony and I are headed to Islamabad to follow it up. Contact the U.S. Embassy and let them know we’re coming. We’ll need an escort. Don’t tell them anything about the case.”

  “Please. Contact the U.S. Embassy, please.”

  Nebelhorner sighed when John didn’t respond. “I’ll approve the trip and make the contact. Don’t forget our conversation.”

  “What conversation?”

  John hung up and turned to Stony. “I hate it, but we’re going to have to leave before Marva’s funeral. Work with Akina to get us into Islamabad as soon as possible.”

  2008 CE

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Boundary, New York

  The United States

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Shit-for-brains has started Transition.” Clint West’s taunt was aimed at Dylan Parker and was loud enough for the kids near them to hear but not so loud that it would draw a teacher’s attention. />
  Dylan was the shortest boy in sixth grade, had a purple birthmark shaped like an hourglass on the back of his neck, and scored A’s on tests without having to study. He was different from other kids. Him mom said those differences made him special, but they also made him a prime target for bullies like Clint, who was in his second year in the eighth grade and stood a head taller than any sixth grader.

  Dylan had been hanging out on the edges of the playground, trying to avoid Clint and his pals. Dylan and his mother had arrived in Boundary, in way upstate New York, just before the school year started. He’d been stunned to learn that Eisenhower Middle School still had recess. He’d hated recess since he was a first-grader because the playground was a free-fire zone.

  “Do some magic for us, Dyllll-annnn. Come on, use your magic to save your ass.”

  Dylan searched the playground for one of the monitors, but there was no cavalry to ride to his rescue. Younger kids near the confrontation drifted away; bigger ones gathered around to watch the fun.

  He stared at the ground. “Leave me alone, Clint. I haven’t done anything to you.”

  “You’re here and you’re a pussy. That’s enough.”

  Dylan fought to control a hot surge of anger. His temper scared him more than Clint. Since Dylan had been old enough to think about it, he’d imagined there was a big switch in his brain. Down, and all he wanted was to be left alone. Up, and he was a foaming-at-the-mouth maniac. He had no control over the switch. None. The toggle had remained safely down since he’d started at Eisenhower, but Clint’s daily torments had been stoking a tiny white flame deep in his chest.

  Clint shoved him into the rough brick wall of the school. “What’re you going to do about it, you little fag?”

  Dylan scooted sideways and tried to flee. A couple of boys pushed him back toward Clint.

  “Please, Clint,” Dylan said.

  Maybe if I whimper like a girl he’ll leave me alone.

  “Please. I don’t want any trouble. I’m trying to warn you.”

  The boys surrounding them began to whoop and holler.

  “Did you say, ‘warn me’?” Clint slammed his chest into Dylan and crowded him back into the wall. “I am so going to hurt you.”

  Dylan forgot himself, forgot the forest of scarlet and yellow trees surrounding the school, forgot the sounds of the kids playing, forgot the jeering crowd of boys, forgot that he was smaller and weaker than his tormentor. He sprang off the wall, screaming, hands like eagle talons reaching for Clint’s eyes.

  The bigger boy was so surprised by the attack that he lurched backward, tripped over his own feet, and crashed to the asphalt. Dylan was over him in an instant, swinging his legs like pistons, kicking Clint in the head and chest, yelling like a banshee, tears streaming down his face.

  Dylan dropped to his knees and grabbed Clint’s head by his ears. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE BULLY!” He slammed Clint’s head into the asphalt. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE BULLY!” Again into the asphalt. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE—”

  A strong pair of arms grabbed Dylan from behind, lifted him into the air, and wrapped him in a bear hug, immobilizing him. “STOP IT!” The voice belonging to the arms dropped to a whisper. “Stop it, just stop it.”

  Dylan quit struggling and sagged against the man’s chest, sobbing and choking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I’m so sorry.”

  • • • • •

  “I realize that Clint can be a bully, Ms. Parker, but that’s no excuse. When I pulled Dylan off him, I thought the boy was dead. Thank God it wasn’t worse than it was.”

  It was mid-afternoon, the day after Dylan had pounded Clint’s head into the playground asphalt. He and his mother sat close to each other, shoulders touching, in Principal Toliver’s office, facing him across a huge metal desk covered in stacks of folders and pieces paper. All the kids thought the principal looked like Ichabod Crane with a Jesus beard.

  Dylan lived with his mother in a three-room house on the outskirts of town. He didn’t remember his dad; he’d been three when his father died in a gypsum mining accident in Wyoming.

  Toliver shifted his gaze. “Dylan, you realize that, right? You hurt him very badly. You could have killed him.”

  Dylan nodded.

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  Dylan squirmed in his chair. Eisenhower was a small school, and Mr. Toliver taught science and ruled as principal. He was Dylan’s favorite and taught Dylan’s favorite subject.

  “Yes. I didn’t mean to, honest. I lost it.”

  But when I was mad, I really wanted to kill him. There’s a monster living in my head.

  “How is Clint?” his mother asked. “The hospital won’t tell my anything.”

  “I can’t give you specifics, but he’ll be okay. Probably out of school for a week or so.”

  “Can I go see him?” Dylan asked. “I want to tell him I’m sorry.”

  Toliver’s grim expression twitched with the hint of a smile. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. His parents are very angry at you and the school, for that matter. They aren’t likely to welcome a visit from you.”

  Dylan nodded. “I get that. If you get a chance, please tell them I apologize.”

  “I will.” Toliver turned his attention to Dylan’s mother.

  “Dylan is very bright, Ms. Parker. I’m sure you know that. His test scores are off the charts. Gifted in English, math, and science. But he’s prone to moods. Some days he’ll be silly and goofy, a class clown. Other days he’s withdrawn and doesn’t interact at all. And now this. How does he behave at home?”

  Dylan’s mother shifted her gaze to the distant forest outside Toliver’s window, then returned the principal’s stare. “Boys his age are moody. And puberty doesn’t help. I’ve read that it can be worse with really bright kids.”

  Toliver stared at her for a moment, then looked at Dylan. “What do you think? Are you aware of these swings?”

  If I told you about the big switch in my brain, you’d lock me up and throw away the key.

  Dylan shrugged. “I’m different. I always have been. Kids pick on me because of it. It’s who I am; I can’t explain it.”

  The principal stared at him for a couple of moments. “You’re just into Transition. Have you been thinking about that?”

  “Just all the time.”

  Toliver laughed. “Finally, a straight answer to my questions.” His face fell, eyes sparkling with intensity. “It’s okay to think about it, but if you start considering using magic as a way to solve your problems, go to your mom or come to me. Don’t let that mind of yours talk you into something stupid. Deal?”

  Dylan stifled his surprise at Toliver’s insight.

  Magic or crazy. Are those my only choices?

  “I said, do we have a deal?”

  Dylan jumped and bobbed his head. “Yes. Deal.”

  Toliver pulled one of the folders from a pile, opened it, and frowned at Dylan’s mother. “This is your son’s third school in as many years. Kearney, Nebraska. Rich Creek, Virginia. Now here. Always in a small, rural towns. Why’ve you moved so frequently, Ms. Parker?”

  Dylan felt his mom tense even more than she had been already. “We like small towns. But the schools often have difficulty challenging Dylan. He becomes very bored.”

  Toliver’s eyebrows arched. “Did the moves have anything to do with Dylan’s behavior? Have there been other problems?”

  Dylan’s mother returned her attention to the scene outside the office window. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.” Her voice was almost a whisper, as if it was coming from far away. “That we’ve had problems? Is that it, so you can expel Dylan from Eisenhower? “

  She turned her attention back to the room, reached over and brushed Dylan’s copper hair out of his lavender eyes, kissed his forehead, and smiled at Toliver. “I won’t help you do that. He likes it here, and the school has been good for him. You’ve been good for him.”

  Toliver squirmed. “Thank you. I do
n’t want Dylan to leave the school. But we’ve got to get to the bottom of this and your evasions don’t help.”

  Dylan’s eyes filled. Every time his mom had asked a school for help, every time they’d sent him for counseling, it ended the same way. The counseling didn’t help. Sooner or later, he would lose his temper again, and the school would toss him out as a danger.

  “You leave me little choice,” Toliver said. “I’ve requested Dylan’s records from the other schools. I would’ve had them already if the other schools had been in New York, but I’ll get them in a few days. So I’ll ask you again, did your moves have anything to do with Dylan’s behavior?”

  His mother glared at Toliver. “Don’t be a bully, Mr. Toliver. It’s very unbecoming. Do what you feel you must.”

  Toliver’s eyes widened. Bright red patches bloomed on both cheeks. He gazed at Dylan, then looked back at his mom.

  “Very well. As I said, I’ll get the records shortly. I should also inform you that I’ve notified protective services of this situation. I have an obligation to insure that Dylan is not being abused.”

  His mother started to protest, but he cut her off.

  “Dylan’s intelligence and his moods mark him as different. And different can be very difficult for a middle-schooler. I want to help him, but I can’t excuse violence. So, I’m suspending him for a month. His return is contingent on you getting him into counseling. I’ll tutor him during the suspension, but only if that’s something Dylan wants. Please let me know.”

  Dylan glanced at his mom and was distressed to see tears streaming down her cheeks. He stood, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and nodded at the principal. “That’s fair. Thanks for the offer to tutor me. I’d like that. Is there anything else?”

  “A little good news, given everything,” Toliver said. “Clint’s parents aren’t going to press charges. Dylan, you need to treat this like one of the science or math problems you love to pull apart. Get it solved before it ruins your life.”