Sorting, sifting, searching, the hours swiftly passed. Tons of data deluged us, with Jess and I heroically struggling to separate grain from chaff. So much of this input was the result of drugs, hoaxes or just plain lack of common sense. Where the heck was the real bad guy? I was starting to feel like an overworked Private Investigator again. Digging through mounds of rotting garbage to find that single crumpled theatre receipt that blows the lid off a million dollar art smuggling ring. Ah, the good old days.
No daydreaming, Jessica sent gently. Get back to work, dear.
Slave driver.
The city was dark outside when the intercom announced dinner. Listlessly, we shuffled into the dining room and fell upon the food like purple fungus from Betelgeuse. By unanimous decision, the meal was quiet. I could almost hear the mental wheels grinding.
During dessert, I decided to give the aching brains a rest and lead the conversation off on a tangent. Always a favorite subject, we discussed initiations into the Bureau; my bloody rescue, George's heroic stance in the jungles of Viet Nam, Raul's rather explosive discovery that he had been a mage his entire adult life, Mindy's hilarious tale of daring-do at the World's Fair and how Jessica had boldly strode into a Bureau 13 divisional headquarters having found the covert organization all by her telepathic self.
In awkward stages, Katrina recounted how she became a mage during an all-naked performance of Brigadoon, the disastrous aftereffects and her subsequent defection to America. I knew that the FSB, Federal Secret Service, secretly had a nameless anti-supernatural section, but they indiscriminately killed non-humans and had absolutely none on their staff. Rather prissy of them, in my opinion. Even the hated KGB had occasionally used demons as field agents.
Rather embarrassed, Lt. Colonel Sanders refused to divulge his story, saying it was Alpha coded and not privy for general disbursement. Sorry. Given the sign from me, Jess tried a soft read on the man, but she got a flat nothing. Another natural telepathic block, same as Englehart. She said it was like trying to read a rock or an animal. Oh well. When I next got the chance, I'd slip some truth serum into his tapioca.
After piling the dishes in the sink, I ordered my yawning team to call it a night. Sleepy minds made mistakes, which we could not afford. Katrina and Sanders got our two spare bedrooms. I activated the alarm system, turned on the automatic defenses, set the scanning perimeters for the computer and went to bed with my wife. Sleep came fast, but troubled dreams disturbed my rest.
Four hours later, all hell broke loose.
NINE
Shouting in alarm, I tumbled to the floor with blankets wrapped about my feet and Magnum in hand.
“What? Who? Were?” I demanded at the darkness in my perfect impersonation of a frightened cub reporter. The noise sounded again. It was the red alert klaxon from the Cray computer.
“Let's go,” Jess said, pulling a robe on over her flannel nightshirt and grabbing a taser from the bedside table.
Dashing through the living room, I easily avoided the strategically placed hassock that seemed to love shins and placed my palm against the south wall. Silently as a sigh, the wall parted. Hitting either side of the opening, we listened for a second, and then I charged in as Jess kept me covered.
Nattily attired in red woolen longjohns and fluffy bunny slippers, Raul was standing impatiently in front of our Top Secret laser printer. His hands were hovering above the controls, almost touching the switches, but not quite. Raul knew better. Our printer could use its beam of condensed light for more things than just printing.
Suddenly appearing behind us was George, sporting an Uzi machine pistol and wearing striped pajama bottoms. Next came Katrina, her wooden staff at the ready and tastefully draped in a matching striped pajama top. So they were collaborating already, eh? Maybe it was time to start calling her Kathi, then.
Leaping into the middle of the room, Ken landed on tiptoes, dead silent and absolutely stark naked except for his Thompson .45 machine gun and a Bowie knife. I do admire a man who had his priorities straight.
The whining ceased and blank paper scrolled from the top of the printer. Ripping the top sheet free, I reached into my boxer shorts and retrieved my Bureau commission booklet. Pressing the federal ID against the paper, words began to form.
“What does it say?” Mindy demanded, lowering her sword. Wearing only skimpy red lace panties, she was most distracting and disgustingly wide-awake.
“Its an event chain,” I explained. “A school bus crashed into a tree outside of Huntsville, Alabama at noon. Thirty passengers were killed. All of the bodies have been reported stolen from the city morgue around 10pm. Huntsville, Alabama, blood bank robbed of thirty gallons around midnight. Huntsville, Alabama, farmer reports a herd of cattle drained of blood by flock of bats just prior to dawn.”
“We have a bingo,” Mindy announced, donning the robe Jessica offered.
Dragging his tail, Amigo waddled into the room, yawned loudly at us for disturbing his rest and waddled out again.
“How could the crash victims have become vampires?” George said puzzled. “Hoto is dead.”
“Theoretically,” I sternly corrected. “And then maybe Mystery Man was able to reconstitute the vampire like mutant orange juice. However, it's a hot lead, so I will do a recon.”
Hesitantly, Ken raised his hand for permission to speak. Lord, give me strength. “This isn't grammar school, Sanders,” I chastised. “Talk already, dude.”
“Sir, if Hoto has been brought back, then perhaps the TNR device is also functioning again. If I remember correctly from the casebooks, the alien machine habitually monitors all radio broadcasts and telephone lines listening for enemy communications. So if you do find them, how will you notify us?”
“Take Jessica along,” Katrina suggested. “Comrade telepath can contact team here in Chicago.”
“Not practical,” Jess said patiently. “This may be a lead, a diversion, or a trap. Two agents are enough to find out which. If there's trouble, they will call for help.”
True enough, then I added, “Plus, if it is a diversion and a real situation occurs elsewhere, how will the team contact us, to tell where the actual danger is?”
The Russian mage had to chew that over for a moment, and then accepted the cold logic. Communications in battle were always a tricky matter. Most important things were. Cellular phones helped, but even totally human enemies could tap/jam/trace those transmissions. The NSA did it all the time. Even short coded phrases were dangerous.
“Ah, excuse me, sir. But how will you contact us?” Ken asked again.
“We'll send a postcard.”
He blinked “Sir?”
Quickly but briefly, I explained. A magic postcard was a plain white paper rectangle, soaked in liquid magic for months. When it was ready, you simply address the perfectly ordinary seeming postcard to whoever should receive the message and the card disappears, to re-appear in their hand. But everything had to be perfect for the magic message to work and bad penmanship counted against you. Expensive and tricky to operate, we usually reserve the postcards only for emergency correspondence, or belated birthdays.
“How many are available?” George asked.
“None,” Raul yawned, his bunny slippers exactly copying the motion. “I printed a fresh batch last month, but they're not dry yet.”
“None?” I frowned. “As in zero?”
“Yep.”
Oh swell, so much for that idea. I chewed a lip in thought. “Okay, then we do it the old-fashioned way. Jess please telepathically contact either Raul or I every hour on the hour.”
“I'll link with just you,” she said after a moment. “We have a much closer rapport.”
Ain't it the truth.
“This could be a trap, Ed,” Raul noted, thoughtfully rubbing his wand. “Whoever this guy is, he knows the Bureau is hot for his ass. He tricked us once with the animal disguise.”
Yeah, and it still galled me that we had personally hauled the murdering bastard exactly wh
ere he wanted to go. Well, we would soon correct that mistake. At the end of a gun.
“And then he turned on the very monsters who had summoned him for aid,” Jess stated, worrying a button on her flannel sleepwear.
“Okay-okay. He's a lying, amoral, back-stabbing fink, who loves traps,” I agreed, rubbing my unshaved chin to the sound of sandpaper. “Fine. Let's use that to our advantage. Raul, you up for burning some rope?”
Raul and his slippers gave three delighted grins. “You betchum, Red Ryder!”
“And us,” George said, placing an arm about Katrina's ample curves.
“Sorry, chum. You're a top notch gunner, but as a spy you make a fine demolitions expert. As for Ms. Somers, burning a rope is no job for a newcomer. Besides, your Russian accent would cause too much notice down South.”
Realizing it was true, George accepted the rebuke with what grace he could. Katrina seemed confused.
“Accent, da,” she agreed. “But what rope is it that you will burn?”
“I'll explain in the kitchen,” Mindy said, taking the tall blonde by the arm. “Come on, Busty, let's start the coffee.”
“Bless you,” Raul yawned, stretching his arms.
I added my own benedictions. “The rest of you stay here and continue the work. We may need every gimmick you can think of to take this guy. Just in case this isn't a mistake, but actually is a trap or a lead, be ready for a teleport and full unrestricted combat.”
“Done.”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Of course, dear.”
“Lock and load, chief.”
Then I added, “And Sanders, get dressed for God's sake!”
Confused for a moment, the big guy glanced down as if he had forgotten about the lack of clothing. Maybe he was a nudist in his spare time.
“Right away, sir!” Ken saluted. “Full combat gear, or casual street attire, sir?”
I gave an internal sigh. Recruits! “Your choice.”
Returning to our bedroom, I quickly showered, shaved and dressed in black shoes, black socks, black pants, light blue shirt, dark blue sweater, black tie and tweed sports jacket. Glancing in the mirror, I resembled a badly disguised undercover police officer. Just the effect I wanted.
Jessica already had the armoire open and I choose my assortment of supplies. In blatant combat situations, Bureau agents could wear full body armor, ride tanks and carry bazookas. But operating in suburban Doo-Dah-ville, such paraphernalia only caused undue attention and frightened the horses.
Sliding on my double shoulder holster, I checked the loads on both of my .357 Magnums and made damn sure I had extra speedloaders, one of them filled exclusively with wooden bullets. Swiss Army knife, Bureau sunglasses, unbreakable pocket comb, EM scanner, flame retardant handkerchief, FBI ID, wallet, keys, a thousand in cash for bribes, Visa, MasterCard, American Express, pocket cassette recorder, mini-camera, four fountain pens, a pack of cigarettes and a signet ring. Yep, I was ready for war.
I hate burning a rope, Jess sent.
It's my turn for recon duty, darling.
Well, be extra careful. Tanner and Hoto and dangerous enough by themselves. If Lumpy has brought them back, the four of ‘em could be a match for the whole Bureau.
The four? I blinked. Oh yes, the Aztec book. But without an operative, it's relatively harmless.
So is a sub-critical mass of plutonium. Jess gave me a kiss.
I returned the lip service. “Worry worm.”
“Wife,” she replied.
Ready to leave, Raul was waiting for me in the library. The mage had changed clothes and was wearing sneakers, denims and a red flannel shirt. I was surprised he lacked a straw hat and wasn't munching on a weed. His arms were tanned brown, his neck was red and his chest a pasty white. He looked Southern with a capital S. Perfect. We were sure to go unnoticed.
On a hunch, I gave him a glance through my sunglasses. Ah-ha, damn near every inch of his body rippled with green auras.
“You wearing anything that isn't magic?” I asked.
“Socks, shorts and smile.”
“Where's your staff?”
“In my socks and shorts.”
I hide a smile. “Of course, how foolish of me.”
Pulling a massive volume prominently marked ‘A', from the packed library shelves, George laid our travel journal on a walnut table. Raul started flipping through a book of photographs. A mage had to see location of where to teleport, so we had an immense library of full color photographs of most every major city in North America and a few overseas. It had really saved our butts when we tackled the riddle of The Seven Doors.
“Birmingham is the closest we have,” Raul called. “About a hundred miles away. No, wait. Here's a postcard of the Huntsville sports arena!”
Accepting a mug of Morning Thunder tea from Katrina, I drained the brew straight. My eyes popped open and I shivered to full consciousness. Nothing magical about it, just enough hard caffeine to burn a hole in asbestos. Panting for breath, I thanked her.
“Good enough. We'll take a cab, or buy a car. Whichever is faster. Let's boogie.”
In a martial arts move, Mindy threw us a bag of sandwiches. Raul made the catch and I kissed Jessica goodbye. Then the team stepped clear as Raul began gesticulating. There was a flash, and we were suddenly standing on a corner near a street lamp, a mailbox, and the Dixieland Photo Supply store. Dawn was just tinting the skyline above the Huntsville sports arena.
Stepping onto Jefferson Boulevard, I whistled for a cab.
Paying off the happy cab driver, Raul and I entered the Our Lady of Mercy Hospital where the sole survivor of the bus crash was recuperating. Our FBI badges and serious expressions got us past the nurse at the reception desk, and the doctor on duty in the critical ward. Apparently, Sam McGinty, the driver of the bus, wasn't expected to see noon.
Badgering and blustering, I got us ten minutes alone with the unconscious man. A nurse demanded to know why the federal police wanted to see a dying patient, and Raul told her it was to measure his feet. That confused her long enough for us to gain entry to his room. Ah bullshit, an agent's best friend.
There were six other patients in this ward, none of them appearing any too good, but all with human auras. Our man was by the window. The chart on the wall was indecipherable doctorese, but Raul and I had come equipped with common sense. This guy was a mess. Both legs were in casts, arms suspended from a ceiling harness and he was wrapped head to toe in more bandages than Billy-Bob. Plus, a clear plastic oxygen tent covered his head. Clusters of drip bags were attached to his arms and neck. A beeping monitor on a nearby table registered heartbeat and pulse. The poor slob had more wires running into him than an illegal cable hook-up.
The door had no lock, so I slipped a chair under the handle to impede entrance and guarantee us a modicum of privacy. Meanwhile, Raul slid the curtains closed around the bed and pulled his staff into view from his pants. I joined him in the middle of a mumble and the mage bathed the dying man with a soft white light. Gently, the monitors started registering stable life-signs and McGinty stirred. Taking a ragged breath, our only witness moaned and opened his eyes.
“Who you?” he asked as we removed the clear plastic tent.
Raul crouched so he would be at face level with the man. In the cab ride over, I had lost the coin toss which decided who would be bad cop to the good cop. I still think we should have done best two out of three.
“You're all right, Sam,” the mage said in soothing tones. “This is a hospital and you're fine. A little banged up, but you will live.”
Groggy with narcotics, McGinty used a full minute to digest that information. “So who are you, cops?” he finally asked.
Brusquely, I flashed badge and he registered the usual surprise and respect that we always get from Southerners. God bless ‘em.
“Am I under arrest?” he quaked in fear.
“Not yet,” I growled in my official patented tough-guy voice. “Not unless you cooperate with the
government fully in this serious matter.”
“How can I he'p ya, officer,” he croaked softly.
“Sam, can you tell us what happened?” Raul said, tucking the top part of his commission booklet into a shirt pocket so the badge would always be in sight. A psychological inducement to help us maintain mental authority over the civilian.
“Ya'll mean the crash?”
“Yes.”
Furrowing his brow, the driver visibly tried to think fast. “Why, a skunk, yeah, a skunk, ran in front of the bus, and I swerved to avoid hittin’ the thing and hit a tree,” McGinty lied with a straight face. “Don't remember much after that.”
“You are an excellent poker player,” Raul complimented. “But we stopped at the Huntsville police station before coming here and saw the wreck. That vehicle was cut in half like it ran straight into a horizontal buzz-saw.”
He said nothing for a moment, and then offered a weak smile. “'friad, I dun know what yewr talkin’ about, sir.”
“Yet the ends of the cut were slightly slagged. Molten!” I snapped. “McGinty, you know what a laser beam is?”
The expression on his face said that he did. Mystery Man had probably used a Disintegration Spell, or a tightly controlled Lightning Bolt, but either one would resemble a laser beam to the uninformed.
“Well, enemy agents of a foreign country have stolen a working military prototype of a laser rifle from—” frantically I struggled to remember the local Army base. My memory failed, so I took a wild stab in the dark. “—Fort Washington. The Pentagon wants it returned.”
“America needs that weapon, Sam,” Raul added sounding sincere.
“Was it the commies?” the man asked registering shock.
Aside from China, were there any commies left in the world? But then, lying was part of the job. “Exactly,” I said grimly.
“Well, shoot,” he said, patriotic resolve strengthening his voice. “I didn't wanna tell the truth for fear of going to the loony bin. But if it's for my country, guess I gotta.”
Doomsday Exam [Bureau 13 #2] Page 13
