The Spirit in St. Louis

by Mark Everett Stone

  Jeanie chuckled weakly, sweat dripping off her nose. “No, you big doofus,” she replied with her throaty English accent that always activated my horny reflex. “It will be round as an apple soon enough.”

  Oddly enough, the little guy looked like a teeny-tiny version of a little old man, minus the wrinkles. Hard to picture? Have a baby and find out.

  While I stared in wonder at the sleeping little dude, his mother turned her big, chocolate-brown eyes my way. “What are we going to name him, Kal? We never settled the matter.”

  Hmmm. Good question, one I’d been pondering for the past twelve hours. During the pregnancy, we declined to have the child’s sex identified, preferring to be surprised, and we’d never really settled on a name, although she was partial to Trevor if it was a boy … and that wasn’t gonna happen. Fortunately, I had just the right answer. “I want to name him after one of the bravest, strongest, kindest men I’ve ever heard of.” My throat started to close up, but sheer willpower kept it open. “This man I’m thinking of was at his best when things were at their worst. Ferocious, loving, gentle, violent, and compassionate … a mass of contradictions that combined to form a stellar human being.”

  Jeanie looked puzzled. “You thinking of Canton? Your father?” she asked, one corner of her mouth twitching upward, forming a dimple.

  I shook my head. “Naw, kiddo, the name that came to mind is Desmond.”

  Big, sloppy tears began to spill over. “My late husband?”

  “The only Desmond I care to talk about,” I replied softly.

  A year ago, when I was considering a team for a mission to Chicago, I experienced the relevant portions of Jeanie’s life through virtual reality via the DRAFT (Data Retrieval and Forensic Technology unit) glasses. I’d learned that Desmond Morrow, her first husband, taught her how to fight, to be tough and to take care of herself. A factory worker and champion brawler, he treated her like a queen and loved her unconditionally, and that was good enough for me. Through the VR, I saw his kindness, that inner light that made him a special being not confined by flesh and bone. Desmond. After we were married (I thought Mom would never stop crying during the ceremony) Jeanie confided in me, saying that Desmond was the voice in her head that guided her through difficult times.

  How’s that for an erection killer? Still, it could be worse. Lord knows there were far scarier things in my head—things that would give the Marquis de Sade nightmares.

  Her arm slipping around my neck to hold me tight against her cheek showed me how right I could be. Even a blind squirrel finds a nut every now and then, or something like that.

  “We’ll call the next one Leena,” she whispered, her breath hot against my face, “if it’s a girl.”

  Leena was my little sister, the voice in my head after she was killed by a Supernatural. The source of my superhuman rage that fueled me through more than one near-fatal encounter. But she had found peace, and that rage was gone.

  My son’s birth was the best thing that had happened in the year since Omaha. On the whole, the good outweighed the bad, although the bad proved to be more of a pain in the ass while the good amounted to a metric ton of dirty diapers and a complete lack of anything resembling sleep. For an example of the bad, after Omaha and the black mark on my record I was consigned to take a couch trip, twice a month, with the Bureau’s chief headshrinker, Dr. Willows. Oh, she’s a nice enough woman, although she liked her Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey a bit too much.

  Twice a month I had to talk about my feelings, to vent the poison inside so I had a chance to heal, to have a normal life. All in all, I’d rather floss with razor blades.

  Normal life, huh? Even by Bureau standards, my life was as normal as a gaggle of coked up preschoolers armed with left-handed monkey wrenches. I was a whole galaxy away from normal and the Bureau hoped that Dr. Willows could crawl inside my skull and untangle the Gordian Knot of my thoughts.

  “I said, Agent Hakala, do you think the changes in the past year have been good for the Bureau?” asked Darla.

  My mind snapped back to the present and I shook my head ruefully. “Better? It’s certainly different. Used to be I just told someone about the recent op, went home, and drank myself stupid. Now I put on a headband made of loop de loop wires and electrodes and experience the salient points of the mission all over again. Don’t know how good that is, considering living through it the first time was irritating enough.”

  Her laugh was silky perfection. “No, do you think letting the world know about Supernaturals was a good thing?”

  What a loaded question.

  To be honest, the world took the news of Supernaturals pretty well. Oh, there was plenty of panic and doom-saying, usually from the Tinfoil Hat Club and politicians, not to mention religious hysteria from fundamentalists, but the regular folk, John Q. Public, were pretty chill about the whole thing. As long as there were guys like me in the trenches ready to fight the good fight and die a good death in the name of keeping them safe.

  Still, that didn’t stop a spree of killing that totaled about one hundred thousand dead in the U.S. alone because those who teetered on the edge of sanity took it upon themselves to eliminate perceived Supernatural threats themselves, or commit suicide in inventive ways, usually violently, sometimes explosively, taking others with them in a spectacular splatterfest and turning themselves into Jackson Pollock paintings made of human blood and tissue.

  As for the victims of this hysteria, every single damn one of them was an innocent who differed from the norm: those with Achondroplasia (dwarfism), gigantism, Proteus Syndrome (think Elephant Man), and other unusual physical conditions mankind is subject to. One man was shot in Vegas for being too hairy; the shooter thought he was a werewolf despite a Hawaiian shirt. That brief but violent episode showcased the darkest side of human nature. Nowadays most of the Straights (i.e., The General Public) treat the whole thing as a kind of interactive reality show.

  Before the paranoiacs went hog-wild—less than two hours after the announcement—the Bureau Powers Expansion Act was introduced. Sounds funky, huh? Basically it gave the Bureau carte blanche to do anything and everything to safeguard the Straights against Supernatural threats. That included authority over any other local, state, or federal agency, including the military. If it went bump in the night, we were allowed to nuke it till it glowed and shoot it in the dark. The BSI now had, on a limited scale, more power than FEMA, although it must answer to the newly formed Supernatural Committee. They kept the Bureau from straying too far out of line, but that old saying attributed to Ben Franklin was repeated often enough. You know the one—those who trade liberty for safety deserve neither.

  And with the Committee came a whole new raft of volunteers—men and women who wanted into the Bureau so bad they’d eat nails and crap staples for the opportunity. Now the Bureau had twenty teams (Alpha through Upsilon), twenty-one Receptionists (or Spin Doctors, Media Relations, whatever), and a whole new slew of Magicians and bright pennies working for Special Branch, the Bureau’s R&D division. Think of Q Branch in the Bond films, but with more explosions and things being turned into puddles of goo.

  “It’s okay, I guess.” A yawn tried to crack my face in two. The couch trips bored me silly, but I didn’t say that. Rule number forty-six: don’t be mean to your psychiatrist, even when they’re not there. “Still, it was cool being all cloak-and-dagger and such.”

  She replied with the obvious. “At least the mortality rate for first-year Agents is down to twenty-five percent.”

  I nodded. “Sure, but it’s still the most dangerous job in the world. It seems like the World Under is getting craftier by the minute and more dangerous monsters are bleeding through.”

  “Which is why the president revealed the existence of the Bureau and the World Under,” she smiled and rubbed her temples, “and dispelled the Interdiction.”

  “Yeah, one good thing that’s come from all this.” The Interdiction, the spell that kept the existence of the World Under a secret. I
t had nestled in my mind like a spider since I was fifteen and now it was gone. Turned out Ben Franklin, the Magician who crafted the spell, embedded it with a counter spell. A simple phrase, six words that unlocked my mind. “To thine own self be true.” Of course, it had to be said in Aramaic.

  Clever Ben.

  Chapter Three

  Kal

  Back in Black

  Of course the second the plane touched down at Dulles I received notice that BB wanted to see me, and as my feet hit the tarmac, a black Dodge Charger pulled up. A rugged looking guy, a Green Pea by the name of Silvestri (whom I’d nicknamed Slats because he was all hard angles and flat planes) exited the car and opened the back door for me.

  “Welcome home, Agent Hakala.” He looked good in a dark suit and tie. Federal chic.

  “Hey, Slats,” I replied, entering the car. “What’s gotten into BB’s bonnet? Any idea why he wants to see me?” It had been months since I’d talked to the Director, not that I didn’t want to, but because he still carried a plateful of anger over my antics in Omaha. Not that I blamed him, mind you. Well, maybe a little.

  “Sorry, Agent, no dice.” He smiled like a dog eating peanut butter out of a hairbrush. It was more than a little disturbing.

  I kept my trap shut for the rest of the ride and Slats, good egg that he was, sensed my mood and kept his closed as well. The kid had common sense, which isn’t as common as you’d think.

  A year ago the Bureau’s headquarters was a warehouse called, creatively enough, Warehouse. These days it was still called Warehouse, and still was a warehouse, but instead of relocating every three to four months, it stayed put. What used to be an industrial park in Alexandria was now one-hundred-sixty acres of green space surrounded by a twenty-foot-tall, ten-foot-thick concrete and steel fence topped with razor wire, with guard towers every five-hundred feet. It had the look and feel of a maximum-security prison but without the architectural grace. Imagine the one place on the planet you don’t want to be; now draw a picture of it. I bet it looks a lot like the BSI compound. BB hadn’t wanted the towers or the state-of-the-art automated Vulcan cannons or the satellite Death Ray (don’t asked, it’s classified above TOP SECRET), but the Committee wanted to keep the Bureau protected in case the Sidhe (the legendary Faërie race of Celtic lore who nearly destroyed mankind—twice) came calling. The fact that the Sidhe were at war with each other and wouldn’t be interfering for the next few centuries didn’t change their minds one bit. (The Seelie Court, or those that wanted to ally with mankind, were fighting the Unseelie Court, the total bastards that wanted to kill us all by pulling our guts out through our noses.) Sometimes a heaping portion of paranoia is a survival trait.

  The big problem with having all these magical/technological defensive and offensive capabilities packed into the compound was that if BB ever went rogue, there was about a fifty/fifty chance he could take over the country from behind his desk. The Committee members, no fools they, had figured this out and placed the codes to lowering those defenses into a ruggedized computer system buried in the bunker three hundred feet beneath the White House.

  At the gate our IDs were checked and re-checked, our auras scanned, and DNA examined. When the guards were fully satisfied, they waved us through the twenty-foot-wide steel gate and we drove through.

  Inside the only entrance (but not the only exit) we were issued badges, one of the Bad Things that came from revealing the BSI’s existence. I mean, c’mon, badges? Next it would be dress codes, regulation haircuts and … shudder … morning motivational meetings.

  The horror.

  After badges, I was free to wander the halls of Warehouse on down to BB’s office, a room big enough to get lost in. I had a theory that if you searched the Director’s office thoroughly enough, you’d probably find Jimmy Hoffa.

  Although the duties of Receptionist changed from team guardian/watchdog/psychologist to media relations/psychologist and defender against overeager fans, BB still rated the original version. This one was called Andrea and she had all the humor and conversational skills of a spitting cobra. She’d been my Receptionist for a while, but that didn’t stop her from placing her hand under her desk to grip the sawed-off shotgun filled with silvered deer slugs mounted there. One twitch of the finger and my guts would fall out of the hole where Big Jim and Twins used to be. I placed my hands slowly, carefully upon the surface of her desk.

  “The Director will see you now, Agent Hakala,” she said after my identity had been confirmed by the silver Spell Shapes beneath the wood veneer. I removed my hands, palms tingling, and went to see the boss.

  Butt comfortably ensconced in an overstuffed chair, I rested my hands on my knees and waited for BB to say something. He merely stared at me through his glasses, which I now knew was a DRAFT. Heck, he probably was checking my pulse and my behind for hemorrhoids, but like the old salesman saying goes, the first one who talks loses, and I wasn’t about to. I gave him a careful onceover. Although he was in his mid-forties, the job had aged him a good ten-plus years, the skin on his face falling slack and the veins on the back of his hands bulging. They say that being the president ages a person, but it seemed that being the director placed one foot squarely in the grave. Still, BB radiated the confidence and physical vitality that had made him one of the BSI’s best Agents.

  BB, as usual, registered all the emotion of a rock. “You look good, Kal.”

  Oh, worse than I thought. “Thanks,” I replied, keeping my face neutral.

  “I bet you’re wondering why you’re here.”

  My shoulders raised a fraction. I can play the inscrutable game, too. “Not really.”

  That got to him. “Really?”

  “Really.” Keep it to one or two syllables, Kal.

  “Why do you think I called you?”

  I let him chew on silence.

  A faint frown. Yeah, he was starting to get pissed. “Kal, we have to stop being angry with each other.”

  “Why?”

  A vein started up at his temple. “Don’t be childish.”

  Okay, time for more syllables. “Not childish, BB, angry. There’s a whole world of difference between those words.”

  Pretty sure he was scanning Dr. Willows’ files detailing my psych profile and fitness reports because he kept his mouth shut despite me getting under his skin—not to mention that his stare was about a thousand yards over my left shoulder. He confirmed my hunch by saying, “Dr. Willows says you’ve made wonderful progress.”

  “Guess so. She hasn’t consigned me to the local giggle factory.” And the fact that I was able to spin a country mile of BS without her catching on. Lord help me if she ever did.

  “Must everything be a joke or a bad pun?”

  “Call it my coping mechanism.”

  Sighing, BB removed his DRAFT and set it carefully on the desktop. I knew that desk to be one of the world’s most powerful computers, a desk-shaped device that interfaced with the DRAFT, allowing for constant updates and analysis. The fact that he took them off meant that he felt ready to get down to brass tacks with an honest heart-to-heart.

  “We’re ready to send you back out into the field, Kal,” he said quietly.

  Pins falling to the floor made more noise than we did. I let that statement percolate through my cortex for a moment or three. “By we, you mean the Committee, right?” He didn’t reply, so I kept on, “And that means there’s been a colossal pooch-screwing, which means that it was public, so public in fact that the Committee is crapping their undies and you needed to feed them a line to ease their worries. Am I right?” All that blasted out of my mouth in a rush, the logic falling into place almost simultaneously with the words. I held my breath.

  “God, you’re such a pain in the ass.” I was right.

  “Part of my undeniable charm.”

  BB crossed his arms. “So take the job. Alex has a device that contains all the particulars.”

  My pulse started to pound, but I kept my face impassive. If he put the DRAF
T back on I was screwed. My palms were sweaty and I could feel my pulse in my ears. I shook my head. “No, BB. Not this time.”

  That got to him. “What?” It wasn’t quite a shout, but for BB, it was close—he might as well have hollered at the top of his lungs.

  “Not going to do it.” Yep, my heart was performing the Macarena.

  “Don’t want to, or not going to?”

  “Pick your poison.”

  A short finger tap-tap-tapped on the desktop, the first sign of unease I’d ever seen in the man. I didn’t know whether to be exultant or terrified. The good money was on terrified, though. “Kal, please do not try my patience.” His finger kept tapping on the desk.

  Yeah, terrified all right. “Not trying to, BB.”

  He held my gaze for a good long while, gray eyes piercing skin and bone into brain, and it took everything in me not to squirm like a three-year-old. Tap-tap-tap. Then he did something that almost sent me back heels over head in my chair—he sighed. A real, heartfelt sigh of sadness and regret. The shock of it nearly broke my resolve.

  “When did you lose faith in me, Kal?” he asked.

  The words nearly turned my anger to ashes, but my fire ran deep and burned white hot. “That’s a hell of a question for you to ask me, BB.”

  One of his sparse eyebrows climbed toward where his hair used to be. “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean?” The words emerged with more energy than I intended. “What do I mean? I’ll tell you what I mean, boss: I’ve been a good little Agent, going to see Dr. Willows twice a month, minding my P’s and Q’s, and because of Omaha, you took me out of action. I get that, I agree with that, but a full year?” My voice was rising, and with some effort I lowered the volume. “During that time I’ve become the poster boy for the BSI, the longest serving Agent in history—a mascot to be paraded on stage by Kimmel, Colbert, and Fallon. And let’s not forget the movie! That damn movie where that blond guy from that superhero movie, The Justifiers, portrayed me. And there I was, on talk shows performing like a trained monkey so the Straights could feel safe because guys like me were on the front lines, but the irony is I’m not on the front lines. I get to babysit the new recruits—the Green Pea trainer and evaluator—and make sure they don’t die because this job can still kill you in a heartbeat despite all the support we receive nowadays from the other alphabet agencies and the local LEOs. So here I am, wondering why, after a year of silence from you, I’m suddenly the Bureau’s go-to boy. I gotta figure that your back is to the wall and that’s the only reason I’m being tasked with this op. Faith in you, BB? What about your damned faith in me?”