Season of the Witch

by David L. Golemon

  “These the boys you’re lookin’ for?” Shaune asked.

  Henri was shocked to see the battered and bruised faces of what amounted to a group of Hell’s Angels in dress and style. They were laughing and smiling even as they were still wiping blood from their noses and mouths.

  “What in the hell happened to them?” Henri asked.

  “Oh, they were just getting to know the boys a little.” Shaune leaned into his cousin. “Stay away from the little Communist bastard, he’s got a mean kick and even meaner punch. Just ask the boys.”

  Farbeaux was amazed that there wasn’t one mark on Tram, Will or Ryan. They were all taking turns drinking beer and downing shots. The Frenchman shook his head in admiration.

  “And to think, most of us here may have been shot at by your grandpa or cousin. Small world ain’t it?” The larger of the men said as he slid more drinks over to the three strangers. Then he slapped Tram on the back. The small sniper was glad he had been able to demonstrate that small men could actually take care of themselves. Not that you would have to prove that to any Vietnam veteran ever to have fought in the long-ago conflict. Henri could see that the respect shown to the Vietnamese was equal to Tram’s own for the men his family had once fought against.

  “I hate to break up the good times, but we have work to do gentlemen,” Henri said while removing the shot glass from Van Tram’s hand.

  The burly men that were buying the drinks turned and gave Henri withering looks. When Tram stood and offered his hand to the original patron who had attempted to tear his head off at the shoulders, the man with the vet’s hat on nodded his head and then shot Farbeaux an angry look once more. The three men moved off to join Henry and the two Irishmen.

  * * *

  Henri sat down in the darkened back room. Shamus and his cousin Shaune sat silently by as Henri made the introductions. Suspicion crossed the faces of the two when Will’s, Ryan’s and Tram’s military ranks were explained to them. Needless to say, neither of the Irishmen shook hands with the three. Farbeaux handed Mendenhall an address torn from his notebook.

  “Colonel Collins is to meet us here within the next two hours.”

  Will read the note and then passed it to Ryan.

  “So, why are we sitting in a bar talking with Britain’s most wanted?” Mendenhall asked, eyeing the two large Irishmen.

  “Because gentlemen, they know this city better than anyone in the world. If they wanted to hide, they could never be found. If they wanted to kill, they would never be caught. If they—”

  “We get the point, Colonel. They’re your kind of guys,” Ryan said, cutting off the Frenchman.

  “Yes, they are. Major, do you have the package?”

  Mendenhall eyed the Irishmen suspiciously once more and then reached into his coat and slapped the yellow envelope on the table. It was just in time that they saw it was only an envelope as their hands were already caressing the handguns they had hidden under the table.

  Shamus reached out and took the envelope and opened it. He slid it over to his cousin Shaune.

  “That’s a lot of bleedin’ money,” he said eyeing the Americans.

  “Well, we need a lot of information,” Farbeaux said as he waited for their hands to relax and appear above the table again.

  “You brought me all the way to Boston for information?” Shamus asked, again looking suspiciously at the French Colonel.

  “Yes, I needed you and your contacts. Now either you can help us, or you won’t.”

  The American Irishman, O’Grady, slid the envelope back to Henri. “If you have come to us the odds be that whoever you need this information on straddles the line when it comes to the law. We don’t hurt our friends.”

  “We are not asking you to hurt anyone that wouldn’t deserve it.” Henri said before Ryan could say something irreparable. “This person isn’t above the law, but she seems to be above everything else in this city. That means that the odds are that you know her.”

  “Now, our friends out west know where we can find her. We just need to know about her.”

  Jason relaxed as Henri seemed to have laid at least one of the Irishmen’s suspicions to rest.

  “Then this person isn’t associated with the troubles. In any way?” Shamus asked.

  “Not that we know of. But if this woman is as powerful as we think she is, she could never hide out in your city without you knowing something. If we’re wrong and you don’t know everything in and around Boston,” Henri reached for the envelope full of cash, “then we obviously need to seek our information elsewhere.”

  Shamus exchanged looks with Shaune and then reached out and stopped Henri from removing the offer. Mendenhall shook his head knowing then that the Frenchman really knew his scum of the earth.

  “Well, let’s not be hasty. If we have any knowledge of someone who isn’t a friend, then we can possibly do business,” Shamus finally said as he slid the envelope over to his cousin. “What do you want to know my French friend?”

  “Elsbeth Barlow. Who is she?” Mendenhall asked, not waiting for Henri this time.

  This time it was Shaune who hurriedly slid the envelope back to the Frenchman. He stood up as did his cousin.

  “Keep your money, Colonel darlin’,” Shamus said as he started to turn away.

  “Then she is a friend of yours?” Ryan asked, ready to stop the two men from leaving. Even Tram tensed, ready for another go at the largest Irishmen he had ever seen.

  Shamus turned and faced the four men. He started to say something, but O’Brien stopped him. They once more turned to leave.

  “She may be responsible for killing one of the most brilliant scientists this country has ever produced. She also injured an old woman that has saved this world, as fucked up as it is, countless times. If you know something you damn will better tell us.”

  Shamus looked intently at Ryan. “Or what, boyo?”

  Ryan was about to explain when the unseen voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

  “Or you and all of your organization will cease to exist within six months. Anyone you ever knew in life will regret the day you didn’t answer our inquiries. Regard it as a favor to a friend if you like. Or regard it as a threat. Justify it anyway you wish. But answer the question or we can start thinning out your heard right now.”

  The voice was so calm and smooth it gave all who heard it cold chills. When Henri, Ryan, Will and Tram looked up, it was Colonel Jack Collins and Carl Everett standing in the open door. Jack walked in and took the offered bribe from the table and slipped it into the pocket of Shamus.

  “I’m sure you will be more comfortable sitting as you talk.” Jack sat in a vacant chair while Everett folded his arms and waited by the door. The Captain saw Will start to rise but a simple shake of the head stopped him, and the Major eased back down. “Colonel, I’m happy you were able to convince your friends that cooperation is always in their best interest.”

  Farbeaux looked from cousin to cousin. “Gentlemen, Colonel Jack Collins, United Sates Army. His Doctor Watson there is Captain Everett, U.S. Navy.”

  “I must say Henri, you have definitely changed your taste on your working associates,” Shamus said as he gave in and sat. O’Brien did the same. “You know this burns the last bridge with us?” he said to Henri as he eyed the newcomer with small scars lining his tanned features.

  “I believe the question was about Elsbeth Barlow,” Ryan said when the room became silent.

  Shamus nodded his head at his cousin Shaune to speak for them.

  “Look, that woman would have never hurt your friends. That much I do know. If she did, she had good reason to.”

  O’Brien saw by Jack’s face his answer wasn’t sitting too well with him.

  “Okay, you want the goods on her?”

  Silence greeted the obvious question.

  “We have much Irish silliness in our history of tales. Legends of witches and warlocks. But Elsbeth Barlow is no legend, nor is she an old wive’s tale. I know you Ame
ricans are a hard bunch to believe in things you can’t touch or use scientific reasoning on. But when it comes to the old woman, let me just say this, she’s real and she can end your life with a snap of her fingers. I dare say that there are very few we don’t mess with in this city. We are never frightened of most things.” O’Brien leaned in close. “But we leave Elsbeth Barlow alone.”

  “The Witch Queen of Salem?” Jack asked. The non-belief was apparent in his voice. It wasn’t in Henri’s, Will’s, Trams or Ryan’s after they were attacked by the Grey in New Orleans.

  Shamus stood slowly looking at Farbeaux. “You already know about her, but you drag us into this anyway?”

  “Details Shamus. That’s what we need. Barlow says she needs something from us, and she has already taken it. What we need to know is if she’s trustworthy,” the Frenchman held the Irishman’s eyes until he sat back down.

  “I am sorry for your friends, but as I said, if what you say is true, Elsbeth Barlow would never hurt them. If you knew the power she wields, you yanks would have had her caged many, many years ago and gone about your business of ruling the damn world. If she’s on a mission, do not get in her way.” This time Shamus removed the envelope from Shaune’s shirt and tossed in front of Collins. “As I said, keep your money, we will not be involved.” He turned and faced Farbeaux. “As I said, Colonel, this burns it with us. The next time me or mine see you, we’ll kill you for dragging us into these troubles.”

  They watched the cousins stand and leave.

  “Well, that was helpful,” Mendenhall said as he took a shot of whiskey and then downed it with a hiss. “What now?”

  Jack stood up and pocketed the money.

  “We’ve been invited to dinner. I think we’ll attend.”

  Everett opened the door for them.

  “Let’s go meet the mysterious Elsbeth Barlow then.”

  * * *

  Baton Rouge, Louisiana

  Congressman Harold Briggs was in his second floor study. Ever since his arrival back home he had been inundated with interview requests regarding his sudden cancellation of all political functions planned by his campaign. Speculation was running wild and even the rumors dropped by his campaign manager about Briggs suddenly coming down with an illness only prompted wider speculation as to the real reasons. Some had even suggested that the President of the United States had something to do with his sudden retreat from the active running of his campaign due to the congressman’s insistence on his ‘hidden agency’ investigation.

  His wife of forty-two years tried once more to get him to talk to her, but he still refused to go into detail. Even with the obvious breakdown of his usual vanity for his dress, hair and demeanor, she felt she didn’t know the man she married back when he was just the Mayor of Lake Charles over forty years before. Ellen Briggs had been so worried about him that before his arrival back home she had hidden the two guns they had in the house for their protection. She had failed to find the third. The two she had found were now in the possession of the Secret Service who stood watch outside the house.

  “Harold, you’re scaring me,” she said in a last attempt to allow her into his head.

  Briggs turned and smiled even though she could tell he had been crying. This was a development she had never once seen the man from Louisiana do in their time together.

  “I’m scaring you?” he asked.

  Ellen Briggs could see that her husband was getting ready to lose control as he was torn between laughing and crying. She watched him raise the glass of liquor to his lips and saw that he shook so badly that whiskey spilled on his white shirt.

  “What in the world is there anything to be scared about in this wonderful world of ours?” This time he finished off his drink without incident.

  “Harold, come away from the window. Your security detail will think you insane. There’s rainwater coming in everywhere.”

  As Briggs poured another drink he watched as a new storm made its way in from the Gulf. It seemed since this whole ugly thing had begun it was constantly raining. He snickered to himself as he heard his wife stop short of hugging him from behind. When he capped the crystal decanter of whiskey, he turned back to the balcony and the increasing electrical storm outside the open French doors.

  “Honey, I think I need some food in me. That may make me feel better.” He turned and smiled. For the briefest of moments Harold Briggs looked like his old self. “Would you mind making something?”

  “I’ll call down and have someone from the staff bring up a sandwich right away.”

  Harold still had the smile on his face as he stepped away from the rain and the open doors. “No, make me some of that shrimp and grits like you used to in the old days. You know before we had a staff.”

  Ellen Briggs was shocked when Harold leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Alright. Just like the old days,” she said as she started for the door.

  “Ellen?” he said, stopping her at the double doors to the study.

  “I never could have made it this far without you. I should have listened to you all along.”

  “Harold, whatever it is, we’ll fix it,” her smile was hesitant but truthful.

  He paced the five steps and faced his wife. He reached into his back pocket and gave her an envelope. Scrawled on the front was a name and an address in Las Vegas, Nevada.

  “This is a personal note for a man I know. After I leave for D.C. tomorrow, would you make sure he gets it? Don’t let anyone from my staff read it. Just this man. Okay?”

  Ellen looked at the letter and then nodded her head. This time Harold kissed her with passion.

  Briggs watched his wife leave the study as thunder shook the foundations of the house. As soon as she had closed the doors behind her, Briggs lost his smile.

  The phone buzzed. He ignored it.

  “Congressman?”

  Briggs tried to also ignore the intercom on the top of his desk. He heard the voice of an assistant once again. He strode to the desk and saw the newest poster design for his campaign on top. He picked it up and looked at it. ‘For truth and justice in an out of control world—Briggs for President.’ The congressman swallowed the last of his whiskey and chuckled. He casually swatted the poster from the desktop and then reached for the upper desk drawer. His fingers felt the cold steel of the small thirty-two caliber pistol his wife had missed and he removed it from the desk as he placed his empty glass down and then picked up the phone from its cradle.

  “Yes?” he said as his eyes roamed over the blue steel of the small semi-automatic.

  “Congressman, a gentleman calling himself Roderick Smith says he is returning your call.”

  “I don’t know a Roderick Smith,” he said as he sat on the edge of his desk. Another flash of bright lightning didn’t faze him as he toyed with the pistol.

  “The gentleman said to tell you the game is still viable.”

  Harold stopped playing with the gun and smiled. “Interesting, put him through please, I may have something he would want to hear directly from me.” Briggs listened as the call was put through. The congressman reached over and flipped a small switch that turned off the recorders and one that also scrambled the incoming call to a sound that was irritatingly similar to someone forcing a phonograph record backward.

  “Congressman, how good of you to accept my call. I understand that after your encounter with our Mr. Sokol you have had doubts inter your thinking. I am calling to reassure you that although mistakes were made on our part in relying on Mr. Sokol and his other worldly partner, we have a strong desire to see our plans though. My sources have informed me that you are having doubts. Please don’t my friend. We have a marvelous opportunity here to—”

  “You have an opportunity to die if you get in that man’s way. I watched him and his Grey do things that are physically impossible. They are both insane. You know this and still you promise pie in the sky estimates. Do you think after he killed all those so-called specialists you sent to
the Gulf you can control him and his little pet?”

  He heard the man breathing on the other end of the line. He knew he wasn’t speaking with a go-between as he had in the past. He was speaking with the designer of the bold plan to put him in the Oval Office.

  “Admittedly, we sorely underestimated Mr. Sokol, but as soon as our business is concluded, we will hunt this man and his Grey down. He will pay for his—”

  “Now we have that department you seemed so worried about on our,” Briggs cut the man off and then he laughed and corrected his thought, “on my tail. That means the President knows and by this time his intel people.”

  “We have made a decision on Department 5656 my friend. In a few days you won’t have anything to worry about where they are concerned. We will remove the brains from the head. The Operation is in action even as we speak.”

  Briggs laughed again. “Let me give you another option.” Briggs placed the phone down on the desktop and then looked over at the fallen campaign poster. He shook his head and then placed the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger just as thunder crashed across the dark skies of Baton Rouge.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later as Ellen Briggs opened the door with a plate of Harold’s favorite snack of Shrimp and Grits and smelled the residue of gunpowder, she knew the campaign for Harold R. Briggs, Congressman from Louisiana, for the office of President was officially over.

  * * *

  Novosibirsk, Siberia,

  Russia

  Number One looked at his two top assistants. The gunshot was still echoing in his head and memory as he had just listened to five years of hard work cease to exist in the time it took for the coward Briggs to pull a trigger.