by John Ringo
“Her,” the agent said, shrugging. “No, but I’ve heard of her.”
“The next convention she’s at is in Greensboro in a month,” Halliwell said, correcting himself. “Read some of her books, bill them to the Bureau. That’s your con.”
“Great,” Donahue said, grumpily. “I’m supposed to infiltrate Goths. Why did it have to be Goths?”
* * *
Barbara Everette dropped Allison off at dance class with a sigh of relief and headed towards the Wal-Mart shopping center on the edge of town. She pulled onto Mississippi 15 and began weaving through traffic, pushing the Expedition up to well over the posted speed limit.
As she approached the Wal-Mart she looked at her watch and frowned, then glanced at the gas gauge. The Expedition had plenty of gas but it was time to check in.
She pulled out of the left-hand lane, inserting the vehicle into a small space between two pick-up trucks, and then whipped into a turn lane, pulling into a battered Quik-Mart. She topped off the tank with a couple of gallons of gas, then went into the store, picked up a Starbucks vanilla Frappuccino and headed to the counter.
“Hello, Mrs. Everette,” the dark-skinned owner of the store said, smiling. He took the twenty she gave him and made change for the Frappuccino and the small amount of gas. Part of the change was a gold coin that appeared at first glance to be a Sacagawea dollar.
“Thank you, Mr. Patek,” Barbara said, nodding. “Go with your god.”
“And you with yours, Mrs. Everette,” the man said, bowing slightly.
Barbara pulled back into traffic then drove to the Wal-Mart shopping center. Instead of getting out right away, she opened up the coin, wrestling with it slightly to get it to pop, and unfolded the note inside.
“Religious Retreat. Foundation for Love and Universal Faith, Women of Faith Division. Invitation and tickets by mail, Tuesday or Wednesday. Mission of one week plus duration to follow.”
She rolled up the note and tossed it in her mouth. The sugar- impregnated rice paper dissolved pleasantly on her tongue. When it was gone she walked into the Wal-Mart to pick up sundries, sipping on her Frappuccino to get the taste of ink out of her mouth.
* * *
“Agent Donahue,” Halliwell said as Greg entered his office. “Sit down, please.”
Donahue glanced at the visitor in the office as he sat down, then looked over at his boss.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“This is Mr. Germaine,” Halliwell said, gesturing at the newcomer with a frown. “He’s a… consultant on the R-143 investigation.”
“I wasn’t aware that we’d called in a consultant,” Greg said, frowning. The visitor was well dressed in a tailored suit. The FBI used a variety of consultants and Donahue mentally pegged him as a specialist in some forensic field.
“Greg, you’ve been with the Bureau… twelve years, right?” Halliwell said, with a hint of nervousness. “But most of that time in Robbery, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Donahue said.
“This is your first kidnapping investigation,” Halliwell added. “I’ve been in kidnapping and serial for over twenty years now. And… well, I’ve seen some things that, let’s just say they don’t make the news, okay?”
“I’m not following you, sir,” Donahue said, frowning. “What sort of things?”
“The term is ‘Special Circumstances,’ Agent Donahue,” the visitor said. He had a light accent, maybe British overlaid with something else.
“What does Special Circumstances mean?” Greg said, feeling like he was interviewing a suspect rather than having a meeting with his boss.
“It means the supernatural, Greg.” Halliwell sighed. “And before you decide I’m nuts, don’t. About the sixth investigation I was on turned out to be a vampire. A real, honest-to-God, bloodsucking, charming, stronger-than-human vampire. I am not shitting you, okay?”
Greg’s face bunched up, his eyes closed and he actually felt his blood run cold.
“You’re not joking, are you, sir?”
“No, he’s not,” Germaine replied. “When there is an investigation that has Special Circumstances, the FBI calls us in. They, in fact, keep us informed on all investigations that might have such circumstances. We’d been tracking R-143, mostly because the cabalistic symbols on the bodies are, in fact, the correct symbols for a particular form of necromantic rite. But we had hoped that it involved, let’s just say a normal psychopath. Unfortunately, we’ve recently been informed that such was not the case. We have reason to believe that the girls are being sacrificed to a particular lesser deity, call it a demon. Such sacrifices create power which can be used by the sacrificer. Furthermore, sufficient power can permit the deity to manifest on earth. We would prefer to prevent that from happening. Things get… remarkably ugly when that occurs.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Greg asked.
“We have far fewer agents available than the FBI,” Germaine said, smiling faintly. “On the other hand, we also have some techniques the FBI does not to narrow down the field of suspects. We believe that, of all the potential conventions, the one that you are going to attend has the highest likelihood of attracting your perpetrator. Therefore there will be a Special Circumstances consultant attending that con. They will probably accompany you to it. In the event that you find the perpetrator, I would recommend that you inform the consultant. It is possible that the person may have abilities that you will be unable to combat. By the same token, the consultant may need… back-up. Depending upon who is sent they may have an attitude of nonviolence towards all but the necromancer or entity. Therefore, if your perpetrator is not using ritual, or does not summon a manifestation, you and the local police may have to handle the capture.” Germaine paused and thought for a moment. “However, if there is manifestation, it is probably better if you let the ‘consultant’ handle it.”
“If it hadn’t been for the SC operative in that vampire investigation, I wouldn’t be here,” Halliwell said. “I’ve dealt with them several times over the years. Sometimes it turns out to be nothing, just your usual murdering madman. But when you need an SC operative, you really need an SC operative. Understand?”
“No, sir,” Greg admitted.
“Well, let’s put it this way,” Halliwell said, grimacing. “If the SC operative tells you to jump, don’t even ask how high. Just jump. Period. Or you’re liable to end up as a corpse.”
“And, I might add,” Mr. Germaine said. “A corpse whose soul now resides in hell as the plaything of the demon you were opposing.”
“Yes, sir,” Greg said, swallowing.
“One more thing,” Halliwell said. “Nobody finds out about SC unless they have to and they’re considered trustworthy. The very existence of Special Circumstances is top secret. You don’t tell anyone about it, you don’t admit to its existence outside of the circle who know about it. There is no ‘Special Circumstances’ department in the Bureau. It doesn’t exist, period. You cannot talk about the special aspects of this investigation with anyone except myself or the director. And, obviously, the SC operatives you may encounter in your career. You’re now on an inside track in the Bureau. It won’t get you promoted faster but… you’ll see things and know things that very few do.”
“Assuming you survive,” Germaine said, with another faint, secret smile. “Special Circumstances investigations are notoriously hard on regular agents.”
Chapter Two
As Barbara fixed dinner she considered how to broach the subject of her trip to Mark. She loved her husband and, as a good Christian woman, considered him to be the head of the household. And Mark was not going to want her to go. However, she also knew that the group she was involved with was, without question, doing God’s work. This was to be her first formal training session, not to mention first official mission, and she intended to be there when called.
She finished fixing dinner, fried chicken, mashed potatoes and broccoli, then set it out on the table, calling the family to feed.
It took a while.
Allison was on the phone with a friend. Getting her to hang up involved threats to lose the privilege for a week. The first games of March Madness were on so dragging Brandon away from the TV practically involved oxen. Mark had already decided that he was just going to eat off a tray, so Brandon wanted to know why he couldn’t as well. Since Mark was ignoring the argument, Barb got no support from that direction. By the time she got Brandon over to the table and a TV tray on Mark’s lap, the phone had rung again and Allison was back on. Even Brook was hiding in her room so it took nearly fifteen minutes from the moment the broccoli was ready before they sat down.
They had just said grace, Barbara saying the prayer since Mark was glued to the Georgia Tech game, and settled down to their food when Allison made a face.
“This broccoli is cold!”
Barb counted to ten, slowly, then did it again in Fusian. If she didn’t she might say something… unChristian to her daughter. Demons were going to be a vacation!
* * *
Barbara waited until the break between the third and fourth quarter to spring her surprise.
“Mark?” she said, sitting down on the couch.
“Yeah?” he asked, distractedly, as the announcer ran over the highlights of the previous quarter along with what was going on in other games.
“I’ve been invited to a religious retreat with the Women of Faith Foundation,” Barb said. “I’ll be gone for about a week. And I may be going somewhere afterwards, I don’t know how long that will be.”
“Uh, huh,” Mark said. “I can’t believe they didn’t score that as a foul, would you look at that?”
“Mark,” Barbara said, with just a hint of impatience. “Did you hear me?”
“Uh…” Mark said, finally turning to look at her. “No?”
“I’m going to a religious retreat,” Barb repeated. “For a week. Then maybe somewhere after that, I don’t know how long.”
“A week?” Mark snapped. “Who’s paying for it?”
“The Foundation,” Barbara sighed. “And my plane fare.”
“Why?” he asked.
“It’s through the church,” Barbara replied, only half lying.
“Who’s going to… ?” Mark said, pausing.
“Cook? Clean? Do the laundry? Pick up the kids from school?” Barb asked. “Shop?”
“Yeah,” Mark replied. “I’ve got a job!”
“Brandon and Brook can stay in the after-school program. I’ll get someone to cart Allison to cheerleading. For the evening things, like karate and dance, you’ll have to do it. I’ll leave a list of chores for the kids and premade food for some of the nights. Then there’s take out and delivery. You’ll survive, I’m sure.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic,” Mark said, sighing. “Why do you have to go I guess is what I mean.”
“A foundation is paying for me to meet with other women of faith in a dialogue on the nature of faith,” Barbara replied, admitting that it was only half of the truth. “It’s important, to me, to our church and to God. I’d hoped to get your blessings on it, not resistance.”
“Whatever,” Mark said as the game started up again. “Like you said, we’ll survive.”
“Thank you,” Barb said, but she knew darned well he hadn’t heard it.
* * *
The “religious retreat” was at a small facility in western North Carolina. Barbara could have driven, but the foundation had provided plane tickets to the Asheville airport so she found herself negotiating her carry-on through the small crowd and wondering who was going to be meeting her.
As she exited the restricted area she saw a short, plump, older woman with a face full of wrinkles and wearing a paisley dress who was holding up a sign that said: “Barbara Everette.” The woman’s silver hair was pinned up on her head with silver pins and she wore what, to Barb’s eyes, was an enormous number of necklaces, most of them silver and bearing both cabalistic symbols and other “fantasy” motifs. The centerpiece was a massive dragon’s head cast in silver that seemed to be roaring defiance. Her makeup was also… outré in Barbara’s opinion, heavily applied and very extreme, the eyeliner working up almost to the edge of her hair and making her look somewhat elfish.
Barb, who had dressed in a cream silk shirt, light maroon washed silk jacket, a matching skirt and heels and was wearing only a pearl necklace and her wedding ring felt that she was either over dressed or underdressed but that, certainly, they were going to make an odd pair. However, she approached the woman, holding out her hand.
“I’m Barbara,” she said, smiling. “Please call me Barb.”
“Sharice Rickels,” the woman said, lowering the sign and taking her hand. “Glad you could make it. I’m looking forward to talking.”
“It… should be interesting,” Barbara said, uneasily. “I have to pick up some checked baggage.”
“Not a problem,” Sharice said, depositing the card in the nearest trash and leading her over to the baggage claim area. “I heard, many of us have heard, how you were chosen to attend the Foundation meetings. We were, to say the least, impressed. Also impressed that a Christian would both be able to do what you did and not find the Foundation odd or impossible.”
“You’re not a Christian?” Barb asked, curiously.
“Oh, Lady, no,” the woman said, laughing merrily. “You’ll find few among our ranks. There are some Catholics, a few, but you’re the first Protestant I’ve met. Most of us are what you would term pagans. I’m a Wiccan, reformist — mind you, I don’t have the body for sky clad. Well, not anymore,” she added with a grin. “I had my days, lovey. But most of us are pagan. Wiccan, Hindu, Asatru, got a lot of Asatru…”
“I don’t even know what any of those are,” Barbara said, curiously. “And they’re all… members of the Foundation?”
“Yes,” Sharice said, shrugging. “There are… oh, I suppose you could use the term ‘politics’ even in the foundation. More like… theatrics, if you don’t mind the pun,” she added, grinning. “Power is a function of followers and interest on the part of the deity. Asatru is gaining in strength, not only in the foundation but in the world. They’re worshippers of the Norse Gods, by the way. Thus they’re increasing in power and that’s good. Of course, there’s the sub-branch that follows the chaotic tenets of the Jester and that’s a pain in the butt, as you can imagine. Hindus, of course, have great power, but it’s dispersed what with one thing or another. You think we have problems here, you have no idea how bad it is in India or other regions where Hindus are prevalent. We’ve been hoping for more Christians. America is an essentially Christian country and the power levels available to ardent Christians are just amazing. But the faith is so…” She paused and looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I was on a hobby horse.”
“I think you were about to say something like ‘closed minded,’ “ Barb said, shrugging. “I suppose it is.”
“But we do what we can with the power available to us,” Sharice said, brightly. “Really, the… other side is as crippled as we are. They have many worshippers in secret, but they can’t coordinate like we can.”
“There’s my bags,” Barbara said. “Could you maybe get a skycap? I’ve… got a few.”
“A few” turned out to be five, including her carry-on, which she added to the stack.
“I think we can get all of these in my car,” Sharice said, nervously. “I hadn’t realized you’d be bringing so many.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t have,” Barb admitted. “But I didn’t know what the meetings would be like, what to wear, and the last time I traveled I traveled so light I didn’t have the right clothes at all. So I sort of brought… everything I might need.”
“I’ll go get the car.”
Sharice’s car was a three-year-old Malibu, light green and… cluttered. The back seat was covered with books, bags and implements, some of which, like the skull-headed mace, made Barbara question if she was meeting the right person. The front seat held a larg
e bag with a black knife handle and some candles peeking out, while the floor was filled with magazines, most of them with demons, dragons or fairies on the cover.
“I suppose I should have cleaned it out,” Sharice said, embarrassedly. “But I like to have clutter around me. It’s what’s called comfort clutter,” she added, hoisting her obviously heavy bag into the back. “And… I’ve learned to have my tools with me at all times.”
Between packing the trunk and the back seat they got all the bags in the car. Barb tipped the skycap, then got in the car, kicking the magazines aside to get some floor space for her feet.
“I understand you pack,” Sharice said as they pulled out of the front entrance.
“Yes,” Barbara said, unhappily. She’d left her .45 in the Honda at Birmingham Airport and had felt half naked ever since.
“Glove compartment,” was all Sharice said.
Barb opened it and smiled, pulling out the holstered H K USP .45. It was even the SOCOM model, much more accurate than the standard model she usually carried. She drew it from the holster, dropped the magazine and ensured it was clear then slid the mag back in and tucked it in her waistband. There were two more mags in the glove compartment and she put those in her purse.
“I’m not much into guns, myself,” Sharice said with a sniff. “I prefer to use my powers to change the surroundings for the greater good. Also, guns are rarely useful against the primary enemies.” She paused and shrugged. “But they are useful for dispensing with their agents here on earth.”
“I grew up with guns,” Barb said, returning shrug for shrug. “My father taught me to use them and made me start packing when I was a teenager. I suspect that a couple of times I probably would have been date raped if the guy I was with didn’t know I was armed, and more than capable of using it.”
“I see,” Sharice said, frowning. “I won’t contest your position. As long as each comes to good, that is all that matters.”