by James Hunter
For a moment I thought about holding onto the delicious energy flowing in me, surging through my veins, sharpening my senses, and making life all-around better. All those nasty memories about losing my power made me want to hold it tighter. But, at last, I pushed the Vis away, knowing the dangers that lay down that path. Burnout. Insanity. Death.
I took a minute to grab my iPod from the Camino’s cab and a black gym bag, filled with goodies, from the camper. Gear in hand, I made for Ferraro’s sedan. I tossed the duffle into the backseat, then slipped into the passenger seat and set to work putting on some tunes. Today I needed something up-tempo, something to pump me up for the asskickery which was sure to come.
I opted for Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird.” ’Nough said.
ELEVEN:
Dirty Birdy
Ferraro and I cruised on over to the US-93, a wide cut of two-lane asphalt, and headed north for Missoula, home of the sheriff’s office. The trip took about twenty minutes, which gave us plenty of time to talk strategy specifics. Those specifics amounted to her taking the lead since she was an FBI agent with an official title and not just some wandering, homeless, delinquent gambler. Basically, she’d do the talking while I stood in a corner and looked intimidating—relegated to backup muscle.
Lolo might’ve been a dirt-speck, but Missoula was a good-sized city, one hundred thousand strong, at least. We drove past the Missoula police department, a plain, but functional red and tan building with cruisers loitering in the parking lot. Instead of stopping there, we made for the actual sheriff’s office, which turned out to be one of those big ol’, multistoried, white-columned government buildings that every state seems to have. We pulled into an open spot across the street, parked the sedan in front of a single-story pawnshop—didn’t want the sheriff to see what car we’d arrived in, just in case he was a dirty-birdy—and hoofed it over to the main entrance.
A fresh-faced, bushy-tailed young man of maybe twenty greeted us with a smile and a friendly “How can I help you today?”
Ferraro flashed her badge, offered a tightlipped smile, and fed him a line about an FBI investigation, which promptly earned us an invitation to see the sheriff, whose office was on the second floor. As we were ushered upstairs, I silently mulled over the idea of getting a phony shield—this was way, way easier than the flaming hoops of bullshit I usually jumped through to get these types of things done. Hoops which consisted mostly of threatening people, elaborate layers of lies and tomfoolery, occasional torture, and enough Vis constructs to make me want to sleep for a week.
Definitely something to be said about doing things through official channels.
We were curtly guided into the sheriff’s office—the man himself sat behind a mahogany desk, chatting on the phone. He gave us a friendly grin, just a quick glint of teeth, then held up a just-one-moment finger. Fine by me, since it gave me a chance to study the man behind the desk: in his late forties with short brown hair peppered at the sides with gray, and a crazy handlebar mustache, which made me instantaneously wary. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of facial hair—ever since I left the Corps I’ve sported facial hair of one variety or another for ideological reasons.
But a mustache like that only existed to be twirled in a dastardly fashion by a scheming scoundrel who ascribed to the Snidely Whiplash School of Villainry. Now if I could only find his top hat and black bad-guy cloak, I’d have him dead to rights.
“Okay,” he said into the receiver. “Yes, yes. I understand … Alright, I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up the phone and set his eyes on us. He didn’t move his hands, but I thought for a second he was going in for the mustache stroke. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the FBI?” he asked, his voice dry and dusty, professional, though tempered with annoyance. Sorta long-suffering.
Ferraro closed the door with a snap, and the tension in the room ratcheted up a notch. She casually ambled over to the sheriff’s desk and laid out the evidence I’d gathered from the motorhome and the photos I’d lifted from the motel room: a snapshot of the prisoners chained to the motorhome floor, the picture of Doctor Hogg, the phony passports, and the physical license plate I’d snatched from the panel van.
“Care to tell me what you know about these,” she said. It wasn’t a question. Her tone was the kind a supervisor used to dress down a shitbag subordinate who’d managed to screw the pooch worse than the crew of the Titanic.
The sheriff looked over the photos, his face flat, unreadable. “Can I ask what this is pertaining to? And who your partner is?” He glanced at me, his gaze lingering only for a moment. “He doesn’t look like any Fed I’ve ever run across,” he said after he’d finished his evaluation.
“Don’t worry about him,” Ferraro replied, offering me a quick glance over one shoulder. Play it cool, the look said. “He’s an undercover operative”—she halted—“deep, deep ops. Now, I think you know exactly what this is pertaining to.” She settled her hands on her hips in a move that said, I ain’t-taking-no-shit-off-some-local-so-get-with-the-program.
He sighed and ran a hand over his mustache. The evil bastard. He lifted up the passport of the dead driver, his eyes scanning the picture. “Well, this one here belongs to a meth dealer from ’round about these parts. Cliff Bradford, which you can plainly see for yourself. He’s a small-time pusher. Been around for a good couple of years now, but originally he came over from Washington state. Had quite a few priors. Used to be a fence, if I remember correctly. Smuggled computer parts or something like that. He did some prison time before he ended up here. We’ve had a few dust-ups, but he always comes away clean. Sneaky shit.
“And this …” He picked up the license plate next, holding it out at arm’s length. “I can have my boys run it if you want, but I already know what they’ll tell you. Belongs to that fella right there.” He pointed to the passport of the unknown thug: the short, bulky, balding passenger. “Strange character, that one. Rolled into town with this fella.” He gestured toward the photo of Doctor Hogg.
“Both of ’em set up shop down in Lolo a few months back. But this guy, well, he was a real odd duck. Something off about him. Gave me the willies, so I ran his van looking for priors. Found a name, but not much else. What the hell was it?” He set the license plate down and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Steve something. Quick fingers Steve, maybe. Something goofy like that.”
Ferraro froze in place, her face going stony and rigid. “Fast Hands Steve?” she asked, almost disinterested.
But I knew better. If Fast Hands—an insane, no-good halfie—was somehow mixed up in this mess, it was bad news bears. Ferraro and I had tangled with him both in Outworld and in a future, shadow-version of Seattle. Future Fast Hands had dropped the bomb that he’d managed to murder Ferraro at some point in that timeline, so if he was here, it was possible he was holding a metaphorical death warrant with Ferraro’s name on it.
The sheriff snapped his fingers. “Yeah, that’s it. Fast Hands Steve. Goofiest gall-darn aliases I’ve come across in a decade. You know him?” He sounded genuinely interested in the connection, but I also heard an underlying hint of something else. Like worry. Could be, he was simply keeping his cover as a member of the Venántium solidly under wraps, but my gut told me otherwise. This dirty bastard was putting out more smoke than a forest fire. He knew something, and he was staying hush-hush about whatever it was for one reason or another.
“You mentioned Doctor Hogg. What can you tell me about him?” Ferraro asked, bulldozing over the sheriff’s question about Fast Hands without giving it even a passing acknowledgement.
“Well, like I told you,” Sheriff Kelly said, “Doctor Hogg moved into town a few months back. I’ve been working to get a bead on him, but I haven’t managed to turn up much. Based on his connection with some local drug dealers, like Bradford there, I’m guessing he’s cooking up some new kinda meth.” He hesitated, eyeing me long and hard. “This is drug related”—he pointed a digit at me—“he’s with the DEA, right
?”
“Don’t worry about him or what organizations he’s with,” Ferraro snapped. “Pay attention to me. Now, I’m going to be candid with you, Sheriff Kelly.” She placed her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “I know you’re a member of a clandestine organization known as the Lucis Venántium. An organization which is predominately concerned with policing dangerous, supernatural beings.” She pulled away, folding her arms across her chest.
His eyes widened in shock, quickly chased away by fear, before settling on blank neutrality. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was like his face: oddly neutral. No smirking, no laughing, no threats, none of the typical reactions I would’ve expected.
“Sheriff, I understand the need for confidentiality,” Ferraro said. “Denying your involvement, however, is pointless. My sources are impeccable. You are a hunter with the Venántium, but my investigation is not about you or your organization. I have good reason to believe there is a very real threat to this community. A dangerous creature known as a Wendigo, who is likely working in concert with Doctor Hogg and his associates. Tell me what you know.”
The sheriff wiggled in his seat, fidgeting with his pen while great beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He looked at Ferraro, then averted his gaze, latching onto me instead. After a few moments of study, his eyes flared in shock, and he couldn’t help but raise one hand to his mustache, pinching the end between two fingers and twisting it slightly.
“I, I, I know you,” he stammered. “You’re a Guild operative. I’ve seen your picture before.”
Well, shit. So much for doing things the official way. I sighed and eased my body away from the wall.
I turned and carefully closed the door blinds, making sure our meeting was really and truly private. I faced the sheriff once more and held out my palm, conjuring a globe of brilliant fire, which bobbed and weaved above my hand like a small sun.
“I’m not just any Guild operative, bud, I’m Yancy Lazarus. I’m the guy who gets called in to fix the kinda problems you’ve got on your hands right now.” I let the ball of light flare in my hand, throwing out a wave of uncomfortable heat—the beads of sweat on the sheriff’s head turned into small rivers of perspiration. “You wanna take a guess about how exactly I go about fixing those problems?”
Sheriff Kelly glanced between Ferraro and me, a look of bewilderment crossing his features as though he couldn’t understand how she could stand by and do nothing.
“Now listen up,” I said. “There are people missing, folks who are neck deep in shit, and I’ve got a hunch you know something. So, listen to my partner here”—I nodded toward Ferraro—“and answer her questions truthfully, or I’ll start fixing things right here in this office.”
I felt like an asshole for laying it on so thick—I hate it when muscle-headed thugs put this kinda pressure on me, but what’s the point of having a reputation if you don’t use it once in a while? I leaned back against the wall, the flame still hanging above my outstretched palm.
“I’ll say it again,” Ferraro continued, cool, calm, and collected as if nothing out of the normal had transpired. “I believe there is a very real threat to this community. There is a dangerous creature, known as a Wendigo, that is working in concert with Doctor Hogg and his associates. I’m not sure what they’re doing, but it isn’t good. Now, tell me what you know.”
The guy wriggled in his seat, his gaze shifting between Ferraro and me, clearly as nervous as a cat in a dog kennel. “Shit,” he finally said. “Look, I don’t know what’s happening. Some vagrants have gone missing. A few druggies. Hell, even the dealers are cutting back. They’re all into something new, and hell if I know what it is. But things around here have been better than ever. Violent crime has dropped by half. Arrests are down. Drug infractions are at their lowest level in fifteen years. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s the best gall-darn thing to happen to this town in my life.”
He stopped for a beat, placing one hand on the desk and drumming his fingers restlessly. “I’m not supposed to mention it,” he finally said, “but it was someone from the Guild who told me to keep my nose out of this business. Tall guy, broad shoulders, fancy dresser—Sullivan, was his name. Told me this was a Guild sanctioned operation. Some kinda research.”
It was amazing how fast this conversation had just gone from progress to train wreck.
Ferraro visibly tensed at the mention of James’s name.
She wasn’t the only one, either. I felt like a 105 round had exploded in my guts.
According to my math, the photo from the motel room was strike one, and this eyewitness testimony from the sheriff was a big ol’ strike two. More and more it appeared my oldest friend in the Guild—my only friend in the Guild, really—was involved in all of this. I couldn’t believe he was behind everything, but it was increasingly likely his hands weren’t clean. Dammit, James.
“Alright, partner, tell me where in the hell I can find Hogg,” I said, slickly glossing over the sheriff’s statement about James and the Guild. “I’ve got some questions, and I reckon he’s got answers.”
Sheriff Kelly shook his head. “Look, I’ve kept away from whatever the doctor and his boys are cookin’ up. If there’s something goin’ on here, maybe you need to take it up with the Guild. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve really got some other matters to deal with.” He smiled, but the sweat kept rolling right on down his face.
I tweaked the flaming globe floating above my hand, pulling out the flows of heat and adding in strands of magnetic force, wispy strands of electrical current, and a dash of earthen power. The ball turned an icy blue, cool and crisp like a winter morning. “Alright,” I said, “I’ll take it up with the Guild. But you listen here, pal, if I find out you’re involved in any of this, I swear you’re gonna regret it until you’re fat, old, and bald—assuming you live that long.”
I edged forward—Ferraro’s hand shot out and wrapped around my free arm, holding me back in a white-knuckled grip.
She leaned into me. “We’re finished here,” she whispered in my ear.
I nodded my head, just a fraction of an inch, then I offered the sheriff a grin that promised pain, lots of pain to come. I lashed out with the sizzling blue construct in my hand. The blue orb zipped across the room, exploding into him with a little clap of air and a soft sizzle of electric force.
He let out a shriek, his rolly-chair wobbling as his hands roamed over his body, searching for any wounds or damage.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “that was just a little foretaste, to let you know I’m not bullshitting you the way you’re bullshitting us.”
“Get him outta here before I have him locked up for assaulting an officer,” the sheriff spat, shooting daggers at Ferraro and me in turns.
Ferraro let go of my arm, moved to the desk, scooped up the evidence, and casually, almost dismissively, placed a business card on his desk. “If you think of anything or track down any leads, I expect to hear from you.”
He picked up the card, crumpled it in a tight fist, and dropped it into the trashcan. “You think you can come in here, waving around your badge, tryin’ to thump me over the head with your authority, making threats and accusations? I damned well know this isn’t some official investigation, so you can expect zero cooperation from me and my department. Now leave.”
“You’re right,” Ferraro said with a nod. “It’s not an official investigation. Yet.” Her voice was frosty as the Rockies. “But that can change.” She turned, hooked one arm around my shoulders, and guided me out of the room before I could nuke his office. We headed back down to ground level, her silent and fuming.
“That could’ve gone better,” she said as we exited the building and crossed the parking lot, bound for the sedan. “I’m not sure if he’s actively involved, but I know there’s a lot he’s not telling us. We aren’t going to get anything else useful out of him—not after that little stunt you pulled. What was that, anyway?”
“Hey, no worries.
” I shrugged myself free of her arm. “I’ve been around long enough to know when I’m being worked over. And that guy? That guy was so full of shit, it was leaking out of his nose and all over his mustache. He wasn’t gonna give us anything useful anyway. Guy’s dirty, I know it.”
“Oh yeah, and how exactly do you know it?” she demanded, scowling.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked, then snorted. “Did you see his friggin’ mustache? Of course he’s a bad guy. Plus, I had a plan. I mean it was kinda on the fly—I didn’t expect him to recognize me like that—but I still had a plan.” I pushed my hand into my coat pocket and pulled out a clear crystal stone about the size of a tennis ball.
She glanced from the orb to me, her forehead scrunching in what could only be sheer consternation. “Fine. Tell me,” she said.
“It’s a scrying stone,” I said by way of explanation. “I grabbed it to talk to James—”
“Speaking of which, we need to have a long talk about him, too,” she interrupted. “Did it never occur to you that James might be our suspect? He fits the profile, and he certainly had the means.”
“We can talk about him later”—I waved a hand through the air as though to wipe the words away—“for now, let’s focus on the sheriff.”
She eyed me with a blend of annoyance and skepticism, but eventually nodded.
We headed for the car, talking as we walked. “The construct I cast on the sheriff—it’s a temporary resonance working—won’t last long, but for a few minutes we’ll be able to pick up anything he says on this here stone.” Ferraro pulled out the key fob and unlocked the car; I popped my door and slid in the passenger seat. “When he started giving us the runaround, I knew I could shake him up. Now we just have to sit back and see what he gives us.”