by Anton Strout
“How do you mean?”
Godfrey took a long sip of scotch, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. Daring to soil his coat must have meant Godfrey was flying pretty high already.
“Well,” I said, “the night we took the Sectarians down at the Met, for example. By the time we came rushing out of the building, you were already there taking down details. You were even there before the cops came. And at the boathouse the other night.”
Godfrey nodded, excited to once again be talking shop. “Well, I can’t be everywhere all at once,” he said, “but I’m pretty lucky when it comes to things like that.”
Luck? I wondered. Or something more? I nodded and let a moment of silence pass between the two of us. I didn’t want to seem too eager leading him on, but I needed to know more about his past if my hunch was correct.
“Have you always had this sort of luck?” I asked, hoping I sounded nonchalant about it.
Godfrey Candella took the bait, his eyes lighting up. He seemed more than eager to talk about his life.
“Before I was recruited into the Department,” he said, pushing his horn-rims back into place, “I had lived what an Other Division agent like you might call a quiet and mundane life. Five years ago, I experienced what I thought was a stretch of bad luck. The law firm I had been a clerical assistant at for four years fired me very suddenly, and for no apparent reason that I could figure.”
“That must have been tough.”
Godfrey nodded. “For someone as meticulous about details as I am? Yes, it was. I was devastated, but that only lasted for a couple days.”
“What changed your mind?” I asked.
Godfrey gave a bittersweet smile. “Two days after I was let go, the building exploded.”
“What?”
“It’s true,” Godfrey continued. “They were redecorating the office suite next to my old office and an errant nail gun punctured a gas line. It must have sparked, and WHOOM! Destroyed the whole place.”
I gave an appropriate moment of silence out of respect for the dead. “Yeah, I’d definitely call that lucky.”
“Being the only survivor really shook me up for several months,” he said. Godfrey pulled off his glasses. He looked on the verge of crying. “Survivor’s guilt over my dumb luck.”
“It’s okay,” I said. I reached over and patted him on the shoulder.
Godfrey needed a moment to compose himself, taking the opportunity to pour us another round.
“So, then what did you do?”
“Nothing,” he said. “After my near brush with death, I found myself unable to procure another job, which I found astounding, but no one wanted to hire the sole survivor of such a tragedy. Everyone thought I was bad luck. Heck, even I thought I was. I went three months just trying to figure out what I should do with myself. I had no idea. That’s when the letter showed up.”
“Letter?”
“An invitation to become a clerical official to a government office—one that I didn’t realize was secret until I found it hidden away behind the Lovecraft Café, that is. I don’t know how they got hold of me or why they even chose me, but I was running out of money. The timing was perfect.”
Too perfect, I thought, but remained silent. I doubted the D.E.A. would have done anything so nefarious as blow up a building full of civilians to get a new recruit, but there was something weird about all this. No one was this lucky. Maybe Godfrey possessed a power even he didn’t know about.
The D.E.A. didn’t send out blanket snail mail to people hoping to find recruits. They preferred more cryptic means of drawing members to our organization. For instance, I had found them in the classified ads, and the Inspectre was busy screening the people who gravitated toward us at Comic Con. Someone had specifically sent that letter from the D.E.A. to Godfrey. But who, and why? I had my suspicions, but testing them would have to wait until I sobered up just a little. I checked my watch. It was almost time for my daily training with the Inspectre, and hopefully that would yield some answers, too.
25
Even though the immediate threat of vampires seemed like it was gone, Inspectre Quimbley insisted I had to be prepared for the day I met one, so he was once again dressed in his long black Dracula cape, with a padded chest piece bearing a heart target. I found myself fighting both the Inspectre and an entire six-piece dining room set. If I was supposed to “stake” him like the vampire he was pretending to be, I needed to overpower the enchanted furniture and smash it to have something pointy. Compared to things like the rampaging bookcases uptown at Tome, Sweet Tome, an embroidered chair seemed much less menacing . . . or so I thought.
What the dining set lacked in size and crushing power, it made up for in speed and viciousness. The six chairs galloped around the open area of the training room like miniature racehorses. My shins already sported several bruises, and the longer I had to contend with them, the harder I found it to walk around. I hadn’t even managed to grab one of them and break off a stake. My vampire had nothing to fear yet.
To my surprise, I found that showing up a little buzzed for my training actually kept me loosened up. My reflexes were generally slower, but the buzz kept me from overthinking every possible move. I reacted more out of instinct, which saved me from what I could only imagine would have been three times the bruises I was already sporting.
Four of the chairs surrounded me, poised to hurl themselves at my body. I waited until the first of them sprang at me, and I dove onto the table, which was also making its way toward me. I landed on my shoulder, thankful the table could support me. The four chairs collided with one another and became a hopeless mess of legs. I rolled over the edge of the table, landing on the two other chairs, which seemed to collapse under me, smashing apart and leaving me stunned on the floor. Unfortunately, that gave the table enough time to throw itself down on top of me, crushing me under its weight.
The Inspectre whistled, and, with some reluctance, the table lifted itself off me.
“That, my boy, is why we F.O.G.gies are taught to think six steps ahead.”
The table meandered off toward the remaining tangle of chairs and started to help pull them apart like a mother dog sorting out her pups. The Inspectre walked over to me and offered his hand. I took it and let him help me back up as I dusted splinters of wood off my clothes.
“Sorry, sir,” I said. I felt my face turn red.
“Nonsense,” the Inspectre said, encouraging me with a clap on the back. “You’re getting there. I’m sure one of those shattered chair pieces could have been driven through my heart if you’d grabbed one. You were already thinking three or four steps ahead, which, for an initiate, is tremendous progress.”
“Thank you,” I said, humbled. I hadn’t felt like I was improving, but I suppose I had fared well enough, given my current mental state.
“ ’Course I suspect your lack of focus might have something to do with your trip down to the Gauntlet,” the Inspectre said, and I felt my face go flush again.
Busted.
“I owed Godfrey Candella some details for the archives,” I said, giving him a semitruth. “Just thought it would be a little more sociable to knock back a few.”
“I see,” he said, running one hand over his walruslike mustache.
“Speaking of Godfrey, sir, I was wondering . . . What’s his story? He called himself ‘normal’ today. He seems to be under the impression that he doesn’t have any power of any kind.”
“And why shouldn’t he be?” the Inspectre said, more defensive that I would have imagined. “None of the Gauntlet staff have any extraordinary abilities to speak of, other than a deep love of history.”
“Oh,” I said, somewhat disappointed. “I just thought . . .”
I stopped myself. I was being ridiculous.
“You just thought what?” the Inspectre said. His voice softened. “My boy, more than any other division that interacts with the Department, you should know that the Fraternal Order supports independent thought ove
r mere compliance with Departmental policies. The Order predates it by several hundred years. It may have provided the foundation of the governmental branch, but it serves more than just whatever the political flavor of the times is. It’s why we exist outside the mainstream. So, by all means, speak up. If you’ve got a theory, I’d like to hear it.”
I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts before speaking. Talking to the Inspectre always made me feel like I was twelve.
“Well, Godfrey and I got to talking, and he told me a little bit about his past—how he had been let go only days before the company he worked for was destroyed, that he was the lone survivor of the incident, how he first received an offer to join the Department . . .”
The Inspectre nodded. “And you wondered how the Department came to recruit him.”
It was my turn to nod. “I mean, I lucked into finding out about the Department in the back of the newspaper, and even then it was hidden in a cryptic ad. You must have seen something special in Godfrey to have extended an invitation directly to him.”
I felt a little nervous putting the Inspectre on the spot like this, but I couldn’t help it. I had to go with my hunch.
When I stopped, the Inspectre smiled.
“I knew I was right to choose you for the Fraternal Order,” he said, beaming.
The Inspectre turned to the table and chairs and whistled. The four surviving chairs had just finished untangling themselves from one another and trotted over to the table. The Inspectre gestured for me to sit. He looked serious, even in his Dracula cape.
“What I’m about to tell you is strictly the business of the Fraternal Order of Goodness. That means no telling Connor, or Jane, and especially not Godfrey Candella. If he finds out that shortly after his escape from certain death, at least ten pairs of eyes started watching him almost every waking moment of his life, he would have certainly considered his existence to be less than mundane. Do you understand?”
I nodded yes. I was eager to find out anything I could, whether it confirmed my suspicion or not.
“Good,” the Inspectre said. He leaned in, even though there was no one else in the expansive room, and lowered his voice. “Godfrey Candella is unknowingly one of the prime archival tools of the Department of Extraordinary Affairs because he seems to possess some innate ability.”
“I knew it,” I said, pounding the table. One of the table legs kicked me. “Sorry.”
“Godfrey caused a spike in the radar of the Gauntlet when its professional newsreaders picked up the story about the freak building explosion. The idea that there had been only one survivor lucky enough to have escaped that tragic fate sent up red flags. It was enough for us to dispense a small Shadower team to investigate Godfrey Candella further.
“The initial reports on Godfrey showed an abnormal amount of coincidental and luck-based activity surrounding the man. However it works, he certainly has a knack for being in the right place at the right time, or avoiding the wrong place at the right time, as the case may be. It’s not that he has a nose for trouble so much; it’s that he seems to be fairly lucky. A walking deus ex machina, if you will. We think that’s why he’s often first on the scene when something happens, which is an invaluable tool for an archivist. However, the kicker is that it appears that he has absolutely no idea that it is happening around him. None at all.”
“So why not tell him? Let him hone it the way I’m learning to hone my own ability.”
The Inspectre shook his head. “You don’t understand. You’ve always been aware of your powers, even when you couldn’t control them. Many of the other people in the Department simply aren’t wired that way. Everything that’s happened to Godfrey Candella was because of innate ability, which means that if he ever becomes aware of it, it might disappear altogether. We can’t risk that, and there’s no foreseeable harm in him not knowing.”
No wonder Godfrey always seemed to be there in a timely fashion. That explained his appearance at the docks the other day. He was the perfect historian, always on the scene to record events as they happened. But the way the Department kept him in the dark about this power irked me to no end.
“So he doesn’t suspect anything?”
“Nothing,” he said. “The files on him aren’t even on record down in the Gauntlet for fear he might come across a mention of himself. His unusual case even caught the eye of the Enchancellors. It was decided from the top down, Simon, that in order to keep his potential within the Department viable, Godfrey Candella must never be made aware of what he truly is.”
I sat there in quiet after the Inspectre finished. I didn’t know exactly what to say. Godfrey was definitely a boon to the Department. Having information in our line of work was crucial, and having someone who could be on the scene to record it was a definite advantage. Didn’t he have the right to know, though? With a power like that, it sucked that Godfrey Candella remained in the dark.
It also sucked that I was going to use him without his knowledge, but I had to do something to keep more people from dying at the hands of the chupacabra.
I swore myself to secrecy with the Inspectre and headed off to my rendezvous with Mina, for what I hoped to be my last crime ever.
26
A late-night crowd filled the coffeehouse and Mina was once again waiting in one of the comfy lounge chairs when I emerged through the curtains of the theater, her legs kicked up over the arm of the chair. Her head lolled back in boredom. A black duffel bag with a shoulder strap sat next to the chair. She noticed me walking toward her and rolled her eyes.
“Moved on to the Grim Reaper, I see,” she said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Bergman’s The Seventh Seal?” she said, standing up. “Once again, you’ve been in there for hours. I even tried to find you, but the theater was too dark and filled with way too many people cloaked in black.”
I forgot they had switched over to a Bergman film in the theater today, but with Mina semistalking me, at least my cover still hadn’t been blown.
“You’re starting to creep me out, Mina.”
“Whatev,” she said. Then she clapped her hands together and rubbed them vigorously. “You ready to get up to some crime?”
I shushed her. “Not here. Could you be a little more reckless? Jesus.”
“Sure thing, Candy,” she said, scooping up her bag. She started for the door, then turned around. “You have whatever you need on you?”
I felt my sleeve to make sure my lock picks were secure and discreetly felt at my waist for the retractable bat hanging just inside my coat. I liked to travel light but prepared. I scanned the room, trying to not appear too guilty. Several of my fellow D.E.A. members were in the coffeehouse, and although none of them was paying any special attention to me, I felt like I had a huge sign over my head: OFF TO COMMIT a crime.
I turned back to Mina. I was angry at her for getting me wrapped up in something like this again, for coming back into my life and pulling the comfy rug I had made for myself out from under me. But if I was being honest, I was more upset with myself for ever having associated with someone like her in the first place.
I stormed past her, knocking into her with my shoulder on my way out.
“Hey,” she yelped. A couple of the regulars turned their heads, but I kept on going. Sure, I might have allowed myself to get stuck helping her, but I didn’t have to be pleasant about it.
It was after one when we made our way up to the Museum of Modern Art, but I didn’t speak to Mina. At least the cab ride gave me a chance to cool down a bit. Going into a break-in hotheaded only left room for error, and I was determined not to screw up my one criminal transgression since going straight. Everything about this had to be as discreet as possible, not only because it was wildly insane to go after The Scream itself, but because there was also my future with the Fraternal Order of Goodness to think of. I was pretty sure that helping to steal a painting worth millions didn’t fall under the broad banner of “goodness.” I justified my involveme
nt by telling myself that I was serving a greater good by getting Mina away from everyone I cared about as quickly as I could. Just this one job and she was out of here. And if I could later trick her and turn her over to the authorities in the process . . . well, so be it.
Mina had the cab stop about half a block from the museum entrance, and she got out. She pulled a small plastic shopping bag out of the large duffel and threw it at me. Inside was a fairly realistic, high-quality blond men’s wig and a pair of aviator sunglasses. She stood and crossed to me, pinching my cheeks.
“Who says I don’t take care of my little sunshine?” she said, then pulled out a blond wig of her own. She put on the glasses. I was surprised how well the disguise worked. She helped me with my wig and slid my glasses on. “There. Now Mr. Straight and Narrow can be safe from those pesky cameras.”