by T S Paul
I’d stopped at a roadside cafe and market after leaving Springfield to make my preliminary reports and check in. The local FBI offices are supposed to allow me to use their secure lines, but the word was out on me. Unless I pulled rank and forced the issue, they were starting to deny me any sort of help or assistance. The excuses they came up with were comical. Get one SAIC arrested and everyone is scared. If they’re on the up and up, what do they have to worry about? The whole country can’t be on the take, can they?
“Is it in Illinois?” I asked her, since I was familiar with it and already nearby.
“Just a bit south, in Tennessee. The Director himself sent this one to you actually.” Anastasia paused for a moment. I could hear paper being shuffled and moved about. “Jack, it’s a missing person case.”
“Boss, that’s way outside my purview. Why can’t the local office handle it?” I asked.
“Forget it, Jack. I just told you it came from the Director himself. Before you get upset, you need to know I did some digging on my end. The Parks Department and the State Department are the agencies who asked Mr. Hoover for help,” Anastasia replied.
“Who the hell is missing, Smokey Bear?” I asked. A few years ago, the Parks Department found a lost bear cub after a big fire in New Mexico. They started using him in their advertising about conservation. There was a song and everything. Maybe one day I’ll go see him at the zoo in Washington. If I ever find time, that is.
“A bear might be easier to find. No, this is worse. An entire tour group of visiting dignitaries vanished from inside the Parthenon in Nashville’s Centennial Park two days ago,” Ana explained. “This one’s pretty high-profile, Jack. The local office and you have been assigned to this together. Mr. Hoover wants them either found or the disappearance explained in simple terms that he can understand. This has the potential for a major international incident.”
I shook my head. Working with locals, especially in a big city like Nashville, was going to be bad news. “Who’s in the delegation?”
There was silence on the other end of the phone for almost a full minute. “Ana? Who is it?”
My Vampire boss sighed into the phone. “Keep this one under your hat, Jack. The Athenian government sent out an Ambassadorial team a couple of months ago. Every country they’ve visited has agreed to keep it very quiet. There are still many refugees and political groups protesting their existence. According to my sources, they informed State that they’d heard of the Parthenon there and wanted to check it for accuracy.”
“Accuracy? It couldn’t be that accurate could it?” I asked her.
“Jack, it was originally built for the 1897 Tennessee Centennial and was made of plaster and wood. They built it as close to the original, even using plaster casts of the original so-called Elgin Marbles that once graced the one in Athens. Years after the great reveal and the loss of Greece to the paranormals, the city of Nashville tore down the crumbling wooden structure and replaced it with a concrete one. They rebuilt it exactly. It’s one of the showpieces of Nashville today,” Anastasia explained.
I concentrated for a moment. World history wasn’t really my strong point. I knew all about the Purge and what it entailed for this country, but the rest of the world might as well be dots on a map for all I cared. Except for Greece, or Athenia, as they called it now. Nobody who went inside its borders returned and nobody ever came out. “Why now? What is so important to bring them here?”
“We don’t know. If you find them, you can ask. Get to Clarksville, Tennessee as fast as you can. The local office can fill you in more. Good luck, Jack,” Anastasia said, even as she hung up the phone.
“Clarksville?” I asked as the dial tone sounded. Staring at the phone in my hand, I shook my head. Something was off here.
“You still got that amulet I gave you, boy?”
Spinning around in surprise, I saw the old man I’d met months ago in another little out-of-the-way place. “What are you doing here?”
Still dressed like a vagabond, the old man smiled as he brushed his shaggy hair out of his face. Even though he kept his hat down low, I could see the scar tissue around his left eye. The last time we met, he claimed to be a war veteran. Knowing he lied to me, I wondered which war he was talking about.
He swept his hands forward and waved at the food mart. “I get around. Keeping places like this up is sort of a family thing. An oasis in a storm. So do you still have it?”
Silently, I nodded my head. It was impossible for this man to be here at this time. But here he was.
“Not speaking to me?” The old man nodded, “I can see that. Keeping your cards to yourself. Good plan when threatened. When it comes to what matters, you are in a pivotal position in this world. There are choices to be made and plans within plans. You got a taste of it with those Witch friends of yours. What you do next could change everything.”
“Choices? What sort of choices? How could something I do change the world?” I asked.
The old man shifted his shoulders and cocked his head to one side. For just a moment I would almost swear there was a faint gleam coming from his scarred eye. Clearing his throat, he said, “Can’t tell you that. Think of me as a sort of advisor. It’s my job to point you in the proper direction.”
I shook my head. “Who in the hell are you? I didn’t ask for any of this! I just want to do the job.”
There was a loud cawing as a pair of very large ravens flew overhead. The old man’s single eye tracked them until they passed out of sight. Turning his head, he stared at me. A sudden chill ran up my spine as his eye seemed to pierce my soul. “The story of your life was written when you were born, boy. Hide in a hole if you like, but the ending will still be the same. Life is to be lived. Do your job, but be cautious of the choices you make.” Pausing for a moment, he bowed his head. Then he looked up and said, “Trust the owl. He won’t steer you wrong.”
“The owl? How is a bird supposed to help me?” I asked.
The one-eyed man shook his head and looked skyward. Muttering almost to himself he said, “Yeah. Yeah.”
He looked me in the eyes again. “I’ve said enough. Beware your actions and good luck.”
“Who in the hell are you?” I asked again. This guy was freaking me out.
He looked past me and pointed. “Who’s that?”
Following his finger, I turned my head and peered across the road, “I don’t see anything. What was it?”
Nothing but silence answered me. The old man was gone. Stepping into the doorway of the store, I expected to find him there, but the place was empty. Completely empty. Ghost town empty. The cafe and the market were gone. “What the freaking hell is going on?”
All the way to the outskirts of Clarksville, I pondered what the old man had told me. I had no idea how I could be a pivot point. I just knew I was missing something.
The federal building in Clarksville was impressive. Granite blocks, stone columns, and heavy leaded glass panes on the windows. It made me wonder when it was built and which state senator had it placed here instead of in Nashville proper. It seemed like something a politician would do. At least the ones I’d met so far.
I parked my van on the street and approached the front. Looking around, I could see the town’s charm, but this office looked out of place.
“Good afternoon, sir. Can we help you?” The receptionist asked. Her desk was stationed just inside the door. It was a smallish lobby with marble floors and ornate wall sconces.
I cleared my throat and said, “FBI special agent in charge Jack Dalton. I’m supposed to coordinate my division with the office here.”
The woman stood and held out her hand. “Agent Dalton, we’ve been expecting you.”
Taking her hand, I replied, “Thank you, good to be here. Do we have a team assembled?”
The woman laughed and gestured to the doors behind her. “We’re a bit laid back here in Clarksville with only a half dozen agents, but everyone is in the main conference room.”
&nb
sp; Stepping through the doors, I could see what she meant. The whole office was a conference room with three doors on each side. Everyone had an office here. All six Agents were clustered around the main table. Chalk and pin boards surrounded them. I could see maps and photos everywhere. Several heads turned in my direction. Jaws dropped and eyes widened. All conversation stopped dead.
I had to smile. My outfit didn’t scream FBI to anyone. Even though the director himself had decreed the dress code for the regular FBI, he turned a blind eye to my activities as long as the job got done in a timely manner. And as long as I didn’t make the bureau look bad in the process.
“Gentleman, I’m Agent Dalton from the Magical Division. Do we know anything new? Washington wasn’t very clear?” I asked them.
A tall man at the rear of the table raised his head and stared at me for a long second before speaking. “Not really. Some park staff members have reported that there were feathers and mud found tracked around the building the week before, but they thought it was either kids or the night watchman goofing off. At the time, no one followed up on it. We dug into the visitor logs and interviewed everyone, both present and off duty, looking for any clue or possible scenario that would explain this.”
Remembering the old man’s comments, I raised my hand and rubbed my chin. “Hmm. Do we know what sort of feathers they are?”
A man dressed similar to me perked up and pointed to the board. “We don’t deal in birds at Centennial Park, but I sent the feathers to an expert over at Rocky Fork. According to him, they are a…” The man paused and lifted a piece of paper. “The feathers come from an owl. Our expert wasn’t completely clear on the exact species, but he’s sure of the genus. The real mystery is how they ended up here, in Nashville.”
“Why? There are owls all over the place,” I replied.
“Not this kind. According to our man, these feathers can only be found on owls native to Europe, North Africa, and Korea. A similar species was introduced to the British Isles a century ago to cut down on rodents as well.” The Park Ranger held up a longish feather, almost a foot long. “But none of those owls have feathers this long.”
“Could they be dyed or part of some sort of outfit?” I asked.
Trying to regain control of the discussion, the local Agent cleared his throat. “We’re checking into that. My team has calls into all the local costume and hat manufacturers for that very reason. They may have cased the place earlier. The mud we cannot explain, but a sample was sent to the labs in Atlanta for testing.”
I walked over to their boards. The investigative technique was textbook, right out of the FBI manual. There were geographical reports, extensive interviews, charts, and even weather reports tacked up. Ignoring the feeling of being watched, I perused the reports. “It looks like you have everything covered here. What does the Paranormal community say about it?”
“There are no Paranormals in Nashville,” the Agent said.
I turned around to see everyone at the table staring. “Really? I doubt that. There are Paras everywhere. You seriously never looked?”
“The shifters are all locked up, and the Vampires are dead. What else is there?” the lead Agent said, haughtily.
Unable to help myself, I snorted. “Not to put you down or anything, but you’re wrong. I will admit that the Vampires may have been reduced by what we call the ‘Purge’, but they are not all dead. I mean, they’re dead, but not really gone. Neither are all the Weres on reservations. Every state in the union has Witches and there are Fae in some of our deepest forests. If you know what to look for, there are paramormals everywhere.”
Completely serious now, I swept the room with my eyes. “This is a classic locked-room mystery that’s on the verge of being an international incident.”
Refusing to be made the fool, the lead Agent avoided eye contact with me, and looked at his people instead. “Did any of you know about Paranormals in Nashville?”
All the men except one looked at each other with blank faces. The Parks Department representative raised his hand just a little. “There is what I think is a Vampire working at Fair Park and I’ve seen unusually large wolves in some of our parks.”
Giving the man a pointed look, I responded, “Exactly my point. Have you spoken to any of them?”
The representative paled. He obviously didn’t like being the center of attention. “Unofficial Government policy is to ignore them. But the ones here in Tennessee have been known to help here and there.”
“Unofficial? I just don’t believe that!” Lead Agent Kenneth Klarkson replied. “We shouldn’t be helping any of the monsters.”
I started to respond but stopped myself. Capturing the hearts and minds of the nation wasn’t my job. Neither was defending the paranormal community. My job was to enforce the law. Putting on a forced smile, I looked at the lead Agent. “That may be your opinion, Agent Klarkson, but the law says otherwise.”
“There are quite a few free Weres, both authorized and not. If I run across the latter I can enforce the law, but for now think of them as citizens. What sort of help have they provided?” I asked.
“We are the law around here,” Klarkson retorted.
I cut my eyes toward him. “I can call Director Hoover, if you like. For clarification purposes only. But you can guess what he’ll say. If we can’t work together, I’m sure your assistant can take over for you…” I let that statement hang.
“How dare you come into MY office and threaten me!” Klarkson replied.
Shaking my head, I glared at the now fuming man. “How dare YOU. This entire case is supposed to be a joint effort. Not some prima donna’s platform to fame. What do you suppose the State Department would say about your outburst? Aren’t half the missing foreign nationals paranormals?”
Klarkson paled. “I…”
I looked to the Parks department man. “What have the Weres helped with?”
Warily watching the other Agents, the man sat up straighter in his seat. “Lost hikers have reported that strangers guided them out of the forest several times. We’ve also had a lost child or two show up unexpectedly, talking about glowing people helping them.”
I nodded. “So you have at least one pack or a lone wolf and what sounds like Witches helping you out. They’ve managed to stay off the FBI’s radar, at least. Anything else?”
The Parks Department man shook his head.
“What about the Parthenon? Is this event the only thing that’s happened?” I asked.
“Most of the current staff think it’s haunted. Ever since the concrete structure was built, we’ve had reports of strange smells, sounds at night, and doors left locked found open in the morning. There’s something not right about the place,” the man said.
Pulling a chair out, I sat down facing the men. “Recently I made the acquaintance of a Coven of Witches up in Maine. According to their leader, there are things called Gates that can be opened to other worlds and realities.”
All of the other men in the room either just stared or shook their heads. I smiled. “Trust me when I say I didn’t believe it, either. But there’s a dinosaur head mounted inside the back of my van that says otherwise. These things are real and may be responsible for the disappearances here.”
Looking around the table, I could see they still didn’t believe me. “You don’t have to believe me. But Director Hoover personally sent me here, so you should at least listen to me.”
“So no one has been inside that room since the disappearance, not even to look and see?” I asked the Agent assigned to me.
“No sir. According to the people here, that door leads to a broom closet. It’s the only door we didn’t open. Kinda like looking in a dog house for a horse. Way too small a space,” the young local Agent stuttered out.
I scratched my head. “You’d think your boss would’ve searched every inch of the place already, including this room?”
The Agent sighed. “KK didn’t want the assignment in the first place. When Washington told
him to supervise the Greek delegation, he assigned the newest, rawest agents we had to do it.”
Turning my head, I just stared in response. I’d run into this sort of reaction before. “Let me guess. He has a beef with Paranormals?”
“He thinks they’re all animals and not worth the FBI’s time. There is way more crime and stuff we really should be chasing down out here. Just last week someone stole an entire truckload of whisky right off a loading dock. That’s an interstate crime,” the Agent explained.
I studied the man before speaking. Technically, I was a supervisor but not one of his. “My advice would be to treat them all like people, because before long there WILL be some of them in the bureau.”
The local snorted. “Yeah right.”
When I didn’t laugh or change my expression, the man’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. “Seriously? Why?”
“The Magic Security Act. I’m sure you read about it last year when they enacted it. One of the codicils was the establishment of an academy to train Paranormals for FBI and military service. My division was created by it as well,” I explained to him. “Trust me when I say we need them. Desperately.”
“Is Washington truly insane?” the agent asked me.
“Maybe. I had the chance to work with a Were recently. We were chasing down a rogue in St Louis. The man was a civilian, but having the advantage of a partner who can take a bullet and live, track almost anything across any surface, and can handle himself against some of the monsters is a partner you’d want to have! I look forward to the day when I can recruit someone like that,” I explained. Reaching out, I opened the broom closet. Other than a broom and some cleaning supplies, it was empty. “Did the agent with the group disappear as well?”
“No. He’d stationed himself outside the building as ordered. The initial report came from him as well,” the local explained.
I looked at the young agent in surprise. “Why am I talking to you instead of him then?”