by John Ringo
“You have a short temper and don’t handle frustration well,” Barb said. “That is a whole other thing than going around filled with rage all the time. There are various reasons that might have caused that. Physiologically, he might have had a testosterone imbalance or even over-production of adrenaline. Environmentally, he might have been in an abusive family. Mystically, he might have already have been possessed of a demon or even carried one that was attached to the family. I have seen one report that families that have a genetic flaw for adrenaline overproduction caused by an otherwise benign tumor on the adrenaline gland also tend to carry generational rage demons. The McCoys in the Hatfield and McCoy feud have the gene. Whether the demons cause the tumor or the affinity for rage makes it a good home for a demon is a chicken or egg question. The point is that this wasn’t just some nice kid who snapped. He already had the predisposition to hurt and kill.”
“Which means…what?”
“When I figure that out, I’ll let you know,” Barb said. “Do we have Janea’s notes?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Kurt said. “She’s staying at the Fairfield Inn on Shallowford Village Drive. As far as I know, she hasn’t been checked out yet. If she stays in her current condition for another few days, the Bureau will probably clear out her room.”
“Can we get in her room?” Barb asked.
“Probably,” Kurt said. “Depends on how cooperative the hotel staff is when I flash my FBI credentials.”
* * *
“What is she wanted for?” the desk manager asked, wide-eyed. “I remember her. What is she, a bank robber or something?”
“No, actually,” Barb said. “She’s a consultant to the FBI. She was injured during an investigation and we need to see if there are any clues to how she was hurt.”
“I can open the room,” the desk clerk said, swiping a card. “But I’ll have to accompany you.”
“This is probably going to take some time,” Barb noted.
“I’ll get someone to cover for me.”
* * *
“I think somebody tossed this place,” Kurt said, going on guard. There were suitcases covering half the bed, all the other horizontal surfaces, and a good bit of the floor. Clothing was scattered everywhere up to and including hanging on the bedframe, the TV, chairs and even a light fixture.
“No, this is just Janea’s idea of housekeeping,” Barb replied. “It always looks this way. She throws random stuff into random suitcases, lots of them, and can never find what she wants, so she throws the stuff in every direction looking for her other shoe. And then complains when she can’t find what she’s thrown around. Sharing a room with her is beyond a pain.”
“Finding anything in here is going to be beyond a pain,” Kurt said. “But I suppose we have to look. How does she keep records?”
“You’re joking, right?”
* * *
“Here’s something interesting,” Barb said.
They’d been picking through the detritus of Janea’s life on the road for three hours. A notebook with some notes on the investigation had been found under a pile of dirty laundry. Unfortunately, it only had a few brief entries dated to the first two days Janea had been in town. There were good notes for the first few minutes of her in-brief, after which they were mainly on the subject of the personality and dress failures of the briefers. One of the entries was about a cute guy she’d seen at a coffee shop. Another was on the quality of shopping at the local mall. There was nothing to indicate that she’d actually been investigating anything, but the mall was one of the noted overlap points.
“What?” Kurt asked, tossing another pair of underwear into a growing pile. He’d decided the only way to make sense of anything was to sort the room and had been hard at it, occasionally gulping when he ran across something extremely personal, for the last hour.
“It’s a card from a paranormal society,” Barb said. “Tennessee Area Ghost Hunters. Hugh Yeaton, Senior Investigator.”
“Any number of reasons she’d have that,” Kurt said, wincing and placing a very odd-looking device in his “very odd-looking devices” pile. “She might have called them to find out if they had any leads.”
“We try really hard not to get involved with any of these guys,” Barb said, placing the card on the notebook. “Most of them are kooks and wannabes. And a goodly number of the ones that can actually sense stuff get their powers from the wrong side of the street, if you take my meaning.”
“Hey, aren’t those the guys who have got a TV show?” Kurt asked, lifting up a piece of clothing and considering it. “I have no clue which pile this should go in. It gets a pile of its own.”
“I dunno,” Barb said. “I don’t watch much TV.”
“It’s on A&U,” Kurt said, distantly. “I’m not sure I want to know what this is for…”
“Well, it’s the only thing we’ve got from this mess,” Barb replied. “But we’ll check it out later. We’re missing something.”
“You always are,” Kurt said, sighing. “It’s why the Monday morning quarterbacking you get from stuff like Congressional investigations is so stupid. Sure, all the data is there, and in hindsight it all makes sense. But when you’re looking at it, it’s just mush.”
“What do we know?” Barb said, leaning back on the dresser and closing her eyes. “Janea was found in Coolidge Park.”
“Over on North Shore,” Kurt said, nodding. “But that’s a dry hole. No actual connections to that immediate area. And her car was on the other side of the river. Which means she probably took the walking bridge over the river. But we interviewed everyone we could find in the area and nobody saw her crossing. Either way.”
“But that’s where she was,” Barb said. “On the North Shore. She was conscious, then. But already incoherent. Probably already on the Paths but sort of functional to move in the mundane world. So it couldn’t have happened far from where she was picked up. We need to pay a visit to Mr. Yeaton.”
* * *
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Kurt said, holding out his ID. “We’re looking for Hugh Yeaton.”
The address listed on the business card had led them to a suburban two-story house in a working-class neighborhood in East Ridge and, presumably, the lady of the house. The thin, dark-haired woman looked at the ID suspiciously, then sighed.
“I’m sure whatever it is, officer…” she said.
“We just need to ask him some questions about a case we’re working on,” Kurt said, smiling. “He’s not in any trouble. Honest.”
“He’s at work,” the woman said. “Bennington Subdivision, Lot Fourteen.”
“Oh,” Kurt said, nodding. “Thank you for your help.”
“He’s not in any trouble, right?”
The woman seemed ambiguous about the question, as if she half hoped that he might be.
“None that I know of,” Kurt said, shrugging.
* * *
“Well, this is odd,” Barb said as she pulled up to the indicated lot. Bennington Subdivision, Lot Fourteen, was a partially constructed residence. Currently, it was just being framed.
“It’s got to be the right guy,” Kurt said, looking at the card again.
“We’ll see,” Barb said.
* * *
“Hugh Yeaton?” Kurt shouted.
The shout was necessary because the man they’d been directed to was operating a power saw, cutting a long rip in a strand of plywood.
“What?” the man shouted, holding one hand to his ear. The carpenter was burly and had a sour expression on his face. He also clearly was enjoying messing with the “suits” by continuing to operate the saw.
“FBI,” Kurt shouted, holding out his badge. “Want to shut that off?”
“Sorry,” the man said, turning off the saw. “What do you need?”
“Are you Hugh Yeaton?” Kurt asked.
“Yes,” the man said, somewhat nervously.
“Then we have what we need.”
* * *
; “Yeah, I remember her,” Yeaton said, taking a drink of Gatorade. “Hot redhead, right?”
“That would be Janea,” Barb said. “Where’d you meet her?”
“When we went out for the Art District investigation,” Hugh said. “She was walking around when we showed up. It was after most of the stuff had closed, so that was a little strange. You know, young woman, by herself, dark streets…”
“I doubt Janea was much worried,” Barb said dryly.
“Kinda got that impression,” Hugh said. “One of the team, Pete Crockett, kind of latched onto her. Since Pete’s about as straight as a hula hoop, it wasn’t ’cause he was hitting on her or anything. We’d been looking for a new researcher, and when I was talking to her, it was apparent she knew her occult lore. I said if she was interested to give me a call.”
“Art District?” Barb asked.
“It’s a collection of museums and shops downtown by the river,” Kurt said. “Old houses. It’s supposed to be haunted. Nice place. Great restaurants, and Rembrandt’s is to die for.”
“Yeah,” Yeaton said, frowning. “You’ve clearly never been there after everything shut down. I hate to ever admit anything’s haunted. It’s what makes us different from most of the paranormal groups out there. But if there’s any place I’ve ever visited that has…some sort of not-normal activity, it’s the Art District.”
“Where is it?”
“Across the river from Coolidge Park, come to think of it,” Kurt said, nodding. “Near where her car was parked. What day was this?”
“Sixteenth of March,” Yeaton said. “She left when Rembrandt’s closed.”
“That’s ten days before she was attacked,” Barb said.
“She got attacked?” Yeaton said. “One of these damned Madness things?”
“Not…directly,” Barb said. “She…I take it you’re somewhat familiar with the supernatural, Mr. Yeaton.”
“Depends,” he said, looking at her suspiciously. “I’ve seen a couple of things over the years that are hard to explain.”
“She’s currently in something like a coma,” Barb said. “But not a coma. She just won’t wake up. Are you familiar with the term ka?”
“Sure,” Yeaton said. “And I don’t believe in it. If I can’t measure it, it’s myth, not science.”
“Well, be that as it may,” Barb said, smiling, “her ka was stripped and is lost on the Paths. I’m trying to find out who or what did that to her.”
“Well, if that search leads you to the Art District after closing time, you’d better be a pretty steady person,” Yeaton said. “Because that place scared the crap out of me. And I don’t scare easy. I’ve got work to do. Is there anything else?”
“No,” Kurt said, handing Yeaton his card. “If you think of anything else or hear anything you think we should know, please call me. This does have to do with the Madness investigations.”
“Hmmm…” Yeaton said, looking at the card. “You might want to come by my place. I’m pretty busy with work and the investigations but…Say, Friday afternoon? I’ve got some stuff you might want to look over.”
“Okay,” Kurt said. “Around seven?”
“Works.”
* * *
“Where to now?” Kurt asked.
“I’m drawing a blank,” Barb said, looking at the papers on her lap. “I think we need to interview the cops that found Janea.”
“I’ll get ahold of them,” Kurt said.
* * *
“What’s the FBI doing out after dark?” the police officer asked as Kurt slid into the booth.
The City Café, Chattanooga, was part of a small chain in the area. The cafés delivered and had one of the largest menus in the world. Everything from pizza to omelets, passing through Greek, Italian and various American dishes, was available. Twenty-four hours a day. Which meant it was the pit stop of choice for Chattanooga PD.
“Hi, Teach,” Kurt said as Barbara slid in next to him. “This is Mrs. Everette. She’s consulting on the Madness cases. She’s the replacement for the lady you found in Coolidge Park.”
“Oh, that,” the policeman said. “That was one fricking weird incident.”
“Walk me through it,” Barb said, sliding Lazarus out of his bag and setting him next to her. She’d already had her standard encounter on the way in.
“We were contacted direct,” Tom said. “That is, we got the call from the station, not from nine-one-one.”
“That seems strange,” Barb said. “Anonymous caller?”
“No,” the policeman said, wincing. “It’s not all that strange in this area.”
“Chattanooga nine-one-one is notorious,” Kurt said, chuckling. “They’ve got the worst call-through in the nation. Only about thirty percent of the calls to nine-one-one get through to the people that need them. People have gotten used to calling the local fire station if they’ve got a fire, the police if they need a cop…”
“Caller’s name was Jeremy Carons,” Tom continued, looking at a notepad. “Twenty-four. Was walking in the park with his girlfriend. They saw this lady staggering around, shouting, stuff like that. They sort of wondered if she was a homeless person or something, but her clothing was nice. So they called us and kept an eye on her. She was moving erratically, with which I agree. I arrived, and when I observed her I called for backup.”
“Why?” Barb asked.
“She was nonresponsive when I asked her to calm down,” the cop said. “Like she didn’t hear me. Tell you the truth, I was afraid she was one of these Madness things.”
“Do you recall what she was saying?” Barb asked.
“Something about freeing and shields and light,” the cop replied. “It wasn’t really coherent. Some of it sounded German.”
“Norse,” Barb said. “And was it ‘freeing’ or ‘Freya’?”
“That…sort of sounds right,” Teach said. “What was that word?”
“Freya is her goddess,” Barb said. “She’s Asatru. She was praying.”
“Oh…” the cop said, frowning. “Really?”
“Really,” Barb said. “It was the equivalent of a Christian minister calling upon Jesus. ‘Jesus aid me.’ or something. What happened then?”
“Officer Lawrence Atchison responded to my request for backup and we called for a medical response,” the officer said. “I’d determined that we were dealing with a 10-103m…”
“Cop-speak?” Barb asked.
“Nutjob,” Kurt said. “Wacko.”
“Got it. Go on.”
“We approached the subject and requested that she desist in her actions,” the officer said. “She continued to ignore us. By that point the ambulance had arrived. Officer Atchison and I attempted to physically restrain her at which point she resisted…well.”
“Even stuck on the Paths, Janea’s a handful,” Barb said, smiling. “I hope you were okay.”
“We hadn’t realized she was as…fit as she was,” the cop said, grimacing. “I was glad I was wearing body armor. And a cup. We managed to physically restrain her, and with the help of the paramedics, we got her strapped to the gurney. The paramedics had gotten authorization to tranquilize the subject, but when they did, she arrested. She came back when they gave her some juice. They then transported her to Memorial. I wrote up my report and continued with the night. We found out the next day she was working with the Fibs…Sorry.”
“Heard it before,” Kurt said, grinning. “Used it, for that matter.”
“Anyway, we found out the next day she was a special consultant. I’ve sort of been scratching my head about it. Any idea what happened to her? I figure she’s not normally like that. Did somebody drug her?”
“Something like that,” Barb said. “Anything else? Anything unusual?”
“She was wet,” Tom said.
“What?” Barb asked, sharply.
“She was wet,” the officer repeated. “From head to toe. Since she was wearing a white shirt, it was pretty noticeable, but when we grabbed her it was
really noticeable. I got soaked, so did Larry. Looked like she’d been swimming.”
* * *
“That’s one hell of a swim,” Kurt said, looking through the binoculars.
The Chattanooga Art District was a cluster of buildings perched on a bluff overlooking the Tennessee River. Consisting of a bed and breakfast, two high-end restaurants, a coffee shop, an art gallery and a museum, it was a pleasant place on a warm morning in spring. The close-set stone buildings created shaded paths, and vegetation crawled over trellises, creating cozy nooks perfect for book reading or just contemplating life.
From the bluff, North Shore and Coolidge Park were clearly evident across the river. Adjacent to the stone buildings was the Hunter Museum complex consisting of three buildings, an Edwardian mansion, a 1970s “modern” building and a modern art annex completed in 2005. Just down the hill, accessed by a daring transparent bridge, was the Tennessee Aquarium. Connecting the collection to North Shore was a walking bridge that soared nearly a hundred feet over the river.
“Hell of a climb, too,” Barb said. There was no way to get to the edge of the bluff; stone walls ensured that, but it was clear getting down wouldn’t be easy. “And no way she jumped off the bridge. The fall would kill her.”
“So, assuming she was swimming, where’d she swim from?” Kurt asked, lowering the binoculars. “Dive off the bluff? Looks pretty suicidal to me.”
“That is a very good question,” Barb said. “For which I need coffee.”
* * *
Rembrandt’s was built into a portion of the first floor of one of the stone buildings. The front counter created a narrow area that, at the moment, was packed with patrons waiting to access the single cash register. At the far end of the counter were some tables, which continued into a back room.
“Oh…my,” Barb said, looking at the collection of pastries on display. “I think I’m gaining weight just looking at them. I can see more than one reason Janea would come here.”
“Anything…else?” Kurt asked, quietly.
“Not right now,” Barb said, just as quietly. “I’m Shielding. It works both ways. I’d rather be sitting down to do a full survey.”