by Elle Gray
“Why don’t you go talk to him?” I ask.
Never looking up, she shakes her head. “I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can. It’s easy,” I urge her. “It’s just like talking to me.”
“Hardly. I’m not like you. I can’t－”
“You only can’t because you tell yourself that,” I press her. “The only thing holding you back is you, Maisey. I mean, even from here, I can tell that Marco’s interested in you. And I know for a fact that you’re interested in him.”
She screws up her face and gives me an awkward smile. “I don’t think he’s interested in me.”
“Maisey. Trust me, he is.”
“Can we not talk about this?” she asks.
The color in her face deepens and she’s rendered speechless for a moment. I open my mouth to speak but pause as the realization that I’m doing the same exact thing I give Astra grief about. I try to justify it in my own mind, telling myself that I’m only doing it for Maisey’s own good－and then realize Astra’s said the very same thing to me before. I silently chastise myself.
But still, I think it’s a little bit different. This isn’t me telling Maisey she needs to start taking people home every weekend. This is me trying to help her overcome this crippling lack of confidence in herself. This is to help her see how much she has to offer somebody, and that she deserves to be happy and loved. My pushing Maisey is different than the way Astra pushes me.
At least, that’s how I’ll justify it to myself. If nothing else, I am a master at rationalization. But for now, I’ll back off. I don’t want to be quite as pushy and domineering as Astra can be. Maisey is a bit more delicate than I am and pushing her too hard might result in the exact opposite effect of what I’m trying to accomplish. Which is for Maisey to get over her fears and develop a little confidence.
I smoothly steer us away from talking about Maisey’s love life and onto safer, more neutral subjects instead. We spend a couple of hours laughing and talking, enjoying our time together like we always do, and it makes me regret the fact that we don’t do it more often. That I don’t make more of an effort to get together with her.
And as we’re leaving the diner, I silently vow to myself that from now on, I’m going to make sure I try to do better. She turns to me, a gentle smile on her face.
“Be careful down there. I want you home in one piece,” she says.
“I will,” I respond. “If for no other reason than because I will get you and Marco together at some point.”
She laughs, but the twinkle in her eye tells me she’s not opposed to the idea at all.
Seven
Pacific Crest Motor Court; Briar Glen, WA
“How… rustic,” I mutter.
I throw my bags on the bed and frown as I look around at what’s going to be my home away from home for a little while. My room is a small, one-room bungalow set at the far end of the grounds. It’s got a king-sized bed against the wall with cheap pressboard nightstands that are pitted and cracked on either side of the headboard.
There’s a highboy dresser against the wall across from the bed that doesn’t quite match the color of the nightstands, or the battered table that sits beneath the window on the wall next to the door. A flatscreen, off-brand TV sits on top of the highboy so I can enjoy the free HBO the desk manager was so excited to tell me about. Assuming the TV works anyway. At least I’ve got a nice view of the Pacific through that window. That’s a plus.
The carpet is a low pile brown color that feels more like a layer of Astroturf stretched over the concrete foundation of the bungalow. The comforter on the bed, printed with pictures of trees and deer, is done in shades of red and brown, giving it an autumn-like feel, as well as providing plenty of camouflage for the myriad of stains I’m sure cover the fabric. I’d really hate to see this thing under a UV light.
That it’s otherwise clean is probably about the best thing that can be said for it. But hey, I guess I should count my blessings that it is. I’ve had to stay in a few places that had me questioning whether or not I should sleep in the rental car instead.
“My life is so glamorous,” I say to the empty room.
With nothing else for it, I get to work. After quickly stripping the bed of the sheets and comforter, I toss them into a pile in the corner, then remake it with the bedding I’d brought along. I learned not to trust motel bedding on a case long ago, when I found a bed covered in faded spots of blood. Now, whenever I’m out in the field, I bring my own.
Others think me eccentric, a germaphobe, or perhaps a touch bougie for it, but the last thing I want to have to worry about is catching some freakish skin-eating disease while I’m out on assignment. They can call me whatever they want. I couldn’t care less. All I know is I sleep better at night on my own sheets.
After getting myself squared away, I lock up and head into town, which is about ten minutes from the motel. Briar Glen looks like it’s frozen in time but is desperately trying to break from the past and move forward. Up and down the main drag of town－Pacific Avenue－there’s a mish-mash of old timey Mom-and-Pop shops and modern chain stores. It’s cute. A little mismatched, but quaint.
I should go by the police station and check in with the sheriff. I know I need to announce my presence and I’m pretty sure Potts would be chewing me out if he knew that wasn’t my very first stop. But I like to get a feel for a town. I like to see how it is without any agenda-driven, perhaps biased eyes looking over my shoulder. I don’t want my initial impressions of a place tainted by outside influence.
But I know that I have to play nice with the locals. It’s not like we Feds have a terrific history with local LEOs. Back in the day, the Bureau would descend upon a town and steamroll anybody who got in the way of an investigation. Including local cops. But in the interest of preventing the hostility and resistance from local law enforcement by bringing the full weight of our power to bear, the Bureau has pivoted over the years.
It’s a brave new world. We rely on cooperation, so today, we make every effort to work hand in hand with local LEOs as partners, rather than subordinate agencies. More or less. The Bureau, in its infinite wisdom, has found it more beneficial to not antagonize the locals and work with them in a collaborative fashion, rather than pit them as adversaries from the jump.
That’s not to say there aren’t still the usual territorial pissing matches. Some guys－and yes, in my experience, it’s always men－just need to prove their manhood and assert their dominance. It usually makes for sticky and tense situations where the focus of the investigation sometimes gets lost in the shuffle. It sometimes makes for sloppy police work. Things get missed. And there’s nothing I hate more than things getting missed.
I find a parking space and pull in, then get out and start walking along the street, peering into the storefronts as I go. About halfway down the block, I find a coffee house, so I step inside, place my order, and carry it to a table out on the patio. Taking a seat near the railing, I sip my coffee and watch the flow of traffic passing me by as I sit back and take it all in.
There’s a rhythm and a flow to a city. A natural vibe. Whenever I start an investigation, I like to tap into that. I like to try to get a feel for the city. Just a little taste of the local flavor. In this stage of the investigation, I always kind of feel like Jane Goodall, just sitting and observing the native wildlife. Which is what I spend the next few hours doing. Just observing.
See, I have this idea that you can pick up on the energy in a place. It’s not as woo-woo new agey as it sounds. I just think you can get a sense of it simply by watching how the people interact with one another. It’s obviously far from scientific and leans more toward the soft sciences like anthropology or sociology. Potts would undoubtedly call it pseudo-science, but I think watching a person’s behavior is critical to doing our job thoroughly. Granted, it’s not admissible as evidence in a court proceeding. But it can help you narrow your focus.
To me, being able to work up an accurate
profile, one that will lead you to the suspect you’re looking for, you have to include things like environment. You have to know the people around you to be able to accurately pick the one out of the group who’s actually guilty. To my mind, if you’re not factoring everything into your profile, including the vibe of the city you’re in, you’re handicapping yourself. I see value in the soft sciences others reject out of hand.
If you go into a city like say, Chicago, specifically the South Side, you’re likely going to pick up on a lot of anger. A lot of tension. You’ll be able to see it playing out in how the people interact with one another. When there’s a lack of basic resources like decent housing or meaningful employment, people don’t trust each other, and they especially don’t trust law enforcement. Suddenly what should be a community becomes a desperate grasp for survival, and that survival instinct overwhelms people. Small arguments blow up into full scale melees in the blink of an eye. People get shot and killed at the drop of a hat for petty, inconsequential things every day. And I think, after a while, that sort of thing leaves an imprint on a city. On the energy and soul of a city.
Now, contrast that with a place like Centennial, Colorado, or Sterling Heights, Michigan, which are among the safest cities in the United States and have some of the lowest violent crime rates in the nation. There are so little violent crime in those cities, you don’t see the same sort of instant escalation of hostility. You don’t see the same sort of violent reaction to those same inconsequential things that would get you shot on the South Side of Chicago. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that those cities have robust economies and opportunities for people to succeed. When people don’t have to scrape by just to survive, they can thrive.
This is all purely anecdotal. Some would say idle conjecture. It’s not scientific in the least, nor is it admissible in a court of law. I’m aware of all of that. But I believe observation is an important tool. A key arrow in my quiver I can use to sight in on a target.
The one thing I’ve learned from my observations as I wandered about the town today is that there doesn’t seem to be any sort of underlying anger or hostility. People don’t seem to interact with each other very much in Briar Glen, and from what I’ve seen, when they do, it’s nothing more than the usual pleasantries. Interactions are short and polite. But I don’t think this place is a hotbed of violence. From my research, the economy seems decent enough here, and I couldn’t find any notable gangs or organized crime. It just seems like a… well, a normal small city. Not a paradise, but not the kind of place where you have to worry about rampant gun violence.
What I do pick up on is a sense of wariness that runs below the surface of the city. There is a current of tension among the people I’ve been watching today. It’s very slight, but it’s there. It’s hard to describe, and impossible to quantify, but they have the sort of tension prey animals have when there is a predator about. I can see it in the way they look at other people on the street. There’s a familiar hunch in their shoulders, a tightness in their bodies, and sideways glances.
To me, it feels as if the violence and death that’s occurred in Briar Glen over the past fifteen years or so has left an imprint. Maybe one so subtle that its own citizens don’t quite realize it. It’s perhaps not the same sort of indelible mark that you’d find in a city that’s more known for its violence, but it’s there all the same. I can feel it.
Satisfied with my conclusions and first impressions of the town, I pack it in and head back to the hotel. I want to bone up on Sheriff Morris before I go and have a sit down with him. The more I know about him, the easier it might be to manage him if needs be. I know how these small-town law enforcement types can be and I’d rather not ruffle this guy’s feathers like the last one.
The last thing I want is to give Potts more ammunition to use against me.
Eight
Industrial District, Briar Glen, WA
I stand at the second-floor window of the old factory, looking out at the other derelict buildings, and the forest beyond that. Scattered clouds roll by overhead, hiding and then uncovering the moon, bathing the land in a light that flits from shadow to silvery luminescence, creating a slow strobe effect.
This part of town has been abandoned for years, but still stands as a crumbling artifact of a time long gone by. Briar Glen was founded as a fishing town more than a hundred years ago. The town flourished and grew quickly. Briar Glen was prosperous and was quickly becoming the jewel of the state.
But then, with increasing political pressure and men with deep pockets, the industry shifted north. Seattle became the prime hub of the fishing industry, and Briar Glen was left behind to languish and decay like the building I’m standing in right now. This was once the biggest fish processing plant and cannery in town. It’s been in my family for generations but hasn’t been used for anything in… I don’t even know how long anymore.
Oh, we’ve tried to convert it for another use several times. We tried to revitalize this area by manufacturing different items over the years. None of them panned out though, and the factory was finally shut down and boarded up. Briar Glen itself has enjoyed a resurgence over the last thirty years or so, drawing new jobs and people to settle here, thinking it an idyllic place to raise a family. But this section of the city, what used to be the center of the fishing industry, has been cast out and left to rot.
It suits me just fine though. This factory, or rather the shell of what used to be a factory, is still owned by my family. And with the surrounding area deserted, it is the perfect place for our group to meet without being observed. We are free to gather and mete out God’s justice.
Briar Glen has grown. In many ways, it has become that suburban utopia many believe it to be. But there is a dark underbelly here as well. There is a criminal element that preys on the weak and the vulnerable. That victimizes people. What makes it worse is that most of these animals get away with it. Our police department is so inept, and has been since the dawn of time, that these people－and I hate to call them that－literally get away with murder. The incompetence of our police department is costing good people their lives.
I know this better than most. My people know this better than most. It’s a situation that’s untenable, which is why we gather to do what needs to be done. To do what our police department has neither the intelligence nor backbone to do. We gather to make Briar Glen, our home and a town we love, safer and more secure. We gather to do God’s justice.
“Everybody is here. It’s time,” he announces, his voice slightly muffled by his mask.
The voice behind me echoes around the cavernous, empty room. The light from his torch casts flickering, writhing shadows upon the walls as I turn and give him a nod. I raise the mask in my hand and put it on, situating it so that it’s comfortable, then pull the hood of my cloak up.
“I’ll be down shortly,” I reply.
He gives me a nod and turns away. I listen to the echo of his footsteps ebb as he goes back downstairs, plunging the room around me back into a silent darkness. It is a very special night for us. I can practically feel the excitement below radiating up to me. The dedication of my people fills me with a sense of joy and renews my sense of purpose. It confirms for me once more the righteousness of our work.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I stride from the room, head down the corridor, and then descend the staircase. As I walk across the open floor and step up onto the small dais, the group falls silent. All eyes turn to me. The light from the flickering torches glimmers off the masks of my people, all of them assembled and waiting for me, and I feel a rush of pride flow through me.
“Fourteen years ago, there were seven of us. We were bonded by a shared grief that quickly became a sense of purpose. A mission,” I begin. “Over the years, we have grown. Others who share the same bond of grief, now share that same sense of purpose. They have come to join us. They share our vision and we have become one.”
Applause and cheering erupts from the crowd. I can feel
the pride and conviction they all have for what we’re doing. I can feel how much they, too, believe in the righteousness of our cause. My heart swells from their adulation.
“We original seven, back when we first started our work, decided that every seven years, we would renew our bonds. That we would purify ourselves and consecrate our work,” I continue. “The time to do that has come again. Tonight, we begin the ritual of renewing our faith. Tonight, we begin the ritual that will renew our bonds to our work, and to each other. Nos servo fidem.”
“Nos servo fidem,” the group replies as one.
“We are the ones who deliver true justice in Briar Glen. God’s justice. We are the ones who hold the line here, because we are the only ones willing to do what must be done to protect our homes. Our families,” I intone. “We alone have the will and the conviction to do the work that others will not. Some might call us monsters, but they do so while living beneath the safety and protection we provide. Never forget that. Our work is critical to the health and welfare of this town and everybody in it. It is vital to the safety of our loved ones. Nos servo fidem.”
“Nos servo fidem,” they call out in unison.
“We are the Sword of Michael,” I reply, my voice rising. “We are Manus Domini Dei.”
“We are the Sword of Michael. We are Manus Domini Dei,” they call back to me as one.
I stand still for a moment, looking over the eighteen people before me. My people. My army. Warriors all. I slide an eight-by-ten photograph out of my robes and lay it on the table at the front of the dais, glancing at the dark haired, dark eyed beauty. I can feel their excitement rising, along with my own. The renewing of our bonds and faith is an event we all look forward to. Perhaps me most of all.