Harmony Black (Harmony Black Series Book 1)

by Craig Schaefer

  ALSO BY CRAIG SCHAEFER

  The Daniel Faust Series

  The Long Way Down

  Redemption Song

  The Living End

  A Plain-Dealing Villain

  The Killing Floor Blues

  The Revanche Cycle

  Winter’s Reach

  The Instruments of Control

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Craig Schaefer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503950429

  ISBN-10: 1503950425

  Cover design by Marc Cohen and David Drummond

  CONTENTS

  FIVE YEARS EARLIER

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  AFTERWORD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  FIVE YEARS EARLIER

  “How long have you been a practicing witch, Special Agent Black?”

  I’d been called into SAC Wendt’s office to go over the paperwork from my last field operation. The special agent in charge was nowhere to be seen, though, replaced by a smug-looking stranger in a three-piece suit. He leaned back, cupping his hands behind his head and kicking his Italian loafers up on Wendt’s desk like he owned the place. His shoes cost more than I made in a month.

  “Excuse me?” I stammered.

  “You’re a witch,” he said, as if he were making a comment about the weather.

  “I . . . believe that’s an inappropriate thing to discuss in the workplace, and quite possibly a violation of—”

  “Relax,” he said. “You’re among friends. Call me Linder. You can sit down, if you like.”

  I didn’t.

  “Are you replacing SAC Wendt?”

  “No, just commandeering his office. I do that sometimes.” His gaze slid down to the silver bracelet poking out from under my jacket sleeve. Tiny leaf-shaped bangles dangled from the hoop, catching the light and glimmering. “Nice jewelry. You made it yourself?”

  “I do some crafts,” I said. “In my free time.”

  Linder swung his shoes off the desk, sitting straight up. He dipped his fingers into his breast pocket, pulled out a slender vial of smoked glass, and set it down between us. My stomach churned, just looking at the thing, and my bracelet grew hot against my wrist like I was holding my arm over an invisible fire. There was something trapped inside that vial, something that squirmed and hungered and hated, and it wanted out.

  “I’m willing to bet,” he said lightly, “that if I uncorked this vial, you’d have a good chance of survival. Better than most.”

  “What is—” I started to say, then caught myself. Sometimes the what doesn’t matter. “Why do you even have that?”

  Linder flashed a pearly smile and took the vial away, slipping it back into his breast pocket.

  “I’m a big believer in mutually assured destruction,” he explained. “I’ve made a number of enemies over the course of my career, and I feel more confident knowing that if one of them finally gets lucky, I won’t die alone. The point is, now we can skip the talk.”

  “The talk?”

  He ticked off his points on his fingertips. “Magic is real. You’re a witch. I carry a demon in my pocket. See? Now we’re on the same page, and you don’t have to lie to me. Saves so much time. I’m here to make you an offer.”

  I pulled back a chair and sat down. My sense of balance was long gone.

  “I’m with a special task force,” Linder said, “representing a joint effort among select elements of the FBI, local law enforcement, and affiliated civilian friendlies, sponsored by a small handful of concerned senators who will remain nameless. It’s not . . . officially recognized by the Bureau.”

  “Not recognized,” I echoed. “You’re talking about a black-budget program.”

  He slid a closed beige folder halfway across the desk, leaving it between us. The faded white label bore unsteady block letters from a manual typewriter:

  Operation VIGILANT LOCK. Top Secret//Eyes Only//

  Special Control and Access Required (SCAR) Use Only.

  “We run silent. You can call us Vigilant, but you won’t find that name on any government document that you’re officially cleared to read. So whatever you do, don’t open this folder and start reading right now. That’d be highly illegal.”

  He nudged the folder an inch closer to my side of the desk.

  “Let me bottom-line it for you,” he said. “The United States is facing an existential threat, one it is in no way prepared to overcome.”

  “And that threat is?” I asked.

  “People like you and me,” he said. “Just a lot less patriotic. There are things operating on American soil, Agent, things you wouldn’t believe. I’ve seen the pictures. Then I’ve shredded the pictures.”

  “What do you want from me?” I asked him.

  “We have a triple directive,” Linder said, ticking them off on his manicured fingernails. “Investigate, exterminate, obfuscate. The occult underworld is real, Agent Black, and your average beat cops—or even veteran federal agents, like your colleagues here—are incapable of assessing a threat that doesn’t even fit into their worldview. Not like you can.”

  “This sounds like a recruitment pitch.”

  “Good,” Linder said. “Then I’m making myself clear. You’d still work for the FBI, in name at least, but I’ll arrange for you to receive . . . special assignments. Ones that require your particular skills, and absolute discretion. Living a double life takes some adjustment, I won’t lie, but your file shows a real aptitude for tradecraft. I think you’ll take to it like a duck to water.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t know what to make of this, any of it. Part of me thought I was the butt of some cruel and overelaborate joke, and that any minute now Linder would open the closet and show me the hidden cameras. Part of me hoped he would. I’d brushed against the orbits of men like Linder before, alphabet-agency insiders buried so deep inside the Washington machine they might as well be ghosts. Or gods.

  One thing I knew: once you slipped down that rabbit hole, into the black-budget n
etherworld, you never came out again.

  “Look, I don’t know who you think I am, or what you think I can do, but—”

  “The Ballard Ripper,” he said.

  I blinked. He looked at me, expectant.

  “I’m familiar with the case,” I said. “It’s stalled out—”

  “For lack of evidence, yes. Because the key evidence has been suppressed. You’re playing solitaire with no aces in the deck, and you can’t figure out why you never win.”

  He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, locking eyes with me. His face was forgettable, almost aggressively bland; he was the kind of man who could disappear in any crowd—but his gaze froze me in my chair.

  “The Ballard Ripper,” he said, “has murdered nine women in the last six months. He’ll strike again, within the week. And he’ll get away, as he’s gotten away each time before, because he’s not like ordinary men. He’s a sorcerer. Near as we can tell, he’s using their hearts for—well, that doesn’t even matter, does it?”

  He pushed the folder another inch closer.

  “Right this minute,” Linder said, “he’s marking his next victim. Stalking her. You can save her. Say yes, join Vigilant, and I’ll give you all the evidence, all the tools and resources you need to get the job done. Or you can walk out that door, go back to your ordinary life, and let an innocent woman die. Your call.”

  I looked down at the folder and weighed my options. It wasn’t a hard choice to make.

  The Ballard Ripper never took another victim. Officially, the case is still unsolved. He just disappeared into the Seattle mist, never to be heard from again. In Vigilant Lock’s secret archives, though, he has a one-line epitaph:

  Hostile Entity no. 59: Terminated with extreme prejudice.

  ONE

  Joining Vigilant was a one-way door, an express elevator with only one button: down. As Linder reminded me more than once, I’d broken a laundry list of state and federal laws in the service of a task force that didn’t officially exist. Vigilant could shield me from prosecution, but only so long as I was a good team player.

  So I was a good team player.

  Five years in the shadows left me with my share of scars—some on my skin, some deeper. At the end of my last case, I put in for two weeks’ vacation. I’d earned a lot of vacation time; I just never took any. My mother still had her cottage on Long Island Sound, a cozy Victorian with cornflower curtains and white lattice trim, and spending some time with family felt like a good way to find my balance again.

  A week on the coast wasn’t enough to shake my restlessness. I stood out in the backyard, the wet, cool grass stroking my sandaled feet, and looked out across the water to a distant rocky shore. It was peaceful until I closed my eyes, and then I was right back in the field again, reliving memories I’d rather forget.

  A crisp, chill wind brushed its fingertips against my cheek.

  “Harmony?”

  My mother had hair like silver tinsel and wore a long lavender housecoat, looking like a silent movie star in retirement. She stood on the back porch. Linder stood beside her. I knew my vacation was over before he said a word.

  “We need you back,” he told me. He had the decency to look apologetic, even though I knew it was an act.

  “I was approved for two weeks.”

  “It won’t wait.” He turned to my mother. “Ms. Black?”

  She nodded and stepped back. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

  “I was approved for two weeks,” I told him again, as if it would change anything. “I haven’t taken a single vacation day in—”

  “It won’t wait,” he said. “Walk with me.”

  I led him down to the yard’s edge. His polished Italian loafers glistened with dewdrops. He looked out across the water and shook his head.

  “You picked a good vacation spot. Scenic. Me? I’m a Palm Springs kind of guy. Great golfing down there.”

  “I’m not very good at relaxing,” I told him.

  “I noticed. You’ve filed four amendments to your report on that Las Vegas op since you went ‘on vacation,’” he said, putting the words in air quotes. “Relax. The directorate is very pleased with your work.”

  “Pleased? That operation was a disaster from start to finish.”

  He shrugged. “I sent you into the field with a list of names. Everyone on that list is dead or on the run. Investigate, exterminate, obfuscate. As far as I’m concerned, you pitched a three-hitter.”

  “It was the wrong way. It was sloppy. And, sir, I want to reopen the investigation. I’m certain Daniel Faust was—”

  “Killed,” he said. Stopping me in my tracks with a single word. He arched an eyebrow at me. “You didn’t hear? There was a riot at Eisenberg Correctional. Thirty-eight inmates died, him included. No great loss to society.”

  I couldn’t answer for a second. I didn’t have the words. I didn’t mourn the man—he was a sorcerer, an unrepentant thief, and a killer—but I felt his sudden absence like a jigsaw puzzle piece carved out of my life. Faust was my nemesis. My great white whale. Now I felt like the sheriff in an old Western, gearing up for a showdown at high noon, only to find out the black-hat outlaw accidentally fell off his horse and died from a concussion on his way to the gunfight. No satisfaction, no closure. That part of my life was suddenly over, leaving nothing but a hollow aching in its wake.

  “Job’s done,” Linder said. “Bottom line? You got results.”

  “Tainted results. When I took my badge, I took the oath that goes with it. I don’t take oaths lightly.”

  “And when I recruited you for this task force,” Linder said, “I thought I made it clear that we’re operating on the extreme edges of what the law is capable of handling. That requires flexibility in the field. Hard judgment calls.”

  I didn’t have anything to say to that.

  “You haven’t let me down yet.” He shivered a little as a stiff wind ruffled his hair. “Getting nippy out here. Let’s go inside. Need to show you something.”

  We went in through the kitchen door, to the little octagonal dining room in the back corner of the house. A hand-knit lace doily decorated the varnished pine table, and an ornately painted dish took a place of pride on the top shelf of a freshly dusted china cabinet. Linder paused by the credenza, his gaze drifting over a cluster of photographs. Me, Mom, Dad in his uniform blues. Pictures faded by time.

  “You were a cute kid.” He looked back over his shoulder at me. “You used to have long hair. When did you start doing the ’90s Meg Ryan thing?”

  I just crossed my arms and stared at him. He sighed, pulled up a chair, and gestured for me to do the same. He set his slender black briefcase on the table and opened it, taking out an unlabeled manila folder. He held it lightly in his hands, like it was a bomb rigged to blow.

  “You were all eager to put me to work,” I said. “Now you’re stalling. What don’t you want to tell me?”

  He ran a fingertip along the folder’s edge.

  “There’s been an incident. Two days ago, an infant was abducted from his home.”

  “Then let’s move.” The last threads of my patience frayed and snapped. “You know the recovery rates on an average kidnapping. Every hour we wait, the odds drop by—”

  He held up his hand. “I’ve already mobilized a team. You’ll be joining them in the field. There was a nanny cam in the child’s room, and . . . based on the recovered video, the boys in the lab believe we’re dealing with Hostile Entity 17.”

  I shook my head. The number didn’t mean a thing to me.

  Linder took a deep breath, opened the folder, and turned it around, showing me the grainy photograph inside. A single blown-up still captured from the nanny cam feed.

  “I told them not to call it the Bogeyman,” Linder said. “I’m sorry, Agent. It’s back.”

  I couldn’t hear a word he said. Couldn’t talk. Couldn’t think. All I could see was the photograph as the world fell out from under my feet.

  TWO />
  “Her name is Helen Gunderson,” Linder said, nodding at the woman in the photo. Her face twisted in mad loathing as she clutched the bundled infant in her arms. The picture was grainy, but I could still make out the tears of blood weeping from her eyes.

  “That’s not Helen Gunderson,” I whispered. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t take my eyes from the photograph. I was drowning on dry land. Lungs burning, muscles clenched.

  “You know that, and I know that, but the real Helen is sitting in a jail cell right now. She’s being charged in the abduction of her own child. Considering the ‘evidence’ from the nanny cam, she will be prosecuted for it—along with a murder charge, if we can’t recover the infant.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  “Talbot Cove, Michigan,” he said. “Less than a mile from—”

  I locked eyes with him. “How many?”

  “Just one victim. So far.”

  “There will be others.”

  He nodded. “I know. And soon. Clock’s ticking. You’re the only operative alive who’s had personal contact with H. E. 17.”

  I took a deep breath. Unclenched my hands from the arms of my chair. Straightened my back.

  “Call it what it is, Linder,” I said, shutting the folder and sliding it toward him. “It’s the fucking Bogeyman.”

  I was six years old.

  It’s funny. I can remember everything about that night, except why I’d gotten out of bed in the first place. I padded out of my room in my footie pajamas, the shag-carpeted hallway seeming to stretch for a thousand miles in the dark. A tiny night-light cast the striped wallpaper in a warm, soft glow.

  There was another glow, too, seeping out from a crack in the doorway up ahead. My sister’s bedroom.

  I heard whispering as I crept closer. A sibilant, singsong lullaby, but I couldn’t make out any of the words. The door creaked, just a little, as I pushed it open and peeked inside.

  My mother stood over Angie’s crib, head bowed, cradling my baby sister in her arms. The dangling mobile over the crib turned slowly, casting strange, long shadows across the nursery walls. As I walked closer, I heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall behind me. Dad, I thought. Angie woke everybody up again. She’d been sick for a few days, sick enough for at least one frantic late-night drive to the ER.