The Creator (Scarrett & Kramer Book 1)

by Neil Carstairs

  ‘Ok,’ Ben laughed. ‘I surrender.’

  ‘Good,’ Chrissie said.

  The office door opened and Kramer stuck her head in. ‘Meeting’s about to start,’ she said.

  Ben nodded and said into the phone. ‘I’ve got to go now.’

  ‘I know, I heard, who was that?’

  ‘My guide for the day.’

  ‘Tell her I said hello,’ Chrissie said.

  ‘Will do.’ Ben tried not to laugh again. They said their goodbyes as Kramer came in again. ‘My sister says hello,’ Ben said as he followed Kramer out.

  ‘I’d say hello back but you hung up.’ Kramer pointed Ben towards the front of the room. ‘Dawson wants you up there with him so he can introduce you.’

  Ben didn’t particularly want to be the centre of attention but Dawson was the boss so that’s where Ben went. When he looked out over the room he saw Kramer had joined half a dozen men in the back row, all in BDUs. In front of them were civilians. Ben cased most of them to be like himself, government workers seconded to the unit. The front row caught his interest. These were civilians with a capital C. Seven of them, the oldest a black woman who looked to be in her eighties, the youngest a red-haired girl of nine or ten sitting next to a woman who looked likely to be her mother. The other four were one woman and three men, a spread of ages from an overweight twenty-something male to a middle-aged man with greying hair and horn-rimmed glasses.

  Interesting, Ben thought but before he could go any further Dawson said, ‘I’d like to thank you all for getting together tonight and take this opportunity to introduce the latest recruit to our team. This is Ben Scarrett, he comes to us from one of our sister agencies and will be operating as a Field Analyst, joining Captain Kramer and her team as they gather intel.’

  Ben managed to keep his face straight. Field Analyst? He saw Kramer watching him and her smile reminded him of a fox eyeing up a chicken coop.

  ‘Ben?’ Dawson turned to him. ‘I appreciate this has all been dropped on you today, to be honest it worked the same for all of us because this is the kind of unit that operates in the shadows and we can’t talk about it to anyone before they join us. Is there anything you’d like to say?’

  ‘I…’ Ben took a breath. ‘Well, I hope to be able to make a good contribution to the unit. I’m sure I’ll learn everyone’s names eventually but until I do I hope you can put up with a few blank stares and wrong names.’

  The audience laughed politely, Dawson grinned and shook his hand. Ben waited until the sound of people standing and talking increased before he said to the General, ‘Field Analyst?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Dawson shrugged an apology. ‘Sorry to drop that one on you. The issue is as an analyst you normally see everything second hand, either as images, videos or written reports. Take those photographs I showed you earlier. Real or fake? Without mine or Captain Kramer’s statements you would have assumed fake, probably photo-shopped or stills from a CGI laced motion picture. True?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ben admitted.

  ‘So taking you from the office and out into the field to get up close to some of the events you have been reviewing will give you a greater understanding of them. It may be enough to give you that leap to allow us to combat this properly.’

  Kramer had come to their side and heard the last few words. ‘You’ll enjoy it,’ she said.

  Ben wasn’t so sure. He might enjoy a field trip to London or Paris, but anything involving the kind of things that stalked the photos he’d seen didn’t strike him as an ideal trip out of the office.

  ‘Anyway.’ Dawson patted him on the shoulder hard enough to rock Ben to one side. ‘It’s time to meet the beating heart of our unit.’

  Ben now noticed the room had emptied of everyone but Dawson, Kramer and the front row civilians. He wished he’d had a chance to find out more because Dawson got their attention and said, ‘Okay folks, time to introduce yourselves.’

  ‘Emily DeForrest,’ the young girl with the red hair said. ‘Precognitor.’

  ‘Jane Deforrest,’ the woman next to Emily said, patting the girl on her shoulder. ‘Her mother.’

  ‘Agnes Brown.’ The elderly black woman spoke next. ‘Lucid dreamer.’

  ‘Edgar Acosta,’ said the man with the horn-rimmed glasses. ‘Psychometrist.’

  ‘Seth Albaugh,’ said with a Southern accent by an overweight guy in his twenties. ‘Intuitive.’

  ‘Alan Sieting.’ In his forties and looking like a used-car salesman. ‘Psychophoner.’

  ‘Julie Zabel,’ said a dyed blonde in her fifties. ‘Clairvoyant.’

  Ben could feel Dawson looking at him, as if waiting for some kind of ‘this cannot be serious’ reaction. Instead, Ben said to Julie Zabel, ‘I think I recognise you. Were you on a panel at a psychic symposium in Boulder a couple of years ago?’

  ‘Yes, I was,’ Julie said, breaking out into a broad smile. ‘You were there too?’

  ‘With my sister,’ Ben said. ‘I went along because one of her friends broke her ankle and couldn’t make it.’

  ‘Hope she wasn’t one of the psychics,’ Seth Albaugh said. ‘I can see the headlines now. Psychic cancels trip due to unforeseen circumstances.’

  More laughter. Ben got the impression it was done from duty and not humour. Seth had one of those demeanours that put people’s backs up, which was why he sat on the end of the row and had an empty space beside him.

  ‘Did you like the discussion?’ Julie said, not even acknowledging that Seth had spoken.

  ‘Kind of.’ Ben shrugged. ‘I hope it’s no offence to anyone but my sister is the believer. I’m kind of on the fence.’

  ‘That opinion will change,’ Edgar Acosta said.

  Ben wanted to say ‘maybe’ but Dawson interrupted. ‘I just need a few more minutes with Ben and then we can get to the canteen. See you folks there.’

  As the group filed out, Dawson pointed Ben to one of the chairs. Ben sat; the General pulled a seat round so he was facing the younger man. Kramer wandered over to the door to make sure they weren’t disturbed. ‘Honest answer,’ Dawson said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think I’m surprised a government agency is involved in this kind of thing,’ Ben said.

  ‘Psychic abilities?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I know where you are coming from. I doubt we can know the first time a psychic tried to warn the government about a coming event, maybe Lincoln’s assassination? Who knows? Whatever the answer is every warning has to be investigated, and usually they’re dismissed but six months ago that changed and it was little Emily who got our attention, or more to the point her mother.

  ‘Jane became concerned about things that Emily was saying. What you might call grown up comments about terrorist attacks. Jane thought Emily was just being exposed to too much television news when her daughter came home crying one day saying that a man was going to blow up a restaurant. The next day in Paris, Muslim extremists targeted a Jewish restaurant. Emily predicted four more events before Jane plucked up the courage to warn her local police department. They ignored her. Then when the event happened the police reported her to the FBI and they arrested her for conspiring in acts of terrorism. Idiots.’

  Ben had to laugh at Dawson’s summing up of the FBI. When he had worked with anyone from the Bureau he had always got on well with them although they did think they were better than anyone else.

  Dawson continued, ‘It was about that time that I was approached to lead this unit looking into what you call The Appearances. We received early warning of one from two sources. Emily DeForrest and Julie Zabel.’

  ‘I wish I’d known about that,’ Ben said.

  ‘We let it happen,’ Dawson said. ‘Something I regret because fifteen people died. But we had a team in place to monitor the event. Not to intercede.’

  ‘What did they see?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Spoken like a true analyst,’ Dawson tried to raise a smile. ‘They saw fifteen people die. They filmed it and they film
ed the attackers making their escape.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By vanishing into thin air.’

  ‘Did they get this on film?’

  ‘No, the attackers went inside a building and never came out.’

  Ben sat back in disappointment.

  ‘But.’ Dawson held up a finger. ‘We knew one thing, that certain people had psychic abilities that could give us prior warning to these attacks.’

  ‘How did you find the others?’

  ‘Close monitoring of social media sites. Trawling federal and local law enforcement reports for warnings. Most people we weeded out as cranks. The few you’ve met here are the ones we identified as having true skills. They’re not just accurate but they can work for the government and not make any claims in public that they’re here.’

  ‘So you get a warning and what happens?’

  ‘Pass it on to other agencies if we feel the threat comes from certain groups not connected to the Appearances. If we think it is our friends we hold the information and that’s where Captain Kramer and her team come in, and you as well now, because they are ready to roll at a minute’s notice. Which means you need to be ready as well.’

  ‘Is that how they ended up in North Africa?’

  ‘Yes, too late to save lives but early enough to engage the enemy and suppress the evidence.’

  ‘What about those creatures? What happened to them?’

  ‘Our team had to kill them in self-defence and once they died the bodies corrupted rapidly in the heat. We got DNA samples but that was all, by the time night fell the creatures had reduced to a pool of goo,’ Dawson raised his voice. ‘Isn’t that right, Captain?’

  ‘I can still smell them.’ Kramer wandered over.

  ‘What did the DNA reveal?’ Ben asked.

  ‘That the creatures shouldn’t exist,’ Dawson said.

  ‘You mean they’re alien?’

  ‘No, I mean they’re related to sauropsid reptiles that died out in the Permian-Triassic extinction event.’

  ‘You mean they’re dinosaurs?’ Ben only just stopped his mouth from dropping open.

  ‘Do you have another explanation?’ Dawson asked.

  ‘Well, no.’ Ben shook his head. ‘But this is the first I’ve heard of it so I can only make assumptions. I’d need to study all the reports, talk to Kramer and her team about what they saw and look at the photographs again.’

  ‘Okay, that will have to be done tomorrow,’ Dawson said. ‘Tonight we’ll get to the canteen first, food here is pretty good but it soon goes.’

  Ben didn’t stand when the others did. He stared at the floor.

  So figure this out. Psychics able to see the short-term future with some accuracy. They call off some kind of attack on a village in North Africa. And it turns out to be dinosaurs. Real, in-your-face eat-your-head dinosaurs. Who, or what, can pull dinosaurs out of thin air? And why some fly-spot village in Africa? Why not stick them in the middle of London or Paris or New York? Cause some real damage and real publicity.

  What’s causing this isn’t human. It can’t be. Unless there’s a mad scientist out there with a piece of kit like Doctor Who. Ben sat back and looked at the door that Dawson and Kramer had walked through. Time to start believing in what I’ve been writing and everything that Chrissie has told me. There’s some serious weirdness going on and I’ve been dumped right in the middle of it.

  Chapter 4

  As soon as the limousine passed through the gates they began to close. Inside the vehicle, Grant Fenton paid no heed to either gates or armed guards as the limo took the curving driveway towards the front of the mansion. Only as the car braked to a halt did he look up from the paperwork he had been studying with something close to surprise. ‘I must be losing my grip,’ he said, ‘we can’t be here already?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Charles Clarke had worked for Fenton for close on seven years and knew how focussed the older man could be. That’s why Fenton had made a fortune in business and was now making the move into politics.

  Fenton handed the papers back to Clarke. The driver slipped out and opened Fenton’s door. Warm air clashed with the air conditioned interior of the limo as Fenton stepped out. He glanced up at the ivy-clad building. He half expected to see his daughter leaning out of a window to wave hello before he remembered she had been told not to do that.

  He turned, looking across the roof of the car as Clarke exited the other side. ‘Did we ever get feedback on the death threats?’ Fenton asked.

  ‘Nothing as yet,’ Clarke said. ‘I think Carly chased them yesterday. The police are still doing random patrols and the FBI is following the cyber trail.’

  Fenton nodded, the Feds were like that, tenacious but slow. He thanked his driver and led Clarke up the steps to the double front door.

  ‘At least Elaine is staying away from the windows,’ Clarke said.

  ‘She wouldn’t have done if we hadn’t pointed out the threat was against my family as well as me,’ Fenton said. ‘I’m sure if I was the specific target she’d be up there.’

  They were in the imposing entrance hall of the house. Thickly carpeted and hung with nineteenth-century portraits the hallway opened out around a staircase that led up to the second floor. Fenton glanced into the first reception room, converted now into an office. He expected to see Carly half hidden behind dual monitors. The room was empty. Unusual because although she was only in her twenties Carly always made sure if she had to leave the room one of the house guards would be in place to take any incoming calls.

  That was the first thing he noticed.

  The second was the silence. Fenton and Clarke’s shoes made no sound on the carpet, but Elaine was home from college and there should be music playing. Or the sound of her voice as she argued with her stepmother. Or music from the piano as Elaine practised for her end of year recital. There should be noise. Not silence.

  Fenton stopped. Looking up to the top of the stairs where the white painted bannisters curved round. Clarke had carried on a few paces, briefcase under one arm as he tried to open a text message. The younger man stopped and glanced back when he realised Fenton wasn’t with him. ‘What’s wrong?’ Clarke asked.

  Fenton shook his head as if denial of the uncertainty that had crept in on him. ‘It’s very quiet.’ Fenton surprised himself at how low he pitched his voice. As if his subconscious didn’t want to disturb the quiet.

  A telephone in the office began to ring. Fenton waited, expecting Carly or one of the guards to come hurrying along to answer it. No-one came. The telephone rang unanswered, thirty times now, and Clarke began to move towards the office to answer the call when Fenton held up a hand to stop him. ‘Is it my birthday?’ Fenton asked.

  ‘No.’ Clarke gave him a strange look.

  ‘Wedding Anniversary? Elaine’s birthday? Marsha’s birthday?’

  ‘It’s nobody’s birthday,’ Clarke said. ‘I would have reminded you. Bought a gift. Had it wrapped and it would be with you now to hand over.’

  ‘So there isn’t a surprise party planned.’

  ‘No…at least not as far as I know, and they would have told me so that you were here on time.’

  ‘So where is everybody?’ Fenton asked.

  ‘I’ll go and find someone.’ Clarke put the briefcase on the floor, resting it against the wall. He headed left as Fenton took a couple of slow, measured paces to the bottom of the stairs. Clarke was at the kitchen door when it opened. A young man stood in the frame; he wore stained work boots, olive green trousers and a black t-shirt. His hair was dark, his skin olive and his knife sharp. Fenton saw the movement. A quick up and left to right slash of the hand. Clarke took a step back and uttered a gargled scream. He turned and Fenton saw eyes full of terror. Clarke made a shambling leap before he fell to his knees. His hands clasped at his throat as blood boiled out in a swift, arterial splash.

  Grant Fenton could process information better than most people. That is how he had succeeded in business. Right now he had
a decision to make. Make a break for the front door or head up the stairs to the panic room.

  He turned towards the front door to see it swing open. Another stranger stepped in, dressed in a similar fashion to Clarke’s killer. Perhaps a little older and not carrying a knife but carrying an AK47.

  Fenton ran up the stairs. He expected the gunman to open fire but nothing happened as he reached the landing and threw himself to the left. A quick glance down. Both men were looking up at him with expressionless faces. Fenton moved out of sight, heading for the master bedroom. Through the door to his bedside cabinet, got the draw open, pushed aside a handkerchief and picked up the Beretta his security team insisted he keep there. Fenton had never particularly liked guns, but he understood the need and felt better for the way his hand curled around the grip. He jacked the slide halfway to make sure there was a round in the chamber.

  The door to the en-suite bathroom ghosted open in the corner of his eye. Fenton saw a third gunmen step into view. Fenton turned to meet him. Part of his brain already working through the problem of how they had got past security into the house. The Beretta was rising in a two handed grip, just like he’d been taught on the range, when gunman number three opened fire from the hip with his Kalashnikov.

  The volley of bullets shredded Fenton’s lungs and heart into mincemeat and lifted his body from its feet and flung it back onto the bed. The Beretta bounced unused from mattress to floor. The gunman moved forward, sliding the AK47 selector to single shot. He took a little more care with his aim and put one round between Grant Fenton’s staring eyes. Job done, the gunman left the bedroom and headed down stairs. His companions waited for him.

  The three men stood together, like commuters on a train station platform. It took maybe a minute, but the light came back for them, an expanding vortex that swamped one wall. The man who had killed Fenton went through first, the others followed. They had no fear of what was on the other side. Each man knew the true nature of death and none of them had any fear of it.