Red, White, and Blood

by Christopher Farnsworth

  Baker’s sergeant noticed the intruders and stepped in front of them. “Hey, this is a crime scene,” he said. “What the hell are you doing?”

  The blond woman sighed heavily and brought out her shield again. The Latino man did the same.

  “Agent Courtney,” she said. “And this is Agent Vincent. We’re with VICAP.”

  The FBI’s famous serial killers apprehension unit. The sergeant tried not to look impressed and failed.

  “We didn’t call anyone,” he said. “And I don’t see how this is a federal case.” But he didn’t sound sure, so at the end his voice curled up in a kind of question mark.

  “Your case might have bearing on an ongoing federal investigation,” Courtney said. Baker wondered how someone so pretty could sound so mean in just a few words. “It’s important we get a look.”

  The sergeant hesitated. Baker knew he was wondering how the feebs got here before the state police. But Courtney didn’t seem interested in waiting around.

  “Sergeant? You going to show us the crime scene now? Or do we have to wander around until we find it ourselves?”

  Her tone got the sergeant moving again. “Baker,” he snapped. “Show the agents to the scene. Don’t disturb anything.”

  Agent Courtney snorted. “Believe me, it’s not my first murder scene,” she said.

  She shuffled away, and Baker scurried after her.

  She and Vincent were both perfectly respectful of the scene, however. They put on gloves and booties, and Courtney put her hair under a shower cap. That was more than Baker had done, and he’d been walking around the area for almost an hour.

  Courtney gently opened the door of the closet. She peered in at the wreckage.

  Baker tried not to look at it, but it was simply impossible.

  The man and woman had been in the act of coitus—that was how Baker would write it up in his report—with the woman against the sink in the closet, the man pressed up against her. His pants were around his ankles and her skirt was hiked up to her waist. That much was obvious.

  Everything else looked like a bomb hit a slaughterhouse.

  Their torsos were sliced and hacked into bits. The man’s arm had been cleanly sliced away and sat on the tile floor, still wearing its watch. The woman’s mouth was open, but only the jawline remained. From the nose up, there was nothing but broken bone and blood.

  Courtney barely even noticed the bodies. Her attention was focused on the symbols and writing scrawled in blood.

  She looked at Vincent. “It’s him.”

  Vincent nodded.

  “Who?” Baker said. He couldn’t help asking.

  “Sorry,” Courtney said, using her teeth to strip off her gloves. She tossed them on the floor, already stomping away. “That’s privileged information.”

  They were out the door. Baker jogged after them.

  “Wait,” he said. “Aren’t you going to stay? The state police will be here soon. I’m sure they could use—”

  “Not our case,” Vincent said without looking back. They moved under the crime-scene tape again, headed for an anonymous black sedan.

  “But you know who this is. I heard you. Don’t you want to catch him?”

  Courtney paused at the passenger door of the car. She seemed to take pity on Baker. Half her face quirked in a smile. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “We know just what we’re going to do with him.”

  She slammed the door and they drove away.

  An hour later, the head of the regional FBI office showed up. He looked like he’d been rousted out of bed. He had a whole SWAT team of other federal guys and they locked down the scene. The head FBI guy simply ignored the sergeant and ordered them all around like they were fast-food jockeys.

  “Did the other agents call you?” Baker asked him, trying to get a little professional respect.

  Baker got nothing but a blank stare in return.

  “You know. From VICAP? The serial killer guys?”

  “VICAP hasn’t been anywhere near this case,” the fed said coldly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Baker might not have been a federal agent, but he was not stupid, either. He realized he’d let unauthorized people into a crime scene; he’d be lucky if the photos didn’t show up on someone’s Facebook page.

  He shut his mouth and followed orders after that. He didn’t have a clue what was going on, and he decided he preferred it that way.

  There is an ancient America that lurks beneath the threshold of our collective, corn-fed consciousness. We see it all the time. It surrounds us with its feral glow; we have learned to fear it in the dark without learning what it is, what it means. It’s not just the woods out back, the lonely desert trails, the virgin mountains where we lose our Boy Scouts or survivalists in the winter snows. It’s also in the Laundromats, the gas stations, the drug stores and diners.

  —Peter Levenda, Sinister Forces

  THE RELIQUARY, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Zach followed Cade through the dank tunnel and into the hidden chamber underneath the Smithsonian Castle. Urban legends and paranoids on the Internet talked about the hidden network of tunnels below the White House and other parts of D.C. None of them mentioned anything about a vampire using them to get between meetings during the day.

  The lights in the chamber flickered to life—fluorescents, of course; even the most secret parts of the government had to obey energy-saving guidelines—and revealed secrets that would confirm a hundred more urban legends and horror stories. The leg of a cockroach roughly the same size as a human arm hung on the wall with a plaque reading, operative samsa, w. berlin, 1948. A gallon jar filled with formaldehyde held an insect claw labeled delambre remains, 1958. This was dwarfed by another glass case that held the dried-out husk of a six-foot-tall praying mantis marked judas breed, adult stage, new york, 1997.

  Zach barely saw these things anymore. This was the Reliquary: where Cade slept and kept his trophies from previous attempts by the Other Side to break into the world of the living. Like other hunters, it was in his nature to keep bits and pieces of his kills. But the Reliquary was also the closest thing Zach had to an office, and with enough time, even things like the stuffed and mounted pterodactyl (tombstone, arizona, 1886) started to look as dull as the copy machine in the corner.

  “Fine,” Zach said. “The Boogeyman is real. Why am I even surprised?”

  The president had dismissed them after giving a terse set of orders: “Maybe you’ll have better luck this time, Cade,” he said. “I want you in Ohio ASAP. I want this thing truly finished.”

  That was all. Cade had been silent all the way back through the tunnel to the Reliquary. Zach had been patient as long as he could. It wasn’t unusual for him to be kept in the dark until a new threat popped up. The shadows behind the White House hid a lot of secrets. Zach was subject to information containment: he learned only what he needed to do the job at hand in case he ever ended up being captured and tortured. It had already happened once in Zach’s brief time on the job and, he had to admit, he broke immediately. He would have spilled any secret he was asked, but his captors actually knew more about the dark history of the nation than he did.

  But just because Zach understood the reasons behind information containment didn’t make it any less of a pain in the ass. “Don’t mind me,” Zach muttered. “I’ll be right here if anyone wants to let me know what’s going on.”

  Cade pretended not to hear as he walked to the far side of the Reliquary. Zach knew this was an act, because he could hear Zach’s heartbeat if he listened.

  “We’ve reached a need-to-know moment,” he said.

  Cade kept records of his previous century-plus of cases in the basement, stored in files that ranged from antique wooden drawers to 1940s-era steel cabinets to a series of hard drives attached to a government-issue PC. Zach was supposed to be given access to the files as needed. Most of the time he was too busy to do much more than skim his briefing book.

  Not this time, however
. Cade went to one of the oldest wooden cabinets lining the walls and opened a drawer.

  Zach walked over. “This is all about him?”

  “It.”

  “What?” Cade’s propensity for using an absolute minimum of words when speaking could make him incomprehensible sometimes.

  “It,” Cade said again. “Not ‘him.’ It’s not human. Stop thinking like it is. The Boogeyman is real. It is out there. It could be anyone. And its body count is among the highest of anything I’ve faced.”

  Zach swiped his pad to life and began tapping away at the virtual keyboard. The pad was basically an early adopter’s wet dream: a high-powered, ruggedized touch-screen computer with GPS, satellite, Wi-Fi and cell phone access all built in. Zach had used a phone with many of the same features until recently, but he couldn’t resist an upgrade. It was one of the only pieces of super-spy tech he got to play with, so he wanted to have the very best.

  Sometimes Zach saw people complaining about the deficit on the news and ached to tell them: You think that was caused by spending on NPR? Guess again. Fighting monsters isn’t cheap, kids.

  He only noticed the silence when he finished calling for transport to Ohio on the pad’s encrypted channels. Cade waited for him to pay attention.

  “All right,” Zach said, closing the pad. “I’m listening.”

  “The Boogeyman is, essentially, the patron saint of serial killers,” Cade said. “It has appeared in various places over the past century, slaughtering innocents. It leaves what you call urban legends in its wake: stories of escaped mental patients with hooks for hands and so on. Those are only the host bodies. It is a spiritual parasite. It moves into a human shell and slowly turns its host into an unstoppable killer. It is inhumanly strong. It heals from most wounds as fast as I do, if not faster. And it has an uncanny knack for turning up at the worst possible moments. Luck always runs in its direction—and always in a bad way. Phones stop working. Cars will not start, or they run out of gas, or they break down unexpectedly. The batteries in the flashlight or the oil in the lantern runs out.”

  “Human hosts? This is like demon possession?”

  “Similar,” Cade said. “But not exactly. I’ve managed to kill the host several times. But the entity itself has always come back. It always comes back.”

  Suddenly, Zach figured it out. That was why Cade was so annoyed. He hated leaving anything unfinished.

  “Something you killed didn’t stay dead? Wow. That must really have put some termites in your coffin.”

  Cade didn’t laugh. Not that Zach expected it. He only said things like that to make himself feel better.

  “Read these,” he said, pointing to the files, then walked away.

  Zach knew it was useless to ask for any more detail. It was all in the file or Cade would have said more. That might have been the scariest thought all day: Zach was actually starting to understand Cade.

  He pulled the first folder out and opened it. The top sheet was a copy of an old letter. It was printed in all caps, the pen strokes jagged and crabbed, like something scratched into the paper rather than written on top of it.

  IT’S NICE TO BE BACK, it began.

  Zach sat down and began to read.

  October 29, 1919

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  Cade entered the sitting room outside the president’s bedroom and waited. He could hear voices inside the bedroom. Mrs. Wilson spoke in her usual clear, strident tones to the chief usher. When he tried to interrupt, she cut him off.

  “I know what the president wants. I’ve been listening to him far longer than you.”

  There was a long pause. Then the usher simply responded, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Even with his enhanced hearing, Cade could hear nothing from the president except labored breathing.

  He exited a moment later, his eyes never leaving the floor as he headed for the stairs.

  Mrs. Wilson closed the door behind her quickly when she came out to meet Cade. Cade didn’t say anything. She shushed him anyway.

  The president had just completed a grueling twenty-two-day tour of the western states in an attempt to drum up support for his League of Nations. Then, just after his final stop in Colorado, he collapsed. He was delivered back to the White House, exhausted, but still coherent enough to send for Cade, who was out of the city on other business.

  When he returned, Cade found the White House turned into a hospital. The president had suffered another, more severe stroke. Mrs. Wilson informed the president’s top deputies that the doctors had instructed her to act as his sole intermediary, to reduce any further exertion on him.

  That was four days ago. No one, aside from her and the medical personnel, had seen the president since.

  “The president is resting,” Mrs. Wilson said. She nodded to him and he followed her down the hall, away from the door. They entered the First Lady’s sitting room, which now looked more like an office. Charts and maps covered the tables, and telegrams sat in a stack a foot high on Mrs. Wilson’s chair.

  “He’ll recover soon enough,” Mrs. Wilson said, again without any prompting from Cade. The line felt rehearsed. “He has to deal with this navy matter right now, so he sends his regrets at not being able to meet with you personally. But he gave me his instructions for you.”

  Cade waited. Mrs. Wilson was polite enough to him. She’d known of his existence since the day the president had taken office. She spoke to him without revealing much of her distaste for what he was. And she never appeared particularly afraid of him, either.

  Mrs. Wilson was a great deal more formidable than most people knew. She found a clipping on her sewing table and brought it to him.

  “While the president was out campaigning, he heard several disturbing rumors. There were reports in the yellow rags about a murderer. Someone in New Orleans. Ordinarily, this is something for the local sheriff. But then, he saw this.”

  The clipping was a reproduction of a letter sent to the newspaper, according to the caption.

  And the letter was, according to the first line, sent from Hell.

  Hell, March 13, 1919

  Esteemed Mortal:

  They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axman.

  When I see fit, I shall come and claim other victims. I alone know who they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody ax, besmeared with blood and brains of he whom I have sent below to keep me company.

  “AT LEAST NINE have been attacked so far. Seven are dead,” Mrs. Wilson said.

  “What makes this something for me?” Cade asked.

  “The local policemen are helpless. He apparently appears and disappears at will. He enters houses through locked doors that are never unlocked.”

  Mrs. Wilson’s iron determination wavered for a moment. “He says he is collecting souls.”

  She collected herself and the stern look was back. “If he is not something like you, then he is something of your world, at the very least.”

  Cade took the clipping. “I will deal with it.”

  She nodded. “I’ll inform the president.”

  Cade’s lip curled in a kind of half-smile.

  Mrs. Wilson noticed. Her eyes went cold. “Do you find this amusing, Mr. Cade? Does our simple human suffering warm your dead heart?”

  Cade’s lip curled again. Not many people who knew what he was would dare speak to him like that, even with the protection of the oath.

  “I meant no offense,” he said.

  “My husband—the president—expects your obedience, Mr. Cade.”

  “And he has it. As do you, Mrs. Wilson.”

  That stopped her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Only that with me, at least, you do not have to pretend.”

  She nodded again, and for a moment
her face softened.

  Then she stood up again. “There is a cabinet meeting in an hour. The president has information to relay to them. I’m sure you can see yourself out. Good day, Mr. Cade.”

  “Good day, Mrs. Wilson.”

  She left the room before Cade, her back ramrod-straight, mind already on other things. Cade imagined the weight of the burden she was now carrying, completely alone.

  A formidable woman, indeed.

  Cade went to the tunnel in the basement and left the White House, his first step on the long journey to New Orleans to find this “demon.”

  He didn’t think it would take long.

  OPERATOR: 911 operator, what is your emergency?

  CALLER: [SILENCE]

  OPERATOR: [AUDIBLE SIGH] 911, what is your emergency? Hello? Is anyone there?

  CALLER: I’m here.

  OPERATOR: This line is for emergencies only.

  CALLER: It’s a [inaudible].

  OPERATOR: Does your mother know you’re calling 911?

  CALLER: It’s a emergency. Mommy said. Press the button.

  OPERATOR: She did? Well, you could get into a lot of trouble for calling me, sweetie. So could your mommy.

  CALLER: It’s a emergency. Mommy’s—[MUFFLED SOBBING]

  OPERATOR: Honey, what is it? You can tell me. What’s wrong?

  CALLER: Mommy’s got a bad owie. Mommy’s broken.

  OPERATOR: Your mommy is broken? Honey, do you need help?

  CALLER: Yes. Please help my mommy.

  —Transcript of 911 call to Fort Collins (Colorado) Dispatch Center, 7:33 A.M., November 11, 2010

  NOVEMBER 11, 2010, OMAHA, NEBRASKA

  He sat at the stoplight, waiting for it to turn green. Ridiculous. Useless. Nobody was ever out at this hour. He waited five to ten minutes every damn time, despite the fact that he was the only car on the road.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw another one of the black things, scuttling like a crab toward him. He jumped a little and turned. Nothing there but the empty road and the gray predawn light.