by John Ringo
“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 Cafe, Chattanooga, was part of a small chain in the area. The cafes 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 Jer
emy 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.”
The patron in front of her, a society matron very similar to the ones Barb dealt with every day at home, looked over her shoulder and frowned.
“Private conversation,” Barb said, smiling thinly.
The woman sniffed and turned back to the wait.
“And the other reason I’d rather not get into anything in line,” Barb said, trying not to chuckle.
Eventually they got up to the cash register and the harried brunette working it.
“Croissant and a mocha,” Barb said, smiling. “No whip cream.”
“I’ll take an espresso and an eclair,” Kurt said.
“Those will make you fat,” Barb noted.
“And mochas won’t?” Kurt asked.
“Everyone has their weaknesses,” Barb said as she paid for the food. “Mine is chocolate. I’d love an eclair. But I will not be tempted into gluttony.”
They chose to sit outside and picked one of the iron tables at the back of the large, stone-flagged courtyard near a dry fountain. The area was shielded by large, mature trees and had a pleasant air. Barb had a hard time imagining it as a seat for malignant powers.
“Okay, let me be clear,” Barb said, taking a sip of her mocha. “When I open up, it’s possible that whatever attacked Janea will attack me. Unlikely, but possible.”
“What do I do if that happens?” Kurt asked.
“I’ll try to keep the uproar down,” Barb said. “But I may get strange. Things may get strange. Operate as if there is a bomb threat and I’m the bomb squad. Figure out a way to evacuate the civilians, cordon the area and leave me to the battle. I’m…somewhat more powerful than Janea.”
“You’re not going to start chanting or anything, are you?” Kurt asked.
“Not unless things get bad strange,” Barb replied. “And it’s very much like a bomb tech. If I start running…try to keep up.”
Barb still wasn’t totally up on the psychic thing. The Lord granted her powers to fight evil manifest in the world, but He didn’t always tell her where it was. And this time the best she could get was a slight feeling that things were not quite as pleasant as they seemed. She was trying to get a better feel for it when she sensed a presence near the table and opened her eyes.
“Are you well?” the woman standing by Kurt’s shoulder asked.
“I’m fine,” Barb said. “Slight headache.”
Which was made worse by the woman. Like the neurologist, she had a demon that had so fully consumed her, her aura was black.
“I am Vartouhi,” the woman said, smiling at her. “I welcome you to Rembrandt’s. I always like to say hello to our new customers.”
Vartouhi was tall and slender with an olive complexion and looked faintly Italian or at least Mediterranean. Pretty, edging to beautiful, she was elegantly dressed in a rose pantsuit with orange-yellow h
ighlights. Her one touch of accent was a strange brooch. It was similar to some Celtic designs Barb had seen but much simpler, just three curves forming three lobes. And, simple as it was, it was sounding alarm bells in Barb’s soul.
“I’m Kurt,” Kurt said. “And this is Barbara. She’s just visiting.”
“Yes, Kurt, I’ve seen you here before,” Vartouhi said, smiling again. Perfect teeth, Barb noted. Something about the woman, possibly her too-perfect attitude, just made her skin crawl. “Barbara, we hope that you enjoy your visit and come back often.”
“It’s a lovely place,” Barb gushed. “When was it built?”
“At various times,” Vartouhi said. “The buildings used to be apartments and were built mostly during the sixties. They were rather run down when the current owners bought them and fixed them up.”
“Well, it’s one of the nicest coffee shops I’ve ever visited,” Barb said. “And you seem to do a brisk business.”
“It suffices,” Vartouhi said. “I’ll leave you to your coffee. Take care.”
“Nice lady,” Kurt said. “She’s always circulating.”
“Uh-huh,” Barb said.
“What? Did you, you know, sense anything?”
“Well, ‘something is fishy in Denmark’ is about the best I can do,” Barb said, watching the hostess. “Except about the hostess, who is anything but a ‘nice lady.’ There’s something here but I can’t put my finger on it. And I’d bet dollars to donuts that our hostess could. I wonder what’s under these buildings…”
“Rock,” Kurt said, looking at the set of blueprints he’d requested. “The sewer runs down towards the Aquarium then across the river via the Market Street bridge. They’ve got a couple of basements…”
“There was something there,” Barb said. “I’d say not far above river level. But it’s hard to tell distance with this kind of thing.”
“Well, if it’s there it’s not on the blueprints,” Kurt said, rolling them up. “We’re going to have to find a way to search for it. I can ask the management, but if they get sticky we’ve got nothing for a search warrant.”