by John Ringo
“It’s possible that the management is totally unaware,” Barb said. “Equally possible that they’re some sort of source. Who owns it?”
“A corporation,” Kurt said. “I’ll check into ownership of the corporation.”
“And see what you can find on that hostess,” Barb said. “Vartouhi.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Check on Janea.”
Barb had to show ID to get into the house where Janea was being kept. At one level she was relieved-whoever had attacked Janea might try again-but on the other hand she wasn’t sure that a rent-a-cop, okay, a high-quality one from the look, was going to do much good.
On the other hand, as soon as she stepped through the door she realized there was far more than mundane security on the house. It was “clean.” Not just physically clean-in fact, it was rather cluttered-it was mystically clean. She hadn’t examined it mystically the last time she was there, but this time it was clear that there were no malevolent entities or “vibes” to the place. Mystically it was more like a really good church. In fact, instead of dark shadows, there were flashes of light in the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t sure what that represented, but it wasn’t bad, whatever it was.
However, the house was physically crowded. There were six people in robes holding hands in a circle in the center of the main room and a young woman in a blouse and peasant skirt sitting on a chair watching them. Barb quickly realized that it was, in fact, a “circle.” A Wiccan prayer group that was “calling power.” She suddenly realized that although she worked every day with pagans, she had some deep-seated prejudices about being around a Wiccan gathering. She knew they weren’t evil per se. She wouldn’t be able to do what she did to support them if they were working with the devil. But watching them essentially worshipping “false gods” triggered childhood responses.
The young woman stood up and tiptoed over, putting her finger to her lips.
Janea? Barb mouthed.
The young lady motioned for Barb to follow her upstairs. Barb let Lazarus out of his bag and followed her.
The cat checked out the circle for a moment, sniffed, then followed.
“I’m sorry,” the young lady whispered as they reached the top of the stairs. “I was afraid you’d disturb the circle. We would have put it somewhere besides the front room, but the energies were best there. Are you Mrs. Everette?”
“Yes,” Barb said, shaking the young witch’s hand. “Call me Barb.”
“Janea’s in the back bedroom,” the young woman said, leading the way.
It wasn’t just Janea in the room. Cots had been moved in, and Sharice, Drakon and Wulfgar were stretched out on them, apparently asleep. All three of them were clearly in REM sleep; their eyes were twitching like mad, and Janea was slowly writhing as if struggling against invisible bonds.
“Wish I could take a nap,” Barb said.
“Astral projection requires a trance at the least,” the witch said. “They’re actually deep in the Moon Paths. Can’t you feel it?”
“I’m…just starting to figure some of this out,” Barb admitted. “I only recently got the, hah-hah, ‘Gift’ of Sight. And given some of the stuff I’ve seen today, I’m just as glad that Sharice taught me how to not use it.”
“You have many other Gifts. Use your Sight. There are no dark spirits here.”
“I noticed,” Barb said, opening up to the mystic.
The first thing she Saw had nothing to do with the foursome. There were clouds of… sparkles hanging in the air. She wasn’t even sure what they were. But there were a lot of them. The room was packed. It looked like a bad special effect.
“What are… those?” she asked, pointing.
“We call them light spirits,” the young witch said. “You would call them angels.”
“Angels?” Barb asked. “Like, angels of the Lord? Messengers of God?”
The angels suddenly swarmed around Barb in a dancing light show that was hard to ignore.
“Uhmmm…Yes. And…no,” the young witch said, chuckling. “More like guardian angels. These are what Christians term cherubim. Not the little babies with bows, but…”
“Cherubim are fairly high angels,” Barb said, wonderingly. “Higher than seraphim, according to most texts. Where did they come from?”
“They apparently come with the house. The house belongs to Memorial Hospital.”
“Catholics,” Barb said, nodding. “Okay, starts to make sense.”
“They sometimes carry messages,” the young witch said. “But mostly they just sort of swirl around and squeal ‘Look what I can do!’ They’re not warrior light spirits, they haven’t been tested greatly. Cherubim are mostly concerned with the element of air. When they get out of hand they tend to cause storms. And they’re always glad when someone notices them. These are… young isn’t the right word. Innocent. Early. Lacking in mass or sophistication. But they serve as effective mystic guards for the house. Not because they would battle well, but because demons avoid all angels, and if one was powerful enough to try them, they could call for fiercer guardians. Seraphim, although lesser in power, tend to be way more serious. At the worst, they could call upon the true warrior spirits. Let us hope it never comes to that. It’s worth remembering that all demons were once light spirits. It is why we simply call them dark spirits. And the warrior light spirits are different from greater demons only in which side they take. They’re really rather unpleasant, from what I’ve been told.”
“You hold to the doctrine of the Fall?” Barb asked.
“Not…exactly,” the young witch said. “But we have some similar understandings.”
“I’m getting a lecture on angels from a Wiccan,” Barb said, shaking her head. “What, exactly, happened to my life? So…Janea?”
“They were able to extract her from the place of torment. Other than that, no change.”
“Any idea what is happening in there?” Barb asked.
“Not so far.”
Lazarus jumped up on Janea’s bed and sat down in a perfect Egyptian cat pose, looking around the room. Barb realized that he was tracking on the Cherubim.
“He can see them,” Barb said. “Is that some effect from him being bonded to me?”
“You’re serious?” the young witch asked. “ All cats can see spirits. So can babies. At least light spirits. The only place I’ve ever seen more packed than this place with light spirits is a neonatal ward.”
“Nice to know.”
Lazarus licked his shoulder, swatted at an angel that got too close, then climbed up on Janea and lay down with his head between her breasts.
“That cat is definitely a tom,” the witch said with a chuckle.
“Oh, yeah,” Barb said, putting her hand on Janea’s forehead. The Asatru was so still, Barb worried that she’d feel the same complete lack of soul that she’d felt in the victims of the Madness. But Janea was still alive.
“Lord, bless and keep this warrior,” Barb prayed. “Though she walks a different path, she walks a path of righteousness. I beg of You, give unto her Your aid in this battle. In Jesus’ name we pray.”
“Amen,” the young witch said. “Hope that doesn’t bother you.”
“Nope,” Barb said. “Every little bit helps.”
She wasn’t sure it had helped at all, but Janea seemed to be resting more comfortably.
“I guess it’s time to get back to work,” Barb said, holding out the bag. “Come on, Laz.”
The cat just looked at her. He looked comfortable where he was.
“I need to go,” Barb said, gesturing to the bag.
“Cats have minds of their own,” the young witch said.
“Well, this one has to keep with me,” Barb replied.
“I’m familiar with your…” She paused and frowned, “companion.”
“Come on, Laz,” Barb said, reaching for him.
Laz didn’t even get up, just swatted at her hand, claws retracted. Then he held up one of them with the c
laws extended. The meaning was clear.
“I can’t get far from you, dummy,” Barb said.
Laz plunked his head down between Janea’s breasts and looked at Barb out of one eye, balefully.
“Seriously,” Barb said. “You’re staying?”
“I think he’s staying,” the witch said, frowning. “Generally the familiar bond is not something to be stretched. But yours is…unusual. And at least you can be assured he will be safe in this house.”
“Hmmm…” Barb muttered. “Okay, I’ll try it. If it doesn’t work, though, you are definitely coming with me.”
Laz got up, turned around, kneaded Janea’s breasts for a moment, then plunked back down and closed his eyes.
“I have never been sure that cats can walk the Moon Paths,” the witch said. “But it looks as if that is his intent.”
“A year ago I was a housewife,” Barb said. “I had, still have, a husband that couldn’t cook. I was president of the PTO. Chairman of the bake sale. Now I see angels and demons and have got a familiar wandering around the astral plane.”
“It does take some getting used to.”
“I’ve got some interesting information,” Kurt said, looking up then frowning. “Where’s the cat?”
“He seems to prefer Janea’s company to mine,” Barb said, shrugging. “I was warned that I shouldn’t get too far from him and always make sure he was safe. But it seems I’m going to extend the distance. We’ll see how far I can go. What’s the info?”
“You’re going to love it,” Kurt said, gesturing to one of the seats in the empty waiting room. “I ran a search in the ‘mundane’ files on that symbol of Vartouhi’s you didn’t like.”
Barb clicked on the link and blanched. The link led to the website of a corporation that used the same symbol. And, again, it gave her what her daughter would call “major creep factor.”
“Trilobular,” Barb said, flipping through the pages. “Pretty widely invested…Defense contracts. Biotech. Coca-Cola bottling stock?” She paused and blinked rapidly.
“You hit the part on ‘psychological research,’ didn’t you,” Kurt said, grinning. “Skip the rest of the brochure and take a look at their grant list.”
“Dr. Stewart Downing,” Barb said, musingly. “First we infect them, then we cure them. How interesting.”
“Still doesn’t tell us what’s going on,” Kurt said. “But I think I’m starting to get an interesting smell. You think this is some sort of bio research gone wrong?”
“No,” Barb said. “Or not in any normal way. This is paranormal. Those patients are D-E-D dead. It’s possible they’re combining scientific neurological research with paranormal, but you’d be surprised how hard that is to do. The various powers that be seem to have an aversion to mixing the two. And since they have all sorts of earthly controls, they can make sure that paranormal activities don’t conform to clinical results. That seems to be the case for both sides of the street. God prefers Believers, thank you. Trying to derive some philosophical rationale for God? All well and good. Trying to prove His existence empirically? He is going to make sure you cannot. The Adversary seems to agree on that subject if nothing else. If they are combining paranormal with standard biological research…it’s going to require a power supporting them that is at odds with both the Lord and the Great Adversary.”
“Which are?” Kurt asked.
“Don’t know,” Barb said. “As much reading as I’ve been doing since I started this job, I’m still playing catch-up. But there are experts I can call and ask. That’s still only a possible, anyway. There is a Power here, and a group of supporters, and five gets you ten it’s connected to Trilobular or the Art District. Somehow. What did you get on Vartouhi?”
“High school graduate,” Kurt said. “A local private school called Girls’ Preparatory Academy. Scholarship; she’s not from money by any stretch. Community college. Address is listed in a house near the Art District. High-end housing for a high school grad but no indications why. About all I can get without a court order.”
“So what now?” Kurt asked.
“It’s late,” Barb said. “Let’s go find out what the Art District is like after everyone’s gone.”
At night, with everyone gone, the Art District was definitely spookier. The pleasant paths reflected the surrounding lights oddly, as if they were going through thick glass. The wind from the river whistled between the buildings with the moan of a dying man.
Barb ignored that, walking along the sidewalk with her thermals on. Some demons had been reported to produce an image of heat higher than the ambient. If there was something stalking the grounds, she wanted to see if it would turn up on thermal imagery.
“Anything?” Kurt asked.
“The feel from underneath is stronger,” Barb said. “But I don’t see anything under thermals.”
She took the goggles off and looked around. There didn’t seem to be anything abnormal-then she caught a flicker in one of the upper windows. It wasn’t hot, it didn’t even have the feel of a demon. But something was up there.
“There’s something there, but not the target,” she said. “I wonder how long the demons, if they’re here, have been on this hill? They don’t have the feel of American Indian spirits.”
“Your side of the investigation,” Kurt said. “I’m not seeing anything. But here’s an interesting fact.”
“What?” Barb asked, looking around. There was no one and, as far as she could tell, nothing in sight except the buildings.
“Chattanooga has its fair share of street people,” Kurt said, looking around. “Lots of sheltered nooks and crannies in this area. As far as I know, the cops don’t specifically roust people around here. So where are they?”
“Not here,” Barb said.
“As if they know better?” Kurt asked.
“Possible,” Barb said, nodding. “It would probably be a question for one of your cop friends. We’re supposed to meet with Hugh tomorrow evening, right? Let’s pack it in.”
“There, I told you,” the woman said, peering through night-vision binoculars. “They’ve sent another.”
“Not a powerful one, though,” the man with her said. “Not from what I can see.”
“She’s strong. She tries to Cloak it, but she does so poorly. On the other hand…”
“They’re looking in the wrong place.”
CHAPTER SIX
George Grosskopf, Assistant Deputy Director, Special Investigations Unit, thought that he might as well buy stock in Pepcid AC and Ambien. There were things man ought not wot of. And he, for his sins, was the guy in the federal government in charge of all of them.
During his slow climb up the FBI ladder George had tried, like any sane agent, to stay off the Special Circumstances call list. Unfortunately, not only did he get more than his fair share of SC investigations, he managed to survive them all, not a common characteristic of the positions. If you weren’t killed by your third, you were generally driven insane. Statistically, five was about the maximum any field agent could handle. He’d had a total of eight.
So since he’d managed to get up to Section Chief when the previous head of SIU had dropped dead of an almost assuredly natural heart attack, he’d been tapped to replace him. Since that day he’d never gotten a night’s sleep without a triple dose of the strongest sleeping pills known to man. And don’t even get started on the acid reflux.
As an ADD, even of the smallest and most secret section in the Bureau, he reported directly to the Deputy Director. And while other ADDs might have to wait on hold or call back later, he never did. Of course, he rarely hit the red button on his STU-III. But when the DD got a call from SC-SIU, he dropped everything. Because it meant the shit was about to hit the fan.
Nobody visited SIU. Damned few people had any idea what it was other than a box on the manning chart. It was deliberately buried deep in the belly of the Hoover Building. If he didn’t occasionally have to run to the DD’s office like a bat out of hell, he’
d rather it be in the satellite office in West Virginia. SIU didn’t exist, and he liked it that way.
So he’d been sort of surprised to be asked to meet with a guy from DARPA. The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency often interacted with the Bureau on aspects of national security and counterintelligence. But how the guy had picked SIU for his visit was anyone’s guess.
“Doctor Roland,” George said as the scientist entered his office.
Roland was a “suit” scientist. Nice suit, no less. Armani. Probably an egghead as well, but he’d gotten far enough up the feeding chain to have the standard bureaucrat look. Five foot eleven. Two hundred, maybe two-ten. Brown, brown. Wore contacts. No distinguishing marks.
“ADD Grosskopf,” Roland said, shaking his hand. “Thank you for meeting with me so quickly.”
“I was curious what interaction there might be between my office and yours,” Grosskopf said, noncommittally.
“I can’t open up the details of the compartment; the information is highly secure,” Roland said, uncomfortably.
“It’s a shield office,” Grosskopf said. “My SCI classification is the same as the Director’s and I do more secure work. You can talk.”
“In that case, I think it’s a case of blue on blue, frankly,” Roland said, smiling disarmingly and sitting down in the lone chair. “We have a contract with a company that is investigating some advanced concepts in crowd management. Some of the people they work with are…unusual people. Recently some of them had a visit from the FBI. The company contacted me to find out what was going on. I checked into it and found that it was an SCI investigation out of your office. So I’m here to try to calm the troubled waters.”
“That’s vague enough that while I get what you’re saying, I have nothing to go on,” Grosskopf said, flatly.
“It involved some officers of a corporation called Trilobular,” Roland said, sliding a packet onto the SC’s desk. It appeared to be a pamphlet for a corporation, and the design on the front was…three curves forming three lobes.