by John Ringo
“Free will is not…absolute,” Marquez said. “A tale I shall tell thee.”
“Another one?” Barb said, smiling faintly. “How many do you have?”
“Only my confessor knows that,” Karol said, smiling. “But this one touches on such questions. Once upon a time a young man came to America from Colombia under pressing circumstances.”
“How pressing?” Barb asked, taking a sip of tea.
“Very,” Karol replied, frowning. “A matter of a money dispute that turned quite ugly with a cartel. Blood was shed. Not that blood had not been shed before; that was what the money dispute was about. The young man felt he was owed more than he was paid. The buyer of his services disagreed. The buyer was a member of the cartel. One does not kill one’s clients. Especially if they are members of the Cali cartel.”
“I see,” Barb said, her eyes wide.
“The young man decided that enough was enough with such things and went to work, very much under the table, for a lawyer in New York,” Karol said, looking into the distance. “The lawyer was an immigration lawyer and asked very few questions about background. The young man was paid for various services, none of which involved bloodshed. Translation: Looking up people who were in areas that angels would fear to tread. Fortunately he was not an angel and had no issues. Suchlike. And he was happy. He continued his schooling. He hoped to become a doctor or a history professor someday. Possibly an immigration lawyer like his friend. The lawyer worked in the Twin Towers.”
“Oh,” Barb said, her jaw working.
“The young man went to an Army recruiter in New Jersey on September 12th, 2001,” Karol said, taking a sip of coffee. “If you don’t mind, I shall make another cup. Would you care for a refresher?”
“Please,” Barb said, holding out her cup.
“The Army recruiter, like the lawyer, asked few questions,” Karol continued, making coffee and tea clearly on muscle memory. “Later, more were asked. It is a funny thing about getting a security clearance. As long as you are absolutely truthful, under current laws, nothing that you say can be held against you. A polygraph can be a very refreshing experience. Better in many ways than a confessional. So many people hold things back in the confessional. Honesty is good for the soul and a polygraph requires quite complete honesty. I have made a recommendation to the Holy See that polygraphs be required for confessionals, but I doubt they will see it my way. I digress again. The young man joined the Army. He was trained as an infantryman. He went to airborne school. He joined the Fourth Infantry division. Two months after joining his unit, he was in Iraq. He got quite a reputation since he sustained the most strikes from IEDs of anyone in his unit without being medically evacuated. Also a few minor scratches here and there.”
“The nose?” Barb asked.
“He was, in fact, shot in the face. And two other places. Scratches, as I said. He, however, came to the conclusion that driving around as a mobile IED magnet was not the life he preferred. However, there were hajis…”
“Hajis?” Barb said.
“Pardon my descent to colloquialism,” Marquez said. “Insurgents. There were insurgents that needed killing. However, a better place might be in a more elite group. So he requested a transfer to the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center for training as a Special Operations weapons technician. It was as a member of the United States Army Girl Scout Brigade that he experienced a life-changing event. There are some very strange things going on in Afghanistan, Mrs. Everette. Very strange indeed. And occasionally when such things come up OCONUS-outside the continental United States-the designated red-shirts to support the local versions of FLUF are the US Army Girl Scout Brigade or similar groups.” He handed her a refilled cup and shrugged.
“I see,” Barb said.
“This forced him to consider the state of his immortal soul,” Marquez continued. “To wit, if there be demons, then there was a hell. In that case, given some of his actions over the years, he was in deep doo-doo. You have no clue, I’m sure, Mrs. Everette, how many Hail Marys contract killings cost. Also, that there were aspects of his personality that he had always considered to be…psychological that might not, in fact, be mundane. And he found that despite the many positive things he’d done in the military over the years, it was not the best place for repentance. Temptations of the flesh are high around military bases, and he had always had a bit of a weakness in that regard. So he got out. Reluctantly, in many ways. But he ended his term of service.
“That left him with the question of where he could spend a great deal of time repenting for his many…many… many sins. After talking about it with a couple of understanding priests, he decided that the best place was as a monk.”
“Jesuit?” Barb asked.
“Heaven forbid,” Karol said with a laugh. “Those leftist pantywaists would pee themselves if they ever saw a demon. No, Cistercian. Nothing like spending eighteen hours a day on your knees in prayer to catch up on those Hail Marys. A small cell and a lot of time on his knees was his lifelong goal.”
“So what happened?” Barb asked.
“A bishop came to visit,” Karol said, looking into the distance again. “He did the usual rounds of glad-handing, and then sat down with a certain monk and questioned him at length and in detail. The bishop was strangely knowledgeable in the area of military operations, and especially close-quarters battle. It turned out later that the bishop had been one heck of a swimmer in his day. The bishop then explained that the monk had a ‘skillset’ that the Holy See needed more than they needed a bunch of Hail Marys and Our Fathers. Anyone could pray. Very few could kill a man at two thousand yards. And that there were certain rituals he was going to need to go through before being fully prepared to serve the Lord. And thus the former infantryman…among other things, became a member of Opus Dei.”
“This has a point, right?” Barb asked.
“Part of the rituals were to find and eliminate every trace of demons in the soul,” Karol said, turning to look at her finally. “More people are possessed than you can possibly imagine, Mrs. Everette. By and large their demons are minor creatures, wills with a life of their own. Anger, lust, gluttony, all the usual sins. Vanity. So, so many vanity demons-and greed. Any suburban mall is awash with them. A person with an interest, a hook, is subject to being caught by one and pressed towards more sin and more. And once they are in, they are very hard to get rid of. All the confessions, all the prayers, all the benedictions had not rid m- the young man of his demons. It took multiple exorcisms to do so. And a great deal of will.
“Such demons can be resisted. But think of cases of major possession. Where, then, is free will? You, Mrs. Everette, are an example of the rare case of a person without hooks. You were rid of original sin by your baptism and you have lived a life avoiding sin. You know you are proud and you work against your pride. You know you are beautiful but strive against vanity. You have a temper and control it through prayer and good works, despite the many frustrations you find in your life.”
“And this has what to do with free will?” Barb asked.
“ Everything,” Karol said. “A person who has let demons into their soul has already made the choice. They have chosen Satan over God. And to the extent that they wrestle with a demon, it is usually over something they fear in the mundane world. Don’t kill a person or strike them, because you will be arrested. Not because it will damn your immortal soul. For anything less than that, most people go at it with abandon. Lust, envy, hatred. Vanity again. Pride. Being holy is not about going to church on Sunday and spitting on people the rest of the week. It’s not even about being under the sacrament of priesthood, as has been clearly shown. One must be as free of sin as it is possible to be in this fallen world to truly be in a state of grace. How many people do you know who are totally without sin, Mrs. Everette? How many in this town can cast the first stone?”
“All seven of the afflicted had ‘anger management issues,’” Barb said. “Were bullies in school, two of them were abusers of their par
tners. Do you think that had something to do with it?”
“Well, let’s see,” Karol said, shaking his head. “We have a demoness of anger, hatred and murder who has placed her seal upon this town. And we have people who already had anger management issues suddenly becoming violently and homicidally insane. I don’t know, do you?”
“So you’re here as what?” Barb asked.
“Backup,” Karol said, handing her a bracelet. The silver charm bracelet had only a cross hanging from it. “Pull the cross off and it activates a signal and a homing beacon in the bracelet. We’ll be there within a minute though the hosts of hell stand between us. And you can be assured my brethren will not be susceptible to the siren call of a demoness. Unlike the mundane security of this town. On that level, we are accredited with the Federal Government as special contract personnel on an undercover anti-terrorism task force with authorization to use due force. All the rest is paperwork. I’ve been trying to convince the bishop that doing paperwork should be counted as penance but he’s so far resisted my blandishments. Ring-knockers.”
“So what do I do?”
“Find her lair,” the monk said. “Find her place of worship. Then call us. We will be close.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Where the hell have you been?” Kurt asked when Barb sat down across from him.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Barb said, sliding the file across to him. “And I can’t tell you anyway. But based on that, we’d better figure out a way to get a good look inside those buildings up at the Art District. This looks to be a worse problem than we’d thought.”
“I got the same thing,” Kurt said, giving it a cursory glance. “And something else,” he added, sliding an envelope across to her.
“What’s this?” she asked, pulling a card out of the envelope.
“An invitation,” Kurt said. “To a charity function being held in the Art District. Not in the Bluff View buildings. Nearby, though. And check out the name of the hostess.”
“Vartouhi Cass,” Barb said. “Same lady?”
“Same lady,” Kurt said.
“Who is Thomas Reamer?” Barb asked.
“Old Chattanooga family money,” Kurt replied. “One of the architects involved with the newer additions to the Art District, like the Hunter Museum. I checked up on the place where they’re holding it. He built a house on top of an office building he owns. It’s about three blocks from Rembrandt’s. Vartouhi is his…friend. The housing issue is now explained.”
“Girlfriend?” Barb asked. “Lover?”
“Why don’t you ask them in person? It’s black tie. I hope you have a nice dress.”
“Mrs. Barbara Everette,” Kurt said, handing over the invitation to an unsmiling man in a black suit with an ear bud. There were two more flanking the elevator lobby, and all three had bulges at their waist on the right side. “Special Agent Kurt Spornberger.”
“Yes, sir,” the security officer said, glancing at the card. He pressed the button on the elevator, leaned in as the doors opened, swiped a black card over a blank spot on the indicators and hit the button for the top floor. “Have a good evening, sir, ma’am,” he said, handing the invitation back.
“Nice,” Kurt said, looking around the elevator.
The elevator was paneled in what Barbara sort of recalled was called “fumed oak.” And unless she was mistaken, the accents were in actual gold. She suspected it wasn’t gold leaf. And in the corner, oh-so-discreet, was a tiny surveillance camera.
“He didn’t wand you,” Barb said.
“What am I going to do, start shooting the muckety-mucks of Chattanooga?” Kurt asked as the elevator opened.
The elevator opened onto a foyer, even more sumptuously decorated, with six or seven people standing around holding drinks. There was more security there, dressed to fit in in tuxedoes but wearing full headsets.
“Special Agent Spornberger,” Kurt said, holding out the invitation. “Mrs. Barbara Everette.”
“Yes, sir,” the lead officer said, nodding. “Welcome to Reamer House. Feel free to make yourself at home.”
“Shall we, Mrs. Everette?” Kurt asked, holding out his arm.
“Lead on, Special Agent Spornberger,” Barb replied, hooking hers through.
The exit to the foyer was a set of stairs, arched above and flanked on either side by winged stone lions. Both walls of the short stairway consisted of friezes depicting men in conical helmets and scale armor riding horses. They appeared to be hunting something but their prey was out of sight.
The main room of the home was quite large, easily able to hold the forty or fifty people gathered there. And it was laid out in a strange fashion, almost triangular, with doors leading out at six points to other rooms.
Barbara had brought one of her nicer dresses. However, she immediately realized that her conception of “nice” was somewhat below the majority of the party-goers. She also realized she hadn’t known how much money there was in Chattanooga. She stopped trying to price the gowns she saw on the women at the party. Most of them looked like Paris originals.
However, there was a very definite feel to the crowd that they did not normally dress that way. A tugging of waists and bustlines was noticeable. As was the fact that most of the women didn’t normally wear heels. And despite the early hour, most of them were buzzed if not drunk. Most of the women were hanging onto the arms of their dates less because they were besotted with love than because they’d topple over if they didn’t.
There was nothing so declasse as a buffet line. Instead, waiters in white tuxedoes circulated with trays of tiny hors d’oeuvres and drinks.
“Do you need anything, sir, ma’am?” one of them asked.
“Pepsi if you’ve got it,” Kurt said.
“Coke, sir?” the waiter said with a pained expression.
“I guess,” Kurt replied.
“Same for me,” Barbara said. “What was that about?”
“I sort of did it on purpose,” Kurt whispered. “The Reamers are Coke-bottling money. Saying the P word in this room is on the order of pounding a copy of the doctrines of Martin Luther onto the door of the Vatican.”
“Be nice,” Barb said. “Is it just me, or do most of these people look…?”
“It has a definite prom feeling, doesn’t it?” Kurt said. “Just older. Heads up. Incoming.”
“Mrs. Everette,” Vartouhi said, extending a languid hand. “I am so glad you could attend.”
“My pleasure,” Barb replied. “You have a wonderful home.”
“I merely have the joy of residing here,” Vartouhi said, gesturing to the man at her side. “It is Thomas’s home. Thomas Reamer, Mrs. Barbara Everette and Special Agent Kurt Spornberger of the FBI.”
“A pleasure,” Reamer said. He was small and slight with pale hair and eyes. His hand, when Barbara shook it, felt as thin and light as a bird’s.
“Barbara is a missionary from Mississippi,” Vartouhi said. “Agent Spornberger is originally from Chicago, if I’m recalling that correctly.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kurt said. “Finest city on the face of the earth. No offense to Chattanooga, of course.”
“Chattanooga was once a terrible place to live,” Reamer said, his eyes lighting. “The factories poisoned the air and water. The buildings were black from the soot. It’s taken many years to repair the damage and bring it into the light. You’re based in the Pioneer Building. Beautiful architecture-my great-grandfather built it and did a fine job. But when I was young, you could barely see it for all the soot.”
“Thomas has made it his goal in life to beautify Chattanooga,” Vartouhi said. “He is a major contributor to the Aquarium and the Hunter Museum.”
“Was that your design?” Barbara asked. “It’s beautiful.”
“No, not mine,” Reamer said. “But I was involved in the construction from day one. A good design is only the start of a building. You have to stay on top of every aspect of the construction. You wouldn’t believ
e how people try to cut corners. You’re a missionary, Mrs. Everette? To Chattanooga?”
“I’m actually a consultant to the FBI,” Barbara said. “My missionary work is separate.”
“They are working on the Madness cases,” Vartouhi said.
“Oh, are there any leads?” Reamer asked. “I don’t know why I bother to ask. The problem is the poisoning of the land, foul emanations of the bygone days surfacing to rot the heart and mind. There are still many who cannot understand the importance of clean air and clean water. The Goldheims-”
“Darling,” Vartouhi said, putting her hand on his arm.
“I can’t talk about an ongoing case, sir,” Kurt said, shrugging.
“You’re Kurdish, Ms. Cass?” Barbara asked. “Vartouhi is a Kurdish name.”
“Actually, I’m from Summerville,” Vartouhi said with a laugh. “A small town just south of here. My parents named me Vartouhi because they liked the name.”
“I would have guessed Middle Eastern from your looks,” Kurt said.
“Actually, Irish and Native American,” the woman said, smiling. “It’s a common mistake. People with some knowledge of the world sometimes guess Italian or French. More commonly these days, people assume Hispanic. Few note the Kurdish name,” she added with an interested glance.
“I’m something of a student of the Middle East,” Barb said. “Ancient history. The Hurrians are related to the Hittites.”
“I don’t recognize either group,” Vartouhi said, her face blank.
“Hurrians are Kurds,” Kurt said. He grinned at Barb’s look of surprise. “Anthropology degree. The Hittites were a branch of them that at one point conquered most of the Middle East. I notice that your entry has some Hittite elements. The double archway. The intervening friezes…”
“Hittites stole most of their architecture from other cultures,” Reamer said. “Good stone workers, but if you observe their pre-conquest architecture, it’s fairly simple Neolithic stuff…”
“Darling,” Vartouhi said, placing her hand on his arm again. “I doubt that they want to hear a lecture on architectural development.”