by John Ringo
“Mother and father murdered, daughter appears to be a kidnap victim,” Sonny said. “The killer’s a real sicko. You’ll see what I mean. I don’t think we’re getting the girl back.”
“Any idea how long?” Adams asked.
“Now that my fucking forensics team has bothered to show up, maybe,” Sonny said as the he saw two of the forensics team hoofing it up the drive. “But it’s been at least six hours. Rigor mortis had set in when my officer found them just before nine.”
“Thirty hours and counting,” Diller said, looking around. If a victim of a kidnapping like this wasn’t recovered within thirty-six hours, they weren’t going to be.
“Amber alert’s out,” the sheriff replied. “What?”
“What’s that drag mark?” the agent said, walking away.
“Looks like the dad shot a deer,” Sonny said, walking over. “I know it’s out of season, but the family clearly ain’t got a pot to piss in…”
“Look closer, sheriff,” Diller said. “The brush is bent away from the house.”
The path was broad, with not only the loam disturbed, but small saplings and bushes pressed down. If it had been a deer, it had been the biggest buck in Claiborne County history.
“Don’t know what it is,” the sheriff said. “But it ain’t the body of a fourteen-year-old girl. Ain’t a body drag mark at all. Seen them.”
“So have I,” Diller said, looking into the woods. “But it’s also odd. Maybe a tarp with something piled on it.”
“Sheriff, we’re going to have to have copies of all your findings,” Adams said, walking over. “If you’d like we can bring in forensics support.”
“Appreciate that,” Cribbs said distantly, rubbing his chin. “Don’t look like the dad raked the leaves much.”
“I’d like to see where it leads,” Diller said.
“Randell!” the sheriff said, shouting across the yard. “Go with this FBI guy.”
“Roger, sir,” the deputy said, trotting over.
“Stay off the path,” the agent said. “Be back.”
“You’re going to mess up your shoes,” Randell said as they walked through the woods.
“I’ve done that before,” the agent said, sniffing. “What’s that? A dead deer?”
“Maybe,” the deputy said. “But it smells like what I smelled in the house.”
The agent approached the still-obvious path of whatever had been dragged through the woods, and bent down.
“It’s coming from the trail,” he said, sniffing around like a dog. “There’s a dark discoloration.”
“You want my thoughts?” the deputy asked as they started off again.
“We at the FBI always welcome input,” the agent replied, looking around.
“I think this guy is a real sicko,” Randell said. “I mean seriously deranged. I think he brought a dead body with him. Maybe more than one. That’s the only way to explain the smell in the house.”
“And it would explain the drag marks,” the agent said, stopping and cocking his head. The brush and trees had thickened as they headed up the ridge, and at one point the dragged area narrowed down between two trees to barely the width of a body. “But I don’t think you could drag many bodies through that gap.”
“Tarp with leaves?” the deputy said. “The lawn didn’t look raked.”
“Maybe,” the agent said. “In which case we’re wasting our time. But why would someone drag leaves through a forest, deputy?”
They continued to follow the path up the hill until it stopped at a small opening in the ground. Diller bent down and held his hand to it. There was airflow coming out.
“Cave,” he said. There were more signs that something had been dragged into the cave. Something large that had, somehow, shrunk down to fit. The edges had that same foul stench.
Caught on the rock was a thin strand of golden hair.
The agent rocked back on his heels and paused for a moment, frowning. Then he blanched.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Son. Of. A. Bitch! I’m an idiot.”
“What?” the deputy asked. He was standing well back to avoid contaminating a possible crime scene.
“Nothing,” Diller said, standing up and backing away from the hole. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”
“Sir, what’s wrong?” the deputy asked, looking around for the threat.
“You used to be a Marine, right?” Diller said, pulling out his cell phone.
“Shows, huh?” Randell said.
“Then understand this, Marine,” Diller said, turning around and pulling off his sunglasses. He looked the Marine straight in the eyes while dialing from memory. “You did not see anything unusual about this. We didn’t take this walk. If called to testify about anything, you will be as uncommunicative as a stone. Do you understand me?”
“No, sir,” Randell said, his eyes wide.
“This is Agent Diller,” the agent said into the phone. “The Claiborne case has Special Circumstances.”
CHAPTER TWO
Janea knew she shouldn’t enjoy shocking the hell out of the poor FBI agents she worked with. Among other things, they generally had the life expectancy of a gnat. But they were so mundane.
Besides, appearing to be a giant invitation to have sex was her Calling. It was a form of worship, as was the frequent, lustful and giving sex in which she engaged.
So she made a performance of getting out of the rented Taurus. One long leg out, slow and sensual, then the next, then roll to her feet with a little bounce to get the boobs jiggling. The agents clearly weren’t used to spike heels, a short, flirty miniskirt and a midriff top at a crime scene. Nor the sway as she walked over.
“Doris Grisham,” she said, holding out her hand to the stocky one. “Call me Janea.”
Janea was taller than either agent-at least with five-inch heels on-busty, curvy and redheaded. A former stripper and high-dollar call girl, she had found her Calling in the service of Freya, the Norse goddess of fertility and love.
The Foundation for Love and Universal Faith had, in turn, found her through Asatru connections. Since then she’d been working her way up through the Foundation and was now listed, just last week, as a Class Three Adept.
“Yes, ma’am,” Agent Graham said, clearly in shock.
“I understand you called for SC,” she said, posing. “Here I am!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Graham said, still in shock.
“Ma’am, we have a serious case here,” Diller said, breaking out first. “I’d like to brief you in.”
“Go for it,” Janea said, dropping the pose. “Two dead, kidnapping. Why SC?”
“This,” Diller said, walking over to the dragged patch. “This goes up to a small-very small-cave on the hillside. There were hairs there that appear to be from the kidnap victim. And there’s a smell…”
“Ichor,” Janea said, squatting down and suddenly all business. “Not demonic ichor, though. At least none that I’ve smelled. Can I get a sample here?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Graham said, going over to the FBI Forensics team that had taken over the investigation.
Janea knelt and sniffed at a dark patch, then shook her head.
“That definitely doesn’t smell like demonic ichor,” she said, frowning. “Are the victims still at the crime scene?”
“No, ma’am, they’re being moved to Quantico at this time,” Diller said.
“Here’s a scoop,” Graham said, handing her a scupula and a bag.
“Thanks,” Janea said, taking a sample of the ichor patch and handing it over to the agent. “Get that sent to Quantico as well, please. Mark, tag and photo. I’d prefer not to go hiking; any pictures of the cave?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Diller said, laying out the photos on the hood of her Taurus. “The pictures of the victims…”
“I quit puking a few investigations ago, Special Agent,” Janea said, smiling. She leafed through the photos and nodded. “These aren’t even bad. Picture of the girl? Maybe a personal item? I
’ll need to touch it with my bare hands, so it’s going to be useless as evidence.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Graham said, walking off again.
“Going to try to get a psychic reading?” Diller asked.
“That didn’t even sound sarcastic,” Janea said. “I rarely can, I’m not that kind of Adept. But I sometimes get something, so it’s worth a shot. It will be forwarded to real psychics who will try harder. But mostly it was to give him something to do, since he’s clearly freaked out by me.”
She kept leafing through the photos, back and forth, concentrating mostly on the marks on the victims’ arms and wrists.
“What in the hell is this reminding me of?” she said musingly. “Why did you guys call SC? And who called it?”
“I did,” Diller said. “When I realized that the victim had been dragged by something that was…amorphous? And dragged into that tiny cave opening.”
“Anyone gone in?”
“It’s too small,” Diller said. “I think the victim could barely fit. Now that you’re here we’ll think about getting in there. But that was the other part…”
“It’s like HazMat,” Janea said.
“Ma’am?” Diller asked as Graham came over with a doll.
“If you’re not trained you don’t even think about entering the area,” Janea said. “First rule of HazMat, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Graham said, clearly regaining his composure. “I don’t know if this was her main doll…”
“Understood,” Janea said, taking the doll and concentrating. “Nothing. Send that to FLUF in North Carolina, though. Maybe they’ll get something. Okay, we need to go caving. But I don’t know a damned thing about spelunking.”
“We’ve got a team on the way,” Graham said.
“More spear carriers,” Janea said with a sigh. “Okay, first your in-brief on SC. I have been on four live SC investigations. Quite often what looks to be SC turns out to be something else, so I’ve done way more regular investigations. But on every single SC investigation so far, the agent working with me has died. I don’t like that. Not one damned bit. I really don’t like that they die the same way every time. They try to be heroes. I like heroes. I’m Asatru; we’re all about being a hero. I’m mortally certain that they went to Valhalla. I still don’t like losing them. I get to know them, I get to like them, they play hero and they die. Gentlemen, I’d like to break that streak if you don’t mind.”
“All for it,” Graham said, his face white.
“Be nice,” Diller said, taking off his glasses.
“Here’s how we break it,” Janea said. “Be cowards. Be complete and total cowards. If something seems freaky or creepy, run like ever-loving Hel. Most especially, leave me behind. It’s my job to handle this stuff, not yours. If I say ‘run,’ then run fast. If I run, run faster. If I say ‘Don’t touch the glowy thing,’ don’t touch the glowy thing. If I say ‘I need to go in there by myself,’ don’t follow me! If I get taken out, don’t try to stop whatever took me out! If I can’t, you sure as Hel can’t. Either one of you really incredibly firm believers in any god?”
“No, ma’am,” Graham said.
“Not anymore,” Diller said.
“Interesting answer,” Janea said. “Okay, Number One: Be cowards. Number Two: Don’t think I know everything. I don’t. I’ve been told I didn’t get one agent killed, but I feel like I did because I underestimated the threat. I’m not always right. Number Three: Ah, Hel, it’s all the usual stuff. I want to know what you think. I’m an Adept, not an FBI guy. Sometimes this stuff overlaps in ways you wouldn’t believe. Tell me what you think. That’s about it.”
“Run like hell and don’t trust that you know what you’re talking about,” Graham said. “That’s a hell of a way to run an investigation.”
“Sorry, it’s truth,” Janea said. “An item on the second one is that I have not a clue what this thing is. There’s loads of evidence and I’ve got a funny feeling I should. But I don’t. Talk to me. Seriously, I need thoughts.”
“Uh,” Graham said. “Okay. Well. If this was a thing that carried off the victim to the cave…It’s at least as large as a big cow or a bull.”
“And it can change shape,” Diller said. “This track is six to seven feet wide in most places. The cave entrance is only two-and-a-half wide and less than a foot high.”
“So something like an amoeba?” Janea said, nodding in thought. “More?”
“There are no indications that there were restraints tied to the bed or any surrounding object,” Graham said. “I don’t know what that means, but there’s usually marks.”
“I hate to say this,” Diller said.
“This is brainstorming,” Janea said. “Everything’s on the table.”
“Tentacles?” Diller said.
“Amoeba-like…” Janea said. “Tent…Oh, shit!” she added, slapping her forehead. “I am such a moron!”
“What?” Graham asked, his eyes wide.
“It’s not a demon,” Janea said, nodding. “It’s an Old One.”
“Old One?” Diller said.
“You guys can feel free to think of them as demons,” Janea said, relieved. “They’ve got, from your perspective, a lot of the same attributes. They can instill control over a subject, they can instill fear better. Actually, they freak people out on first sight and tend to induce insanity. The big question is, what kind? Is this a Great Old One or one of its minions?”
She paused and considered the path.
“Not too big, Old Ones can get really huge. Tentacles. Drags along the ground. Shit. Shambler.”
“And a Shambler is…?” Diller asked.
“Uh…” Janea said, thinking. “Basically, it’s nothing but a mass of tentacles. The victims weren’t raped and they weren’t tied. They were held and fed upon. The Shambler stuffs its tentacles in every orifice and sort of sucks the life force out of a person. The victims are going to be a godsend to the SC forensics guys; there hasn’t been a Shambler attack since the advent of modern forensics.”
“Ma’am,” Graham said, blanching. “We have a kidnap victim.”
“Which is probably a snack,” Janea said, her face falling. “It’s unlikely we’ll get her back, and even if we do, she’s probably going to be permanently insane. Bad news: The Shamblers are sometimes called the Night Hunters. This is not going to be the last attack. The attacks are probably going to be at night and it’s probably using the cave system to get around. They can go out in light but they don’t like it. Good news: I’m going to have to get somebody to do some research for me, but they’re not that hard to kill. They’re not susceptible to mundane weapons but fire does a number on them. I don’t think anyone’s ever hit one with a grenade, but it would probably dispel it back to where ever they come from. But the easiest way is to control them with certain words of power and dispel them with a mystic chant. I think there’s a powder or potion that works as well. Once we find it, getting rid of it should be easy.”
“And we can trust that?” Graham asked, an eyebrow raised.
“It’s a Shambler,” Janea said, shrugging. “Like I said, I’ll get someone else to research it. But this should be relatively easy.”
Barb used her key to open up the dojo. As she flipped on the lights and they approached the mat, Yi glanced around the school. He raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow as he slid off his handmade leather loafers and glanced at the American and Japanese flags hanging on the wall. “Japanese,” he muttered under his breath. Barb faced him and they bowed in the Chinese manner.
“I see you remember the courtesies, Laoshi. Let us see if you remember how to dance.”
Yi looked Barb directly in the eyes, and without looking at his target or giving any indication that he was going to move, shot out a low kick to her left ankle while gliding forward and darting two fast fingertip strikes, one at Barb’s left temple and one at the peroneal nerve on the outside of her right thigh. Faced with an attack on a low line, a high line, and a low
-middle line, Barb moved backwards in bei hu, crossing her left leg over her right and avoiding the kick as she flowed through the two quick circular parries necessary to deal with the hand strikes. She allowed the hand parrying the strike to the temple to follow the line of the attack and extend it, moving Yi’s arm along the line and exposing his ribs, then, twisting out of the cross-step stance to a front stance, she threw a vertical fist punch to Yi’s unprotected short ribs.
Yi’s left hand flickered like a hummingbird’s wing and his palm flashed under the armpit of his extended right arm to slap Barb’s punch away. His right arm folded in as his stance and weight dropped low, and the point of his elbow arrowed toward Barb’s ribs.
Barb’s palm slapped it away, and for a bare instant they stood, looking almost like mirror images of one another, then they flowed backward simultaneously and both assumed the ao bo reverse stance.
Yi’s lips curled in a slight smile and his eyes sparkled. “Very nice. But your knees are too stiff.” He inclined his head slightly and, with his eyes lowered to the floor, launched into a tam twei jump kick. As Barb deflected the kick, she dropped into a low side stance, and was just starting to launch a side kick when Yi disappeared.
As her left foot came up in the powerful sidekick, Yi landed from his jumping kick and his legs scissored as his weight dropped, bringing his head below the level of Barb’s waist. His right foot was behind Barb’s left leg, and she fell and rolled backwards as he shifted his weight forward, smacking the inside of her thigh with his knee.
On the way down, she deflected one open-palm strike aimed at her bladder. As she desperately tried to roll away, Yi seemed to float forward, moving sinuously across the mat like oil on a mirror, and his hands were everywhere as they executed the myriad open-hand and fingertip strikes that were a hallmark of Wah Lum. The master of mantis moved impossibly quickly and struck at vital targets from seemingly awkward angles of attack.