by Greg Curtis
“Shit!”
Garrick softly whispered the profanity to the night sky, not knowing what else to say. And in fact the word seemed to sum up his thoughts on the matter perfectly. Because there was nothing he could do to fix the mess. Absolutely nothing at all. Because if Benedict was as she said then he would always be a threat. In jail or out of it.
But it explained so much. A normal with a powerful gift and a broken mind. He understood the latter only too well. He had seen it in his own mother. And it had frightened him as a child to see her so badly affected and to have no idea how to help her. It had been more than frightening. She was his mother, his world, and if she fell apart so did it.
She was stronger these days. Better than she had been when he was a child. Something for which he was infinitely grateful. But still, there were places that her thoughts could not travel. Dark places that she could not face. And if she did try to go there, or even linger too long beside them, it usually ended up in a stay in an institution for a few days or weeks. Happiness for her was about not thinking about certain events in her life. And therapy for her was largely about concentrating on positive things. And time of course. For thirty five years that had been her life. Ever since he had been conceived.
Benedict though had a gift of sight. He had apparently been able to see deeper into the abyss, and whatever had stared back at him had damaged him far more terribly than most. Even having suffered through the various attacks launched on him by Benedict, Garrick found himself feeling somewhat sorry for the thief. Mainly because he had seen what his mother had been through. That was not the sort of thing he would wish on anyone.
But it also worried him. Benedict had been sixteen when he'd had his affair. He was sixty eight now. That was fifty two years of dealing with his nightmare, and by the sounds of things, not dealing with it very well. Fifty two years of wandering further and further off the rails. Fifty two years of growing desperation. And fifty two years of building his network of contacts and puppets within the various departments. No wonder he was so dangerous. And the question became; what else could he do?
“Cassie, the other hunters will have to be told. His gift is what's made him so dangerous to me. It will make him dangerous to them as well.”
And it would. Their quarry was a hunter of a sort, and that was something that had never happened before. Even now he could imagine that Benedict was focusing on them, finding out who was hunting him and finding their vulnerabilities, and they had to understand that. They had to know what they were facing.
“It's being done.”
And with that she vanished. Still, it left him wondering. Wondering why she had come when he called and had chosen to answer this question. He wasn't foolish enough to believe that what he'd heard was an apology. It wasn't. In the entire history of the world the Choir had never apologised for anything. They weren't about to start now with him. But it was still an admission of guilt of some sort, and that was new.
Nor had she come just because he'd called. If the others were being told then this was not about him. It was a plan of some sort. His calling and her arrival had been some sort of coincidence. Or else they had just been waiting for one of them to call. He suspected it was probably the latter.
Still, for a moment she had seemed almost human. Vulnerable and guilty. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or bad.
But there was still a question that needed to be asked, and one that he had never imagined he would consider. Still he asked it.
“Cassie, what will happen to him when he is captured? When he no longer has a feeling of victory to protect him from the darkness within him?” And his thought was that it would be bad. Very bad. It would make even what his mother had been through seem minor.
There was no answer of course. Just the sound of the breeze gently flowing through the distant trees. He probably shouldn't have expected one.
Chapter Twenty Five
Maricia was in the Olmstead Council Chambers when the call came in, and it caught her a little by surprise. The heads of Diogenes and the Mayor were in the middle of a meeting and they shouldn’t have been disturbed. Then again, maybe it was good to take a break. Especially when the negotiations were going awkwardly.
It wasn't that there was any real disagreement in principle. There wasn't. Diogenes needed a new repository and the abandoned winery on the edge of town would be perfect. It already had massive underground cellars and more could be dug with little effort. Dug and then concealed. Also, the same things that made a wine cellar perfect for keeping wine, made it good for preserving documents. Stable temperatures, humidity that could be completely controlled, no direct sunlight and not much vibration.
It would be their first repository on American soil. America was a young country and they'd been in business for thousands of years. Their repositories had all been built long before America had even been discovered. But perhaps the time had come.
And then there was the location. Olmstead was a good place for one. It was close enough to a major city, namely New York, to give them access to airports, major transport links, the major institutions Diogenes dealt with and the various laboratory facilities they needed. But it was also far enough away that they could work in seclusion with no one bothering them. The fact that it was located within a town of nephilim who were already masters of keeping a low profile, would also add an extra layer of security to their operation.
As for the town, it could use the injection of cash that Diogenes would bring with them. For while Diogenes as an organisation was responsible for the storage of the Choir's words, the occasional release of a few of them when it was considered appropriate, and covering up the nephilim's occasional failings, it also had a commercial side.
Diogenes also ran an internationally renown business as experts in antiquities. Documenting, restoring and authenticating ancient writings. They had a worldwide reputation for their skills. Moreover the business was lucrative. Museums across the world and other institutions paid them enormous amounts of money for their expertise and their seal of authenticity. So the new repository would mean anything up to a dozen staff and their families living and working in the town. Similarly another dozen Specialist Collections agents like herself would be travelling back and forth.
All of that meant trade for the town. Then there would be an increased revenue for the town through the rates as well, which as Garrick had long ago pointed out, were not inconsiderable in Olmstead. And as an added bonus they would agree to teach some new classes at the Westlord Academy. Historical conservation, art restoration and ancient studies were being discussed. Maybe in time it would even become a degree course.
In theory the arrangement was a good one for both of them. In practice it would probably be as well. It was the interpersonal stuff that was getting in the way.
For the nephilim it was the thought of having outsiders among them that was difficult to handle. And to them her people were outsiders. They might be distant descendants, but the reality was that save for their ability to see the Choir they were normal people. And most of them had had no contact with the nephilim save in the most nebulous way. A great uncle or an aunt who had had a gift. A distant ancestor remembered only in family stories. And sometimes not even that. The people who made up Diogenes lived almost completely normal lives. And they had nothing to hide. No gifts to conceal.
For Maricia though, and she suspected for many of her peers, the problem was that moving into a town filled with nephilim was in a strange way like taking a giant leap backwards. It was as if they were moving in with their parents. It was just something you didn't do. The nephilim were their past. A past so distant that they had all but forgotten it. In their minds they were simply normal, twenty first century people with a sacred duty to carry out. A people who occasionally spoke with angels.
Still, the negotiations were proceeding, if awkwardly. Mayor Owen and the rest of the council had reached an agreement in principle with them. Monies had mostly been sorted. Arr
angements about housing and schooling for their children were being made. So when the mayor received a call in the middle of the meeting it disturbed the flow of things.
A few minutes later the mayor put down the phone and cleared his throat to get their attention.
“That was Lucas and Sally Anne. Armando Benedict has just robbed a bookie.”
He said it as if it should mean something, but Maricia was at a loss to know what. Although it did seem like an odd thing for the thief to do. He robbed banks for untold millions. Not small time bookies. Looking around she could see blank expressions on the faces of the others as well.
Maybe it would have been better if Garrick were there. He might have been able to explain why it was seen as significant. But he was at the academy going over their security and liaising with the remaining forensics teams there on the academy's behalf. In any case, he was only peripherally involved in the hunt for Benedict. He wanted to be more involved, but was being held back, mostly because he seemed to make such a tempting target for the thief. He was also spending large amounts of time in discussions with his insurance company as they arranged to rebuild his home. From what she had heard it wasn’t going well. In fact there had been several weeks of unhappy phone calls conducted at high volume.
The company was unhappy to pay out but would rebuild his home as she understood it. They hadn't allowed for the fact that a mad man would blow his house up, and because of that they hadn't thought to include the risk in his premiums. But it wasn't a choice so they were stuck with the rebuild, while Garrick was stuck with new, higher premiums. Mostly however, the insurance company was worried that someone might try to blow it up again. They didn't want to continue his policy after the rebuild was complete if this was an ongoing danger. And no one else would insure him either. Not while there was a mad man out there trying to kill him.
Garrick annoyed her some days. He was simply so dour. But she admired him too for his dedication. Cassie was wrong she thought. Being an agent wasn't some childhood dream of his. It was no game he was playing. It was who he was. And if he was no longer an agent she suspected that would wound him in some way.
“If Benedict is robbing bookies for cash it means he's out of funds,” the mayor explained. “His accounts have all finally been frozen and he has no one he can turn to.”
“The hunt is nearly at its end.”
At its end. Three glorious words. Finally the nightmare had an end in sight. And he was right Maricia realised. It was the only thing that made sense. The thief needed cash. And if the hunt was at its end then they all had to be ready. Everything had to be finished by the time Benedict was caught.
With those words the group abruptly mobilised, with everyone reaching for their phones. It was time to make some calls to their teams.
Chapter Twenty Six
Life as a teacher was becoming a little more familiar for Garrick. It wasn't his dream. It wasn't what he was really trained for. But as he took his half dozen students through the basics of criminology he realised it was something he could do – if he absolutely had to. He had the notes, much the same notes he'd had when he'd done the class a dozen or so years before. He knew the questions that would be asked, after all he'd asked many of those questions himself. And if all else failed he could tell them of his own experiences as an agent. The students seemed to like that.
He was almost becoming a little relaxed in the role. Maybe Maricia's pep talk, such as it had been, had worked. Roll with the punches.
Of course the class wasn't in a classroom. With one of the blocks burnt down they'd had to make do, and he'd moved the class into the staffroom. It had its positives though. The seats were more comfortable and there was a kitchenette where he could make himself a cup of tea whenever he needed. Also, when the bell rang indicating it was time for a break, he didn't exactly have far to go.
On the downside, getting to class was a tricky walk through hallways filled with boxes made even more difficult when you were in a cast, there were piles of yellow tape to go around if you wanted to visit the bathroom, and there were people in white suits walking by all the time. The forensics people just would not go away. But you got used to those things. And for the moment things were going well.
Suddenly the door to the staffroom burst open, swinging around on its hinges so hard that the handle buried itself into the wall and Garrick knew his day had just taken another difficult turn.
“You haven't caught him yet!”
Edgar Brook stood in the doorway and yelled at him. His face was bright red as if he'd been running and his eyes were bulging alarmingly, seeming far too wide for their sockets. He was angry, and it wasn't the first time. But then his son Harry had been killed, murdered by the attackers, and he hadn't been in a good place ever since then. His goal, his only focus in life, was to get Benedict, and Garrick knew he didn't want him in jail. He wanted him dead. He wanted to kill him. Shock had turned to anger. Again. This would be his fourth or fifth break down, and he had been keeping the sheriff busy. But now apparently he'd found a new target for his anger – Garrick.
“Class dismissed!”
Garrick gave the order as he levered himself up out of his chair and tried to make his way across the room to the grieving father. Of course the students all looked shocked, and some seemed to be a little slow to get the message. He had to tell them again until they finally grabbed their books and started heading for the doorway. Then they had to push their way past Edgar. But he let them go without comment. They weren't his target.
The last of the class gone, Garrick turned to the man.
“No, not yet. But we will.” It was all he could say. While it had the virtue of being the truth, he knew it wasn't enough. There was no enough. Not when a child had been killed.
“You said that before!” This time when Edgar screamed it wasn't the door that felt the pressure of his anger. It was Garrick and he was thrown backwards into a wall. Fortunately it wasn't as hard as it could have been and while the plaster buckled, it didn't break. Neither did he. This was just the overflow of the man's gift. He hadn't actually tried to hurt him. But it still hurt.
“Yes I did, and we will catch him. But it will take time.” Of course he knew that wasn't going to be enough. It wasn't enough for anyone. Not for the children who'd been terrified. Not for their parents. Especially not for the parents of those who'd been hurt. And especially not for Edgar Brook.
“He's had enough time!”
Edgar screamed at Garrick and a blast of wind hit him in the face. There was no doubt that the man was losing control. But he had reason. Benedict had been on the run for far too long. The worst for him though was that he kept getting told Benedict's capture was close. And it was. But the man was as slippery as an eel. Every time they thought they had him, the man slipped away again. It was incredibly frustrating. For Garrick. For the other hunters. They did their part. They gave their leads to the police. And the police rushed in with everything they had. But always the thief was ahead of them. Though each time with less money, less friends, and less places he could hide. But still it seemed, there was always one more place to run.
It could only mean that he still had more contacts in his network. Someone within the police who was tipping him off. Or worse, since this was a nationwide manhunt with other agencies involved, the FBI. Garrick didn't like to think about that. He didn't want to imagine that someone he worked with could be corrupt. But he knew it was a possibility that had to be taken seriously.
“We will catch him!” Garrick raised his voice. “But that's not your concern! You need to go home. You need to be with your wife. Because nothing we can do, whether we catch him or he gets away will bring your son back.” He emphasised every word. It was brutal – a terrible thing to say. But it was also true and it had to be said.
The response was everything he should have expected as Edgar froze for a moment in shock, looked at him as if wondering if he'd actually said what he had, and then screamed incoherently. Then he
ran at him, arms outstretched and half the room exploded as he did so. Wind was blowing everywhere, things were flying off shelves, walls were buckling and even the plaster in the ceiling was coming down. It was as though a bomb had gone off, but slowly. As if it was still exploding.
But Garrick was prepared for all of that. He'd expected it. And he knew what to do. When Edgar came within reach he smashed him hard in the nose. Very hard.
Edgar went down in a heap before him, stunned and shaken, and the explosion ended as suddenly as it had begun. There was blood pouring down Edgar's chin and instinctively his hands went to his face. The fight was over. Nothing in his experience could take the fight out of a man better than a short, sharp blow to the nose. At least nothing he would want to do to another man anyway. But he did worry that maybe he'd hit him too hard. That maybe he'd broken his nose. There was a lot of blood.
“Come on Edgar.” Garrick clapped him on the shoulder as he knelt before him clutching his face. “Lets go and get you cleaned up.”