Clay White: A Bureau Story (The Bureau)

by Kim Fielding

  The elevator released me into a long, nearly featureless corridor. None of the metal doors showed any markings, and they all had scanners rather than knobs. As I walked by, I imagined I could feel the invisible hexes on each threshold, meant to repel certain magics and unwanted inhuman visitors.

  As an agent, I’d spent almost all my time in the field rather than at HQ. I hadn’t even had an office here, although they gave me a temporary space whenever I’d come in to work. Still, I’d walked this hallway countless times. It felt odd to be doing it again, without the weight of my badge in my pocket.

  Townsend’s suite lay at the end of the hall, accessible through wooden double doors rather than metal. They opened as I approached, then shut behind me. His reception area was carpeted, the walls hung with landscape paintings, and the faint odor of lemon furniture polish tingled my nose. His assistant, Victor Holmes, smiled placidly from behind his enormous desk.

  “He’ll be with you in a few minutes, Mr. White.”

  Holmes was a tiny man, his face and body twisted from a brutal encounter with an ogre in Montana. But although he was confined to a wheelchair and appeared barely strong enough to lift a pencil, everyone except Townsend was terrified of him. Including me, to be honest. Something about the peculiar glint in his eyes. If I had to choose to fight either him or an ogre, I’d go with the ogre.

  But today I didn’t have to fight Holmes.

  “Would you like some coffee?” he asked.

  “No.” I didn’t sit in one of the heavy leather chairs either, instead choosing to pace the room and inspect the paintings as if I aspired to become an art critic. Holmes watched me.

  It was interesting that nobody had searched me or asked me to hand over my weapons. Surely they knew I was armed. In fact, somewhere between the building’s front door and Townsend’s office, I’d undoubtedly been body-scanned, and my gun would have been easily visible inside my boot. Also the knife I kept as a backup in the other boot. Either they didn’t believe I was a threat or they were confident I couldn’t harm anyone.

  I was peering at a scene of snowy mountains flanking a meadow when Holmes called my name. “You can go in now.”

  The furniture in Townsend’s office was big and utilitarian—several battered gray filing cabinets, a cluttered bookshelf, an immense metal desk. He’d stuck newspaper clippings haphazardly on the walls, and everything reeked of cigarette smoke. Townsend himself stood behind the desk, overflowing his expensive suit, his smiling face an unhealthy ruddy color. As usual, a half-empty bottle of scotch perched on the surface in front of him, along with stacks of papers and an overflowing ashtray.

  “This is a surprise, White.” He shook my hand with a heavy grip, collapsed into his oversized leather chair, and gestured at the low chair intended for visitors. Then he poured himself a glass of scotch. “One for you?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Given it up?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

  I simply shrugged. After being severed from the Bureau, I’d spent a month or so drunk. But booze has never suited me, and I decided I wanted to spend whatever time I had left with a clear head. Besides, there are better ways to die.

  “I hear you’re living up in Frisco,” Townsend said, despite knowing that nobody really called it that.

  “Yeah.”

  “Nice city, if you don’t mind freezing your balls off all summer. You staying out of trouble?”

  “I guess.”

  He lifted his glass, drained it in one swallow, then refilled it. Some of the guys used to say Townsend’s veins ran with nothing but scotch, and I’m not sure they were joking. If he’d ever become drunk, I’d never discerned it.

  “You been seeing a shrink?”

  “No.”

  “I figured.” He tugged at one ear. “Psychologists. Sometimes they’re worse than wizards, you know? Least wizards get shit done. But sometimes a good headshrinker is what a fellow needs. Helps with the nightmares.” He tapped his forehead.

  “I sleep fine,” I lied.

  “You’re still a kid. I know you don’t feel like it, and you figure your glory days are behind you. But there’s plenty of work you can still do—good work, important work—if you get your head together.”

  “If you’re trying to tempt me with a job offer, that’s not why I’m here.”

  Townsend’s bark of laughter shook his entire body. “No, I didn’t think so. Anyway, your days with the Bureau are permanently over. But there are many other doors waiting to open. I’ll even be a reference. I have positive things to say about you.”

  “Gonna tell them about the little kids I killed?”

  “I’m going to tell them you’re a good man who sometimes acts with his heart and guts instead of his brain. The same could be said of most heroes.”

  “I’m no hero,” I muttered, looking away. Then I firmed my jaw and turned back to face him. “I didn’t come here for job counseling either.”

  “Of course not. I threw that in for free.” He drained his glass a second time and didn’t pour more. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can send some agents up north to catch whatever’s been murdering young men.”

  Townsend showed no surprise at my statement. He took a cigarette package out of a desk drawer and flicked a silver lighter to life. When he exhaled, he blew a perfect smoke ring. We both watched it drift to the ceiling.

  “This isn’t any business of yours,” he finally said.

  “Just because I’m not on the Bureau payroll doesn’t mean it’s not my business.”

  “And why do you think it is?”

  I had to think about that for a moment. “They’re people who don’t deserve to die. If I can do something to stop that—”

  “It won’t bring back those children.”

  I winced, not so much at the reminder of what I’d done as at the echo of what Marek had said about penance. I hated feeling I was so transparent that anyone could see my feelings and motives. “I know.”

  After a deep sigh, Townsend took several long drags from the cigarette and then stubbed it out. “So, what can you tell me about the situation?”

  “Not much. A bunch of dead young men—more than the cops are aware of. Kids who liked to hang out in clubs. Every one of them drained.”

  “Anything else?”

  “It’s not a vampire. At least I don’t think so.”

  “What makes you say that?” he asked, chin lifted.

  “Condition of the bodies. Not just bloodless, actually desiccated.”

  “You don’t think a vamp can do that?”

  “No.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  I looked down at my hands, sitting uselessly on my lap, then up at him. “I spoke with a vampire.”

  I gave him a cleaned-up version of my encounter with Marek. Townsend listened expressionlessly, but his eyes told me he wasn’t surprised to learn about Marek—and he knew perfectly well we’d done more than chat. When my brief narrative was finished, Townsend refilled his glass but didn’t yet drink it. “So you believe in an ethical vampire?” he asked.

  “Maybe. If he was the perp, why would he have let me live? Why send me here with a warning?”

  “Dunno. Because he hopes to deflect attention from himself?”

  I’d considered that possibility, but it didn’t feel right. Of course my instincts had been wrong before, with lethal results.

  Townsend heaved his bulk out of the chair and took a few steps toward a wall, where he inspected a yellowed newspaper clipping. The headline was about a congressman from Modesto who’d been caught in a Bureau sting operation a few years back. The bastard had tried to sell his soul to the devil in return for being elected governor. I hadn’t worked on that particular case, but I remembered it well.

  Still facing the wall and with his scotch glass in hand, Townsend spoke. “I appreciate you sharing this information.”

  “And? You’ll send agents?”

  “No.”

  “But
—”

  “I believe what you’ve told me, White. You’ve never been a liar or an alarmist, and frankly, you don’t have the imagination to make this shit up.”

  I shook off the small dig. “Then why won’t you act?”

  “San Francisco police are already on the case.”

  “SFPD!” I snorted. “Yeah, that’s fine if the perp speeds or parks with his wheels angled wrong.” Actually, I have a fair amount of respect for local law enforcement agencies. They do a tough job under challenging circumstances, and I’d always relied on them for information while working a case. But they were neither trained nor equipped to deal with nonhuman criminals. That’s what the Bureau’s for.

  “It’s their ballgame,” Townsend said.

  I hopped to my feet. “But why, dammit?”

  He tapped the newspaper article and then turned to face me. “Politics, my boy. The Bureau’s priorities lie elsewhere. And that’s all I’m gonna tell you. Anything else is above your pay grade.” He chuckled at his bad joke.

  “Politics. And how many people will die because of it?”

  “Everyone dies. Eventually.” He laughed again, although I didn’t know why. He pointed at me with the hand holding his glass. “They die even if they’ve never sinned. They die despite love and medicine and good intentions. It’s the first rule of the world, son. What goes up, must come down. What lives, dies.”

  “Your job is to delay that.” I wanted to shout, but I dropped my voice to a gravelly rasp instead.

  “It is. And I do. But I can’t save everyone—none of us can—and I am not exempt from outside pressures.”

  “Dammit, Townsend! You can’t—”

  “Enough. The matter’s settled—the Bureau’s not involved.” He softened his tone. “You’ve done your duty. You can rest easy over this one.”

  I growled, turned on my heel, and headed toward the door.

  “White!”

  I stopped but didn’t turn around.

  “If you get yourself in the middle of this, you’re going to end up dead,” he said.

  “Everybody dies.”

  “But there’s no reason to hasten the inevitable. Take this.”

  Looking over my shoulder, I saw him holding out a small piece of paper. “What is it?”

  “The contact info for a former agent. He retired… oh, some years back. Does private-eye stuff. If you’re gonna throw yourself into the mess, he’d be a good man to have at your side. Him and his partner both.”

  “I can’t afford a private eye.”

  “Talk to him. Maybe he’ll take the case pro bono.” When I hesitated, Townsend moved closer. “Think, White. No need to throw yourself on the sword. At least try for help.”

  I didn’t point out that I’d come to his office for exactly that reason. Instead I grabbed the paper, and without saying another word, I left. I didn’t speak to Holmes either. Had there been a trash can along the way, I would have tossed the note. But there wasn’t, and curiosity got the better of me by the time I was in the elevator. Scrawled in black ink was an address in Santa Monica, along with a name: Charles Grimes.

  Chapter Four

  I took the train down to LA and then rented a car. I hated navigating Los Angeles, I hated crawling down the freeways, I hated breathing the exhaust. All while folded into a tiny death trap the size of a clown car.

  I’m not a big fan of LA.

  But I managed to reach Santa Monica in one piece just as the sun was falling into the Pacific, lighting sky and water with carnival colors. I was momentarily tempted to abandon my mission and walk barefoot on the beach instead, with the breeze ruffling my hair and gulls calling from the pier. Maybe I’d even buy an ice cream cone and eat it while watching the Ferris wheel and roller coaster.

  Instead I parked in front of a stucco bungalow with a Spanish tile roof. Two rocking chairs on the front porch flanked a small table; colorful tiles hung on the wall. The ornately carved front door had a decorative metal plate covering the peephole. I rang the doorbell and waited.

  The door opened quickly, but just enough for a figure to fill the gap. “Charles Grimes?” I asked.

  He scrutinized me instead of answering, and I stared back. He was tall and lanky, with pale skin, straight white hair, and irises that were an odd pale green. He wore khaki trousers and a blue dress shirt and could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty years old.

  “What do you want?” he finally asked.

  “Townsend gave me your name.”

  That bit of news made him pinch his mouth. “Show me your badge.”

  “Don’t have one. Not anymore.”

  More staring, this time with his nearly invisible eyebrows drawn into a V. “What’s your name?”

  “Clayton White.”

  “You were the agent in that Redding mess.”

  “Yeah.” I tried to unclench my jaw. “That’s not why I’m here.”

  After a brief pause, he opened the door more widely and stepped aside. I followed him into a room that, while in excellent condition, looked as if it hadn’t been changed since the house was built in the thirties. The floor, window frames, and ceiling beams shared the same dark wood, while tiles ornamented the stuccoed fireplace. The furniture was substantial and somewhat worn—three overstuffed armchairs, two large bookcases, and an old-fashioned rolltop desk.

  While I stood in the center of the room, Grimes gave me another long look before he seemed to reach a decision. “Ten,” he called.

  That confused me briefly, but puzzlement was replaced by astonishment and fear when a creature strode into the room. He wore nothing but a pair of briefs, but that wasn’t what made me gasp. Against his back were furled an enormous pair of black wings.

  “Demon!” I shouted, reaching for my gun.

  Grimes moved as swiftly as Marek and grabbed my arm before I could draw my weapon. “Don’t,” he snarled. “He’s mine.”

  Had I been thrown into this situation a few weeks earlier, I might have struggled. But my recent encounter with Marek had taught me that not all monsters were as dangerous as I’d assumed. So I relaxed and let Grimes remove my gun from the holster. He checked to make sure the safety was on before tucking it into the back of his waistband. The entire time, the demon stood impassively nearby, his hands folded in front of him.

  “Sorry,” I rasped.

  “Tenrael sometimes has that effect on those who don’t expect him. Especially Bureau agents.”

  The demon’s name was familiar from my training. “Tenrael. A bringer of nightmares?”

  “Not anymore,” said the demon with a slight smile.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Grimes walked to Tenrael and settled a hand on his shoulder; Tenrael leaned a bit into his touch. “You don’t need to understand,” said Grimes. “You came here on your business, not ours.”

  Fair enough.

  “All you need to know is that Tenrael is my partner and nobody may harm him.”

  I nodded, and some of the tension in Grimes’s body eased.

  “Sit down,” he said, waving at a chair.

  I did so, wondering if his furniture was custom-made to fit his height. For once I didn’t feel as if I dwarfed my seat and didn’t worry whether it would hold up under my bulk. Grimes took the chair opposite me, and Tenrael knelt gracefully beside him. Without even looking—seemingly well accustomed to such movements—Grimes reached over and stroked one of Tenrael’s glossy wings. It was clear from their postures that these two cared deeply for each other. Instead of being disgusted by the idea of someone loving a demon, I found myself slightly envious of their relationship.

  “What really happened in Redding?” asked Grimes, sharp-eyed. “I’ve heard rumors, but not the truth.”

  “I don’t….” Don’t want to talk about it. Or think about it. Don’t want to remember. But if I was going to ask a favor and I couldn’t pay them, didn’t I owe them something? I cleared my throat. “I fucked up.”

  “You led a raid on
a necromancer.”

  “Yes.”

  “And during the strike, the necromancer murdered five children he was holding captive.”

  “Yes.” I pretended I couldn’t hear the ghosts of their screams, but the all-knowing gazes of Grimes and Tenrael stripped my secrets bare.

  “Why did you endanger children?”

  “I didn’t know they were there.” Since my audience waited expectantly, I continued. “I’d been told that only the necromancer was there. I didn’t take the time to verify.” Too eager to act, too eager to neutralize the enemy.

  “So you had bad intelligence and poor judgment, and people died.”

  “Children died,” I whispered.

  “And you were drummed out of the Bureau.”

  “Yes.”

  Despite having their steady gazes trained on me, I didn’t feel unfairly judged. Maybe they were weighing my soul, but not with hostile intent and perhaps not without finding some good there as well. I tried not to squirm, not even when I realized that Grimes wasn’t quite human and I had no idea what he might be.

  “I thought I was doing the right thing. But I was stupid, and God, I’m so sorry. It haunts me.” I don’t know why I felt compelled to confess here and now. I hadn’t revealed any of my feelings on the matter to anyone else. It felt good to unburden myself.

  Still stroking Tenrael’s feathers, Grimes gave a small nod. “Sometimes our courage exceeds our wisdom. When things turn out all right, they call us heroes. When things turn to grief, they call us villains. Either way, we’re just people with some foolish ideas.”

  “I didn’t come here for sympathy or absolution,” I said, although in all honesty his words comforted me somewhat.

  He laughed. “Good, because I have no power to absolve anyone. Why did you come?”

  Simply as that, I told him. As I unspooled the tale, I found myself being more open than I had been with Townsend. I didn’t divulge the precise details of what had transpired with Marek, but I made it clear that our interaction had not been platonic. I’m not sure why I felt drawn to such honesty, but I suspect it was because Grimes—whatever he was—and his demon were so obviously in love.