by Jaxon Reed
Bryce raised an eyebrow at the woman speaking, the one seated near him. She seemed small and thin, yet carried herself with confidence. Dark hair had been cropped close. Bryce suspected she kept it short for utilitarian purposes more than anything. She wore no makeup, either. Her voice carried a slight accent. She looked to be fairly young, maybe in her late twenties.
“I have informed our associates here about your capabilities, Detective,” the Chief said. “But it seems Agent Renard and others over in Europe were already aware of you.”
“The EU tries to keep track of those with special abilities,” Renard said in a mildly apologetic tone. “They have caused us considerable trouble in the past. I’ve read your dossier, and I’m glad you decided to use your abilities for the greater good.”
Bryce nodded. He could feel a hidden intent behind her words, though. She may as well have added, “So long as you continue to do good.”
“That’s true, although empaths are mostly harmless. Hardly worth a file, I would think. What can we do?”
“Several empaths have been implicated as con artists over the years. Some of the largest Ponzi schemes have involved empaths. They have a deserved reputation as crooks and thieves, capable of fleecing victims by preying on their emotions.”
Bryce nodded again.
“I know. But, my larger point is we are relatively harmless in comparison to others with more destructive powers. Like harpies, for instance.”
He realized instantly he had struck a chord. Everyone in the room remained silent, eyes fixed on him.
“I see you’re all familiar with the term.”
“What do you know about harpies, Detective Bryce?”
The others seemed to be giving Renard the lead, so Bryce focused on her, rubbing his chin in thought.
“I know they’re rare, showing up once every other generation or so. I know powerful ones are even more rare, but they’ve have caused lots of problems for lots of people. Like wars in Europe, maybe elsewhere.”
Renard nodded, encouraging him to continue. Bryce took a sip of tea.
“I know they’ve been around in Europe a long time, and the old Greek symbol for a harpy can be found on various coats of arms, like the one for Lichtenstein.”
Renard nodded again.
“Now you understand why the EU likes to keep track of such people. Even those with minor empathic abilities are from bloodlines that occasionally produce someone with considerable power. We like to know who they marry, how many children they have, where they go and how they spend their lives.
“We started keeping track of people with your abilities after the Second World War, even before the official formation of the European Union. The thinking among several world leaders at the time was, if these people are going to cause problems on such a large scale, some sort of monitoring of their whereabouts and activities is needed. So, bloodlines were traced. Families were followed. Children were monitored. I can tell you we’ve had fewer large scale problems ever since.”
He felt the cold certainty enveloping her statement, and he understood what she had left unsaid.
“Surely not all of them are bad. I can’t imagine many of them being powerful enough to cause wars. Lamont is exceptional, right?”
“Correct. Very few are as powerful as she is. But, one never knows how powerful someone is until they reveal the full measure of their strength. We were unaware of the extent of Desiree Lamont’s abilities until recently. All we knew of her before was her habit of making rich men fall in love with her. She seemed content with that. A low-strength harpy who remains content with marrying rich men, we are not so interested in her. A powerful harpy who sews death and destruction . . . she catches our attention.”
Bryce paused for a moment, mulling over the information. He looked at the government men on the other side of the table.
“So you guys know about me too? Y’all monitor empaths and the like?”
One of them bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment. His name was MacGruder, Bryce recalled. Fit, trim, and in his mid-thirties. Bushy brown hair, clean shaven. MacGruder wore a standard blue suit and tie. Typical government garb.
“Yes, but we don’t have the same history of difficulties with . . . gifted individuals . . . as the Europeans do.”
“Indeed,” Renard said. “In fact, most of the Americans we’ve identified have been on the right side of the law as far back as our official records go. One of your own ancestors served in the OSS, Bryce. That was the precursor to the CIA during World War Two. Do you know about her?”
Bryce shook his head.
“She was a true heroine, sent behind enemy lines in Occupied France to help the Resistance. She was fluent in both French and German, having studied abroad in college. She worked against the Nazis, spreading death and destruction in their ranks. She had almost mythical abilities to deceive them and escape capture despite her face being widely known.
“At one time, she was the Gestapo’s most wanted person. Even so, she saved countless lives, rescuing political prisoners, downed Allied pilots, and Jews from concentration camps. She was a skilled assassin and saboteur, and even helped prepare the way for the Normandy invasion on D-Day.
“She was a master of disguise, and despite several dozen close calls with suspicious Germans, she always managed to escape even though she spoke with a strong American accent. Somehow, you see, she was able to convince them to believe her. Every time.
“And the men in the Resistance, who you would think would be averse to taking life and death orders from a woman, they followed her with extraordinary loyalty.
“We later deduced she was one of the more powerful harpies of the twentieth century. But, as is typical for Americans, she only used her powers for good.”
Bryce glanced over at the government guys again. MacGruder cleared his throat.
“Ms. Renard is right. She’s talking about one of our most successful agents of the era.”
“That’s just one example, but it’s a typical American one,” Renard said. “For whatever reason, you ‘special’ Americans seem to almost always fight on the side of good.”
“Until now,” Bryce said.
“Yes. Until now. At the moment you have an extraordinarily powerful harpy on the loose. We have offered our knowledge and expertise on the matter to your government, along with any assistance you might need.”
Bryce locked eyes with the Chief. The Chief smiled, and nodded his head in reassurance. Bryce looked back at the small, confident woman.
“What kind of assistance?”
-+-
“Do you like to hunt, Detective?”
“I’ve never been. City boy, myself. I do like the taste of venison, though. Quail, too. I like to eat, but I’ve never killed what I eat.”
The Chief smiled as he continued loading ammunition into a gun. He held an old rifle, lining up the shells in a cylinder under the barrel, sliding them down one by one.
“There’s nothing like shooting your own food. We didn’t own any land ourselves, but Dad always had a lease. He shared it with some other guys at work. I’d go out there with him and my brother every season. A few hundred acres out in East Texas, near Crockett. Half a dozen guys any given weekend. We’d hunt in the mornings and evenings, shoot the breeze the rest of the time. Spend the night in a cabin out there on bunk beds and cots. You know, I learned some of my most valuable life lessons during those times with my dad.”
The Chief finished loading the magazine tube, slid the spring sleeve in place, and twisted to lock it.
“There you go. A thirty-thirty lever-action. You can’t find a more traditional deer gun than that.”
He handed the rifle over to Bryce, then picked up his own, and headed toward the woods. Bryce followed. Soon the manor disappeared far behind them. The sun dipped low in the west, promising another hour of light before dusk.
They walked about half a mile through trees and brush before reaching an open place. Someone had placed an autom
atic feeder in the middle of the clearing. It stood on a tripod, its large barrel filled with corn, a release mechanism underneath set up to throw out feed at timed intervals.
On the edge near the brush, a camouflaged blind stood next to a tree. The Chief opened the door to the blind, quickly scanning the interior.
“Always check for snakes first. That was one of my earliest lessons.”
Inside were two old chairs, torn and weather-beaten. The Chief sat in one, pointed Bryce to the other, then propped his rifle in a corner. Bryce followed suit.
“There we go. Good view of the feeder. Are we alone? You can tell if anyone is nearby, right?”
Bryce nodded.
“We’re alone.”
“Good.”
The Chief stretched his long legs out and sighed. Bryce felt his contentment.
He looked over at Bryce and chuckled.
“I bet you’re surprised to find a black man who likes to hunt.”
“Frankly, sir, I don’t know anybody who likes to hunt. Black, white, or whatever. It’s just not very common among my circle of acquaintances.”
The Chief nodded in understanding.
“You’re right, it’s not so common anymore. Not as popular as it used to be, even here in Texas. Seems like there’s less land to hunt every year, more restrictions and higher costs. Kids aren’t introduced to it like I was.
“That’s the worst part about it, Detective. The next generation is being skipped over. They’ll never learn what it’s like to spend a weekend on a lease with their dad like I did. They’ll never learn to appreciate hunting, or all the things that go along with it like conservation, land management, and other environmental lessons.”
He sighed again, and lapsed into silence, gazing thoughtfully out at the clearing and the corn feeder.
Bryce said nothing to disturb the silence. He wondered briefly what conservation had to do with hunting deer. Perhaps they were careful not to wipe out the entire population or something.
Then he began wondering if anyone else knew the Chief hunted on city-owned property. At least, he assumed the manor and its surrounding acreage were owned by the city. It seemed to be a retreat of some sort.
The Chief finally broke the silence.
“So you know about the harpies they’ve had over there. Do you know anybody from history who was one? Somebody I’d recognize?”
“I don’t know a whole lot of history, sir. But from what I’ve read, Queen Elizabeth the First had a lot of the characteristics of a weaker harpy. Not saying she was one. But that’s certainly an example of a powerful woman who pretty much got her own way. I don’t think she could be considered evil, though, at least not in the sense they seem to indicate most harpies tend to gravitate towards.”
“Well, she certainly managed to attract and hold power for a long time. You know, strong charismatic leaders who are men can be dangerous, too. Hitler. Napoleon. You think they had some kind of special powers? Look at the speeches Hitler gave, the emotions he could churn up. You think he was a male harpy?”
“I don’t know, Chief. According to these EU people, the destruction stirred up comes mostly from women working in the background, at least at first. Think Isabella of France and the Hundred Years War. I don’t think those guys would qualify. I think Hitler and Napoleon raised up followers and wars on their own.”
“But you’re a male empath. They say that’s quite rare. Obviously, it’s possible.”
Bryce nodded, allowing the fact.
“Yeah, I’ve thought about that. It does run in my bloodline, on my mother’s side. Maybe because I’m an only child those powers were handed down to me. I don’t know.”
They lapsed into silence again. The timer on the feeder went off with a click. It spread out a circle of corn on the ground. A crow flew down and began pecking at the corn. The sun slipped below the hills, and the light grew dim.
“We’re probably talking too much for the deer to come out, Detective. That’s okay. This is more of an excuse to have a private conversation than anything.
“Listen. I’ve been coming under increasing pressure at every level. City, state, you name it. This woman has become a serious problem, and even people in Washington are starting to get worried. The last thing I need is more of those high level bureaucrats breathing down my neck.
“Now, Europol was a surprise. Nobody expected them to show up out of the blue, offering their services. But they make a compelling case, and your own research backs up the fact they’ve been quietly dealing with this kind of problem for centuries.”
Bryce nodded in acknowledgment.
“So this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to authorize Agent Renard and her partner Agent Desmet to work with us, you and Detective Parker in particular, and let them help us solve this problem.
“The four of you are to become a team, understand? A team whose only purpose is to rid my city of this threat.”
Bryce nodded, and gazed out toward the clearing. Some brush at the far end moved, and a deer poked its head through. Two short stumps of horns poked up between its ears. It cautiously looked to the left then the right, ears twitching. Maybe it caught snatches of their conversation on the wind, Bryce thought, adding to its trepidation.
It stepped out carefully into the clearing and began eating corn.
Bryce pointed toward it.
“There’s your deer, sir.”
The Chief looked in the direction he pointed and reached for his gun. Then he stopped, and his body relaxed.
“Nah, that’s just a young buck. I wanted to kill a doe.”
Chapter Nine
Bryce walked into work the next morning and found Renard and Desmet sitting at a desk near his. A few minutes later, Parker walked in. She raised her eyebrows questioningly at the newcomers. Before Bryce could say anything, Captain Wilton opened the door to his office and called all four of them in.
“Detectives, this is Phoebe Renard and François Ricard Desmet, from Europol. The Chief has directed me to form the four of you into a task force to deal with Desiree Lamont and bring her to justice. You will offer Agent Renard and Agent Desmet full access to department resources. They will offer you their knowledge and expertise, including advice and technical assistance.
“I’ve given them a desk near y’all. I’ll let you two fill them in on network protocols and anything else they need to get the job done.”
-+-
They left for lunch in Bryce’s car, sailing out over the city toward a barbecue place he thought the visitors would enjoy. Renard sat with him in the front seat while Desmet and Parker sat in the back.
Parker made a conversational gambit.
“So, where’s your headquarters? Brussels?”
“The Hague, actually.”
Desmet’s English seemed more heavily accented than Renard’s. So far, he hadn’t spoken much. Tall, perhaps six three Bryce estimated, fit and trim. He looked to be about Bryce’s age, late thirties to early forties. He had light brown shaggy hair, and a matching beard.
Surprisingly, Desmet also sported a pair of old-fashioned glasses. The lenses were thick, and Bryce wondered why the man had not had eye surgery. Perhaps he held some luddite tendencies even though Renard said he served as a technology coordinator for their agency.
Renard turned to face Parker, and smiled.
“We’re both Belgian. I’m from Brussels, and François is a Walloon.”
Parker raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Wallonia is the French speaking part of Belgium.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Most in Brussels speak French, too,” Desmet said. “Although, they do not consider themselves Walloons.”
“This is true.”
“How many languages do you speak?”
“French and English. What more does one need?” Desmet said with a twinkle in his eye.
“I grew up speaking Dutch at home,” Renard said. “Of course, I learned English and French at an early age and
feel comfortable in both. I can get by in German.”
“A polyglot,” Bryce said.
Renard shrugged.
“It is typical.”
He glanced at the rear view monitor as his car exited the traffic stream and headed down toward their restaurant. He grunted.
“What is it?”
Renard looked at the monitor too, concern creeping up in her.
“That black car back there has been following us since we left the station.”
They landed in a parking lot adjacent to a low-slung building, and climbed out. The smell of wood smoke and meat drifted over them.
The black car landed several yards away. They stared at the vehicle, trying to make out the people inside through its tinted windows.
“Is she in there?”
Bryce shook his head at Parker’s question.
“No, but whoever it is, they’re interested in us. I sense no feelings of harm, though. Let’s go in and eat.”
The sign out front read, “Sliding Door Home-Style Old-Fashioned BBQ & Fixin’s.”
“Everybody just calls it ‘Sliding Door’ for short,” Bryce said. “Come on, enjoying good barbecue should be on your bucket list while visiting Texas.”
As they neared the entrance a sliding door veneered in corrugated tin pulled open, and they walked inside. The place was packed with people.
They grabbed trays and waited patiently in line, slowly making their way to the counter. Prices were scrawled on an antique chalkboard. Bryce helped everybody with their selections.
“You’ve got to try the brisket. It’s the best around here. You like sausage? It’s pretty good, too. The pork ribs are overrated, in my opinion. I like the beef ribs, though, but they’re rich, you’ll only be able to eat one. Forget the chicken, you can try that next time. For sides, I like the beans and mashed potatoes. The sauerkraut is good, too. Skip the coleslaw. Grab a wedge of cheese. Try the fried corn on the cob.”
Long tables lined up on the restaurant floor, all the patrons sitting near strangers as they shared the dining space. Large bottles of barbecue sauce were passed around, as well as rolls of paper towels serving as napkins.