Firewalk

by Chris Roberson

  Izzie almost sputtered, swallowing a mouthful before reacting. “Oh my god, I was thinking the same thing last night when I left the morgue. Even though I quit smoking years ago, I just suddenly was itching for one.”

  Daphne took another sip, and as she lowered her glass she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “We totally shouldn’t get a pack of cigarettes, right? That would be a horrible idea.” She grinned. “Wouldn’t it?”

  “It’s tempting,” Izzie admitted. Then she shook her head. “But no, totally shouldn’t. That’s a horrible idea.” She took another sip of her gin gimlet.

  “Then we’ll just have to have another round, instead.” Daphne raised her glass.

  “That sounds like an excellent idea,” Izzie answered with a grin.

  Three rounds later they both decided it was time to call it a night. As they listed out the door, Izzie was glad that she had locked her pistol up in the gun vault at the office. Not that she would seriously have shot the guy who catcalled them from a passing car as they stepped outside if she did have her gun with her, she was too well trained for that, but the temptation was so strong that she was glad that her training wouldn’t be put to the test. The foul things that the guy had shouted as he cruised by …

  But Daphne wasn’t one to let the offense pass unanswered, and so she stepped into the street as the car drove off, hurling invectives at the catcaller. “And besides,” she finished off, “you’re not our type!”

  Izzie stifled a laugh. But Daphne was right, he very much wasn’t her type.

  “That rat bastard,” Daphne said, then stumbled as she stepped back onto the curb.

  Izzie rushed forward and caught Daphne before she fell, then helped her regain her balance.

  “Thanks,” Daphne said, still holding onto Izzie’s arm, not letting go.

  Their faces were close, their breath forming blended clouds of steam that rose into the chilly air like slowly expanding smoke rings.

  “I think …” Izzie started to say, and then they were kissing.

  Afterwards, she wouldn’t be able to recall if she had moved in first, or if Daphne had. But she would remember for a long time how good the kiss felt—warm, lasting, and deep.

  They finally broke apart, both gasping for air. They remained nose to nose, looking into one another’s eyes.

  “My place isn’t that far from here,” Daphne began, suggestively. “Unless you wanted to go back to your … ?”

  Izzie pulled away, dropping her hands and taking a step back. “No, I can’t …”

  “What’s wrong?” Daphne looked stricken. “I thought … I mean … it seemed like …”

  Izzie shook her head. “No, it’s not you. Hell, it’s not even me. I just can’t right now.”

  “Oh.” Daphne had a wounded expression on her face. “Okay. That’s fine, I guess that …” She held her hands up in front of her, opened her mouth to continue then closed it again. She nodded twice, then went on, “This was a mistake. I’m sorry. I misread the situation and …”

  “No, no,” Izzie interrupted. “You read it perfectly. I’m just in a weird place at the moment, and need a little time to figure things out.”

  Daphne bit her lip as a moment of silence stretched out awkwardly between them. “You okay getting back to your hotel from here?” she finally asked, trying to adopt a casual tone and not quite succeeding.

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Izzie answered.

  “Then I guess …” she shrugged. “I’ll see you later?”

  As Daphne turned and walked away, Izzie felt like she should say something. But the words didn’t come, and she was left alone on the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sleep came easy, aided by the lingering buzz from the cocktails that Izzie had drunk, but her dreams were meandering and dark. A door she had never noticed in her grandmother’s house in the Ninth Ward opened to reveal a basement lined with rotting corpses and severed heads that whispered horrible secrets that she could not hear but somehow understood instinctively. Shadows deepened and with the logic of dreams Izzie knew that she was deep underground, miles of solid rock above her, waiting for robber barons to dig down and discover her, but that she was not alone in the darkness. There was something else shifting unseen around her, carrying with it the ozone tang of summer rains, the scent of fresh flowers, and the offal stench of rotting meat. And with alarm came the sudden realization that the darkness that was all she could see around her was not the blackness that came with the absence of light, but instead a color from no earthly spectrum that her senses could process, that her mind refused to comprehend. There was a voice that rumbled, but she could not hear it, feeling instead a subaudible tone that vibrated the bones of her rib cage and touched her deep inside. And she knew what the voice was saying but could not bring herself to admit it …

  When the insistent ringing of her phone roused her from slumber, the knowledge that had seemed so crystal clear and real in the dream evaporated and was gone like an ice cube in a hot skillet. When she scrambled to tap the screen to answer, Izzie realized that she hadn’t bothered to turn on her white noise app when going to bed. Clearly, five stiff drinks had been all the white noise she needed.

  “Hullo?” she croaked, fumbling to put the phone to her ear.

  “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.” Patrick sounded impossibly awake and chipper at this unforgiving hour of the day.

  “M’kay.” Izzie put her other hand over her eyes, which felt desiccated and raw, and there was a hammering behind her forehead.

  “You up for breakfast? I know this Mexican joint that does killer migas—”

  “No. No, no.” Hungover and sweating, Izzie’s stomach roiled at the thought of food. “God, no.”

  “Everything okay?” There was concern in Patrick’s tone.

  “Just feeling a little rough.” Izzie rolled with a sigh into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. “Late night.”

  Patrick chuckled, not unsympathetically. “Got ya. Well, I’m heading into the station house in a bit, wondered if you needed a ride.”

  “Um.” Izzie had to pause for a moment and consider her options. “Actually, I’ll make my way over there in a while. I’m just getting a slow start to the day, looks like.”

  “Sounds good. But don’t be too long, I was thinking about getting sushi for lunch, and you don’t want to miss out.”

  “I’ll be there.” Izzie rolled her eyes. “See you soon.”

  She tossed the phone onto the bedsheet, then pushed herself with a groan to her feet.

  “Okay, brain,” she said out loud to herself, angling towards the shower. “We can do this.” But she was only half-convinced.

  The long, hot shower did a reasonable job of making her feel human again, and the two complimentary bottles of water that she guzzled helped settle her insides a little. It would be a while before she felt ready to tackle anything more substantial than an antacid, she knew, but at least she would be able to function.

  When she was dressed and headed for the door, she did her sign of the cross, patting her pockets in turn, but stalled out halfway through when she reached for the holster that wasn’t on her belt.

  She remembered the gun vault in the R.A. office across the street, and then the drinks at the bar. The silky touch of Daphne’s lips against hers, the spreading warmth inside as they stood nose to nose, looking deep into one another’s eyes. And the way things had abruptly come to an end.

  “Shit,” Izzie hissed under her breath. “This is going to be awkward.”

  Despite what was often depicted erroneously in movies and television shows, the FBI didn’t have a non-fraternization policy when it came to agents and other Bureau employees getting involved with one another. So long as two people didn’t work together in a supervisor-subordinate capacity, it wasn’t prohibited. That said, Izzie tended to avoid such entanglements as a general rule, just to avoid complicated or awkward situations.

  Such as the one she was walking into no
w.

  “Good morning, Agent Lefevre.” Senior Resident Agent Manuel Gutierrez was pouring coffee into a World’s Best Dad mug from a steaming pot as Izzie came through the front door. “So nice of you to drop by and grace us with your presence.”

  She knew he intended it to be funny, but there wasn’t a trace of humor to his tone. Either he was just chronically humorless, or was in a bad mood for one reason or another. Whatever the case, it was hardly putting Izzie at ease.

  “Agent Richardson tells me you stopped by last night.” He nodded across the room, where Daphne was sitting at her desk with her back to the door. “I hope your investigation isn’t turning up anything that might be a problem here?”

  “No,” Izzie answered, shaking her head. “No problem. Just following some leads, at the moment.”

  Agent Gutierrez took a sip of his coffee as he headed towards his private office. “Good. I hope your luck continues.”

  As the Senior Resident Agent closed his office door behind him, Izzie made her way to Daphne’s desk.

  “Daphne,” was all Izzie said by way of greeting, standing behind her chair.

  “Agent,” Daphne answered without turning around.

  “I … uh …” Izzie glanced around. There were a couple of file clerks working at other desks nearby, and a computer technician was servicing a printer along the far wall. This was the sort of potentially awkward situation that Izzie always tried to avoid. “I was wondering if you could open up the gun vault for me. I need to get my firearm.”

  Daphne sighed dramatically, then pushed her chair back, wheels squeaking across the tiled floor. She stood up in a huff and started towards the gun vault door. “Come on, then.”

  Daphne punched the code into the electronic door lock, and then pushed the door open, holding it for Izzie to step inside.

  “Thanks,” Izzie muttered as she walked through.

  The door closed behind them as Daphne followed her inside, turning on the light. She went over to the locked cages where Izzie’s firearm was stored, and pulled out a ring of keys from her pocket.

  “Daphne, about last night …” Izzie began.

  “I’m sorry,” Daphne interrupted, turning around. “That was a mistake.” Far from being annoyed or angry, as Izzie thought she might be, Daphne’s expression was one of embarrassment. “I’d had a lot to drink, and things got out of …” She shook her head, a blush rising in her cheeks. “I normally have a strict policy not to get involved with other agents. Or with law enforcement in general, to be honest. There was this sheriff’s deputy I dated in San Antonio, and it was nice for a while— god, she was a great dancer—but when things went south, and we still had to deal with one another on a professional basis …” She trailed off, flapping her hand as if waving away a foul smell that wafted by. “It was a giant mess. And I made it a personal rule that I wouldn’t go down that road again.”

  She paused, searching Izzie’s face for a reaction.

  “I’m sorry?” Daphne said again.

  “Oh my god, no.” Izzie reached out and lightly touched Daphne’s elbow, then quickly pulled her hand back lest the gesture be misread. “Don’t apologize, seriously. I was totally expecting to say almost exactly what you just did when I came in today.” She shook her head. “Well, except for the part about dating a sheriff’s deputy in Texas. Mine was a forensic pathologist in Ohio—she wasn’t much of a dancer, but she was very damned cute—but otherwise, same thing. It was great, and then it very much wasn’t. So I never date coworkers anymore.” She smirked. “I don’t really date much at all, to be honest.”

  Daphne nodded in sympathy. “It’s hard to meet people. Moving around every couple of years, unable to talk much about what we do since so many cases are sensitive or even classified …”

  Izzie sighed. “And when most of the people you interact with are other law enforcement, in one capacity or another, or criminals, well … it’s easier to spend your off-hours at home on the couch watching TV than worrying about your social life.”

  “I don’t even have a cat,” Daphne said. “Just a bonsai tree in a Snoopy coffee mug.”

  “Ficus.” Izzie tapped her own sternum, grinning. “Not as much fun to cuddle with as a puppy or kitten, but easier to clean up after.”

  Daphne smiled. “I really do like you though, Izzie. If not for my personal ‘no fraternizing’ rule I might …”

  Izzie nodded. “Yeah, same here. But hey, I’m glad that I’ve got someone I enjoy hanging out with here. Makes being in town on my own a little easier to manage.”

  “Well, happy to be of assistance. Speaking of which …” She unlocked the cage and pulled out Izzie’s holstered pistol. “Here you are, and not a scratch on her.”

  “Maybe we can get together for a drink again while I’m in town.” Izzie clipped the holster back onto her belt. “Though maybe not quite so many drinks next time.”

  Daphne nodded ruefully as she headed for the door. “Definitely. And hey, maybe we can even go out dancing.”

  Izzie grinned. “Maybe,” she said, the possibility seeming marginally more likely than the first time Daphne had made the suggestion the day before last.

  After borrowing a laptop from the computer technician, Izzie set up shop temporarily at the desk that had been assigned for her to use. First she logged into her work email account, responded to a few queries about other ongoing investigations from her colleagues in the BAU, then typed up a quick summary of the events of the previous thirty-six hours to send to her supervisor. It was a summary in only the loosest sense of the word, highlighting her interactions with the local authorities since arriving—Lieutenant Tevake and his fellow police officers, the chief medical examiner, and so on—a brief rundown of her interview with Professor Kono at the university, and a cursory account of the drug raid the day before. Nothing about the more outlandish theories that she and Patrick had suggested, or about the directions that their investigation into the Fuller evidence seemed to be heading. Just the facts regarding interactions and events that were likely to show up in other official records—police reports, visitor’s logs, and the like.

  It wasn’t that she intended to conceal the true extent of the investigation from the Bureau, or that she would not be reporting her findings once she and Patrick were able to reach some useful conclusion. But she wanted her findings to be completely airtight before she shared them. Things would be difficult enough to explain as it was, without there being questions left hanging that she was not equipped to answer.

  Of course, just thinking about how she would ultimately account for all of this in her official report brought to mind the aspects of the investigation that hinted at possible connections, but so far remained tantalizingly isolated. The origins of the Recondito Mining Guild, for example, and the particular spot where the university’s Undersight experiment had been carried out. On a whim, Izzie closed the email program, brought up a browser window, and went to an online search engine.

  She did a Boolean search using the terms “Recondito,” “hills,” “mine shaft,” and “underground.”

  The top results were, unsurprisingly, related to mining— principally historical sites or archival documents related to the brief gold mining boom in Recondito in the mid-nineteenth century—or to ongoing mining concerns elsewhere in the United States or overseas that had financial connections to Recondito-based companies. There were several reviews of a now defunct gay bar in Oceanview called “The Mine Shaft,” in the days of house and underground music, where patrons allegedly partook of “hills” worth of cocaine. There was a synopsis of an installment of Behind the Lines, the sitcom set in Recondito that Izzie had watched back in high school, a bottle episode in which the cartoonist protagonist Trent and his longtime rival Miles were trapped in a cave during an earthquake, and learned to overcome their differences by remembering moments they had shared before, conveniently selected from previously aired episodes. Then a smattering of miner-alogical and metallurgical surveys of the Recondito h
ills and surrounding areas, marking out past mining operations. On the third page of results she finally found a few accounts of the origins of the Guildhall, and popular science accounts of the Undersight experiments, and then …

  Izzie had expected that there might be some connection between the Recondito Mining Guild and their Guildhall and the university’s Undersight project, which was why she had initiated the search. But she hadn’t anticipated that there might be connections between them and yet another moment of local interest in the city.

  “KILLER CULT HIDES DEEP SECRET,” read the headline from an article originally published in the pages of the Recondito Clarion in the mid-seventies.

  Izzie clicked the link and began to scan the article, which was all about the Eschaton Center for Emanant Truth. Sometimes called ECET for short, the article helpfully explained, it was once a popular spiritual retreat and self-help center in the Recondito hills that had been one of the cornerstones of the counter-culture human potential movement in the sixties and seventies. Those who spent time at the Eschaton Center included rock musicians, movie stars, filmmakers, novelists, scientists, and poets, and by the early years of the 1970s it was poised to have a greater cultural impact and reach than the better-known Esalen Institute down in Big Sur. With increasing regularity, Jeremiah Standfast Parrish, the charismatic founder of the Eschaton Center, was appearing on morning chat programs and late night talk shows, delivering his message of universal love and a new mode of understanding reality to an often bewildered general audience, but he piqued the interest of enough new converts that the ranks of the faithful were always increasing. But then a dark shadow fell over the Center when families came forward with dark rumors about the strange practices that were carried out behind closed doors, where only the faithful were permitted. Charges that ECET was nothing but a cult, brainwashing the gullible and misguided, duped into the service of the egomaniacal Parrish. A Recondito-based private investigator called George W. Jett, who specialized in “deprogramming” young people who had been indoctrinated by cults, was hired by several of the families to “rescue” their loved ones from the Center. He infiltrated the Eschaton Center, and what he found there prompted him to leave and come back with the police. But by the time the authorities arrived, the Center had been turned into a killing field, as dozens of the faithful had been brutally murdered, either by each other or at their own hands.