Some women are cute when they get angry. Agent Biers was not one of them. I leapt from the chair as though it had become Ol’ Sparky and took the other seat.
She waited until I was sitting and then sat down across from me. She pushed one of the buttons and picked up a pen. “Shall we begin?”
“That’s what we’re here for,” I said jovially.
“Please state your name.”
“Raphael A. Semmes.”
“What’s the A for?” Biers asked.
“Alain.”
“There’s no junior on that?”
“Not that I’m aware of. I haven’t looked at my birth certificate lately, but Mom never mentioned one.”
“All right then. Address?”
I gave her Abigail’s address and proceeded to answer mundane questions about employment, last address, and place of birth before she got down to the questions about the murder. Those questions went faster than I’d expected. Fast enough that I became suspicious. Within five minutes, she switched subjects.
“Ever been to Castle Rock?”
“Wyoming or Colorado?” I asked and immediately remembered where I’d seen her.
“Wyoming.”
Yeah, I’d been there not three months ago, doing the thing that I do. I’d finished my work and was getting on Beast to ride into the sunset when I’d seen her getting out of a governmental black SUV at the motel I’d been staying at. I noticed her, but that was it, I didn’t think she had paid any attention to me. My lie was immediate and casual. “No, but Castle Rock, Colorado is just up the road from where I grew up.”
“‘Where you grew up,’ interesting you should mention that. You see I couldn’t find any record of you growing up anywhere,” Biers said.
“Well, now that seems self-evident. I’m sitting here in front of you so I must have grown up somewhere.”
“Not that I could find. I did find a Raphael A. Semmes of Colorado Springs, Colorado.”
“There you are, just what I said.”
“But he was born in 1950,” she said with a smirk on her face.
“Really? You must be talking about my dad,” I said. “Mom didn’t talk about him much. I gathered it was a summer love affair and he left without ever knowing he had a kid.”
“Your mother never married him?” Biers asked.
“She told me she had. She gave me his name.”
“Then why couldn’t I find a record of his ever being married?” Biers asked.
“It was a long time ago. Maybe it was never put in the database.”
“Please, you’re what twenty-three?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“The databases go back a lot farther than that.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not a technophile.” I smiled.
“Seems strange you wouldn’t know whether your parents were married or not,” Biers said.
I was getting tired of her skirting whatever agenda she had up her sleeve. I’ve been questioned by police a few times, usually about being a witness to something or other that got someone killed. I’ve noticed that the longer they take to get to the real subject, the more distrustful they are of your responses.
“Agent Biers, you asked me to make a statement pertaining to Jessica’s murder. I don’t see where my parents’ marital status has any bearing on this killing.”
She leaned forward, her hands braced against the table’s edge. “It’s not your parents’ marital status I’m troubled by. What bothers me is that I find multiple incidences over the last forty years that involve someone going by the name of Raphael Semmes.”
“Forty years?” I tried to give my best-dumbfounded look. “Well, that can hardly be me. Perhaps you’ve found my father for me.”
“Your father? Yeah, that was what I thought at first. But you see I was in Castle Rock to investigate a pattern murder case this summer. The name of Raphael Semmes came up as a witness in one of the killings. This morning I called the Sheriff at Castle Rock.”
“Do tell?”
“Yeah, well Sheriff Donovan tells me that the Raphael Semmes in his report was twenty something and about your size and you fit his description even to that shade of red in your hair. You want to rethink your statement?”
She didn’t mention that she had come to the motel I’d stayed at. Had she been there looking for me? “Just because someone my size and age was involved in something weird in Wyoming doesn’t mean it was me. Perhaps my father has more sons.”
Biers leaned back in her chair and smiled smugly. “Weird? I didn’t say anything about it being weird.”
I picked up the pitcher, poured some of the ice water into my glass, and took a sip before responding. “Lose the smirk, Agent Biers. You can find out nearly everything about what happened in Castle Rock this summer on the internet. Supposedly, a Sasquatch went on a rampage and killed a few people before disappearing again. It made a minor splash on Youtube and then became old news.”
Her expression clouded into doubt.
“Surely you did more than just check official sources, Agent Biers. No? That's a shame. You should do a better job of investigating before you start accusing people of lying. Do you have any more questions?” I asked. While she thought about it, I took another sip and then set the glass down near the pitcher.
Her eyes shifted momentarily to the glass and I almost smiled. I’d left her a clean set of fingerprints that she would waste her time trying to match. One of the earliest spells my mentor had taught me was the fingerprint glamour. While regular glamours work on visuals, this one physically altered the whorls on my fingertips each time it was invoked and lasted until the following sunup. Knowing where I was going, I’d cast it after my shower this morning. Leaving the police a set of prints to match would grant me time to push along my work here without them getting too nosy. By the time, Biers was sure I had no fingerprints on file I’d be close to wrapping things up here. I hoped.
She stood. “You can go, but don’t go far. I’m going to want to talk to you again.”
I smiled showing pearly whites. “I plan on being around for quite some time. I think the weather agrees with me.”
“Yeah, right.”
She opened the door and let me precede her up the hall to the front. Cynthia was chatting with Agrinzoni when we entered the waiting area.
“Well, that took you a lot longer than me,” Cynthia said. She came over and looped an arm around mine.
“Special Agent Biers likes to be thorough,” I said.
Agrinzoni and Biers swapped glances that I ignored.
“If there’s anything else we can do to help, please call,” Cynthia said.
Agrinzoni held out a business card. “Yes, and if you remember any details that you didn’t mention, call me, anytime.”
“Certainly,” Cynthia said. She took the card and slipped it into a jacket pocket.
“Good day, detectives,” I said as Cynthia tugged lightly on my arm.
CHAPTER 14
It was early spring, sometime around March, as I remember it. We were rolling through a one-traffic-light town in the Texas panhandle, somewhere west of Lubbock, when the wind picked up and the sky turned brown. Walt recognized what was coming, and we pulled our bikes into the dirt parking lot of Samantha’s Bar and Grill. We were both wearing leathers and our faces were tanned from days of riding in the open sun. We got inside just as the dust storm arrived. I felt a little guilty about leaving Beast out in the storm, but Walt assured me that the manticore wouldn’t be bothered.
The establishment was old, maybe not as old as Walt, but old nonetheless. A couple of senior citizens drank beer at the bar while a middle-aged woman tended it. Both men were smoking cigarettes, and the smell almost blended with the ancient odor of spilled beer and stale smokes. Over the bad smells, I could smell grease, which actually had a pleasant aroma.
“You boys just did beat the storm,” the bartender said.
“Yeah,” Walt agreed. “Looks like it’s going to b
e a nasty day for riding.”
“What can I get you?”
“Burger and fries and a long-neck for me,” Walt glanced at me, and I shrugged.
“Make that two of each,” he added.
“I’m going to need to see some I.D. for the beer.”
Walt smiled. “She’s talking to you, Rafe.”
I took off my sunglasses and stepped up to the bar. “Seriously?”
Samantha took a good look into my eyes, blinked once, and fished two long necks out of a cold case beneath the bar. She popped off the tops and set the cold bottles on the bar. “Why didn’t you say you were vets? The first round is on the house for military.”
“Thanks, Samantha, that’s very kind,” I said.
“You boys have enough problems coming back from the war without a bunch of damn hippies adding to it. We treat our soldiers proper in West Texas. Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll get those burgers to you as soon as they’re ready.”
We took our beers to a table in the back corner to wait out the storm.
“How long do these things usually last?” I asked. I tasted the beer and was disappointed.
“An ordinary storm could go for a day, give or take a day.” Walt downed a portion of his beer. He made a face and stared at the label. “Damn, I thought Lone Star would have gotten better over the years, but it still tastes green.”
“What do you mean by normal?” We’d been together for a year by then, and whenever Walt mentioned something wasn’t normal, I started looking over my shoulder. This time I didn’t need to, as we’d each taken a chair that offered a good view of the front door.
“I mean someone started this one. Couldn’t you feel the difference?”
I thought about it and shrugged. “It’s my first dust storm. How am I supposed to know what it should feel like?”
“I’ve taught you better than that. When you come across anything out of the ordinary, you need to check it for residual magic. Now focus and tell me what you feel.”
I frowned. I still didn’t like being treated like a newbie. I may have only had a year or so of training, but everyone starts out at the beginning. Walt always gave me the feeling that I should be learning faster. I closed my eyes and focused on that inner space where the magic originates. Getting a grip on my center, I swept my senses outwards toward the storm. There was darkness behind the dust. Not night magic, but not earth magic either. It was…it was Wanderer magic.
I opened my eyes and stared at Walt. “Another Wanderer?”
“Sort of. Rowle was a Wanderer a long time ago, but he wasn’t really cut out to be a Wanderer. He went rogue, started learning night magic, and ignored Fate’s summons.”
“I thought Fate’s summons were something that couldn’t be denied.”
Walt took another swallow of his beer. “Nothing is absolute. We have free will. A Wanderer follows Fate’s callings because we need to. You’ve seen enough to know that there are things in this world that would cause incredible harm if not stopped. Man is destructive enough without the supernatural world getting involved. Do you want to see civilization toppled by those who can control the darkness?”
“What? No, of course not. I just thought that this gig was sort of compulsory, like the draft.”
Walt chuckled. “That’s not a bad analogy. Fate drafted us to be her fighters, to keep the human world free of the influences of night magic and those entities who use it.”
“Then what happened with this Rowle character?”
“I’m not sure. Verðandi never told me exactly what led to his departure from the Wanderer ranks. I know he’s old for a Wanderer. He was born in the mid 18th century, in northern Europe, and Fate called him during the American Revolution. I heard he was a German mercenary, a Hessian. Anyway, sometime after he had trained an apprentice, acquired during the War of 1812, he refused any more summons from Fate.”
“So, what’s he want with us?”
Walt took a deep pull on his beer and stared out the front windows. I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he shrugged. “That’s the question. I’ve met him a few times. He was never antagonistic, but never helpful either. He’s a bit of a mystery, but I don’t know of anything he’s done that would require Fate’s intervention. Perhaps he just wants to chat. We’ll know in a minute.”
I followed his gaze to the window as a solid black Suburban pulled to the curb. Even over the storm I could hear the deep thrum of a massive engine. I focused and studied the driver’s aura. The deep-colored aura was multi-spectrum, indicative of a magic user with not only great power, but skilled in all the disciplines. Through all the colors ran a deep vein of black.
The driver’s door opened, and a man stepped out. He was an impressive figure, a few inches over six feet and maybe two hundred pounds. The wind, which had been a gale when we arrived, swirled his shoulder-length auburn hair around his aristocratic features, but his black hat rested casually on his head. A dark great-coat covered him from neck to ankles and I could see nothing of his other clothing save for black boots that showed where he had one foot braced on the Chevy’s running board.
Rowle took a long moment to gaze up and down the street. He shut the driver’s door and patted the Suburban’s hood like you would a dog. He turned toward the wide window and met our gaze. For a few seconds we stared at each other, then Rowle raised a finger and thumb to his hat’s brim and gave a little nod. He stepped to the door.
As the door opened, Walt said, “Mind your manners with Rowle. There’s no sense in looking for a fight unless he wants one.”
“I don’t pick fights.”
Walt grinned. “Yeah, sure. Still, remember he’s old and deserving of some respect.”
“No problem.”
Rowle stopped at the bar long enough to grab a beer and then approached our table. His face wasn’t as tanned as ours. He appeared to be in his thirties and given that Walt still could pass for twenty-five, Rowle had to be seriously old. I realized with a little shock that the pockmarks on his face were not old acne scars but were actual scars from the original pox, smallpox. I had a smallpox vaccination scar on my left arm, but I’d never come across anyone who had actually suffered the disease.
“Walt, it’s been a long time. I see you’ve acquired an apprentice. What’s your name, boy?”
My jaw tightened. I hadn’t been called “boy” since before Vietnam, and it was still considered a grave insult.
“Rowle, this is Raphael,” Walt said. “Have a seat and tell us what brings you here.”
Rowle pulled out a chair, twisted it around, and sat down facing us. He leaned over the back of the chair and took a long pull from his beer. He lowered the beer and took a moment to make a face at the label. “Bah, what goes for beer these days.”
“Missing the homeland again?” Walt asked.
“Germany? No, I passed through before the last war, but it wasn’t home any longer. Did you forget I left Bavaria nearly two hundred years ago at the age of seventeen? I can scarcely remember the way it was back then.” He stared at the bottle in his hand. “But I remember the beer tasting stronger. Not like this watered down swill.”
The more he talked, the more I detected a slight accent. His English was flawless except for an occasional shortening of a word. Walt had a stronger accent and I could guess that I probably did also. I’m not sure what I expected, maybe someone using thee and thou, but I guess his language changed as everyone else’s did. Two-hundred-plus years old. Would I survive as long as he had? From everything Walt had told me, Wanderers, did not often live as long as Rowle. It was our lifestyles. We spent too much time fighting; eventually anyone can get careless, no matter how powerful you were. Then there was that golden BB the fly boys talked about in Vietnam. No matter how powerful your aircraft, how skillful the pilot, there was always the chance that a kid with a BB gun fired in the right place could bring you crashing to earth.
Walt waited patiently while Rowle ranted about the weak American beer f
or another minute. I wasn’t as patient, but as the apprentice, I could hardly tell the whiner to get over himself and tell us what he wanted.
The rant ended and Rowle took another drink from his bottle. I thought he was going to start up again, but he set the bottle down and stared directly at my mentor. “Walt, I want you to leave Fate and join me.”
I was more than a little shocked. To learn that a Wanderer could ignore Fate’s summons was one thing, but to have someone ask my mentor to ignore her call was just screwy. I mean, he was the one teaching me everything about magic, Fate, and our calling. I didn’t turn away from watching Rowle, but Walt’s response was slow in coming, and I was seriously antsy by the time he spoke. “Why would I leave one master to serve another?”
“I’m not asking you to be a servant. I’m asking you to join me. You can bring your apprentice along. Train him to be a Wanderer or be a free man, your choice,” Rowle said.
“No. We’re servants of Fate, Wanderers like so many who have come before us. It’s not a job to be turned down lightly, Rowle, regardless of how you feel about it.”
“Lightly?” There was anger in Rowle’s voice. “How can you accuse me with such a word? I had served Fate faithfully for more than half a century before I realized that serving her was a dead end. You can never stop everything, there’s always a new threat, always another flaw in reality that Fate wants to be corrected. I served her longer than you have, Walt. I think my choice deserves a better descriptor than ‘lightly’.”
Walt shrugged. “Okay, maybe lightly was not the best choice of adverbs. But just because you grew tired of the journey doesn’t mean I have.”
“Fate will use you up, just like she has so many Wanderers before.” Rowle’s voice grew softer. “You’re getting old for a Wanderer, Walt. How many more years before Raphael here has to train his own apprentice before he’s also gone ? Did he tell you, Raphael, that Wanderers seldom live past their first century? Fate’s service bears a high price. You may be mighty warriors, but not immortal warriors. I can offer both of you long lives, much longer than you would ever see as Fate’s lapdogs.”
Wanderers: Ragnarök Page 15