by Kim Fielding
Kurt had encountered and helped destroy a few demons through his work at the Bureau. He’d also met a demon who worked with—and lived with—a former Bureau agent. Sometimes the pair of them did consulting work for the Bureau, which made that particular demon an ally rather than enemy. Kurt didn’t understand how a demon could be good, but it wasn’t his place to question these things.
“Angels and demons,” Kurt prompted.
“Right. Larry wanted a part in that. He said that corporations profited from ordinary wars by selling guns and bullets and things to the government, so why couldn’t we profit too? Only, angels don’t use bullets. He wanted to create…. I never really understood what he was talking about. These things, these objects, that angels could use to destroy their enemies. Like bombs, only nothing blows up, right?”
From what Kurt had read in the files, that was a simplistic but fairly accurate analogy. Earthly weapons were useless among angels and demons, but those beings were nonetheless vulnerable to other uses of power. When that power was wielded correctly, even humans could control or destroy these creatures. The demon who sometimes helped the Bureau? He’d been held prisoner for years by human beings.
Kurt checked his watch. Although it felt as if he’d been in this room for hours, it had been less than thirty minutes. The breakfast he’d eaten at the motel restaurant sat heavily in his stomach.
“Tell me about those objects,” Kurt said.
“I don’t know enough to tell. They didn’t look like much to me—just wooden boxes with some carvings on them. Larry made them. Then we had to….” He fell silent, his lips clamped tightly together as he looked down at the floor. His long hair hid his eyes.
“You had to…?”
Hughes answered in a rough whisper that carried well in the stone-walled room. “We had to test them.”
“How?” Kurt asked, although he knew the answer. He felt a little thrill of cruelty in making Hughes spell it out.
“We couldn’t just summon up test demons, could we? Too difficult and too dangerous.” Hughes caught Kurt’s gaze. “So we tested them on people. They…. I don’t know what they do to demons, but if Larry used them the right way, they killed people. You didn’t have to point the boxes or anything. Just put one near people and… activate it. Anyone you focus on drops dead.”
“You and Krane murdered a dozen people.”
Hughes worked his jaw. “I put the boxes where he told me to. He did the rest.”
“So you were just following orders. Do you think that’s an excuse?”
“He said… he said if this worked, he could negotiate with the angels. They would give him healing powers that could save hundreds of people. Thousands, even.” Hughes had the palest skin Kurt had ever seen. He’d no doubt been fair to begin with, and he hadn’t seen the sun for a very long time. Now, though, a hectic red circle colored each cheek as if he were running a fever. His fingers moved restlessly on the scarred wooden table.
“What happened to the boxes?” Kurt asked crisply.
Now Hughes frowned. “The boxes?”
“The boxes you used to murder twelve people.”
“I don’t… I don’t know. I assumed you people destroyed them after you captured me.”
Kurt wasn’t exactly an expert on liars. It wasn’t a subject the Bureau touched on during training, probably because lying was rarely the issue when handling chupacabras, pocket dragons, and harpies. What was a vampire going to do as she stood there with blood on her fangs—claim not to be the undead? A little bit of sunshine settled that question pretty well. Despite the lack of formal training on duplicity, Kurt was an amateur student of human behavior, and he was good at recognizing when someone wasn’t playing straight. Right now, he was certain that Hughes was honestly confused.
“How many boxes did Krane make?” Kurt asked.
“Don’t know. I wasn’t a part of that bit. I was his muscle, that was all.”
“And his lover.”
Hughes glanced at Kurt’s ringless fingers. “Do you tell your girlfriend everything you do at work? Are you going to get home when you’re done with me and give her all the details about this fucking prison and about the filthy scum you had to interview? I’m sure you’ll snuggle down with her in your comfy bed and tell her all about demons and angels and the unlucky sod who got mixed up with it all and lost his life over it.”
“It wasn’t lack of good fortune that put you here.”
Tired of this conversation and more than tired of this awful place, Kurt spent a good five minutes silently staring at Hughes and his bowed head—which might have been penitent but was likely only defiance. Sea monsters didn’t seem so bad anymore. He would have welcomed fresh, damp air on his face and the scent of salt on his skin.
“Why are you asking about the fucking boxes?” Hughes finally asked.
“The Bureau did destroy several of them when it destroyed Krane.” He looked for a flinch from Hughes and was mildly surprised when it didn’t come. “We understand three of them were wrecked prior to that, during your testing.”
Hughes gave him a quick glance. “Yeah. Before Larry got them right, they’d go all twisty when he tried to use them.”
“Much like your victims.”
Hughes did twitch at that, which was interesting. But rather than pressing the point, Kurt moved on. “A few months ago, a white supremacist attempted to incinerate a synagogue in Boise. He apparently didn’t know what he was doing, fortunately, and all he managed was to set himself on fire. The investigation revealed that he used a device very much like—if not identical to—the ones you and Krane used.” That investigation had also led to the discovery of two unused boxes and the imprisonment of several of the dead Nazi’s best friends. Kurt wasn’t at all sad about that last part.
“Boise,” Hughes said carefully.
“You and Krane spent some time there.”
“Yes.”
“Quite a coincidence.”
Hughes licked his lips nervously. “You think he left some boxes there and those assholes got hold of them.”
“Seems likely.”
“Shit.” Hughes let out a noisy sigh. “Well, I’m already here. If you’re not going to execute me, I don’t know what else you could do to me.”
Kurt narrowed his eyes. “You think your existence is miserable now, but it could be worse. You could never be allowed outdoors again. We could permanently take away your TV and books. There’s a whole world of worse we could inflict on you.”
“Please.” Hughes eyes had grown large and his breaths ragged. He tugged at his wrist cuffs. “Please don’t. They’re all I— I’d rather be dead.”
And now it was time to ease back. “I didn’t come here because we want to punish you. I came for information.”
“What? I don’t know anything!” Hughes’s pupils were wide with panic, and his chair creaked as he tried to lean away. He was a trapped animal.
This wasn’t Kurt’s first visit to the prison. He’d come here twice before when he was new to the Bureau and was one of several agents escorting a newly captured inmate. Perhaps both of those prisoners were still here. In fact, they likely were—nobody got released from this place except by death. After the second time, Kurt had confronted Townsend.
“What the hell’s the point?” he had demanded. That was back when his edges were still raw, when he either grabbed things with desperation or rejected them with force. He hadn’t settled into complacency yet.
“The point of what?” Townsend had asked with a jocular smile. They’d been seated in his office with his yellowing newspaper articles and the haze of cigarette smoke.
“Locking them up like that. Kill ’em if they’re dangerous. Ignore them if they’re not. Isn’t that easier?”
“Perhaps. But there are gradations of danger, and not every hazardous creature—or hazardous person—deserves death.”
“But what are their lives worth, locked up in cages? No future. No hope.” In retrospect, it was Ku
rt’s newfound hope that had probably fueled this discussion to begin with. That hadn’t occurred to him then, however.
Townsend had hauled himself out of his chair and crossed to the window. HQ was still downtown then, and he had a view of the skyscrapers under construction on Bunker Hill. He spoke with his back to Kurt. “It’s not our place to judge the worth of someone else’s existence, boy. Every person must decide for himself whether his life has value, and if not, what he intends to do about it.” He’d turned to pin Kurt in place with his sharp gaze. “Isn’t this so?”
Now in the prison again, this time to interrogate rather than transport, Kurt wondered about Hughes’s life. Books. A little bit of television. A few minutes outside under the stars. Apparently those things were sufficient for Hughes to want to continue. By comparison, Kurt possessed so much.
Hughes was still frantic, so Kurt pitched his voice low and slow. “We believe we’ve found and destroyed all the boxes you left in Idaho.”
“All the boxes Krane left.” Hughes calmed a bit as he uttered his denial, but his cheeks remained flushed.
“We believe now that Boise wasn’t the only place he stashed those boxes. If more of them remain, they pose a risk. We need to nullify that risk. So you need to tell me where the other boxes are.”
Hughes went very still. The color drained from his face, leaving him so shockingly white that Kurt was afraid he might pass out. “Oh God. There’s more?”
Either Hughes was an excellent actor, which Kurt doubted, or he had no idea Krane had left more boxes. Shit. That meant the Bureau was screwed. If nobody else on the planet knew where the fucking things might be, anyone could stumble onto them. They were potentially dangerous even for the innocent—and catastrophic for those with a little understanding and evil intentions.
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know,” Hughes whispered. His eyes had gone flat and lifeless.
But Kurt wasn’t willing to waste this trip out into the godforsaken desert. He clicked his pen a few times as he thought. “Let’s try this. Around the time Krane was creating the boxes, the two of you were moving around a lot, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“Fine. Then give me a list of everywhere you lived between ’74 and when you were caught in ’76. Be as specific as possible.”
As it turned out, Hughes was able to list thirteen towns and cities. He was fairly certain he’d remembered them all, but he could recall only a couple of addresses. For the remaining places, he gave vague descriptions of hotels, apartments, and houses. Probably not enough to do the Bureau any good, but that wasn’t Kurt’s problem. He’d fulfilled today’s mission.
As Kurt tucked away his notebook and pen and then stood and stretched, Hughes drooped in his seat, his hair obscuring his face. Kurt couldn’t tell whether he was exhausted or despairing. Maybe both. Kurt strode to the door but paused before knocking to be released. “Thank you for the information.”
Hughes lifted his head. “I haven’t told you where the boxes are.”
“No. But I think you’ve told me everything you know.”
“You’re not going to take away my books? And the other things?”
“No. You’ve cooperated today.” And… shit. Unwelcome pity filled Kurt’s heart, because Hughes had done some ugly fucking things, but he’d been paying for those things. And he’d continue paying for the rest of his life. “Actually, I’m going to talk to the chief. See if we can get you a little more to read.” The files had said Hughes was allowed five books at once and received replacements only monthly. That didn’t seem like much for a guy who had few other ways to occupy his time.
Hughes blinked at him. “You’d do that?”
“I can try. Can’t promise you anything.”
“Thank you, Agent Powell.”
They looked at each other for just a moment. Then Kurt pounded on the door.
Chapter Seven
It could have been a lie. Des thought about that while the guards unfastened him from the table and led him down the long corridors, and even as they performed a humiliating body cavity search at the entrance to his cell—as if they honestly believed a Bureau agent had smuggled contraband in for him. Des continued thinking about it as he stood in front of his concrete shelf and stroked the well-worn spines of his current books.
It was unlikely that Powell would ask about getting him more books. Why would he? And in the event that he did ask, the request would certainly be denied.
But even if Powell had lied, Des decided, it was done without any intent to harm. It was arguably even a kindness, giving him something to look forward to without guaranteeing the promise would come through. And Jesus, there had been so few kindnesses in Des’s life.
Abandoning his pitiful library, Des sat on his mattress, the blanket draped over his shoulders. Judging from the angry state of his stomach, he’d missed lunch. He hoped dinner wasn’t too far off.
He considered taking a nap. It would allow him to forget about his hunger for a time. And besides, the interview had exhausted him. It had been his first real conversation with anyone other than the prison doctor in…. Shit. In seventeen years. And it had been an emotional whirlwind, hadn’t it?
He generally tried very hard not to think about Larry and the boxes and the things they’d done with them. Even when he tried to avoid the memories, they clawed at him like rats in the darkness, and now Powell had brought those nightmares into the full light of day and given them fresh strength. The screams. And, God, the smell.
Des was suddenly thankful his stomach was empty.
When he was reasonably sure he wasn’t going to puke, Des pulled the blanket more tightly around himself. Once Larry had been killed and Des taken into custody—another memory he tried to repress—he hadn’t given a moment’s thought to the possibility that more boxes might exist. Bureau agents had interrogated him for days but only about what had already happened. They hadn’t asked whether Larry left more boxes behind, and if they had asked, Des would have told them he didn’t know. Because he didn’t. Larry had been sparing with the information he shared, and Des, God help him, had never pushed to get more.
Because you knew in your heart that what he was doing was wrong.
Funny. The disapproving voice in Des’s head was always his mam’s, even though he hadn’t heard her speak since a telephone conversation in 1965. His twelfth birthday—two years after he’d been sent to America—and his foster parents had allowed him to call all the way to Ireland. She’d told him she loved him and she hoped to see him soon, but it had been a short talk. Long distance was expensive.
Since then a great many people had told him what a bag of shite he was, yet somehow Mam’s voice was the one that remained to scold him.
Larry hadn’t mentioned the location of any boxes, so Des hadn’t had any reason to wonder whether they existed. Now it turned out they did exist and, as a result, more innocent people had almost died. And others remained at risk if boxes remained stashed elsewhere, waiting to be discovered by fools or villains.
That’s not your problem, baby. Larry’s voice this time. He’d used pet names like that for Des—baby, kiddo, darling, sweetheart, honey—and Des, who’d never been addressed by endearments before, had taken them as signs of love. Let those Bureau assholes find the boxes if they can. That’s their job, isn’t it? What do you care what happens outside the shithole they’ve sealed you up in?
Right. What did Des care?
He curled up on the mattress and tried to nap, but the room’s bright lights made that impossible even with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He made a final effort to push Larry and his cursed boxes out of his head. That was only partially successful because Agent Powell slipped in to take their place.
Even though Powell hadn’t been loud or overtly intimidating, he had a certain presence. He was intelligent, that much was obvious, and Des suspected those sharp eyes had seen a great deal over the years. He’d been persistent and had let Des know he meant b
usiness, but he hadn’t really been cruel. Yes, his talk about taking away Des’s few pleasures had been terrifying as hell. But Powell hadn’t lingered on the threat and he’d backed away from it as soon as Des did his best to cooperate.
Another thing: Powell hadn’t said a single harsh word about Des being gay. The agents who’d taken him into custody had called him all kinds of names. It was almost as if they were more offended that he was sleeping with a man than that he was sleeping with a murderer. But Powell didn’t seem to care that Des used to fuck men. Maybe times had changed since Des was sent to prison; his television shows were too few to give him sufficient perspective on the outer world. Or maybe Powell wasn’t the sort to judge someone over the gender of his lover.
Powell was likely a good man. Des wondered what it felt like to know you were on the right side of moral battles and were helping people instead of simply helping yourself.
But even as Des considered that, he was helping himself—in a very specific way. He’d unfastened most of the buttons on his jumpsuit and worked his hand inside, where it now stroked his stiffening cock.
After he’d gotten over the shock of watching Larry die and being sent to a cage for the rest of his own life, Des had wanked often. He was a healthy young man, and there was little else to occupy his time since he hadn’t yet discovered the temporary escape of books. Sometimes he’d get off three or four times a day. He had no privacy, of course, with cameras watching him even then, and a few of the guards had mocked him over it. But at least he hadn’t been forbidden his hand jobs, so he’d continued the practice with enthusiasm. For a while.
As he grew older, he indulged less often, tired of his own touch, his unwashed body, and his faded fantasies. Nowadays almost the only time he touched his dick was when he pissed or showered.