Queen of wands

CHAPTER FIVE

“Oh, thank God we’re here!” Kurt gasped as Barbara came to a screeching halt at the guarded entrance. The drive had been short but traffic had been heavy. Normally, it would have been quicker to walk with the jammed cars on US 27.

But any belief that Kurt retained that he’d been landed with Suzy Soccer Mom was disabused by the drive. Much of it had been in the oncoming lanes, or turn lanes, or in one case, slightly on the sidewalk. The opposite sidewalk.

It wasn’t that Barbara drove badly. It was that she drove like a cop. One in a hurry and with enormous ability behind the wheel.

“What’s wrong?” Barb asked, hitting the window switch and smiling at the frowning corrections guard manning the gate. “We got here in one piece.”

“You are insane, Madame,” Kurt replied. “Kurt Spornberger, FBI,” he continued, holding out his ID. “This is Barbara Everette, a contractor with us.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard said, hitting the control to open the gate. “Try to keep it down on the campus, ma’am.”

“Will do,” Barb said.

“Next time, I drive,” Kurt said as Barb hunted for an open visitor’s parking space.

“Like I’d let anybody else drive me,” Barb said.

Moccasin Bend Mental Health Facility was a sprawling set of brick buildings originally founded in 1961, located across the river from the downtown area. It served twenty-eight counties in the area as a regional inpatient care facility.

Barb…didn’t like Moccasin Bend. She wasn’t “open” to Sight at the moment, but she didn’t have to be to feel the malevolence of the area. The entire place was just…weird. The buildings were straight out of a horror movie and the layout was decidedly odd. She looked at the map again and realized that the buildings were laid out in a sign she’d only seen once in her “catch-up” research. Specifically, in a grimoire that was kept under lock and key at the Foundation.

“This place is unhealthy as…hell,” Barb said, looking around the parking lot. “Nearly literally. I mean really, really bad.”

“You’re serious?” Kurt said, grinning nervously.

“ Bad bad,” Barb said. “Bad on toast. Like, my first instinct is to burn it down and kill everyone near it.”

“Don’t,” Kurt said. “I know you’re covered for stuff, but that would be pretty hard to cover up.”

“Seriously bad,” Barb said, taking a deep breath. “Makes me want to scream…”

“The patient exhibits many classic signs of psychosis with, however, some idiosyncratic additions,” Dr. Downing said.

Oddly enough, it was the same doctor who had been treating Janea. Now that Barb knew he was associated with this mental facility, she intended to get him unassociated as fast as possible.

The patient was restrained. Tightly. Barb was familiar with restraints, having spent some time under them herself after her first encounter with a demon and before Augustus pulled some strings to get her out of psychiatric care. But the ones they’d used on her were light compared to what they had on the young man in the bed.

“How idiosyncratic?” Barb asked, disturbed by the sight of the otherwise healthy young man’s condition.

“Most patients in this type of condition tend to bite,” Dr. Downing said, pulling out a probe. “Most of those, however, do not tend to swallow whatever they bite off. These patients do. And, observe,” he continued, pressing the probe into the base of Darren’s foot.

“I didn’t see anything,” Kurt said. “Except him continuing to…”

“Writhe,” Barb finished.

“You should have,” the psychiatrist said. “That should have elicited a pain response, even in a patient suffering from psychosis. A yell, a howl, some type of response. And,” he continued, pulling out a small rubber mallet. “Observe.”

He tapped the subject just below his knee and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m pretty sure his leg didn’t twitch,” Barb said, frowning. “He should have had an involuntary movement, a reflex response. Right?”

“Correct,” the doctor said, smiling as if at a marginally bright student. “No reflex responses, no pain responses, but their autonomic nervous systems continue to function, they breathe, their hearts beat and they have control over their voluntary muscles. But, if I were to remove the restraints and let him walk, you would observe that his motions are powerful but uncoordinated in the extreme.”

“I…need to check something,” Barb said, then frowned. “I take it that anything that goes on in here is confidential?”

“Yes,” Dr. Downing said, frowning in turn. “What sort of examination?”

“One that’s going to make you shake your head and wonder if the Bureau is going nuts,” Kurt said. “And one that you’re not going to comment on under any circumstances. Under the Uniform Federal Code Section Eighteen. In a real and legally binding sense.”

“Oh,” Dr. Downing said. “O…kay?”

“It won’t take a moment,” Barb said. She hated to Open in this place, but it was going to be necessary. Because there was something screaming at her about the patient. He looked healthy enough at first glance, but something was…screaming.

She laid her hand on his brow, careful to avoid the gnashing teeth, then Opened up her Sight.

The first thing she noticed was, in fact, the neurologist. His aura was as black as the ace of spades. She saw him tense and looked over with a thin, fierce grin.

“Okay, I suppose this isn’t quite as unusual as I’d have thought for you,” Barb said.

“What…are you?” Downing asked, carefully.

“As it turns out, your worst nightmare,” Barb replied. She reached for the soul of the afflicted and paused. “Jesus Christ,” she said, softly.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to curse,” Kurt said.

“That wasn’t a curse, Special Agent,” Barb said. “That was a prayer. This person is dead.”

“Dead?” Dr. Downing said, snorting. “I can assure you, as a physician-”

“With what’s riding you, there’s no way that you heal,” Barb said. “So calling yourself a physician, Doctor, is a stretch. Research. Poke. Prod. Possibly advance science. But that…thing in you isn’t going to allow you to ever heal. And when I said this person was dead, I was very specific. This…thing has no soul. None. No ka. No ba. It is a walking dead thing.”

“Zombie?” Kurt said. “Please, not zombies.”

“Not the movie zombie,” Barb said. “I’m not sure what it is or how it was created. But this person has no more soul than a rock. How it’s continuing to exist is a real question. There is power coming from somewhere that is continuing to give it the semblance of life.” She stepped back and started to close down. Then, just as an exercise, she fully Opened her Power.

Dr. Downing immediately took an involuntary step backwards and grunted. In the distance, one of the patients started howling, setting off others.

“What just happened?” Kurt asked, looking around.

“ That is what I am, Doctor,” Barb said. “Is that clear enough for you?”

What was clear was that it wasn’t simply the neurologist that inflicted the place. It stank with evil, and shadows filled every corner.

“Yes,” the doctor said in a strained voice.

“God has given me the grace to be His sword upon this land, Doctor,” Barb said, softly. “Your Master cannot prevail against me, for I wear the armor of righteousness, and the power of the Lord is held in both right hand and left. So fill us in and quit playing power games. I have neither the time nor the patience, and this place quite frankly wants me here slightly less than I want to stay.”

“I have a short video I’d like to show you.”

The video started with Darren apparently asleep in the traditional rubber room. He was slumped in one corner, his mouth open and flaccid but his limbs twitching.

“I thought these things were a myth,” Kurt said, looking at the view.

“They are not a preferred environment,” Dr. Downing said. He’d managed to calm down a bit on the walk to the meeting room and was still trying for suave and debonair. However, he was keeping the special agent between himself and Barbara.

“But there are conditions in which they are useful. Such as this one. I wanted to observe his actions under a variety of stimuli, and given the reports of his admission, I was unwilling to do so outside of a controlled environment. He was heavily sedated when placed in the room, and the first part is rather boring. I’ll fast forward.”

The digital file skipped forward until, in fast motion, Darren lurched to his feet and started walking.

“There,” the doctor said. “Note the nature of the motion.”

“He looks like a zombie,” Kurt said, his brow furrowing. “Christ, why’d it have to be zombies?”

“Yes,” Dr. Downing said, smiling faintly. “He does, doesn’t he? Arms extended, although more to the side than the traditional zombie look. And that would be why?”

“His balance,” Barb said, nodding. “He’s got real balance problems.”

“Due to the lack of reflex,” Dr. Downing said. “It gives him the equivalent of an inner-ear infection, and he uses his arms to maintain his balance.”

Barbara leaned into the video and nodded.

“His lips are moving,” she said. “Is there audio?”

“There is,” the doctor said, turning it on.

The syllables were harsh and guttural, mixed with moans and occasional shrieks.

“It appears to be random babble,” the psychiatrist said. “Not entirely idiosyncratic, but uncommon. Normally the patient would be speaking recognizable words but disconnected in syntax. Along with occasional disconnected threats or pleas.”

“I’m not sure that’s babble,” Barb said, listening for a moment longer. “Get me a copy of the audio file. Actually, copies of the audio and video.”

“Of course,” Dr. Downing said, fast forwarding again. “However, after this had gone on for some time, I sent in guards to restrain him again. And…watch.”

The two guards entered fast when Darren’s back was turned. They were wearing some sort of full-coverage white body armor including helmets and gloves. They looked like they were suited up to work with an attack dog. They also carried clear plastic shields, and one of them was carrying an air injector presumably filled with a tranquilizer.

A third guard shut the door when they were barely in the room, but before they could even approach the subject, Darren turned, showing more coordination than had previously been evident, and charged, screaming a ululating cry of what sounded like rage and pain. He hit the shield of the guard with the syringe so hard the man was thrown off his feet, and the patient fell on top of him, screaming and scrabbling to get past the shield.

The guard flipped the syringe out from under the pile and the second guard picked it up quickly then fell onto the patient, pinning him between the two guards and injecting him in the back of the neck.

“And that’s about it,” Dr. Downing said, turning off the video. “The patient is fast and strong beyond the norm, but very clumsy. In part, I believe, because of the lack of reflex response. The patient’s balance is particularly bad probably because, at some level, he has to think about standing up. It’s notable that when the patient has had to be…restrained, he falls down quickly and tends to fight on the ground. The precise symptoms have never been recorded in literature. I’m considering doing a paper on them. It’s possible it may be an entirely new psychiatric condition. If so, I’ll have to name it.”

“Chattanooga Zombieitis?” Kurt asked.

“Thank you for your input,” Dr. Downing said dryly. “But…no. Among other things, ‘itis’ is the suffix for irritation and swelling.”

“Neurological indications?” Barb asked. “For laymen?”

“Due to the nature of the problem, we were, fortunately, able to fund a full neurological workup,” Dr. Downing said. “Various tests I won’t detail. Certain neurotransmitters appear to be out of sync as well as various hormones. Testosterone and adrenaline levels are abnormally high, for example. Dopamine levels as well. Which may explain the lack of reflex response. Glutamate appears to be inhibited and certain portions of the brain are acting in uncharacteristic ways. Mid- and rear-brain activity is overexcited, while forebrain activity is virtually quiescent. The medulla in some of the older patients appears to actually be swelled. We’re monitoring that because we’re afraid that if the condition progresses it will lead to death.”

“Forebrain is conscious thought,” Barb said musingly. “Mid-brain is sort of higher animal, the puppy brain, and rear brain is the old animal, the lizard hindbrain.”

“In layman’s terms, more or less,” Dr. Downing said.

“So…they’re thinking like animals?” Kurt asked.

“I would hate to put it that way in any sort of report,” the neurologist said. “But…yes. Very angry and vicious ones.”

“What about treatment?” Kurt asked.

“So far there doesn’t seem to be one,” the neurologist said. He seemed indifferent to the possibility.

“Trust me, Kurt,” Barb said. “These things are beyond treatment. Not. Alive. Take my word for it.”

“Wait,” Kurt said, his brow furrowing. “PCP is a glutamate inhibitor. Right?”

“An NMDA uptake inhibitor,” the doctor corrected. “But it has the practical effect.”

“So it’s like they’re on PCP?” Kurt asked. “Sort of PCP zombies. Ouch.”

“Again, I did not say it,” the psychiatrist said. “But the effects have some similarity to PCP overdose. That was the initial finding of the admitting doctors. But it’s not PCP. What it is, we’re unsure. As I said, psychotic break, homicidal, cause unknown.”

“Double ouch,” Kurt said. “Cannibalistic PCP zombies.”

“And I don’t think that will be in any reports, either,” Barb said, nodding. “Good summation. That’s enough.” She looked at Downing and snorted.

“I don’t know exactly why you let that thing ride you, but you did. And apparently with some understanding of what you were doing. It wasn’t a good choice. It wasn’t even an intelligent choice. But it was a choice. And for that, Doctor, you are damned.” She chuckled and shook her head. “Literally, not figuratively. How you could have been that stupid, I don’t know. I’ll just mention, in passing, that Jesus is pretty forgiving. If you can get your head around getting that…thing out of you, you might just be forgiven. On the other hand, if you keep on your current path, you’re choosing one life of whatever it gives you in exchange for eternal torment. Again, your choice. But I’d suggest that you start thinking about alternatives.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Downing said, frowning slightly.

“Me, I’d damn you and be done with it,” Barb said. “But I tend to be rather Old Testament. Jesus is the forgiving one.”

“So,” Barb said as they headed back to the office. “Tell me about PCP. You said you were a street cop once, right? Ever deal with it?”

“Rarely,” Kurt said, holding onto the door handle as Barb weaved through traffic. “It’s not as big as it was in the eighties. When something gets a bad street rep you know it’s bad. But, yeah, I had to handle a couple of guys on it.”

“How bad?” Barb asked, slipping into a narrow gap between a semi in the left lane and the truck ahead of her in the right. “I hate semis that go slow in the left lane and just barely pass other trucks.”

“Pretty bad,” Kurt squeaked. “They don’t feel any pain so when you hit them with a K-11 it’s like you might as well not even bother. They’ll dislocate their own bones if you put them in a lock. You pin them to the ground and they end up doing one-handed cop push-ups. They get ahold of you, and you’d better have some good escape techniques. They bite like nobody’s business. Lost a chunk of flesh on my forearm to one. You start to recognize the signs after a while and call for backup if you’ve got time. The best bet is to do a Rodney King on their ass, but departments frown on that. And, hell, hitting a guy on PCP with truncheons just pisses him off. You get enough Tasers on one, you can knock him out. That’s about your best bet, five or six Tasers more or less simultaneously. And hope he’s got a good heart.”

“Don’t have to worry about killing these things,” Barb said. “They’re not human anymore.”

“You think you’re going to find anything in here?” Kurt said, setting down another stack of folders.

“I have no clue,” Barb replied. “I hope so.”

“Because one thing you’ve probably noticed is that these attacks have been getting closer and closer together,” Kurt said. “The first one that we’ve pinpointed as being similar in nature was two years ago. Then a year after that. Then three months. Then four in the last six. The last three in the last two months. That’s when we got called in.”

“I’ve noticed the pattern,” Barb said. “I’m looking for any indication of what may be causing it.”

“That’s what over a dozen agents have been doing for the last two months,” Kurt pointed out.

“They weren’t looking for what I’m looking for,” Barb said. “Most of this seems to be looking for an environmental cause. A drug that’s not detected by the usual tox screen. Some environmental toxin they’ve been exposed to. You’re not going to find a mystic cause by taking a surface swab. The good news is, it’s not movie zombieitis.”

“That would be bad,” Kurt said. “You’re sure they’re zombies?”

“That or something damned close,” Barb said. “Did they go nuts then lose their souls? I suspect it’s the other way around.”

“So what are you looking for?” Kurt asked.

“I’m not sure,” Barb admitted. “Patterns that normal investigators would dismiss. Unfortunately, so far I’m going over tilled ground. All males in their twenties.”

“Tilled,” Kurt said.

“So I’ve noticed,” Barb replied dryly. “Mostly students at the University of Tennessee, Chattanooga branch. All residents of the Chattanooga area. But none of them from the same area of Chattanooga.”

“UTC is a commuter college,” Kurt said. “Most of the students don’t live on campus. They’re making more dorms but it’s still mostly commuters. That’s just FYI.”

“Thanks,” Barb said. “Some of the information I need about them isn’t even in these files. The investigators talked to people who knew them, but they weren’t asking the right questions. I need to…talk to some of the same people.”

“Most of them lived with their parents,” Kurt said.

“And most of them went to school in the area,” Barb said. “I think it might be better ground to talk to people who knew them for a while but are less…disinterested than parents. I need to know who these guys really are, not what their parents want people to think they are. Were. Religious or atheist, subculture…”

“Teachers?” Kurt asked. “Fellow students?”

“Guidance counselors.”

Karen Gill was medium height with long, dark hair, a lined, tan face and bright black eyes. The guidance counselor’s office was small and cluttered, with the most notable feature being a large inspirational poster on the wall of a man standing on a mountaintop. The title was “Success,” and the inspirational quote was “Success means knowing who you are.”

Barb was not much given to cynicism, but she wondered if the counselor considered her life a success.

“Darren was not a natural student,” the guidance counselor said, sitting in her chair after ensuring her guests did not want drinks. “He struggled through his courses. I give him credit for his efforts in that regard.”

“Ms. Gill,” Barb said carefully. “Darren is currently in long-term psychiatric care for attempting to eat another person. He is but one of seven recent cases of similar problems. We are trying to prevent a reoccurrence and, if possible, find what happened to him so that doctors may be able to give him a normal life. I’m afraid we really do need something besides ‘He was a nice boy and not a natural student.’”

“I am an accredited psychological counselor,” Ms. Gill said, making a face. “Communications with my clients are privileged.”

“Can you tell us anything that is not from a counseling session?” Barb asked. “Was he counseled frequently?”

“As an alternative, we could come back with a court order,” Kurt said. “I’m not making a threat; I’m just saying if that would help…”

“No,” the counselor said, sighing. “The thing is…I’m trying to balance my professional distance with my…personal distaste.”

“Oh?” Barb said, raising her eyebrows. “For Darren?”

“Yes,” Ms. Gill admitted. “I did counsel Darren on a number of occasions but never with much success. I won’t delve into those discussions absent a court order, and I don’t think I need to. The truth is, I counseled his…victims far more often than he.”

“Victims?” Kurt said, pulling out a notebook.

“Not physical,” Ms. Gill said, then shrugged. “Well, in two cases physical. Darren…Darren was a bully. From what I’ve gleaned from talking to his earlier counselors, he had been since he was a child. He was always picking on other children and intimidating them. We try to keep physical violence to the minimum in school, but kids learn early that if you stand up to a bully they don’t always back down. In two cases, when he was a freshman here, he got into fights. He was suspended for both. The second one, he was very nearly charged with assault. I call them fights but what they were were massacres. In the second case he beat a sophomore boy to the point I felt he should be sent to the hospital to be checked. The principal…overruled me on that, so he was treated by the school nurse. Jacob’s parents didn’t press charges when Darren was suspended.

“He was somewhat larger than the majority of the freshmen, or even seniors, and very…well, he was just nasty. Mean as they come. Being more professional, Darren had anger management issues. But from the description of his actions on the news, his actions go so far beyond that, it is hard to believe.”

“But he wasn’t just some nice boy?” Barb asked. “That is certainly the indication I’ve had from his records. I’ve even looked at clips about him on the TV. That was sort of the theme. ‘He was a nice, normal kid.’”

“No,” Ms. Gill said, taking a sip of herbal tea. “He was not a nice boy. He was on the basketball team in freshman year and got benched for the last half of the season since he almost invariably fouled out. He was a decent football player, but only on defense. And even then he received frequent fouls for ‘unsportsmanlike conduct.’ He was popular only to the extent he was feared. In two cases I suspect him of date rape but was unable to get the girls involved to come forward to testify or even make charges. He was a brutal, nasty, brutish bully. All that being said, killing someone and then attempting to eat them is far beyond his normal unpleasantness. Is there any indication of what caused it?”

“Not so far,” Barb said, stroking her hair in thought. “But this has been helpful. Thank you.”

“So he got into fights,” Kurt said as they drove back towards downtown. “I got into fights in school. Big deal.”

“It’s more than that,” Barb said thoughtfully. For a wonder, she was driving sedately, but that was clearly because her mind was elsewhere. “He was filled with rage. Anger, rage, except in certain specific circumstances, is a sin against God.”

“I’ve got a short temper,” Kurt said. “Does that mean I’m going to go off the deep end?”

“You have a short temper and don’t handle frustration well,” Barb said. “That is a whole other thing than going around filled with rage all the time. There are various reasons that might have caused that. Physiologically, he might have had a testosterone imbalance or even over-production of adrenaline. Environmentally, he might have been in an abusive family. Mystically, he might have already have been possessed of a demon or even carried one that was attached to the family. I have seen one report that families that have a genetic flaw for adrenaline overproduction caused by an otherwise benign tumor on the adrenaline gland also tend to carry generational rage demons. The McCoys in the Hatfield and McCoy feud have the gene. Whether the demons cause the tumor or the affinity for rage makes it a good home for a demon is a chicken or egg question. The point is that this wasn’t just some nice kid who snapped. He already had the predisposition to hurt and kill.”

“Which means…what?”

“When I figure that out, I’ll let you know,” Barb said. “Do we have Janea’s notes?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Kurt said. “She’s staying at the Fairfield Inn on Shallowford Village Drive. As far as I know, she hasn’t been checked out yet. If she stays in her current condition for another few days, the Bureau will probably clear out her room.”

“Can we get in her room?” Barb asked.

“Probably,” Kurt said. “Depends on how cooperative the hotel staff is when I flash my FBI credentials.”

“What is she wanted for?” the desk manager asked, wide-eyed. “I remember her. What is she, a bank robber or something?”

“No, actually,” Barb said. “She’s a consultant to the FBI. She was injured during an investigation and we need to see if there are any clues to how she was hurt.”

“I can open the room,” the desk clerk said, swiping a card. “But I’ll have to accompany you.”

“This is probably going to take some time,” Barb noted.

“I’ll get someone to cover for me.”

“I think somebody tossed this place,” Kurt said, going on guard. There were suitcases covering half the bed, all the other horizontal surfaces, and a good bit of the floor. Clothing was scattered everywhere up to and including hanging on the bedframe, the TV, chairs and even a light fixture.

“No, this is just Janea’s idea of housekeeping,” Barb replied. “It always looks this way. She throws random stuff into random suitcases, lots of them, and can never find what she wants, so she throws the stuff in every direction looking for her other shoe. And then complains when she can’t find what she’s thrown around. Sharing a room with her is beyond a pain.”

“Finding anything in here is going to be beyond a pain,” Kurt said. “But I suppose we have to look. How does she keep records?”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Here’s something interesting,” Barb said.

They’d been picking through the detritus of Janea’s life on the road for three hours. A notebook with some notes on the investigation had been found under a pile of dirty laundry. Unfortunately, it only had a few brief entries dated to the first two days Janea had been in town. There were good notes for the first few minutes of her in-brief, after which they were mainly on the subject of the personality and dress failures of the briefers. One of the entries was about a cute guy she’d seen at a coffee shop. Another was on the quality of shopping at the local mall. There was nothing to indicate that she’d actually been investigating anything, but the mall was one of the noted overlap points.

“What?” Kurt asked, tossing another pair of underwear into a growing pile. He’d decided the only way to make sense of anything was to sort the room and had been hard at it, occasionally gulping when he ran across something extremely personal, for the last hour.

“It’s a card from a paranormal society,” Barb said. “Tennessee Area Ghost Hunters. Hugh Yeaton, Senior Investigator.”

“Any number of reasons she’d have that,” Kurt said, wincing and placing a very odd-looking device in his “very odd-looking devices” pile. “She might have called them to find out if they had any leads.”

“We try really hard not to get involved with any of these guys,” Barb said, placing the card on the notebook. “Most of them are kooks and wannabes. And a goodly number of the ones that can actually sense stuff get their powers from the wrong side of the street, if you take my meaning.”

“Hey, aren’t those the guys who have got a TV show?” Kurt asked, lifting up a piece of clothing and considering it. “I have no clue which pile this should go in. It gets a pile of its own.”

“I dunno,” Barb said. “I don’t watch much TV.”

“It’s on A amp;U,” Kurt said, distantly. “I’m not sure I want to know what this is for…”

“Well, it’s the only thing we’ve got from this mess,” Barb replied. “But we’ll check it out later. We’re missing something.”

“You always are,” Kurt said, sighing. “It’s why the Monday morning quarterbacking you get from stuff like Congressional investigations is so stupid. Sure, all the data is there, and in hindsight it all makes sense. But when you’re looking at it, it’s just mush.”

“What do we know?” Barb said, leaning back on the dresser and closing her eyes. “Janea was found in Coolidge Park.”

“Over on North Shore,” Kurt said, nodding. “But that’s a dry hole. No actual connections to that immediate area. And her car was on the other side of the river. Which means she probably took the walking bridge over the river. But we interviewed everyone we could find in the area and nobody saw her crossing. Either way.”

“But that’s where she was,” Barb said. “On the North Shore. She was conscious, then. But already incoherent. Probably already on the Paths but sort of functional to move in the mundane world. So it couldn’t have happened far from where she was picked up. We need to pay a visit to Mr. Yeaton.”

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Kurt said, holding out his ID. “We’re looking for Hugh Yeaton.”

The address listed on the business card had led them to a suburban two-story house in a working-class neighborhood in East Ridge and, presumably, the lady of the house. The thin, dark-haired woman looked at the ID suspiciously, then sighed.

“I’m sure whatever it is, officer…” she said.

“We just need to ask him some questions about a case we’re working on,” Kurt said, smiling. “He’s not in any trouble. Honest.”

“He’s at work,” the woman said. “Bennington Subdivision, Lot Fourteen.”

“Oh,” Kurt said, nodding. “Thank you for your help.”

“He’s not in any trouble, right?”

The woman seemed ambiguous about the question, as if she half hoped that he might be.

“None that I know of,” Kurt said, shrugging.

“Well, this is odd,” Barb said as she pulled up to the indicated lot. Bennington Subdivision, Lot Fourteen, was a partially constructed residence. Currently, it was just being framed.

“It’s got to be the right guy,” Kurt said, looking at the card again.

“We’ll see,” Barb said.

“Hugh Yeaton?” Kurt shouted.

The shout was necessary because the man they’d been directed to was operating a power saw, cutting a long rip in a strand of plywood.

“What?” the man shouted, holding one hand to his ear. The carpenter was burly and had a sour expression on his face. He also clearly was enjoying messing with the “suits” by continuing to operate the saw.

“FBI,” Kurt shouted, holding out his badge. “Want to shut that off?”

“Sorry,” the man said, turning off the saw. “What do you need?”

“Are you Hugh Yeaton?” Kurt asked.

“Yes,” the man said, somewhat nervously.

“Then we have what we need.”

“Yeah, I remember her,” Yeaton said, taking a drink of Gatorade. “Hot redhead, right?”

“That would be Janea,” Barb said. “Where’d you meet her?”

“When we went out for the Art District investigation,” Hugh said. “She was walking around when we showed up. It was after most of the stuff had closed, so that was a little strange. You know, young woman, by herself, dark streets…”

“I doubt Janea was much worried,” Barb said dryly.

“Kinda got that impression,” Hugh said. “One of the team, Pete Crockett, kind of latched onto her. Since Pete’s about as straight as a hula hoop, it wasn’t ’cause he was hitting on her or anything. We’d been looking for a new researcher, and when I was talking to her, it was apparent she knew her occult lore. I said if she was interested to give me a call.”

“Art District?” Barb asked.

“It’s a collection of museums and shops downtown by the river,” Kurt said. “Old houses. It’s supposed to be haunted. Nice place. Great restaurants, and Rembrandt’s is to die for.”

“Yeah,” Yeaton said, frowning. “You’ve clearly never been there after everything shut down. I hate to ever admit anything’s haunted. It’s what makes us different from most of the paranormal groups out there. But if there’s any place I’ve ever visited that has…some sort of not-normal activity, it’s the Art District.”

“Where is it?”

“Across the river from Coolidge Park, come to think of it,” Kurt said, nodding. “Near where her car was parked. What day was this?”

“Sixteenth of March,” Yeaton said. “She left when Rembrandt’s closed.”

“That’s ten days before she was attacked,” Barb said.

“She got attacked?” Yeaton said. “One of these damned Madness things?”

“Not…directly,” Barb said. “She…I take it you’re somewhat familiar with the supernatural, Mr. Yeaton.”

“Depends,” he said, looking at her suspiciously. “I’ve seen a couple of things over the years that are hard to explain.”

“She’s currently in something like a coma,” Barb said. “But not a coma. She just won’t wake up. Are you familiar with the term ka?”

“Sure,” Yeaton said. “And I don’t believe in it. If I can’t measure it, it’s myth, not science.”

“Well, be that as it may,” Barb said, smiling, “her ka was stripped and is lost on the Paths. I’m trying to find out who or what did that to her.”

“Well, if that search leads you to the Art District after closing time, you’d better be a pretty steady person,” Yeaton said. “Because that place scared the crap out of me. And I don’t scare easy. I’ve got work to do. Is there anything else?”

“No,” Kurt said, handing Yeaton his card. “If you think of anything else or hear anything you think we should know, please call me. This does have to do with the Madness investigations.”

“Hmmm…” Yeaton said, looking at the card. “You might want to come by my place. I’m pretty busy with work and the investigations but…Say, Friday afternoon? I’ve got some stuff you might want to look over.”

“Okay,” Kurt said. “Around seven?”

“Works.”

“Where to now?” Kurt asked.

“I’m drawing a blank,” Barb said, looking at the papers on her lap. “I think we need to interview the cops that found Janea.”

“I’ll get ahold of them,” Kurt said.

“What’s the FBI doing out after dark?” the police officer asked as Kurt slid into the booth.

The City Cafe, Chattanooga, was part of a small chain in the area. The cafes delivered and had one of the largest menus in the world. Everything from pizza to omelets, passing through Greek, Italian and various American dishes, was available. Twenty-four hours a day. Which meant it was the pit stop of choice for Chattanooga PD.

“Hi, Teach,” Kurt said as Barbara slid in next to him. “This is Mrs. Everette. She’s consulting on the Madness cases. She’s the replacement for the lady you found in Coolidge Park.”

“Oh, that,” the policeman said. “That was one fricking weird incident.”

“Walk me through it,” Barb said, sliding Lazarus out of his bag and setting him next to her. She’d already had her standard encounter on the way in.

“We were contacted direct,” Tom said. “That is, we got the call from the station, not from nine-one-one.”

“That seems strange,” Barb said. “Anonymous caller?”

“No,” the policeman said, wincing. “It’s not all that strange in this area.”

“Chattanooga nine-one-one is notorious,” Kurt said, chuckling. “They’ve got the worst call-through in the nation. Only about thirty percent of the calls to nine-one-one get through to the people that need them. People have gotten used to calling the local fire station if they’ve got a fire, the police if they need a cop…”

“Caller’s name was Jeremy Carons,” Tom continued, looking at a notepad. “Twenty-four. Was walking in the park with his girlfriend. They saw this lady staggering around, shouting, stuff like that. They sort of wondered if she was a homeless person or something, but her clothing was nice. So they called us and kept an eye on her. She was moving erratically, with which I agree. I arrived, and when I observed her I called for backup.”

“Why?” Barb asked.

“She was nonresponsive when I asked her to calm down,” the cop said. “Like she didn’t hear me. Tell you the truth, I was afraid she was one of these Madness things.”

“Do you recall what she was saying?” Barb asked.

“Something about freeing and shields and light,” the cop replied. “It wasn’t really coherent. Some of it sounded German.”

“Norse,” Barb said. “And was it ‘freeing’ or ‘Freya’?”

“That…sort of sounds right,” Teach said. “What was that word?”

“Freya is her goddess,” Barb said. “She’s Asatru. She was praying.”

“Oh…” the cop said, frowning. “Really?”

“Really,” Barb said. “It was the equivalent of a Christian minister calling upon Jesus. ‘Jesus aid me.’ or something. What happened then?”

“Officer Lawrence Atchison responded to my request for backup and we called for a medical response,” the officer said. “I’d determined that we were dealing with a 10-103m…”

“Cop-speak?” Barb asked.

“Nutjob,” Kurt said. “Wacko.”

“Got it. Go on.”

“We approached the subject and requested that she desist in her actions,” the officer said. “She continued to ignore us. By that point the ambulance had arrived. Officer Atchison and I attempted to physically restrain her at which point she resisted…well.”

“Even stuck on the Paths, Janea’s a handful,” Barb said, smiling. “I hope you were okay.”

“We hadn’t realized she was as…fit as she was,” the cop said, grimacing. “I was glad I was wearing body armor. And a cup. We managed to physically restrain her, and with the help of the paramedics, we got her strapped to the gurney. The paramedics had gotten authorization to tranquilize the subject, but when they did, she arrested. She came back when they gave her some juice. They then transported her to Memorial. I wrote up my report and continued with the night. We found out the next day she was working with the Fibs…Sorry.”

“Heard it before,” Kurt said, grinning. “Used it, for that matter.”

“Anyway, we found out the next day she was a special consultant. I’ve sort of been scratching my head about it. Any idea what happened to her? I figure she’s not normally like that. Did somebody drug her?”

“Something like that,” Barb said. “Anything else? Anything unusual?”

“She was wet,” Tom said.

“What?” Barb asked, sharply.

“She was wet,” the officer repeated. “From head to toe. Since she was wearing a white shirt, it was pretty noticeable, but when we grabbed her it was really noticeable. I got soaked, so did Larry. Looked like she’d been swimming.”

“That’s one hell of a swim,” Kurt said, looking through the binoculars.

The Chattanooga Art District was a cluster of buildings perched on a bluff overlooking the Tennessee River. Consisting of a bed and breakfast, two high-end restaurants, a coffee shop, an art gallery and a museum, it was a pleasant place on a warm morning in spring. The close-set stone buildings created shaded paths, and vegetation crawled over trellises, creating cozy nooks perfect for book reading or just contemplating life.

From the bluff, North Shore and Coolidge Park were clearly evident across the river. Adjacent to the stone buildings was the Hunter Museum complex consisting of three buildings, an Edwardian mansion, a 1970s “modern” building and a modern art annex completed in 2005. Just down the hill, accessed by a daring transparent bridge, was the Tennessee Aquarium. Connecting the collection to North Shore was a walking bridge that soared nearly a hundred feet over the river.

“Hell of a climb, too,” Barb said. There was no way to get to the edge of the bluff; stone walls ensured that, but it was clear getting down wouldn’t be easy. “And no way she jumped off the bridge. The fall would kill her.”

“So, assuming she was swimming, where’d she swim from?” Kurt asked, lowering the binoculars. “Dive off the bluff? Looks pretty suicidal to me.”

“That is a very good question,” Barb said. “For which I need coffee.”

Rembrandt’s was built into a portion of the first floor of one of the stone buildings. The front counter created a narrow area that, at the moment, was packed with patrons waiting to access the single cash register. At the far end of the counter were some tables, which continued into a back room.

“Oh…my,” Barb said, looking at the collection of pastries on display. “I think I’m gaining weight just looking at them. I can see more than one reason Janea would come here.”

“Anything…else?” Kurt asked, quietly.

“Not right now,” Barb said, just as quietly. “I’m Shielding. It works both ways. I’d rather be sitting down to do a full survey.”

The patron in front of her, a society matron very similar to the ones Barb dealt with every day at home, looked over her shoulder and frowned.

“Private conversation,” Barb said, smiling thinly.

The woman sniffed and turned back to the wait.

“And the other reason I’d rather not get into anything in line,” Barb said, trying not to chuckle.

Eventually they got up to the cash register and the harried brunette working it.

“Croissant and a mocha,” Barb said, smiling. “No whip cream.”

“I’ll take an espresso and an eclair,” Kurt said.

“Those will make you fat,” Barb noted.

“And mochas won’t?” Kurt asked.

“Everyone has their weaknesses,” Barb said as she paid for the food. “Mine is chocolate. I’d love an eclair. But I will not be tempted into gluttony.”

They chose to sit outside and picked one of the iron tables at the back of the large, stone-flagged courtyard near a dry fountain. The area was shielded by large, mature trees and had a pleasant air. Barb had a hard time imagining it as a seat for malignant powers.

“Okay, let me be clear,” Barb said, taking a sip of her mocha. “When I open up, it’s possible that whatever attacked Janea will attack me. Unlikely, but possible.”

“What do I do if that happens?” Kurt asked.

“I’ll try to keep the uproar down,” Barb said. “But I may get strange. Things may get strange. Operate as if there is a bomb threat and I’m the bomb squad. Figure out a way to evacuate the civilians, cordon the area and leave me to the battle. I’m…somewhat more powerful than Janea.”

“You’re not going to start chanting or anything, are you?” Kurt asked.

“Not unless things get bad strange,” Barb replied. “And it’s very much like a bomb tech. If I start running…try to keep up.”

Barb still wasn’t totally up on the psychic thing. The Lord granted her powers to fight evil manifest in the world, but He didn’t always tell her where it was. And this time the best she could get was a slight feeling that things were not quite as pleasant as they seemed. She was trying to get a better feel for it when she sensed a presence near the table and opened her eyes.

“Are you well?” the woman standing by Kurt’s shoulder asked.

“I’m fine,” Barb said. “Slight headache.”

Which was made worse by the woman. Like the neurologist, she had a demon that had so fully consumed her, her aura was black.

“I am Vartouhi,” the woman said, smiling at her. “I welcome you to Rembrandt’s. I always like to say hello to our new customers.”

Vartouhi was tall and slender with an olive complexion and looked faintly Italian or at least Mediterranean. Pretty, edging to beautiful, she was elegantly dressed in a rose pantsuit with orange-yellow highlights. Her one touch of accent was a strange brooch. It was similar to some Celtic designs Barb had seen but much simpler, just three curves forming three lobes. And, simple as it was, it was sounding alarm bells in Barb’s soul.

“I’m Kurt,” Kurt said. “And this is Barbara. She’s just visiting.”

“Yes, Kurt, I’ve seen you here before,” Vartouhi said, smiling again. Perfect teeth, Barb noted. Something about the woman, possibly her too-perfect attitude, just made her skin crawl. “Barbara, we hope that you enjoy your visit and come back often.”

“It’s a lovely place,” Barb gushed. “When was it built?”

“At various times,” Vartouhi said. “The buildings used to be apartments and were built mostly during the sixties. They were rather run down when the current owners bought them and fixed them up.”

“Well, it’s one of the nicest coffee shops I’ve ever visited,” Barb said. “And you seem to do a brisk business.”

“It suffices,” Vartouhi said. “I’ll leave you to your coffee. Take care.”

“Nice lady,” Kurt said. “She’s always circulating.”

“Uh-huh,” Barb said.

“What? Did you, you know, sense anything?”

“Well, ‘something is fishy in Denmark’ is about the best I can do,” Barb said, watching the hostess. “Except about the hostess, who is anything but a ‘nice lady.’ There’s something here but I can’t put my finger on it. And I’d bet dollars to donuts that our hostess could. I wonder what’s under these buildings…”

“Rock,” Kurt said, looking at the set of blueprints he’d requested. “The sewer runs down towards the Aquarium then across the river via the Market Street bridge. They’ve got a couple of basements…”

“There was something there,” Barb said. “I’d say not far above river level. But it’s hard to tell distance with this kind of thing.”

“Well, if it’s there it’s not on the blueprints,” Kurt said, rolling them up. “We’re going to have to find a way to search for it. I can ask the management, but if they get sticky we’ve got nothing for a search warrant.”

“It’s possible that the management is totally unaware,” Barb said. “Equally possible that they’re some sort of source. Who owns it?”

“A corporation,” Kurt said. “I’ll check into ownership of the corporation.”

“And see what you can find on that hostess,” Barb said. “Vartouhi.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Check on Janea.”

Barb had to show ID to get into the house where Janea was being kept. At one level she was relieved-whoever had attacked Janea might try again-but on the other hand she wasn’t sure that a rent-a-cop, okay, a high-quality one from the look, was going to do much good.

On the other hand, as soon as she stepped through the door she realized there was far more than mundane security on the house. It was “clean.” Not just physically clean-in fact, it was rather cluttered-it was mystically clean. She hadn’t examined it mystically the last time she was there, but this time it was clear that there were no malevolent entities or “vibes” to the place. Mystically it was more like a really good church. In fact, instead of dark shadows, there were flashes of light in the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t sure what that represented, but it wasn’t bad, whatever it was.

However, the house was physically crowded. There were six people in robes holding hands in a circle in the center of the main room and a young woman in a blouse and peasant skirt sitting on a chair watching them. Barb quickly realized that it was, in fact, a “circle.” A Wiccan prayer group that was “calling power.” She suddenly realized that although she worked every day with pagans, she had some deep-seated prejudices about being around a Wiccan gathering. She knew they weren’t evil per se. She wouldn’t be able to do what she did to support them if they were working with the devil. But watching them essentially worshipping “false gods” triggered childhood responses.

The young woman stood up and tiptoed over, putting her finger to her lips.

Janea? Barb mouthed.

The young lady motioned for Barb to follow her upstairs. Barb let Lazarus out of his bag and followed her.

The cat checked out the circle for a moment, sniffed, then followed.

“I’m sorry,” the young lady whispered as they reached the top of the stairs. “I was afraid you’d disturb the circle. We would have put it somewhere besides the front room, but the energies were best there. Are you Mrs. Everette?”

“Yes,” Barb said, shaking the young witch’s hand. “Call me Barb.”

“Janea’s in the back bedroom,” the young woman said, leading the way.

It wasn’t just Janea in the room. Cots had been moved in, and Sharice, Drakon and Wulfgar were stretched out on them, apparently asleep. All three of them were clearly in REM sleep; their eyes were twitching like mad, and Janea was slowly writhing as if struggling against invisible bonds.

“Wish I could take a nap,” Barb said.

“Astral projection requires a trance at the least,” the witch said. “They’re actually deep in the Moon Paths. Can’t you feel it?”

“I’m…just starting to figure some of this out,” Barb admitted. “I only recently got the, hah-hah, ‘Gift’ of Sight. And given some of the stuff I’ve seen today, I’m just as glad that Sharice taught me how to not use it.”

“You have many other Gifts. Use your Sight. There are no dark spirits here.”

“I noticed,” Barb said, opening up to the mystic.

The first thing she Saw had nothing to do with the foursome. There were clouds of… sparkles hanging in the air. She wasn’t even sure what they were. But there were a lot of them. The room was packed. It looked like a bad special effect.

“What are… those?” she asked, pointing.

“We call them light spirits,” the young witch said. “You would call them angels.”

“Angels?” Barb asked. “Like, angels of the Lord? Messengers of God?”

The angels suddenly swarmed around Barb in a dancing light show that was hard to ignore.

“Uhmmm…Yes. And…no,” the young witch said, chuckling. “More like guardian angels. These are what Christians term cherubim. Not the little babies with bows, but…”

“Cherubim are fairly high angels,” Barb said, wonderingly. “Higher than seraphim, according to most texts. Where did they come from?”

“They apparently come with the house. The house belongs to Memorial Hospital.”

“Catholics,” Barb said, nodding. “Okay, starts to make sense.”

“They sometimes carry messages,” the young witch said. “But mostly they just sort of swirl around and squeal ‘Look what I can do!’ They’re not warrior light spirits, they haven’t been tested greatly. Cherubim are mostly concerned with the element of air. When they get out of hand they tend to cause storms. And they’re always glad when someone notices them. These are… young isn’t the right word. Innocent. Early. Lacking in mass or sophistication. But they serve as effective mystic guards for the house. Not because they would battle well, but because demons avoid all angels, and if one was powerful enough to try them, they could call for fiercer guardians. Seraphim, although lesser in power, tend to be way more serious. At the worst, they could call upon the true warrior spirits. Let us hope it never comes to that. It’s worth remembering that all demons were once light spirits. It is why we simply call them dark spirits. And the warrior light spirits are different from greater demons only in which side they take. They’re really rather unpleasant, from what I’ve been told.”

“You hold to the doctrine of the Fall?” Barb asked.

“Not…exactly,” the young witch said. “But we have some similar understandings.”

“I’m getting a lecture on angels from a Wiccan,” Barb said, shaking her head. “What, exactly, happened to my life? So…Janea?”

“They were able to extract her from the place of torment. Other than that, no change.”

“Any idea what is happening in there?” Barb asked.

“Not so far.”

Lazarus jumped up on Janea’s bed and sat down in a perfect Egyptian cat pose, looking around the room. Barb realized that he was tracking on the Cherubim.

“He can see them,” Barb said. “Is that some effect from him being bonded to me?”

“You’re serious?” the young witch asked. “ All cats can see spirits. So can babies. At least light spirits. The only place I’ve ever seen more packed than this place with light spirits is a neonatal ward.”

“Nice to know.”

Lazarus licked his shoulder, swatted at an angel that got too close, then climbed up on Janea and lay down with his head between her breasts.

“That cat is definitely a tom,” the witch said with a chuckle.

“Oh, yeah,” Barb said, putting her hand on Janea’s forehead. The Asatru was so still, Barb worried that she’d feel the same complete lack of soul that she’d felt in the victims of the Madness. But Janea was still alive.

“Lord, bless and keep this warrior,” Barb prayed. “Though she walks a different path, she walks a path of righteousness. I beg of You, give unto her Your aid in this battle. In Jesus’ name we pray.”

“Amen,” the young witch said. “Hope that doesn’t bother you.”

“Nope,” Barb said. “Every little bit helps.”

She wasn’t sure it had helped at all, but Janea seemed to be resting more comfortably.

“I guess it’s time to get back to work,” Barb said, holding out the bag. “Come on, Laz.”

The cat just looked at her. He looked comfortable where he was.

“I need to go,” Barb said, gesturing to the bag.

“Cats have minds of their own,” the young witch said.

“Well, this one has to keep with me,” Barb replied.

“I’m familiar with your…” She paused and frowned, “companion.”

“Come on, Laz,” Barb said, reaching for him.

Laz didn’t even get up, just swatted at her hand, claws retracted. Then he held up one of them with the claws extended. The meaning was clear.

“I can’t get far from you, dummy,” Barb said.

Laz plunked his head down between Janea’s breasts and looked at Barb out of one eye, balefully.

“Seriously,” Barb said. “You’re staying?”

“I think he’s staying,” the witch said, frowning. “Generally the familiar bond is not something to be stretched. But yours is…unusual. And at least you can be assured he will be safe in this house.”

“Hmmm…” Barb muttered. “Okay, I’ll try it. If it doesn’t work, though, you are definitely coming with me.”

Laz got up, turned around, kneaded Janea’s breasts for a moment, then plunked back down and closed his eyes.

“I have never been sure that cats can walk the Moon Paths,” the witch said. “But it looks as if that is his intent.”

“A year ago I was a housewife,” Barb said. “I had, still have, a husband that couldn’t cook. I was president of the PTO. Chairman of the bake sale. Now I see angels and demons and have got a familiar wandering around the astral plane.”

“It does take some getting used to.”

“I’ve got some interesting information,” Kurt said, looking up then frowning. “Where’s the cat?”

“He seems to prefer Janea’s company to mine,” Barb said, shrugging. “I was warned that I shouldn’t get too far from him and always make sure he was safe. But it seems I’m going to extend the distance. We’ll see how far I can go. What’s the info?”

“You’re going to love it,” Kurt said, gesturing to one of the seats in the empty waiting room. “I ran a search in the ‘mundane’ files on that symbol of Vartouhi’s you didn’t like.”

Barb clicked on the link and blanched. The link led to the website of a corporation that used the same symbol. And, again, it gave her what her daughter would call “major creep factor.”

“Trilobular,” Barb said, flipping through the pages. “Pretty widely invested…Defense contracts. Biotech. Coca-Cola bottling stock?” She paused and blinked rapidly.

“You hit the part on ‘psychological research,’ didn’t you,” Kurt said, grinning. “Skip the rest of the brochure and take a look at their grant list.”

“Dr. Stewart Downing,” Barb said, musingly. “First we infect them, then we cure them. How interesting.”

“Still doesn’t tell us what’s going on,” Kurt said. “But I think I’m starting to get an interesting smell. You think this is some sort of bio research gone wrong?”

“No,” Barb said. “Or not in any normal way. This is paranormal. Those patients are D-E-D dead. It’s possible they’re combining scientific neurological research with paranormal, but you’d be surprised how hard that is to do. The various powers that be seem to have an aversion to mixing the two. And since they have all sorts of earthly controls, they can make sure that paranormal activities don’t conform to clinical results. That seems to be the case for both sides of the street. God prefers Believers, thank you. Trying to derive some philosophical rationale for God? All well and good. Trying to prove His existence empirically? He is going to make sure you cannot. The Adversary seems to agree on that subject if nothing else. If they are combining paranormal with standard biological research…it’s going to require a power supporting them that is at odds with both the Lord and the Great Adversary.”

“Which are?” Kurt asked.

“Don’t know,” Barb said. “As much reading as I’ve been doing since I started this job, I’m still playing catch-up. But there are experts I can call and ask. That’s still only a possible, anyway. There is a Power here, and a group of supporters, and five gets you ten it’s connected to Trilobular or the Art District. Somehow. What did you get on Vartouhi?”

“High school graduate,” Kurt said. “A local private school called Girls’ Preparatory Academy. Scholarship; she’s not from money by any stretch. Community college. Address is listed in a house near the Art District. High-end housing for a high school grad but no indications why. About all I can get without a court order.”

“So what now?” Kurt asked.

“It’s late,” Barb said. “Let’s go find out what the Art District is like after everyone’s gone.”

At night, with everyone gone, the Art District was definitely spookier. The pleasant paths reflected the surrounding lights oddly, as if they were going through thick glass. The wind from the river whistled between the buildings with the moan of a dying man.

Barb ignored that, walking along the sidewalk with her thermals on. Some demons had been reported to produce an image of heat higher than the ambient. If there was something stalking the grounds, she wanted to see if it would turn up on thermal imagery.

“Anything?” Kurt asked.

“The feel from underneath is stronger,” Barb said. “But I don’t see anything under thermals.”

She took the goggles off and looked around. There didn’t seem to be anything abnormal-then she caught a flicker in one of the upper windows. It wasn’t hot, it didn’t even have the feel of a demon. But something was up there.

“There’s something there, but not the target,” she said. “I wonder how long the demons, if they’re here, have been on this hill? They don’t have the feel of American Indian spirits.”

“Your side of the investigation,” Kurt said. “I’m not seeing anything. But here’s an interesting fact.”

“What?” Barb asked, looking around. There was no one and, as far as she could tell, nothing in sight except the buildings.

“Chattanooga has its fair share of street people,” Kurt said, looking around. “Lots of sheltered nooks and crannies in this area. As far as I know, the cops don’t specifically roust people around here. So where are they?”

“Not here,” Barb said.

“As if they know better?” Kurt asked.

“Possible,” Barb said, nodding. “It would probably be a question for one of your cop friends. We’re supposed to meet with Hugh tomorrow evening, right? Let’s pack it in.”

“There, I told you,” the woman said, peering through night-vision binoculars. “They’ve sent another.”

“Not a powerful one, though,” the man with her said. “Not from what I can see.”

“She’s strong. She tries to Cloak it, but she does so poorly. On the other hand…”

“They’re looking in the wrong place.”