Queen of Wands-eARC (11 page)

“Such demons can be resisted. But think of cases of major possession. Where, then, is free will? You, Mrs. Everette, are an example of the rare case of a person without hooks. You were rid of original sin by your baptism and you have lived a life avoiding sin. You know you are proud and you work against your pride. You know you are beautiful but strive against vanity. You have a temper and control it through prayer and good works, despite the many frustrations you find in your life.”

“And this has
what
to do with free will?” Barb asked.

“
Everything
,” Karol said. “A person who has let demons into their soul has already
made
the choice. They have chosen Satan over God. And to the extent that they wrestle with a demon, it is usually over something they fear in the mundane world. Don’t kill a person or strike them, because you will be arrested. Not because it will damn your immortal soul. For anything less than that, most people go at it with abandon. Lust, envy, hatred. Vanity again. Pride. Being holy is not about going to church on Sunday and spitting on people the rest of the week. It’s not even about being under the sacrament of priesthood, as has been
clearly
shown. One must be as free of sin as it is
possible to be
in this fallen world to truly be in a state of grace. How many people do you know who are
totally without sin
, Mrs. Everette? How many in this town can cast the first stone?”

“All seven of the afflicted had ‘anger management issues,’” Barb said. “Were bullies in school, two of them were abusers of their partners. Do you think that had something to do with it?”

“Well, let’s see,” Karol said, shaking his head. “We have a demoness of anger, hatred and murder who has placed her seal upon this town. And we have people who already had anger management issues suddenly becoming violently and homicidally insane. I don’t know, do
you
?”

“So you’re here as what?” Barb asked.

“Backup,” Karol said, handing her a bracelet. The silver charm bracelet had only a cross hanging from it. “Pull the cross off and it activates a signal and a homing beacon in the bracelet. We’ll be there within a minute though the hosts of hell stand between us. And you can be assured my brethren will not be susceptible to the siren call of a demoness. Unlike the mundane security of this town. On that level, we are accredited with the Federal Government as special contract personnel on an undercover anti-terrorism task force with authorization to use due force. All the rest is paperwork. I’ve been trying to convince the bishop that doing paperwork should be counted as penance but he’s so far resisted my blandishments. Ring-knockers.”

“So what do
I
do?”

“Find her lair,” the monk said. “Find her place of worship. Then call us. We will be close.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Where the hell have you been?” Kurt asked when Barb sat down across from him.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Barb said, sliding the file across to him. “And I can’t tell you anyway. But based on that, we’d better figure out a way to get a good look inside those buildings up at the Art District. This looks to be a worse problem than we’d thought.”

“I got the same thing,” Kurt said, giving it a cursory glance. “And something else,” he added, sliding an envelope across to her.

“What’s this?” she asked, pulling a card out of the envelope.

“An invitation,” Kurt said. “To a charity function being held in the Art District. Not in the Bluff View buildings. Nearby, though. And check out the name of the hostess.”

“Vartouhi Cass,” Barb said. “Same lady?”

“Same lady,” Kurt said.

“Who is Thomas Reamer?” Barb asked.

“Old Chattanooga family money,” Kurt replied. “One of the architects involved with the newer additions to the Art District, like the Hunter Museum. I checked up on the place where they’re holding it. He built a
house
on top of an
office
building he owns. It’s about three blocks from Rembrandt’s. Vartouhi is his…friend. The housing issue is now explained.”

“Girlfriend?” Barb asked. “Lover?”

“Why don’t you ask them in person? It’s black tie. I hope you have a nice dress.”

* * *

“Mrs. Barbara Everette,” Kurt said, handing over the invitation to an unsmiling man in a black suit with an ear bud. There were two more flanking the elevator lobby, and all three had bulges at their waist on the right side. “Special Agent Kurt Spornberger.”

“Yes, sir,” the security officer said, glancing at the card. He pressed the button on the elevator, leaned in as the doors opened, swiped a black card over a blank spot on the indicators and hit the button for the top floor. “Have a good evening, sir, ma’am,” he said, handing the invitation back.

“Nice,” Kurt said, looking around the elevator.

The elevator was paneled in what Barbara sort of recalled was called “fumed oak.” And unless she was mistaken, the accents were in actual gold. She suspected it
wasn’t
gold leaf. And in the corner, oh-so-discreet, was a tiny surveillance camera.

“He didn’t wand you,” Barb said.

“What am I going to do, start shooting the muckety-mucks of Chattanooga?” Kurt asked as the elevator opened.

The elevator opened onto a foyer, even more sumptuously decorated, with six or seven people standing around holding drinks. There was more security there, dressed to fit in in tuxedoes but wearing full headsets.

“Special Agent Spornberger,” Kurt said, holding out the invitation. “Mrs. Barbara Everette.”

“Yes, sir,” the lead officer said, nodding. “Welcome to Reamer House. Feel free to make yourself at home.”

“Shall we, Mrs. Everette?” Kurt asked, holding out his arm.

“Lead on, Special Agent Spornberger,” Barb replied, hooking hers through.

The exit to the foyer was a set of stairs, arched above and flanked on either side by winged stone lions. Both walls of the short stairway consisted of friezes depicting men in conical helmets and scale armor riding horses. They appeared to be hunting something but their prey was out of sight.

The main room of the home was quite large, easily able to hold the forty or fifty people gathered there. And it was laid out in a strange fashion, almost triangular, with doors leading out at six points to other rooms.

Barbara had brought one of her nicer dresses. However, she immediately realized that her conception of “nice” was somewhat below the majority of the party-goers. She also realized she hadn’t known how much money there was in Chattanooga. She stopped trying to price the gowns she saw on the women at the party. Most of them looked like Paris originals.

However, there was a very definite feel to the crowd that they did not normally dress that way. A tugging of waists and bustlines was noticeable. As was the fact that most of the women didn’t normally wear heels. And despite the early hour, most of them were buzzed if not drunk. Most of the women were hanging onto the arms of their dates less because they were besotted with love than because they’d topple over if they didn’t.

There was nothing so déclassé as a buffet line. Instead, waiters in white tuxedoes circulated with trays of tiny hors d’oeuvres and drinks.

“Do you need anything, sir, ma’am?” one of them asked.

“Pepsi if you’ve got it,” Kurt said.

“Coke, sir?” the waiter said with a pained expression.

“I guess,” Kurt replied.

“Same for me,” Barbara said. “What was that about?”

“I sort of did it on purpose,” Kurt whispered. “The Reamers are Coke-bottling money. Saying the P word in this room is on the order of pounding a copy of the doctrines of Martin Luther onto the door of the Vatican.”

“Be nice,” Barb said. “Is it just me, or do most of these people look…?”

“It has a definite
prom
feeling, doesn’t it?” Kurt said. “Just older. Heads up. Incoming.”

“Mrs. Everette,” Vartouhi said, extending a languid hand. “I am so glad you could attend.”

“My pleasure,” Barb replied. “You have a wonderful home.”

“I merely have the joy of residing here,” Vartouhi said, gesturing to the man at her side. “It is Thomas’s home. Thomas Reamer, Mrs. Barbara Everette and Special Agent Kurt Spornberger of the FBI.”

“A pleasure,” Reamer said. He was small and slight with pale hair and eyes. His hand, when Barbara shook it, felt as thin and light as a bird’s.

“Barbara is a missionary from Mississippi,” Vartouhi said. “Agent Spornberger is originally from Chicago, if I’m recalling that correctly.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kurt said. “Finest city on the face of the earth. No offense to Chattanooga, of course.”

“Chattanooga was once a terrible place to live,” Reamer said, his eyes lighting. “The factories poisoned the air and water. The buildings were black from the soot. It’s taken many years to repair the damage and bring it into the light. You’re based in the Pioneer Building. Beautiful architecture—my great-grandfather built it and did a fine job. But when I was young, you could barely see it for all the soot.”

“Thomas has made it his goal in life to beautify Chattanooga,” Vartouhi said. “He is a major contributor to the Aquarium and the Hunter Museum.”

“Was that your design?” Barbara asked. “It’s beautiful.”

“No, not mine,” Reamer said. “But I was involved in the construction from day one. A good design is only the start of a building. You have to stay on top of every aspect of the construction. You wouldn’t
believe
how people try to cut corners. You’re a missionary, Mrs. Everette? To Chattanooga?”

“I’m actually a consultant to the FBI,” Barbara said. “My missionary work is separate.”

“They are working on the Madness cases,” Vartouhi said.

“Oh, are there any leads?” Reamer asked. “I don’t know why I bother to ask. The problem is the poisoning of the land, foul emanations of the bygone days surfacing to rot the heart and mind. There are still many who cannot understand the importance of clean air and clean water. The Goldheims—”

“Darling,” Vartouhi said, putting her hand on his arm.

“I can’t talk about an ongoing case, sir,” Kurt said, shrugging.

“You’re Kurdish, Ms. Cass?” Barbara asked. “Vartouhi is a Kurdish name.”

“Actually, I’m from Summerville,” Vartouhi said with a laugh. “A small town just south of here. My parents named me Vartouhi because they liked the name.”

“I would have guessed Middle Eastern from your looks,” Kurt said.

“Actually, Irish and Native American,” the woman said, smiling. “It’s a common mistake. People with some knowledge of the world sometimes guess Italian or French. More commonly these days, people assume Hispanic. Few note the Kurdish name,” she added with an interested glance.

“I’m something of a student of the Middle East,” Barb said. “Ancient history. The Hurrians are related to the Hittites.”

“I don’t recognize either group,” Vartouhi said, her face blank.

“Hurrians are Kurds,” Kurt said. He grinned at Barb’s look of surprise. “Anthropology degree. The Hittites were a branch of them that at one point conquered most of the Middle East. I notice that your entry has some Hittite elements. The double archway. The intervening friezes…”

“Hittites stole most of their architecture from other cultures,” Reamer said. “Good stone workers, but if you observe their pre-conquest architecture, it’s fairly simple Neolithic stuff…”

“Darling,” Vartouhi said, placing her hand on his arm again. “I doubt that they want to hear a lecture on architectural development.”

“Actually, I find it fascinating,” Barbara said. “I’ve heard the same theory before. I’m under the impression they were most influenced by the Sumerians.”

“It’s unlikely,” Reamer said. “Most of their later motifs incorporated
some
Sumerian motifs. But there is an unexplained jump in technology…”

“Darling, the Kincaids are here,” Vartouhi said. “We need to say hello to them.”

“Oh, yes,” Reamer said. “Of course.”

“Enjoy yourselves, Special Agent, Mrs. Everette,” Vartouhi said. “Live for each moment.”

“In this life I am dead, Ms. Cass,” Barb said, nodding. “I live for the hereafter.”

“What in the hell…?” Kurt said as the pair drifted away.

“Don’t,” Barb said. “Not here.”

“So what do we do now?” Kurt asked.

“Mingle?” Barb said. “Talk?”

* * *

They stayed an hour. Most of the talk was of the Madness cases, and when it became known that Kurt was working the cases he got used to saying “I can’t discuss an ongoing case.” Finally, when it seemed they’d been there long enough to be polite, they left. The guards at the elevator performed the same pantomime with the security keys, which meant that nobody got to
leave
the building unless they were allowed out.

They descended to the ground floor in silence and stayed that way as far as the car.

“Okay, give,” Kurt said as soon as they were in the car.

“Not here, either,” Barb replied. She started up the car and drove out of the parking garage, then stopped on the street facing the building. “Notice anything?”

“No,” Kurt said. “It’s an office building.”

“You’re the FBI agent,” Barb snapped. “Use your eyes. The elevator was marked for seven floors, a basement, a mezzanine and the penthouse. Count the floors.”

“Seven,” Kurt said a moment later.

“Where’s the mezzanine floor?” Barb asked.

“Sometimes that’s built into…” Kurt said, then looked again. “There’s no way to fit one in.”

“So where does the mezzanine button go to?”

“Where now?”

“The office.”

* * *

“Now give?” Kurt asked when they were back in the offices.

“You notice anything about our conversation with Vartouhi and Reamer?”

“Like she kept cutting him off?” Kurt asked. “I’d love to have an hour alone with him in an interrogation room.”

“And you’re not going to get it,” Barb said. “He’d have a very high-priced lawyer present, at the very least. More than that.”

“Like she knew who we were, where we were from, what we were working on?” Kurt said. “Yeah. Noticed.”

“Most of that stuff she can get from public sources,” Barb said. “Credit records. Ownership background.”

“Stuff
we
can’t access without a special finding,” Kurt said bitterly. “But, yeah, I know.”

“But that we’re working the Madness cases is privileged information,” Barb said. “Right?”

“More or less,” Kurt said. “It’s not special compartment like SC, but it’s not commonly available.”

“So she has access to that from some source,” Barb said.

“Could be any number of ways she’d get that information,” Kurt said. “Like I said, it’s not compartmented information. Through Reamer, she’s obviously tied into the business and legal structure in the town. Secretaries talk. Bureau secretaries talk to legal secretaries at other firms. Lawyers golf. If it’s not SCI, there’s no reason that it wouldn’t come up.”

“In casual conversation?” Barb asked.

“You saw how much interest there is in the cases,” Kurt pointed out. “But that’s not all. You were nervous as hell in there.”

“On the rest, I’m not sure how much I can talk about,” Barb said. “There are indications that this case has something to do with a civilization the Hittites destroyed. And there
is
an unexplained jump in Hittite architectural development. If I remember my reading right, Hittites were primarily a warrior race, and they absorbed various aspects of culture from other races, mostly by enslaving them. Gods, art and architecture. But there’s one strain of architecture that has never been adequately explained. And there’s not much known about the civilization that’s connected to these cases except that the Hittites wiped it out. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”

“What the
hell
does architecture have to do with psychotics?” Kurt asked, grabbing his head.

“Watch your language, Agent Spornberger,” Barbara said. “The architecture of the entryway is similar to Hittite, but… Look, I’ve been doing some really weird reading as part of this job. Stuff I never thought I’d have to read up on. But that doesn’t make me an expert by any means. The thing is, I don’t think that entryway is Hittite. I think it’s…something else. There is something nagging at me, though.”

“What?” Kurt asked.

“I can’t place it,” Barbara said, grimacing. “I wish I was more of an expert at this. The house, there’s something weird about the architecture.”

“Well, there’s the missing floor,” Kurt said.

“Something else,” Barb said. “Can you get blueprints at this time of night?”

“For tactical reasons the Bureau gets copies of all new building permits and their schematics,” Kurt said, firing up his computer. “So…yes.”

* * *

“There,” Barb said, shuddering. She pointed at the screen. “Do you see it?”

“Shit,” Kurt replied, nodding. “That building looks
just
like the symbol Vartouhi was wearing the other day.”

“Three lobes,” Barb said. “I think that ‘house’ is laid out as a temple. And
nobody
should know what that kind of temple looks like.”