Queen of wands

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 declasse 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.”

“Who in the hel…heck are you talking about?” Kurt asked.

“Uh…” Barb said, then shrugged. “Need to know. The powers that be determine who has need to know.”

“Your powers that be?” Kurt asked, angrily.

“ Yours, actually,” Barb said.

“Oh, great,” Kurt said. “I’ve got the responsibility, but nobody’s giving me the information? Why?”

“That’s a very interesting question,” Barb said. “But not an important one at this point. Thing is that nothing’s adding up here. I’m going to sleep on it. I’ll see you tomorrow, but not early. I need to talk to somebody.”

“Great,” Kurt said. “You go ‘see somebody.’ I’m going to go get out of this monkey suit and get a beer. There’s not much else for me to do.”

As Barb unlocked her door, a black van with tinted windows pulled up beside her.

“That was somewhat nervous-making,” Brother Marquez said as the passenger-side window rolled down. “If we’d had to do an entry, it was going to be tough. We’d have to blow the stair doors and go up eight flights.”

“I take it you’ve seen the blueprints,” Barb said, crossing her arms.

“For tactical reasons the Bureau gets copies of all new building permits and their schematics,” Brother Marquez said. “When we go somewhere, we get copies of their copies. Also something I’d prefer you not share with your friend Kurt. Hop in.”

The back of the van was laid out as a mobile command post, and two men were watching screens as they pulled away. Barb strapped herself into a seat as Brother Marquez swiveled his captain’s chair to the rear.

“The entry to the house, the entire house in fact, has architecture that I’d describe as Hittite,” Barb said. “But it’s not. Slight differences.”

“Osemi?” Brother Marquez asked, raising an eyebrow. “Where would they get Osemi architectural data? The Hittites destroyed every trace of the civilization.”

“That’s a very good question,” Barb said. “The thing is, I don’t think that’s their power center. It didn’t have the feel of an active temple. I’ve been in an active temple. There’s a definite…vibe to one. There wasn’t one in Reamer’s house. A slight vibe, but not anything strong. Much stronger at Rembrandt’s.”

“But those houses well predate any indications of supernatural occurrences,” Brother Marquez pointed out.

“Which is why I don’t think it’s in that building cluster,” Barb said, frowning. “I’ve got the sneaking suspicion it’s under them. But the entrance has to be close. Probably under Rembrandt’s or one of the other buildings. But we don’t have enough information to get a search warrant.”

“Who needs a search warrant?” Brother Marquez said, shrugging.

“I’d rather we try to avoid a black-bag operation,” Barb said, referring to a covert entry on a building. The term went back to the early days of law enforcement when the tools would be carried in black leather satchels.

“As do I,” Brother Marquez said. “But those are public buildings, no? You’ve never heard of a health and safety inspection?”

Barb hoped that her hair tucked up under a Chattanooga Food Safety Inspector ball cap and a matching blue shapeless coverall was going to disguise her enough. It might work as long as she avoided Vartouhi.

The buildings didn’t have basements as such. Just subground levels, partially open. That was as good as it was going to get. She was tapping one of the solid rock walls when the restaurant manager caught up with her.

“Can I ask what you’re looking for?” he asked, seeming amused.

“Rat holes,” Barb said, shining a light under the wine racks. “Rat droppings. And structural unsoundness.”

“We’re on rock,” the man said, with a shocked expression. “And we don’t have rats, ma’am!”

“Sedimentary rock,” Barb replied, glibly. “Water flow can cause sudden openings in it that lead to unsoundness. And you’d be surprised what rats will bore through to get to food.”

“Oh,” the manager said. “Well, I can assure you we don’t have rats. I am very strict about that sort of thing. But if you need anything, just holler.”

“I will,” Barb said, tapping at the walls with a stick until he was gone. Then she opened her Sight and tried to get something from the surroundings. There was still the feeling of otherworldliness. But now that she was in the basement, it didn’t seem…malevolent. She realized it was more just…power. Not even really power she could use. Just raw power, like the hum from electric lines. You tended to get nervous around it, even fearful.

She started as her phone rang with Germaine’s ringtone: “Danse Macabre.”

“Yes, sir?” Barb said.

“I understand you’re at Bluff View,” Germaine said.

“Yes, sir,” Barb replied. She wasn’t even going to bother to wonder how he knew.

“I have arranged a meeting for you at Tony’s in ten minutes. Ask for Mrs. Arquero. I believe you shall find the conversation…enlightening.”

Tony’s was a fairly high-end restaurant for Chattanooga, and Barb felt rather out of place in her coveralls.

“I’m looking for Mrs. Arquero?” she told the maitre d’.

“This way, Madame.” The maitre d’ may have found the coveralls a bit underdressed, but nobody in the restaurant industry was about to piss off a health inspector.

“Mrs. Everette.” The speaker was “a woman of a certain age.” Barb placed her as anywhere from thirty to sixty. Dark hair, short, wearing a suit that probably cost more than Barb’s entire wardrobe. “Christina Arquero. I believe Germaine called you?”

“Yes, he did, Mrs. Arquero,” Barb said cautiously, sitting down at a wave.

“My husband and I are the owners of Bluff View,” Mrs. Arquero said. “And we are of course quite concerned about a health and safety inspection from such an eminent inspector.” She gave a slight smile.

“It’s a…fascinating place,” Barb said. “Very…fascinating.”

“It’s a labor of love,” Mrs. Arquero said. “We took a bunch of run-down and honestly unsafe apartment buildings and old houses, and turned it into a place of beauty and repose.”

“The food is excellent,” Barb said. “I really love Rembrandt’s. It almost tempts me to gluttony.”

“Almost,” Mrs. Arquero said. “Do you speak Spanish, Mrs. Everette?”

“One of the languages I never learned,” Barb said, wondering at the change of topic.

“ Arquero is generally translated as ‘The Archer,’” the lady said, taking a slight sip of wine. “However, the etymology is complex. It is also the term, in what Americans call soccer, for a goalkeeper. This etymology comes from its Castilian definition, which is ‘a guardian at the gates.’”

“Ah,” Barbara said.

“The reason for Augustus’s call becomes more clear,” Mrs. Arquero said, giving a very slight chuckle. “We have lived in the South for many years, and I must admit I am sometimes given to Southernisms. If you will permit the indelicacy, you are barking up the wrong tree.”

“That…yes,” Barb said. “The problem being, I really don’t have another tree to bark up.”

“Tell me what you know,” Arquero said.

“Janea was attacked,” Barb said, carefully. She avoided the word “mystic.” “When she was found, she was wet as if she had been in the river. This place is across the river and had a certain…air.”

“Indeed it does,” Mrs. Arquero said with what was an almost unladylike snort. “One has to be…extremely mundane to ignore it.”

“But…I realized as I was working, not exactly a…negative air. Nor…positive.”

“Neither,” Mrs. Arquero agreed. “Quite, quite neutral. As neutral as a hurricane. Yet an air that is…workable. Useable. And many come here to install, as it were, wind turbines. Some less neutral than others. While others act as…windbreaks. My husband and I are not the only such. There are at least nine. And perhaps twice as many groups involved in wind generation. Fortunately, those who act as windbreaks are generally stronger than those tapping the wind. Generally.”

“And now?” Barb asked. “If Janea didn’t come from here…?”

“As you noted, your friend had been…attacked,” Arquero said. “She was, therefore, in not the best of conditions. Had you considered the strength of the Tennessee River? To swim across is difficult in the best of conditions. It is, however, quite possible to float.”

“Float?”

“Have you considered what is on the other side of the river?”

“Kurt,” Barb said, walking up to his cubicle. “What do you know about Girls’ Preparatory Academy?”

“Oh, God!” Kurt swore. “Not them! Please, not them!”