SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

THE BOHEMIAN GROVE COLD WAR GOTHIC II Weston Ochse

I probably wouldn’t have become this involved had they not told me to stop working on the case. Never before had I been limited in my goal to protect American secrets from foreign hands. Yet here it was, an official letter signed by the Deputy Secretary of the Air Force, telling me in no uncertain terms that I was to cease my investigation on The Bohemian Grove. It was stamped, hand signed, and about as official a directive as I’ve ever received, but the problem was it ignored the facts.

Facts such as:

The Bohemian Grove has been a meeting place of America’s most prominent men since 1872.

No one who isn’t invited is allowed anywhere near The Bohemian Grove.

The Manhattan Project was secretly planned at The Bohemian Grove by Doctors Lawrence and Oppenheimer, along with members of government and the heads of major corporations.

A ceremony known as the Cremation of Care is performed every year as a mock child sacrifice to the Canaanite god Moloch.

And Special Unit 77 recently traced a link from a known Stasi front in Paris to an unknown catering business in the town of Monte Rio, California, which is the nearest town to The Bohemian Grove.

I had little doubt that the East German Ministry of State Security, or Stasi as it was better known, had an agent working against the men in The Bohemian Grove, especially since The Grove’s annual meeting was in two days. If I was to follow the directive, it would allow an East German agent access to some of America’s best kept secrets. If I was to ignore it, I might be able to stop something terrible from happening.

The bottom line was that I needed more information before I could decide which track to take, which was why me and Gomer Pyle (aka Jimmy Chan) were standing at the counter of a botanica in the Mission District of San Francisco. Gunnery Sergeant Chan was the Marine Corps replacement for Chiaka Chiba, who we’d lost almost a year ago last July. On the surface it might seem strange for them to replace one Asian-American Gunnery Sergeant with another, but that was by design. The large Asian population in San Francisco required someone who could not only blend in, but operate more freely.

It took a few minutes of convincing that we meant no harm. Two non-Hispanics dressed in black suits, white shirts, black ties was usually bad news in this neighborhood. Eventually I was able to get a name and address. Four blocks later, we stood at the front door of a squat white stucco pushed towards the back of a dusty lot. Deep red Bougainvillea surrounded the front door like a toxicodendron guard. We knocked and after a few moments, were ushered inside by a plain young Hispanic woman, her hands covered with flour, an apron at her waist. An older woman hummed from a chair deep in the shadows of a corner as she watched a telenovela on the television with the sound off. The young woman pulled us into the kitchen where she’d been making bread.

“I don’t know what you said to my husband, but my father isn’t well.”

I nodded, keeping eye contact. “I apologize for this, ma’am. If there was anyone else, I wouldn’t be bothering you, but Major Cruz has some information we desperately need.” I was as earnest as I could be, even though I was really overstating things. I was on a fishing expedition, pure and simple.

“What is it you think he can help you with?”

I shook my head. “Sorry, it’s classified.”

She snorted. “You’ll be lucky if he’s even coherent. Classified.” She laughed and shook her head.

“If that’s the case, then we’ll be on our way in no time.”

She looked from me to Gomer and back several times, then gave a quick nod. She showed us into a back bedroom that had a sick odor I always associated with impending death. The windows were covered with dark cloth. Only a table lamp gave light to the withered man beneath the covers. A few stray hairs still hugged a head which held dozens of liver spots.

“Enrique, it’s been a long time,” I said, trying to get the man’s attention.

The eighty-three-year-old man’s milky eyes turned toward me.

“It’s me, David – David Madsen. Do you remember me, Enrique? Do you remember Monte Rio? Major Enrique Cruz, I am speaking with you.”

The old man struggled to open his mouth, spittle connecting both lips that eventually closed without making a sound.

“See, I told you he couldn’t help,” Enrique’s daughter said from the doorway. “He hasn’t said anything since last Monday.”

I gazed at her with narrowed eyes. “That’s pretty specific. Did he have any visitors that day?”

She shook her head.

“What about the day before?”

She shrugged. “Listen, I’m not always here. I really don’t know. You’d have to ask my mother.”

“Is that her in the front room?”

She nodded.

“Mind if we ask her a few questions?”

“You go ahead. I need to attend the bread.” She turned and disappeared from the doorway.

I nodded to Gomer and was about to leave when I felt a hand brush my own. I looked down and it was Enrique, trying to grab me, but all he could do was touch me like a baby might.

I bent down. “Enrique, what is it?”

I watched him struggle to push air through his lips, puffing and blowing, as if it was the only way he knew to get the words flowing. Finally he gave up, shook his head and smiled wanly. I sighed. And to think that this man had been one of the NSA’s more powerful Cerberus agents.

I followed Gomer into the living room and approached the old woman. She glanced at me, irritated, then looked back at her black and white telenovela. I stood patiently until a commercial came on, then asked politely, “Ms. Cruz, my name is David Madsen. I worked with your husband. Can I ask you a question?”

She turned to me, olive pit eyes regarding me from the wrinkled pouches of her face. “He’s not my husband anymore,” she finally said.

I turned to Gomer who shook his head.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

She shook her head. “He is a stranger, that one.” She cocked her head.

“Has he had any visitors, ma’am?” Gomer asked, bowing slightly as he spoke.

She looked at him curiously. “People like you, they always come.”

So he did have a visitor. “Who was it?” I pressed. “Can you describe them?”

The jingle from the soap commercial faded into silence and the program returned. She turned to it, totally immersed in a world where she wasn’t an old woman on the edge of senility, living in her daughter’s house, her entire universe an electronic box that told lies.

I gently touched her shoulder. “Mrs. Cruz, please. We need to know.”

She turned back to me like I was about to steal something from her, which I was I suppose – time. Her eyes narrowed, her entire being ensorcelled by the novella. “You all look alike,” she hissed. “All of you. The same.” Then she gestured at Gomer like she held a knife and wanted to stab him. “Except this one. I don’t know what he looks like.”

Gomer bowed. “I’m Chinese,” he said.

Her laugh came out as a bark. “So you say.” Then she turned back to the television and was lost to us.

I stuck my head in the kitchen. “If your father’s condition changes, please call me.” I held up a card, then seeing her hands covered in dough, put the card on the refrigerator behind a magnet. I nodded goodbye, then left.

Our offices were on the third floor of Transamerica Corporation, in a triangular building on the corner of Columbus and Montgomery. My corner office view was filled with the construction of what promised to be a two hundred and sixty-meter pyramid. As unpopular as it was to the local populace, who feared a repetition of the giant forest of skyscrapers in New York City, the Transamerica Pyramid was important to the defense of America. In addition to protecting against Soviet agents stealing American technology, Special Unit 77 was also charged with the protection and facilitation of the pyramid’s construction. In fact, without it, we’d have no way to defend against the onslaught of supernatural attacks that both the Chinese and the Soviets were preparing. Even now the plan was to have the Transamerican Shield in place by 1972. I just hoped it wasn’t going to be too late.

Gunnery Sergeant Chan sat in one chair. Air Force Major Skip Harold sat in the other. I stared at the major over the tops of my fingers. I was a nicknamer, meaning I rarely called people by their actual names. Part of the reason was because I tended to forget them. It was like I was missing something in my brain which caused me to constantly forget. So I nicknamed. Chan’s predecessor had been dubbed Nancy Drew, because of his unfathomable ability to get to the bottom of things. When asked why not one of the Hardy Boys, I remember telling him that only Nancy Drew solved cases on her own. It had seemed to mollify him somewhat, even if I’d called him by the name of a famous fictional girl detective. His replacement had been dubbed Gomer Pyle, and for good reason. Raised in southern Georgia, he was the only Chinese man I’d ever heard with a southern accent. Add to that an endearing wide-eyed appraisal of the world that matched his fictional namesake and his frequent use of southern colloquialisms, it just seemed the appropriate nom de guerre and something I was unlikely to forget. Then, of course, there was this man right in front of me. Blond, blue-eyed and handsome, this fighter jock had probably been the president of his senior class, the quarterback everyone adored, and the one voted most likely to succeed in his yearbook. I didn’t like him. I was still searching for a suitable nickname when he spoke again.

“Are we clear on this?” he asked with a smile.

“Colonel,” I said, softly.

He blinked, shook his head, then replied, “I’m a major.”

I glanced at Gomer, who couldn’t help smiling as he drawled, “No, Major Harold, Colonel Madsen is a colonel, isn’t that right... Colonel?”

I nodded. “Right as rain, Gomer. Thanks for clearing that up.” To Harold, I added, “If you insist on talking to me, I just wanted to make sure that you use my rank. It’s not ceremonial. It’s not something I bought from the back of a comic book. It’s something I earned.”

Harold nodded, but never let his smile slip. “It’s just that since you’re not in uniform it’s easy to forget.”

Now it was my turn to smile as I turned slightly and pointed at a picture displayed behind me. “You can see me there in uniform. That fellow with the pipe standing beside me is...” I paused as if I forgot. I turned to Gomer. “What’s his name?”

“That there’s General Douglas MacArthur.”

“Ah, that’s right. You might recognize the man yourself, isn’t that right, Harold?”

“Major,” he said, his smile finally faltering.

I shook my head. “No, colonel. Now what was it you want us to do?”

“Cease and desist,” he said, pausing intentionally before he added, “Colonel.”

“You want us to stop what we’re doing with regards to...”

“The Bohemian Grove.”

I nodded and pretended thoughtfulness. I looked out one of the glass windows of the office. I had eight men assigned to me, but only five of the ten desks were currently occupied. Gomer was in front of me and the other two were monitoring the Transamerica construction project. Doris Morgan sat at the reception desk in front of the stairwell. She was our own personal Cerberus, able to immediately determine if someone meant the other person harm. Not the same as the Cerberus agents from the NSA program, but she did her job well just the same. She’d come in handy several times, using signals to let the others know that trouble was at the door. But she was also the wife of a retired Air Force colonel, which might dictate loyalty. I’d never thought that there was a problem before, but the fact that Harold was sitting in front of me indicated he had a way of knowing things that he shouldn’t. The only other person who knew we’d gone to track down and meet Enrique was Doris, who filed the meeting report. Of course, Enrique could have been under surveillance, but then that should have been the NSA or the FBI, not the Air Force.

“So let me get this straight,” I began, my gaze returning to Pretty Boy Floyd – that was it! “We have a valid connection from an East German Ministry of State Security official to a local catering company that deals directly with The Bohemian Grove. You want us to leave that alone? And again, tell me why the Air Force has jurisdiction over this?”

Pretty Boy Floyd sighed. He found an imaginary piece of lint on the arm of his uniform, picked it off and flicked it onto the floor. “First of all, Colonel, your mission statement refers to the defense of American interests from supernatural attempts to acquire technology. There was no link to supernatural in your description of the problem. Secondly, Travis Air Force base has the security mission for the area. We’ve detected nothing suspicious about the annual gathering at The Bohemian Grove nor have we been asked to assist.”

“Nothing suspicious. Interesting.” I turned to the gunnery sergeant. “Gomer, please describe for me The Cremation of Care Ceremony.”

“Yes, sir. The Cremation of Care Ceremony is what marks the beginning of the yearly meeting at The Bohemian Grove. This meeting is attended by many of the richest and most influential men from around the globe. Previous members include founding member Ambrose Bierce, William Randolph Hearst, Eddie Rickenbacker, Teddy Roosevelt, Jack London, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Herbert Hoover, Edward J. Pauly and our current governor, Ronald Reagan, along with our current president, Richard Nixon.”

I nodded. “Impressive list, but tell us about the ceremony.”

Gomer grinned like his namesake. “Sorry. So they describe it as a ritualistic shedding of conscience and empathy and abuses of power. It might be that, but what they actually do is ritualistically sacrifice a mock child before a giant statue of the Canaanite god Moloch, shrouded in the figure of an owl.”

I turned to Pretty Boy Floyd and matched his smile with my own and said, “Ritualistically.”

He stood and shook his head. “Old men dressed up in robes and pretending to pray to false idols is not illegal. You have no connection or jurisdiction.” He pulled his hat from the leg pocket of his flight suit. “Cease. And. Desist. Colonel,” he said, enunciating every word.

Then he saluted, turned and left.

Gomer waited until he left the room to say, “I never mentioned robes, sir.”

“No,” I said realizing the truth of it. “No you did not.”

“So what’s next?” Gomer asked, his excitement barely contained.

I shrugged. “Nothing really. We have to begin desisting, I suppose.”

I got the call at three AM that Enrique had passed away. I sent word to Burgess to meet me at his residence with the Box Man, then called Gomer and had him pick me up. By the time we arrived, the body had been removed by the morgue and the police had already left. Burgess waited in a paneled truck. I’d asked him to wait while I spoke with the family. Gomer and I had both agreed that the timing of the death was both inopportune as well as convenient for anyone trying to obscure our path.

It took several minutes of negotiations before I was able to talk our way inside. Clearly the family felt the death was a natural one. I wasn’t going to do anything to change their minds. Whatever I discovered wouldn’t be for their benefit, but for ours. As it was, I could see the relaxation in their shoulders, as if the death was a great burden taken from them.

So it was with the family safely in the kitchen, coffee brewing, eggs sizzling, their conversation lightening as they increasingly realized their newfound freedom that we gathered inside the small bedroom of the recently deceased.

Gomer and I stood side-by-side against the far wall, trying to stay out of the way.

Lance Corporal Burgess Washta, a Lakota from Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota who’d made his escape by joining the military and surviving Vietnam, brought two creatures into the room. The first was the Box Man who was led in with a leash attached to a metal box completely covering his head. Rusted, riveted, and made of old iron, the weight of the box made the Box Man move like a hunchback, favoring one side over the other as he tried to keep the incredible weight upright yet still manage locomotion. A fine mesh screen covered the mouth and eye areas. The only other opening was a circular door on the very top of the box through which he was fed and from where he began his divinations. Behind him and walking free of a leash was the Licking Boy. Of small stature and with his eyes sewn shut, he wore a black jumpsuit and black boots. The only splash of color was the red unit path of Special Unit 77 on his shoulder. Not really a boy, he was an achondroplasiac, or dwarf. His real name had been Walter Scoggins, but he was now known as the Licking Boy.

Why Burgess had brought him, I didn’t know. I shot him an enquiring look.

“Gunnery Sergeant Chan asked that I bring him.”

To that, I turned to Gomer.

“I got a gut feeling we might need him.”

I knew that Gomer liked spending time at our special warehouse. My worry was that he’d go soft on our singular acquisitions. God knew it was bad enough to have them. If they didn’t like what they did, we’d never even use them. Harvey had been that way at first as well. Even I felt a tug at my heart, especially when I witnessed the Singing Girl do her thing. But I reminded myself that these were tools, much like a marine was a tool to take a beach or a pilot was a tool to fly an airplane. These creatures were purposely made by some arcane hand and were now ours to treasure and use. Feeling sorry for them would cause no end of problems.

Gomer recognized my look. “He doesn’t get out as much as the others. I think he could really do some good here.”

I nodded. We’d see about that.

Burgess searched the corners of the room and then under the bed, but didn’t find what he was looking for. Instead, he reported a Santeria egg and several colored candles. He checked behind the bureau as well, but no joy. The lady of the house was a conscientious cleaner and we were hard-pressed to find what we needed.

I gestured toward the headboard. Little known fact was that most spiders in bedrooms lived behind headboards, and sure enough, a meaty house spider sat hunched against the wood.

Burgess pulled a glass Gerber baby food jar out of his pocket, removed the top, and scooped the spider from the web, then handed it across the bed to me.

I moved over to the Box Man. “Okay, Boxie. Let’s get this done.”

“Done and done,” came the high-pitched raspy voice from inside the metal box.

I twisted the screw open that kept the door shut on the top of the box and opened it, revealing the scarred top of the Box Man’s head. Wisps of oily brownish gray hair shot up in lonely clumps around massive scarring. “Spider’s coming, Boxie.”

“Mamma says yum yum.” He made obscene smacking sounds with its mouth.

I couldn’t help wrinkling my nose as I dumped the spider onto the Box Man’s head then closed the door, making sure to tighten the screw.

I nodded for Burgess to release the leash and stand back.

“Spidle tickles.” The Box Man laughed, then jerked. “It bites. Bad spidle. Bad, bad spidle.” It began to gyrate, jerking its head left, then right. “Ah, I get it. Spidle wants to play. Spidle didle fo middle.”

It twisted fully around, smashing into the bureau. Burgess was barely able to step aside. The Box Man crashed to the floor where it slammed the metal box several times against the ground.

Enrique’s son-in-law called out from the kitchen. “What’s going on in there? It sounds like you’re breaking furniture.”

I nodded for Gomer to talk to them. After he left, Burgess closed the door behind him.

I glanced at the Licking Boy, whose head was turned at an odd angle as he listened to the Box Man’s childish laughter and slurping sounds.

I bent over and put my hands on my knees. “Can you hear me?”

The Box Man twitched on the floor, with minute jerks of its legs and arms.

“We need to speak with you.”

The Box Man stilled.

This was the tough part. It was only a fragment, but the fragment didn’t know it. It thought it was its entire existence. It felt whole because it didn’t know any better.

I knelt lower and whispered. “Enrique, this is Madsen. Do you remember me?”

“Maddie Maddie Madsen.”

“Yes. Madsen. Tell us what happened.”

“Light bright fight kite sight night...”

“Rhyming loop,” I said to Burgess, who was recording everything on a notepad.

I banged the side of the metal box with my knuckles and the rhyming stopped. “Enrique? Tell us what happened.”

He began to hum a recognizable tune.

“It’s the theme to the television show Perry Mason,” I said to Burgess. He had to record everything. Trying to understand a fragment was like trying to decipher a riddle. You had to have all the clues or you might never figure it out.

I knocked on the side of the box once more and the humming stopped.

Then he began to growl. Low at first, it grew louder and louder, until it sounded like a mountain lion was in the room with us.

I glanced at Burgess and the Licking Boy, who both had looks of worry on their faces. This was absolutely something new. I hadn’t encountered anything like this at all.

“Enrique, what’s happening?”

The roaring stopped, replaced by a tiny voice. “Pain. It can’t get out. I won’t let it out. I won’t...” Box Man sighed heavily. The timbre of the voice changed to someone completely different. In a sophisticated whisper it said, “It’s gone and so am I.” Then the Box Man stopped breathing.

I dragged a key ring out of my pocket and flipped madly through the chain. I found the key I wanted and hurriedly unlocked the box. It fell open, revealing the sickly skin of the Box Man. I turned his body so I could get to his ruined, spotchy face. His eyes were wide. Spittle dotted his mouth.

I looked around and found a lamp on the nightstand. I ripped free the wire, stripped the ends, then jammed them into his mouth. The effect was instantaneous. The home’s power went brown, then returned to full as the zap snapped inside the Box Man’s mouth.

His eyes snapped shut, then open.

He began to weep.

I closed the box and locked it shut.

The door opened and Gomer burst in. The son-in-law was behind him.

The young man glanced at the Box Man and at me. “What’s going on?”

“How long was your dad possessed?”

He glanced towards the bed then back to me. “What are you talking about?”

“The egg beneath the bed is a cleansing spell. The candles are for protection. He didn’t have Alzheimer’s. He had a demon inside of him didn’t he?”

The young man licked his lips, then hung his head. “We were trying to get it out.”

“But your father didn’t want it to leave. He was keeping it inside to protect something.”

“We don’t need protection.”

“I beg to fucking differ.” I reached down and grabbed the egg. I hurled it against one of the white walls. It exploded in blood. “Also realize that it might not have been you he was trying to protect.” I got to my feet, then gestured to Burgess. “Get these two back to the warehouse then meet me back at HQ.” I shoved my way through the door. It was all so unfuckingly unnecessary. “Let’s go, Gomer.”

“What about the family?”

“They say they don’t need protection.”

“But—”

“Let them reap what they sowed.”

“Do we know what kind of demon it was?” Gomer asked.

I shook my head. “We have a call into NSA asking them for his case file, but they’re never going to give that up. I did find out from a backchannel source that Enrique was replaced by USAF Major Everett Duncan. I have his contact information in Monte Rio.”

“So this Everett is the new Cerberus for The Bohemian Grove?”

“It appears so. And know what else? We now have a reason to go there.”

Gomer smiled.

Instead of smiling with him, I got up and went to Doris’s desk. I needed to confront her about this. I just stood there staring at her, saying nothing. Everything I needed to communicate was in my frown. It took about half a minute until she lowered her head and sighed.

“They just wanted to know what you were doing,” she said. “They’re very sensitive about The Bohemian Grove.”

“And Harold?”

She gave me a long stare, then answered, “He’s part of the security detail for Air Force One. He’s also a reserve pilot.”

I stared for half a minute longer then sighed. “I can’t exactly get mad at you for trying to protect the president.”

She smiled slightly. “I was hoping you’d see it that way.”

“So he’s going to be traveling there for the yearly gathering?”

She nodded. “From what I understand.”

“I’m taking a crew up there. We’re going to investigate the possession of Enrique Cruz and check on the status of his replacement. This mission falls squarely within our mission statement. Do you feel you should contact Harold?”

“I think he’ll be mad if I don’t.”

I let coldness bleed into my stare. I didn’t like the idea of any of my employees having another master, but I also understood the reality of it. That her husband depended on the Air Force for his pension put them in a difficult situation. Doris was great at her job. Knowing who she reported to and why made me feel as if I could manage it. And I would, right up until the point I decided I couldn’t.

I nodded. “Then you better let them know we’re going to be traveling.”

I returned to my office and found that Burgess had returned from the warehouse. I inquired about the Box Man and discovered that he’d made a full recovery.

“What exactly happened back there?” Burgess asked.

“Enrique was a Cerberus. You remember the three-headed dog that protected the dead from leaving hell and the living from entering? The NSA actively recruits and trains Cerberus agents for guard duty at certain locations. Looks like somewhere along the way he became possessed by a demon. He might have actually trapped it, then lost control of it somehow. After the NSA medically retired him, he then went home where his son-in-law tried a little Santeria on him to get whatever it was out of him.”

“And the blood egg?”

“It showed that it worked.” I punched my hand. “Had I suspected that, I could have spoken to the demon yesterday.” I shook my head. “Another missed opportunity.

“What now?” Gomer asked.

“Get some acquisition forms. We need to draw some weapons and cash from the Presidio. We’re leaving as soon as we have everything we need.”

“Am I coming too?” Burgess asked.

I glanced at Gomer, then turned to stare out the window.

“Hell, yes, you’re going, Marine,” he said. “Now get your ass in gear. Get to the boss’s apartment and grab his go bag, then get to mine and do the same. I want you back here within the hour. Is that clear?”

I heard the scrap of boots and a “Yes, sir,” then Burgess was moving rapidly out of the room.

I said without turning, “It’s always nice to be reminded that this is a military unit. Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant.”

“No problem, Colonel.”

The drive from San Francisco to Monte Rio took a little over two hours in the requisitioned Ford sedan. We didn’t say much, instead listened to the Carpenters, Jackson Five and Three Dog Night as we watched the buildings give way to redwood forest. At one point we found ourselves singing the words to Mama Told Me Not To Come, which lightened the journey.

When we hit Monte Rio, we stopped at the Sinclair for gas and ice cold Pepsi Colas. Burgess and I leaned against the car, drinking, gazing out at the large green dinosaur on the gas station’s sign while Gomer asked for directions inside. The weather was hotter outside the city. Too hot for the black suits we wore, but we wore them just the same.

“I’ve heard there are places where they teach that the Earth is only seven thousand years old,” Burgess said, pointing at the green Brontosaurus on the sign. “They claim dinosaurs are made up.”

I nodded. I’d heard the same thing. I’d even met a creationist once. “Some people see science as another form of religion. The thing is that with science faith doesn’t matter. Whether you believe or not, science happens.”

“I’ve heard the same thing about God, too.” I saw him glancing my way to gauge the conversation. “We had no end of missionaries come out to Pine Ridge to cleanse us of our red man ways.” He chuckled. “When we said we’d gotten along fine without Him, they all told us He’d been taking care of us despite our willingness to be Christian.”

Since he’d opened the line of conversation I decided to ask, “Do you believe in God, Burgess?”

He turned to me with a half-smile. Probably the first time that an O-6 had ever asked him that question. “That’s a pretty serious question, sir. Do you believe in God?”

I considered this as I stared at the dinosaur. “I believe in something. Not sure it’s a god whose physical manifestation is a man wearing robes and a beard. With all the arcane craft we’re involved in, how can I not believe in something greater than ourselves?”

“So you have faith, then.”

I shook my head. “Faith to me implies giving up the option to disagree or disbelieve. Instead let’s call it dedicated curiosity.”

He drank the rest of his Pepsi and let out a belch.

A Trailways bus went by, its marquee stating it was heading to Mendocino. Interesting. I would have thought it would have been quicker to take the 101 to the 128. Instead, the bus was taking Highway 1, which made for a much longer, albeit scenic trip.

Five trucks carrying avocados picked fresh from the field roared past, heading in the other direction toward San Francisco.

Once the noise had receded I asked, “And what do you believe in?”

“We believe that the land has a spirit. Every blade of grass and every leaf has a spirit within it. Wakan Tanka is our creator. He has no form like your white god. Instead he is in everything.” Burgess chuckled again. “It’s funny. I remember my grandfather, who was raised in the old way. He took us to a place where later on white men would come and dig up the bones of a great dinosaur. We could see the mark of its head and its eye in the surrounding rock. My grandfather said that this was the burial place of a great creature that had once walked the land. He said it had been made by Wakan Tanka to remove those creatures who would do the Lakota harm. And once it had destroyed all of these creatures, it had chosen this spot to die, so that every generation of Lakota could go to it, and remember what it had done for us.”

Gomer jogged out of the store with a map in his hand. “I think I got it figured out. We’re about five minutes away from the guy’s house.”

I nodded to Burgess, finished my bottle, then slid it into the wooden box beside the machine. We got in the car and headed west out of the gas station. Burgess drove with Gomer in the passenger seat. I sat behind Gomer.

Eventually, Burgess turned down a shaded two-lane residential street.

“What happened to the creature? You said white men came and dug it up?”

Gomer turned in his seat, his eyes full of questions.

“Yeah, scientists from the School of Mines came, dug it up, put it back together, and sold it to a museum for millions of dollars that they put back into your school.”

“None of the money came to the tribe?”

Burgess gave me an Are you kidding? look in the mirror.

“Looks as if the great beast hadn’t cleansed the land of everything.”

Burgess nodded. “We say that all the time. If it had only waited for the white man to come before dying we’d never have had this problem.”

“What kind of dinosaur was it?”

“Tyrannosaurus Rex,” he said, as he pulled into a space by the curb in front of a single-story California white and blue craftsman. A yellow and white ’57 Chevy was parked in the driveway.

I couldn’t help grin as I imagined settlers in their Conestoga wagons running for their lives while being chased by herds of white-man-eating dinosaurs on the American Great Plains.

When we got out of the car, Gomer asked, “What was that all about?”

“We were talking about belief and God and dinosaurs.”

“However did you get to that?” Then he snapped his fingers. “The gas station.”

I nodded. We headed up the walk. “Do you believe?” I asked.

“Dinosaurs?” he asked with a smile. “Most definitely.”

“And God?”

“I was raised in the South. What do you think?”

“Churches on every corner?”

“And then some.”

We took the three steps to the porch. Burgess stepped ahead and rang the buzzer.

“What about the Chinese as a race?”

Gomer sighed. “My people spent the last two thousand years worshipping an emperor, then we were told our religion was socialism. We’re still getting over that. Trying to figure out how killing all of our teachers and scientists fits into God’s plan.”

Burgess rang the doorbell again.

Still nothing.

Gomer put a hand on Burgess’s shoulder. “Go around the side and see if he’s in the back yard.”

Burgess took off round the corner at a fast walk.

I nodded toward the car. “It’s unlikely he’s gone, but he could have gotten a ride, be taking a walk, or any number of reasons.”

He frowned. “Could also be that he’s dead, being held hostage and not allowed to open the door, or crushed beneath a fallen book case.”

“So you’re a glass half-empty person.”

“Actually, sir, I’m more of a glass totally empty person. If there’s something that could happen, I want to have thought of it ahead of time.”

“Isn’t that a little paranoid?”

“Did you know that the Chinese character for paranoid and prepared are the same?”

“Is it really?”

He glanced at me and grinned.

“I guess you’ll never know unless you can read Chinese.”

I couldn’t help grin as well. Getting to know Gomer Pyle after the death of Chiba had been slow. Looks like getting away from the office was just the thing we needed to break the ice.

The front door opened, revealing a breathless Burgess, his eyes panicked. “Back door was open. You got to see this.”

I glanced at Gomer.

He said, “Looks like it’s half-empty after all.”

We entered the home.

Major Everett Duncan, formerly a Cerberus working for the National Security Agency, sat in the center of his sofa in the living room, staring blankly at the empty fireplace before him. His chest moved, which meant he breathed, but that’s all he seemed able to do. His soft gray eyes could have been staring at a spot a thousand miles distant for as focused as they were. He had close-cut blonde hair and wore a rumpled gray suit, white shirt, blue tie. His long face seemed longer because of the way his cheeks sagged.

“I came inside and found him like this. Weird isn’t it? Think he’s on something?”

I shook my head. I strode to the coffee table in front of him and with Gomer’s help, pushed it aside. I knelt in front of Everett and checked his vitals. They appeared to be normal. His eyes remained unfocused.

I got up and looked around the room. It was clearly a bachelor’s pad. Nowhere could a woman’s touch be seen. A picture of a stream hung above the fireplace. Two other chairs along with a floor lamp completed the room. The mantel held a dozen knick-knacks. A table against the back wall held dozens more. It looked as if he liked to collect things from his travels. I saw pieces from Asia, Africa, and Central America.

I stood in the middle of the room with my eyes closed. The problem was it could be any one of the room’s objects. I just couldn’t figure out which one. I opened my eyes and saw Burgess picking up a vase.

“Put that down! Don’t touch anything.”

He looked hurt but put the vase down.

“What are you thinking, boss?” Gomer asked.

I shook my head. “I could be wrong, but something feels off in this room. It’s like something’s here in the space that shouldn’t be.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What do you know about demon possession?”

Gomer Pyle shook his head. “Nothing, really.”

“So here’s what I know. Demons can’t just walk around in this world. There’s some rule, call it God, call it whatever you want, but they just can’t do it. Good thing, too, or else we’d have thousands of possessed people on the streets doing the devil knows what. They can only exist within a pentacle or in an object or in a person.”

He glanced at Everett. “You think there’s a demon in there?”

“I do. And I think he’s locked in combat as we speak.”

“What can we do?”

“Two things.” I pulled out a piece of paper and made out a list, then handed it to Burgess. “See if you can find these around the house, then bring them to me.”

“Is it okay to touch them when I find them?” he said in complete seriousness.

“It’s only this room where something’s wrong, so yes.”

“What about me?” Gomer asked.

“Get on the phone and contact the officer on duty.”

“The Licking Boy won’t work,” he said. “Not if you don’t want things touched.”

“Which is why we need The Singing Girl. Do we know where she is?”

“No idea, but we’ll track her down.” He glanced at Everett. “How long do we have?”

I shrugged. “For all I know we’re already too late.”

“Then I better move,” Gomer said. He reached out for the phone in the room, then halted at the last moment. He grinned sheepishly. “I’ll see if there’s one in the kitchen.”

“Best you do that.”

The next three hours were filled with preparations. We removed the coffee table and the couch to clear necessary space. Someone turned on the television and we worked as it played through first a rerun of Hogan’s Heroes, then an episode of Lassie, then the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite. We stopped and listened when President Nixon spoke before Congress, outlining that Native American Self-Determination was now considered U.S. Policy. The significance of this wasn’t missed and for the first time since American Indians had been placed on reservations, it was looking like they might be able to govern themselves. Burgess watched with heightened attention.

During this period I drew heptagrams on the floor and ceiling. Called ‘Devil’s Traps,’ heptagrams are more powerful than mere salt and cannot only bind and trap demons, but also force them to do one’s will. The two heptagrams I chose were ones I’d memorized from The Lesser Key of Solomon, or the Lemegeton, an anonymous grimoire that was discovered by a Franciscan Order in Spain five hundred years ago.

The one I’d painted on the ceiling in pig’s blood – provided by the local butcher – was the Grand Pentacle and was a summoning and binding heptagram. The symbol was actually three dimensional with two interlocking symbols. Written on the outside were the words THTOCX ORABALAIIA TISCAL GAONOSV TAHIIGEKSP TII OMEMARE NVGAREIA TEDATOlVONAOIO TLA, whose pronunciation and meaning had long been lost to time. Not knowing what they meant had little effect on their power however.

The heptagram on the floor, in which Everett Duncan now sat, was an amalgam of the Grand Pentacle with a Zoastrian magic circle at its center. Dating back to the seventh century, this too eventually found its way into the Lemegeton. Some of the Knights Templars dutifully recorded it in a cave in what is now Iraq, then brought it back to France. Inside the Zoastrian circle was the figure of a scorpion. Around it were the words in ancient Assyrian, “It is terrible unto the demons, and at its sight and aspect they will obey thee, for they cannot resist its presence.” Called The Fifth Pentacle of Mars, it had the power to make demons obey.

I could only hope they were helping.

I delayed my incantations for an hour in the hopes that The Singing Girl would arrive. I was about to give up when lights lit up the front windows.

A few moments later the front door opened, and in stepped a dark-skinned young woman, fury in her eyes. Enter Donka Dzugi – stage name Esmeralda Romenco. She wore a red shin-length dress and black high heel shoes. Her black hair hung down her back in broad curls. Gold hoops hung from her ears. She strode directly to me, her heels like rifle shots on the wooden floor.

“How dare you,” she said, raising her hand to strike me.

I grabbed her wrist before she could do any damage. “Come now, you know you made a deal.”

Somewhere between nineteen and thirty-five, she had the dusky features of the Romani. Dark eyes flashed beneath even darker eyelashes. Her sculptured cheeks rode high over a frown. “I was going to perform at The Filmore. Do you know how long it took to set this up? Years. I’ve been working years in order to be--” Then she paused. “Oh, what’s this?” She turned in the room and brought a hand to her chest. “Something is here, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “It’s why we couldn’t wait. Sorry about The Filmore. If we can help—”

She waved me quiet as she walked around the heptagram. “Is he...?” she asked, pointing at Duncan.

I nodded. “At least I think so.”

“I think so, too,” she whispered.

Mark Patterson stood in the hall beside Burgess. Mark had brought her and by his pained frown had been the object of her fury and scorn the entire way. This was the first time Burgess had seen this and I noted the keen interest in his eyes. Gomer Pyle, on the other hand, stood in the kitchen doorway, smoking a cigarette like a jailhouse felon, his hand covering the cigarette so it couldn’t be seen. Not that any of us cared, but Donka despised cigarette smoke because of what it did to her voice.

She began to hum, a tune like something I’d imagine from a gypsy lullaby, as she walked around the room. Her hands were cupped in front of her, almost in prayer, but ever moving. She paused at the mantel, then moved on, her voice becoming louder, the Romani words rounder and deeper. At a table against a wall, she bent over then turned her head like a bird might to regard a piece which looked African. Instead of staying, she straightened, her voice gaining energy, the decibels rising, until she was belting out words like it was a concert hall and the items in the room were her only audience.

The music was full and round and symphonic. I closed my eyes as I imagined her on the stage of The Filmore. I’d see if we could help her out. She deserved to be there. The public needed to hear the beauty of her voice. She’d played to too many rooms like this one. Not that her talent was a waste, but she should be applauded by so many more people than the sad lot of Special Unit 77.

I began to detect a sharpening to her sound. Something a little off, as if a note just wasn’t able to be reached anymore. I’m sure if I knew music I could say it was a bad B or A or C, but all I knew was my ear said it was wrong. I opened my eyes and noted that everyone was entranced by Donka.

She stared at an item on the mantel and sung toward it. Her once beautiful music slid sideways into something bordering on painful as she walked toward it. By the time she was next to it, I wanted to clasp my hands over my ears and make the noise stop. The very sound of it made it feel like maggots on razor blade roller skates were doing figure-eights in my head.

When she stopped it was as if the silence were a salve on my psyche. I glanced at the others. Burgess had gone to one knee. Patterson had the glassy-eyed look of someone in terrible pain. Gomer had his fist in the center of his forehead as if he could pull the pain away. But now it was gone.

She turned to me. “Looks like this little trinket is the culprit. Terrible thing. Did it sound as bad as I thought it did?”

I smiled. “It was lovely right up until it wasn’t.” I approached the mantel. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

The trinket looked nothing more than a wooden box the size and shape of a donut. It stood about four inches high and had a lapis lazuli-engraved lid. I’d noted the stone before, but couldn’t tell what it had been. But now as I examined it I could clearly see the triangle above an arrow pointing down. I recognized it as a Zorastrian alchemical symbol for sulfur. Interesting. The smell of sulfur had long been associated with the presence of demons. I sniffed and could just detect the hint of the foul smell.

“Is that it?” Gomer Pyle asked, pulling on a pair of white gloves.

He gently picked up the trinket. The moment he touched it, the gloves began to give off a tinge of smoke. Made from one of the habits of Mother Theresa, the gloves were one of the only things in our inventory that allowed us to touch evil without being burned by it. He pulled the lid free. Beneath it was a pentagram of summoning, similar to the one I’d used, but this one had been adapted and changed by Aleister Crowley, which told me that the user probably had a background in Golden Dawn occultism. The inside was empty but the wood looked as though it was lined with bone.

“Bone demon?” Gomer asked.

I nodded. “I think so. It’s probably why the Cerberus is having such a hard time. I’ve only come across one once before and there was a lot of blood before we were able to rid ourselves of it.” To Burgess I said, “Get the salt.”

When he returned with the salt, I poured a little on everyone’s head. Then I approached Everett, who sat in the middle of the heptagram on the floor. When I poured salt on his head, it immediately began to smoke.

I then had Gomer and Burgess move a stepladder so it was directly above Everett. Burgess held it steady, while Gomer climbed to the top. Using a hammer and a nail he affixed the box upside down to the center of the heptagram on the ceiling.

Burgess removed the ladder and Gomer placed the box cover with the symbol of summoning on Everett’s head. I added salt to it and immediately an intense, foot-high flame shot from the box top.

A growling sound began to emanate from the Cerberus. This was joined by the sound of teeth grinding together.

I motioned for Donka to stand back, but she was an old champ at this. She found a spot behind Patterson and stayed there. If any havoc was going to occur in the room as a result of her singing, it would have to get through him to her. Mark, for all of his previous misery, didn’t seem to mind at all.

I turned to the Cerberus and raised my hands. I’d drawn the Eye of Horus on my right palm. On my left I’d drawn the Norse rune of bondage. I began to chant in German, casting a summoning spell that would be difficult for any demon to ignore.

The growling became louder and louder, until it was a scream. Everett opened his mouth and smoke began to pour out in the shape of a being. Hands gripped the insides of his mouth and pulled the rest of the body out, only to have it caught in an invisible whirlwind that drew it into the flame atop the box top. The color of scorched bone, the figure swirled in the air for a brief moment before it was snatched into the box. Once inside, the top flew from Everett’s head and snapped into place on the box on the ceiling and remained there.

I ceased my chanting in the same moment that Everett opened his eyes.

He looked at me for a long moment. “You from Seventy-Seven?” he asked with a gravelly voice.

I nodded.

“Thanks for the help.”

“Is that all there was or should we be worried about something more.”

“Isn’t that enough?” he said, then fell over, his eyes rolling up into his head.

Mr. Everett Duncan sat at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee and eating his sixth piece of toast. His eyes were bleary, but the color had returned to his skin and he was as hale and healthy as a man recently possessed by a bone demon could be.

I’d had Patterson take Donka back last night with my promise to her that we’d help her get another gig at The Filmore. Gomer Pyle hadn’t approved. He tended to see only black and white and she’d been arrested for her involvement with the Russian mob a year ago. Gomer didn’t care that the mob had been holding the lives of her family back in Romania over her head. He didn’t care that she was of great use to us. He felt that she’d committed the crime of espionage and should be treated like a criminal. Only it wasn’t really espionage. We just told her that to keep her in line. In fact, going into antique stores to sing and find magical artifacts wasn’t against the law. We just didn’t want her doing it for the Russians. We wanted her to do it for us. We allowed her to keep her links to the mob because of the safety of her family, and she consistently reported her contacts to 77. It was a win-win situation, regardless of what Gomer thought.

I poured Everett a second cup of coffee.

He was halfway through it before he finally spoke. “I first noticed something wrong when I came home and my wards were gone.”

“Gone you say? When was this?”

He turned to me. “What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“Gods. It was Monday.” He pulled out a pocket knife and began to cut an apple into slices. He offered me one, but I declined. He ate a slice, then continued. “I was ready to confront whoever did it, or at least I thought I was.”

“Who could have shattered your wards? I didn’t even detect any when I arrived. There was certainly nothing to stop us from entering.”

“Someone... something strong and powerful.” He shook his head. “I should have anticipated this.” He ate another piece of apple, then asked, “How is it you came to be here?”

“Enrique.”

“The old man? He retired two months ago.” He paused, his eyes widening. “Is he all right?”

“Afraid not. Enrique is dead.”

“What happened?”

“My guess is that he had a bone demon inside him as well.”

Everett straightened. His long face looked even longer. “And we thought he was just getting old... maybe a little dementia. You say he was possessed?”

I nodded.

He brought his hand down hard on the table. “How could this happen? We’re trained to protect against such things.”

“We’re here to get to the bottom of it. But tell me, how did the demon get inside you? Did you touch the box?”

“What box? No, I never touched it, I...” He stared out the window for a moment. “I remember I couldn’t breathe. I fell. I saw someone’s feet. I tried to move but I couldn’t and--” He turned to me. “I was drugged – gassed!”

I glanced at Gomer, who stood at the back door, smoking. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“That would explain why you weren’t able to defend yourself. When the demon was inside you, did you – were you able to see anything?”

He turned to stare at me. “You’ve been possessed before, haven’t you?”

I frowned at the memories. “Once or twice.”

He looked long and hard at me, then shook his head. “This was my first time. I was surprised at how... how...”

“Seductive. Seductive is the word you’re looking for.”

He snapped his fingers. “Yes. How seductive. It got so close to me that I didn’t know where I ended and it began. I saw some of its memories, which meant it saw some of mine as well.” He stood, went to the sink, made a V with two fingers and spit through them. “I’m not looking forward to the report I’m going to have to file.”

“I think we can wait on that until we conclude the investigation, don’t you think, Major?”

He nodded grudgingly. “I remember a figure. Tall, wearing a suit, very distinguished. It had boots like something from the Victorian era. Something about the face, though. It’s a blur. It wouldn’t stop moving.”

“Obfuscation is a very powerful ability. It might explain how it got past your defenses. You’re what, a Level III Cerberus?”

“Two,” he said.

“I thought The Bohemian Grove was a Level III position.”

“It is. I was frocked to Level III, but I haven’t been through any of the training or certifications.”

I tried hard not to roll my eyes. “Government,” I muttered, which said it all, and to which he nodded sadly. No use getting angry at Everett. He was just doing what he was told.

I told him what I knew of the Stasi connection to the local caterer.

“Do you know which caterer?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Our information came from a decoded Soviet cable. It only indicated that the Stasi had someone inside a catering company that works with The Grove.”

“I might be able to assist. We keep records of all the caterers and vendors and such.” He paused as he seemed to consider something. “Do you think it might be connected with my possession?” He asked.

“I’m going to have to plan that it is.” I turned to Gomer. “Call Doris and see if there’s been any contact with Major Pretty Boy Floyd.”

Gomer gave me a look like he had no idea what I was talking about, then I could see the lights go on. He chuckled and headed for the phone.

“Who do you normally report to at The Grove?”

“Frank Montesonti,” he said. “He’s an ex-San L.A. cop. He runs a tight ship.”

“I bet he’s going to wonder where you’ve been.”

His eyes went wide as he sat up, then he sagged back into the chair. “I’m really going to have to report this, aren’t I?”

“Afraid so. But let’s keep big NSA out of it for now and report it only to Montesonti. In fact, I think it’s best if we did it in person.”

Security was already beginning to tighten as we approached. Bohemian Highway and Highway 116 had checkpoints. Local police and highway patrol were only allowing people through who either lived in the town of Monte Rio or had official business with The Grove. Everett got us through them all. Burgess parked our sedan in front of an already crowded welcome lodge right before the main gate on Bohemian Avenue.

Inside was a madhouse of vendors, contractors, caterers, and newly-hired Bohemian staff requiring badges. At the center of the madness was a bear of a man with close-cut white hair and a cigar permanently affixed to the corner of his mouth – Frank Montesonti. We pushed our way through using our badges, briefly explained the situation, then he waved us on with the stern warning that we had better do our jobs.

On the way out I spied three men seated on a bench, handcuffed. All of them had press badges hanging from their necks. I guess this was the one place that the rich and famous didn’t want to be seen in the newspapers.

Outside, we got back in the sedan and Everett gave us a tour of The Grove. As we passed an immense forty-foot tall statue vaguely resembling an owl he said, “This is where the Cremation of Care Ceremony is going to take place tomorrow night. Once everyone gets settled into their own camps, they’ll gather here for a welcome dinner and then the ceremony.”

“What sort of camps do they have?” Gomer Pyle asked. “I was sort of expecting a hotel.”

Everett shook his head. “I get the feeling that these folks spend enough nights in hotels. They have more than forty different camps situated around The Grove. Turn here and I’ll show you.”

We stopped several times on our circuit of The Grove as Everett inspected new deliveries and briefly spoke to new hires, during when he was able to show us several of the camps.

The Abby was nothing more than a place with pitched tents and a fire pit, but according to Enrique’s records, ‘unspeakable acts’ were frequently performed there.

The Derelicts Camp was a simple long house where members who wanted to keep a low profile stayed.

Hideaway, Highlanders, and Hill Billies were three large camps where politicians, presidents, and the rich CEOs of corporations stayed.

The Land of Happiness was a camp exclusively for lawyers.

The Isle of Aves was a collection of cottages where members of the Justice and Defense Departments stayed along with a select group of defense contractors.

We didn’t actually see Camp Mandalay, but we did note the cable car that granted access to it. Only the very privileged were allowed to stay and attend functions at Mandalay. Neither Enrique nor his predecessor had ever been inside that camp. Everett held out little hope that his tenure at The Grove would be any different.

All this in a gorgeous landscape of rolling, tree-covered hills dotted with glens. On the surface it seemed more like a park than anything else. I reminded myself that everything wasn’t as it seemed. I was especially interested in the mock child sacrifice.

Back at Everett’s Spartan, one-room office in the welcome center, we drank coffee while he searched his files. He pulled out a stack of folders and brought them to me.

There were eleven caterers in all. Four were local businesses and the other seven came out of San Francisco and Santa Rosa. Of these remaining seven, there was nothing that stood out. We spent a good two hours examining every file, but all we had in front of us were forms with names of personnel and their background checks. Everything seemed to be legitimate.

I tossed the folders in a pile. “These aren’t doing us much good, I’m afraid. We’re going to need to see the caterers.”

“They’re already setting things up for tomorrow night. Between now and then you’ll see them all if you have the patience.”

I glanced at Gomer and Burgess. “I might not have the patience, but these two do.”

Burgess looked at Gomer as if to say, We do?

Gomer solemnly shook his head but wouldn’t meet my gaze.

Suddenly the door pushed open.

We all turned to see Major Skip Harold, aka Pretty Boy Floyd, standing there with fury in his eyes. Behind him were two Air Force MPs in white combat helmets, fatigues, and pistols at their sides.

“Major Harold, we didn’t expect to see you here.” I nodded toward the coffee pot. “Come on in and have a cup.”

He glanced at the coffee pot, then back to me. He’d clearly thought his entrance would be a little more dramatic.

“Major Harold?” I asked.

“Colonel Madsen, I thought I told you not to come here.”

I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.

Gomer did a double take.

“Major Harold.” I stood slowly. “I wasn’t aware that an O-6 had to obey an O-4.”

“When it comes to the security of this compound it does, as you were informed, sir, when we discussed your previous intentions to come to The Grove.”

I glanced at the MPs behind him. They’d probably been told I was some high and mighty army colonel with a too-high opinion of myself. I might not do anything to dissuade that notion, but I was going to make myself clear.

“Then you need to put yourself on report.”

Now it was his turn to do a double take. “What are you talking about?”

“United States Code Title 10,892.” I glanced at one of the MPs – a young black kid who looked like he’d been an all-American linebacker. “Know what that is, kid?”

“Dereliction of Duty, sir,” he said, snapping out the answer.

Pretty Boy Floyd sputtered, “Dereliction—”

“Of Duty, punished under Article 92 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. You’ve stated that you are in charge of security, yet not one but two Cerberus agents assigned to your compound were attacked and possessed by bone demons.”

He shook his head. “What?” He tried to say something else, but all he could manage was “What?” again.

“You heard me.” To the MPs I said, “Are you prepared to take Major Harold into custody?”

They glanced at each other. This had definitely not been in the game plan.

Pretty Boy Floyd was completely confused.

“Then again, if you want to assist me in my investigation, I could surely use your help. After all, if your desire is truly to see to the safety of the camp, then we can work better together than I can alone. Because as sure as I am a colonel in my country’s army, I know that if we care more about the way we do things rather than what it is we have to do, more people are going to suffer.”

I could see the information processing by the shifting features of his face. Finally he clenched his teeth and locked his jaw. It was then I knew I’d won. I not only had him on my side, but I had three other people to assist in the search.

Meanwhile, I had my own research to perform and needed the Cerberus to help.

It took some convincing, but Everett eventually agreed to allow me to hypnotize him. We’d gone back to his house to spend the night and I’d decided that I wanted to try and retrieve some memory of his possession if possible. We’d put all the furniture back in place and we’d wiped away the heptagrams. He sat on the couch in the same position we’d originally found him. I used voice modulation to lull him into the state I needed and within moments he was under.

It took an hour before I found something useful. Once I did, I woke him and we began to talk.

“Ever heard of The Mothman?” I asked.

“Wasn’t it involved with the Silver Bridge collapse in West Virginia a few years ago?”

I nodded. “It was. Locals believe that it was trying to warn them about the bridge collapse.”

He looked skeptical. “So you think it was The Mothman who came to me?”

“Here’s what we know of The Mothman. He wasn’t warning people, he was looking for something. Special Units Division of the Pentagon had a special detention facility in Point Pleasant. It was well-hidden and ultimately never found. But The Mothman let it be known that he was going to collapse the bridge and kill dozens if not hundreds of people if we didn’t release one of its own.”

“Seriously?”

“It was classified Need-To-Know. The only reason I knew was because I’d just left there for a position at the Pentagon and they called me in to help prepare the prisoners for movement to a new location.”

“When you say special you mean...”

“Yes. Bottom line was that we didn’t give into the blackmailing and a lot of people died. We’ve rationalized that a lot more would have died had the facility been discovered and the inmates released.”

“Why was it trying to—” Then his eyes brightened. “You had someone it knew.”

“There’s a family originally from Stribrna, which now lies in the Czech Republic. Not much of a town, it began as a medieval trading post along one of the mountain routes into Germany back when the country was known as Bohemia. We’ve traced several legends back to this family. They are as smart as they are wicked.”

“What are they?”

“Ever hear of the Spring-heeled Jack?”

He stared toward the ceiling as he thought. “London. 1800s. Killed some men and women. Mysterious figure who could leap incredibly. Flame shot from its eyes. It wore some sort of helmet.”

I chuckled. “It’s all accurate except for the flame part. That was Boniface Zdarsky. Incidentally, the last name means ‘from the forest,’ which was where the family originally came from before they moved to Stribrna. He wore the helmet because he’d sometimes jump so high and far he’d land on his head.”

“How do you know so much about him?” he asked.

“Because he’s the one we have in custody.”

Everett seemed to do the math and said, “But that would mean that he’s—”

“They don’t die.”

He stared at me.

“They lived so long that the locals thought they were vampires, which is why they were run out of town.”

“You said there’s a family?”

“Two other brothers and a sister. We killed the father back in ’42. He was running a concentration camp for the Nazis. Boniface claims the mother died in World War I.”

“Do you know how the family came to be like this?”

“No one really knows. Boniface doesn’t even know. They tell each other that sometime back in the 1400s his grandmother was impregnated by a nature spirit, but I think that’s just something they say just to have an origin story. There’s really no way of knowing.”

“So who was it who attacked me and how did you connect him?”

“In your memory, you said that the man’s legs shook, trembled, was your actual word. It was the trembling that initially struck me. You also mentioned the boots. The family requires stability and a fairly large heel. They’re immortal, but they can still break. His sister, Radana, is missing her left arm, for instance. She lost it to a Russian count who took it for a souvenir. Ever since then she’s been killing off the man’s family line. It’s what’s kept her in the Soviet Union. Boniface was a few beers short of a six pack himself from hitting his head too many times as a child. Rehor, on the other hand, is something else entirely – he’s the one whom I surmise came to you... did this to you.”

Gomer stepped into the room from the kitchen. “Since when did Rehor become a warlock? If that’s the case, it’s the difference between a grenade and a nuclear bomb.”

I nodded. “It does make him a much more dangerous adversary. For all we know he was taught by Crowley himself. Hell, if I can learn, he can, too.”

“But why not just kill me?” Everett asked.

“I’ve been thinking about that. I think he needed information from you and it used the bone demon to get it.”

“What kind of information?”

“Anything. Everything.” I shrugged. “Have you checked all the wards on The Grove?”

“I was so busy with screening people, I wasn’t able to get to all of them.”

“Isn’t tomorrow the big day?”

He gave me a look, then lowered his head. “I need to go check them.” He looked at his suit. “Let me go change first.”

“I’ll have Burgess join you.”

Everett got up, then headed toward the bedroom.

Gomer came in and sat where Everett had been sitting. “Do you know why else Rehor could have used the bone demon?”

I shook my head.

“Maybe he’s still looking for his brother.”

“But Everett wouldn’t know that.”

“But you do, don’t you?”

I stared at Gomer as my mental blocks slid into place. “Think he’s here for me?”

“At the very least, you’re the cherry on the cake.”

“He could also be here to take someone hostage. Who’s the most important person who’s going to be here this weekend?”

“President Nixon.”

“He has his own warlock from Special Unit Division.”

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t a target.”

I slapped my knee with the flat of my right hand. “Damn! It could be anybody.”

“That’s what makes this so much fun,” Gomer said.

“Right. Fun. Oh joy.”

Burgess and Everett didn’t get back in until three, but that didn’t keep me from waking them up at seven. After a shower, coffee and breakfast, I sent Everett and Gomer out to The Grove to provide security for the welcome dinner set-up and the Cremation of Care Ceremony. We needed each and every piece of equipment, furniture, caterer, vendor, and contractor checked for supernatural taint.

I kept Burgess with me. I had him plot the locations of the four local catering services and run local background checks to see if there was anything that wasn’t in the files, while I called back to the office and had the remainder of my officers check the caterers in San Francisco and San Rafael. Not that we knew what to look for, but my men were skilled in observing the supernatural, and if there were clues to be had, they’d find them.

It’d been a long time since I’d thought of the Zdarsky family. While Boniface Zdarsky was merely a sociopath, his brother Rehor was a complete psychopath. If he was a warlock as well as a Spring-heeled Jack, we might be in some serious trouble. Our only hope was to find him before he could do anything.

We had to wait two hours, twiddling our fingers until the businesses opened at ten. Everett had taken his own car, which left Burgess with me. He checked our pistols to make sure we had rounds. It wasn’t often we used them, although we carried them all the time. The last thing we needed was to need them and have them not working.

“I didn’t know we had a detention facility,” Burgess said to break the long silence of waiting. “What sorts of prisoners do we have?”

“Sorry, kid. That’s on a need-to-know. It’s a special duty assignment and you have to be read on to the program first.”

“Damn. What about these Spring-heeled Jacks? What kind of powers do they have?”

I glanced his way and made a mental note to have my men review 77’s cryptid database, something they’d clearly been slacking. “They’re exceptionally strong. They’re exceptionally fast, they can leap great distances, and they can live forever if they aren’t killed first.”

“Does that make them evil?”

“In their case, evil was a choice. They decided somewhere along the way to use their powers to gain advantage.” I shrugged. “I think it’s probably impossible to have superpowers and not use them to gain an advantage sooner or later. That’s probably why Superman is a comic book.”

“He’s also an alien,” Burgess said. “Which could be the reason he doesn’t have the desire to commit mortal or venial sins.”

I jerked my head around and stared at him.

“What? Didn’t you know Indians read comic books too?”

“No, I just didn’t think you were Catholic.”

“Oh that? I’m not. We just had a lot of missionaries come to the res to try and convert us. We only showed up for the free food and stuff.”

I nodded because it made sense. “You’re right, of course.” Seeing his blank stare, I added, “About Superman. It’s the fact that he’s alien. But I think also that the Zdarskys are as alien. Not that they’re from another planet, mind you. There’s something that makes them not human, therefore they have decided not to follow our laws or morays. Superman could have taken that direction but he chose not to.”

“He might have,” said Burgess, “Had the Kents not raised him. They raised him to be human so he acted human.”

“Whereas the Zdarskys were raised by themselves,” I concluded. I regarded Burgess for a long enough period to make him uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Well, we’ve gone from creationism to dinosaurs to God to Superman. You’re an interesting young man, Burgess. Much more so than I expected.”

He managed to blush, but still said, “Not your everyday Indian with a bow and arrow and a wigwam, huh?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I suppose I deserved that, although this business tends to draw some very special people.” I didn’t have to mention what I meant by ‘business.’ I thought about Nancy Drew and how odd a fellow he’d been, and then the juxtaposition of his replacement and how out of sync his dramatic southern accent went with his Asian features.

“What about you, sir? Where do you come from?”

I sighed. It wasn’t often that I opened up but I felt an affinity with this kid. “My father was very wealthy, so wealthy that I was spared a normal childhood by spending all my days at private boarding schools. I probably saw my parents three times a year. It wasn’t until the war came along and I was drafted that I finally found a real family.”

“Sounds terrible. I spent every waking moment with my family.”

I shrugged. “It would be ridiculous to complain. I had the best of everything. I wanted for nothing. By the time I was eighteen I’d already seen Europe.” I glanced at him. “Good thing, too, because it all changed after the war.”

“Is that why you’ve never married, sir?”

The words bit and I couldn’t help but give him a look that said he’d gone too far.

He immediately backtracked. “Sorry, sir. It’s just that me and the boys wondered.”

“Let’s just say that I think the head of a family should be committed to it. Right now, Special Unit 77 is my family.”

“Yes, sir.” Then he pointed out the windshield. “Look, sir. I think they’re opening up.”

It was about time. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable even though it was me who’d opened the conversational door. We got out and went inside. I paused at the door to Mannetti’s Catering Company but didn’t detect any wards. The inside was cool. Across the black and white checkerboard floor were glass cases displaying cakes and various desserts.

A man behind the counter beamed when he saw me. Then his face fell as I began asking him questions and he realized I wasn’t a customer.

Thus began a fruitless effort.

The next place on our list was closed, with a note saying they were busy at The Grove.

In the third place a young man with dirty fingernails and a gold watch on his wrist sat behind the counter reading comic books. On the counter next to him were several Where Monsters Dwell, their covers gaudy with creatures Special Unit 77 would be after had they really existed. In his hand he held an issue of the Silver Surfer – another alien with different ideas of right and wrong. The kid was absolutely non-responsive, mumbling something about no one being around right now, despite the fact that he was around.

The fourth place held a nice older woman who apologized for not being able to answer my questions because, like the boy at the place before, she was merely there to greet visitors, but unlike the boy at the place before, she was willing to get back to me later if I’d only leave my name and number.

By the time we got back to The Grove, I was tired and hungry and upset at our lack of progress. Back in Everett’s office, I phoned Doris for an update. Four of the seven caterers had been checked with nothing to show for it.

I was just putting the phone down when Everett and Montesonti entered.

“Where’s Chan?” I asked Everett.

“We caught them.”

“You caught who?”

“We know who it is? A catering company from San Rafael. Fitzsimmons Catering. They had several dozen chairs which set off all my wards. I’m not sure what was going to happen, but by the greasy feeling I got, they couldn’t be good.”

I felt myself listening in slow motion. I replayed what he said in my head. “Where’s Chan?” I asked again.

“He’s with Major Harold putting the whole crew in custody.”

“Did you recognize one of the men in the catering company?”

Everett shook his head. “I didn’t. But remember, I said his face changed, so it could be any of them.”

Montesonti clapped Everett on the back. “Good work, kid.”

Everett beamed.

Burgess interrupted the happy fest with an odd question to Montesonti. “Where’d you get that watch?”

The large man regarded the gold watch on his wrist. “This old thing? Got it off a dead Kraut during the war.”

“What model is it?” Burgess leaned down to inspect it. “Lange & Sohn. Never heard of them before.”

Montesonti chuckled, the sound like a low rumble. “You wouldn’t have. Jeweler friend of mine said this baby is worth about three grand.”

Everett interrupted. “Looks like the good guys came out on top.”

“It looks that way,” I said, getting out of his chair. I glanced at Burgess. I didn’t know what he was up to with the watch, but I was interested. “Come on. Let’s go find Gunnery Sergeant Chan.”

Things moved pretty quickly after that. I met Gomer outside the welcome center. Major Harold and his men had put the Fitzsimmons Catering company in confinement, then came to escort me and my crew off the premises. I thought everyone was acting a little hastily and I said so, but no one was listening. So it was at six in the evening that we found ourselves at a local diner eating burgers and drinking coffee with the feeling that things were far from over.

Burgess was on the phone at the end of the service counter.

Gomer and I sat in a booth by the window.

“You know this isn’t over, right?” I said to Gomer.

He nodded. “It was a pretty convenient setup. You should have seen the look on the face of Mr. Fitzsimmons. He couldn’t have been more surprised.”

“Did you see any of the spells?”

“They were sophomoric and hackneyed. A sea otter could have spotted them from a mile away,” Gomer said.

“Doesn’t sound like the elegance demonstrated by the man who took down Everett. Do you think it could be real? Do you think Fitzsimmons might be a second threat?”

Gomer Pyle shook his head.

“I think the only thing Fitzsimmons can cast is a fishing pole.”

“Then it was a setup.” I shook my head. “Something’s going to go down, I can feel it.”

Burgess returned from the phone and sat down beside Gomer. The young American Indian had a wide smile on his face as he took two huge bites of his burger that had been waiting for him.

I couldn’t help ask, “What’s up with the smile, kid?”

He held up a finger as he chewed.

Gomer and I exchanged glances.

Burgess took two more hurried bites, which sort of infuriated me, but the kid was hungry. He finally put the burger down and took a great sip of Coke to wash it down.

He said, “So that watch Montesonti wore is the same brand as the watch worn by that kid reading the comic books.”

“The expensive one?” I asked.

He nodded.

“What watch are we talking about?” Gomer asked.

“Lange & Sohn. It’s the only luxury watch manufactured in Glashutte.”

“And where’s Glashutte?” Gomer asked.

The kid grinned. “East Germany.”

I stared at Burgess for a moment, then said, “Damn. Good work.” I stood to go, tossing enough money on the table to cover the bill and a tip. “Let’s go.”

As we hurried out the door to the car, Burgess said, “Now you know why I ate most of my hamburger and made you wait.”

It was a short drive to Gerhardt’s. We parked a block away then made our way on foot. The sun was going down and most of the businesses were closed so foot traffic was at a minimum. Regrettable because three men in black suits walking down a California street at dusk was about as conspicuous as could be.

I sent Gomer to the front to check if it was still open. If he was seen, no one would recognize him. He came back.

“Locked up tighter than a drum, boss.”

We went around back. Where the front had been devoid of supernatural taint, the rear loading dock and doors reeked of it. I could see wards glowing everywhere. Whatever was inside, no one wanted us to get it.

I approached the dock alone. Most of the wards were defensive in nature, but I spotted one in particular that warned me off. I’d seen it once before on an abandoned Oddfellows Lodge. When passed, the ward delivered a bout of nausea that had left me twisted and writhing on the ground. The memory of it alone kept me from trying to defuse it.

“Are we going inside?” Burgess asked.

“How many wards do you see?” I asked.

“Four.”

“And you?” I asked Gomer.

“Ten.”

“There are seventeen wards. To get past them would take too long and we can’t just barge in. There are several offensive wards we don’t want anything to do with, even if I was able to defuse them.”

Gomer frowned. “What then?”

“Do you remember what Gerhardt’s Catering was responsible for?” I asked Gomer.

“They provided some of the chairs for the main celebration but they were primarily focused on an after-party at Isle of Aves. They were providing all the food and beer, and setting up tables and chairs.”

“That’s where the defense contractors are staying. We need to get there now.” I scratched my head as I tried to picture the location in my mind. “I think there’s a place on the southern edge of The Grove where we can access it from Bohemian Highway.”

“It’s bound to be watched,” Gomer said.

“We also need to warn Everett. I know he thinks this is all over, but he needs to know about the tables and about the camp.” I pointed to Gomer. “You’re going to have to find a way to warn him.”

“And how should I do that?” he asked.

“You’re a Gunnery Sergeant in the United States Marines who received a Silver Star in Vietnam. You’re also a certified Level II Warlock assigned to Special Unit 77. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

He sighed heavily. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

To Burgess I said, “Come on.”

“What about me?” Gomer asked. “Can I have a ride?”

I shook my head. “No time. Just do what I said.”

“Aye Aye,” he said.

Five minutes later Burgess was driving down Bohemian Highway.

“Do you have a plan, boss?”

“It’s forming as we speak.”

“Good, because I thought we might be going in without a plan.”

I grinned. “I’d never do that.”

He parked the car in a pull-off by the Russian River probably used by fishermen for ease of access. From the trunk I grabbed a shotgun which I handed to Burgess and a set of wire cutters, then we jogged across the road and into the trees until we came to a chain link fence with razor wire at the top. I didn’t hesitate. I used the cutters to gain access and we were soon inside.

Once Burgess was through, we ran to a spot about a hundred and fifty feet south of the place we’d entered and stopped. I ordered him to grab my jacket. As long as he was touching me, my spell would work on him as well. There wasn’t such a thing as true invisibility, at least not for a mortal, but an aversion spell could reap the same benefits. I dredged the wording from my memory, then worked my fingers around the frame of it before I let it free to cast around me and Burgess.

The sound of brush crashing came from where we entered. Two guards with lights and M16s arrived. A third man carrying a PRC-77 backpack radio joined them. They reported a break-in, then spread out. One guard began searching away from us, while the other came right at us. The man with the radio remained in place.

I turned to look at Burgess “Not a word,” I whispered.

I watched his eyes as the guard came closer. The beam of the flashlight passed over us once, then came back and did it again. I could hear the guard’s footsteps as he pushed his way across the dry forest floor and underbrush. I kept concentrating, keeping the frame of the spell intact. It seemed as if he was heading directly for us, but at the last moment, he angled behind me and kept going. Watching Burgess’s eyes enabled me to know where the guard was. He went about fifty more feet, then turned and jogged back to where the radioman stood. The other guard joined him.

When they began to report negative contact on the radio, we started to move. We’d gone perhaps a hundred and fifty more feet before Burgess spoke. “When can I learn that one? Would have come in handy that time this girl’s husband came home.”

“Pass Level V certification and you’ll have it.”

He whistled softly. “So that’s what a fiver looks like. That’s bad ass.”

“Keep it down.” Here and there I could see wards on the trees. I didn’t disarm them. I let them flash warning, knowing that Everett would either come himself or send help.

As we began moving, I started to hear the Cremation of Care Ceremony in the background and blaring out of speakers stationed around The Grove. It sounded exactly like an invocation.

The Owl is in His leafy temple

Let all within The Grove be reverent before Him.

Lift up your heads oh ye trees

And be lifted up ye everlasting spires

For behold here is Bohemia’s shrine

And holy are the pillars of this house.

Weaving spiders come not here!

Looks like I was one of the weaving spiders. But I’d come to find an even more dangerous weaving spider, so I hoped they’d forgive me. It took fifteen more minutes of moving through the woods before I saw the outlines of the first cottage. If I remembered right, Isle of Aves had seven or eight cottages arranged in a semi-circle with a courtyard in the middle. We should have been coming to the back of it, and by the light shining in the courtyard, I could tell we were. The cottages had no back doors, but there were windows – bathroom windows by their appearance.

Being in Northern California, air conditioners weren’t necessary, but heat was. I searched for and found the propane tank. I ordered Burgess to sabotage it. We needed to draw the people outside.

While he worked on the tank, I made my way to the corner of the southernmost cottage and peeked around the corner. A long, cloth-covered table had been set up in the courtyard. Folding chairs surrounded it. On a row of other tables were cases of beer, bottles of liquor and wine, as well as a spread of cheeses, sausages and crackers – all of it cast in a red spell-glow of darkness. Five people worked to set everything up, moving in and out of the back of a van marked Gerhardt Catering and Sons and Daughter. What I saw was an older man, three young men – one who seemed to be barely in his teens – and a young woman. The truck told me who they were.

Suddenly an explosion split the night and a ball of light and energy replaced the space where the propane tank had once been.

The family froze and looked to the dad. He pointed to his two older sons and sent them to investigate.

I ducked as they ran between cottages toward the raging fire, which was already threatening to spread to the nearest cottage.

The Cremation of Care continued:

As vanished Babylon and goodly Tyre

So shall they also vanish

But the wilding rose blows on the broken battlements of Tyre

And moss rends the stones of Babylon

Both the boys had pulled automatic pistols from somewhere. They stopped for a moment, then spied movement in the woods. The oldest boy ran toward it and fired. Burgess returned fire with the shotgun, catching the kid full in the chest.

I’d already begun moving and as the remaining son aimed his pistol, I came up behind him, touched the base of his spine, and sent him into a dreamless sleep. He fell to the ground. I disarmed him and pocketed his pistol.

I heard the rumbling of vehicle engines. I sent Burgess around to the other side of the camp and returned to the place I’d just left. Two trucks came into view. Each looked as if it held eight guards – two in front and six in the back. The men I could see carried M16s and were in a civilianized version of military gear. They must have already been on their way, alerted by me tripping the wards.

The girl – small of stature, blond hair, blue eyes, and no more than a hundred pounds – ran forward and waved a single hand in the air, barking in Aramaic.

The first truck went flying, then hit the ground tumbling, throwing guards from it like a cyclone throwing twigs asunder.

I was stunned by the demonstration of power and from such a young woman too. She must have some inherent ability.

I watched her back away as the second truck skidded to a stop. Men poured out of it and made a picket line as they raised their rifles.

Just then a dark figure moved behind them, almost faster than I could see. Blood spurted in his wake and all eight men fell dead to the forest floor. I tried to follow his movement but lost him in the darkness between the trees.

Rehor was here!

Fools!

Fools!

Fools!

When will ye learn

That me ye cannot slay?

Year after year ye burn me in this grove

Lifting your puny shouts of triumph to the stars.

Then there was a pause in the ceremony as screams merged with laughter, then merged with more screams. Whatever was going on, it seemed like an interruption of some sort.

I felt a tingling and turned just in time to see the young witch level her gaze upon me. As I was about to frame a defensive spell, a wave of nausea hit me so hard that it drove me to my knees. Vomit spewed from my mouth onto the leaf and twig covered ground. I heaved once, then twice, my back arching like a cat’s.

Instead of coming at me, she began backing away. It told that although she was powerful, there was a limit to her power and she was close to reaching it. My guess was the grand display with the truck had sapped most of it.

I staggered to my feet.

Across the yard, I saw the father draw and fire his pistol in one smooth move.

Burgess, who’d been sneaking between two cottages, grabbed his chest and went down.

The father moved toward the spot where Burgess was lying.

I felt a wave of fear for the kid rush through me. I needed to help as soon as I could. My nausea was gone. Her spell was formidable, but not as bad as the one attached to the ward back at their place of business. That one had to have been put in place by Rehor and I needed to save my magical energy for him.

I felt the next spell coming and gritted my teeth in anticipation. Then I tripped and fell. I got up, took two steps and fell again. Seriously? A Tripping Spell? Now that was juvenile.

She’d moved to the center of the yard and leaned heavily on the table. I could see her chest heaving.

I managed to stay on my feet the next time the spell tried to frame around me.

I was ten feet from her when she cast a Slow Spell. I waved that one away, lurched forward to her, then touched her in the center of the head, which sent her to sleepy time with her other brother.

Which reminded me, where was the youngest boy?

I turned as a scream came from behind me.

It was the boy, running out of the back of the truck with a baseball bat. I waited until he was almost in range, then stepped forward and cold-cocked him. He fell backwards. The bat went flying. Blood seeped from his nose, which was good enough because I hated it when I had to kill kids.

I was finally able to turn to Burgess, but he’d somehow managed to get to his feet and was fighting hand to hand with the father, which was no easy task once it became clear by his odd movements that his left arm wasn’t working right.

The Cremation of Care Ceremony had resumed and now took on an even darker tone. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but the air was abuzz with a strange power I’d never kenned before.

Ye shall burn me once again!

Not with these flames!

Which hither ye have brought

From regions where I reign

Ye fools and priests

I spit upon your fire!

Burgess pulled a knife from his hip, took a step back, then leaped forward as the father followed him back, sinking the blade into the older man’s throat.

The father stood as stiff and still as a scarecrow. Burgess pulled the knife free and the father fell to the ground. Burgess wiped the blade on his sleeve, re-sheathed it, and grabbed the shotgun.

He staggered toward me, grinning. “Never been shot before,” he said, lifting his shoulder for me to see his through and through like it was a badge he’d just earned.

“Mark that off your bucket list.” I nodded toward the body. “You were pretty good back there with that knife.”

“Some archetypes are true. You white kids played cowboys and Indians. We played Indians and Indians.”

I reached out. “Give me that shotgun. No way you can fire it now.” I gave him the pistol I’d taken off the sleeping brother.

We heard another truck approaching.

“See the Spring-heeled Jack?” Burgess asked.

I nodded as I looked to the trees. “Saw him earlier. He’s out there somewhere.”

I felt a tingling sensation and spun. One of the cottages had caught fire. In the shadows surrounding the conflagration I caught the smoldering stare of the Spring-heeled Jack. I glanced at Burgess. The kid would do anything for me. I had to make sure it wasn’t something he couldn’t afford.

“Go on up the road and meet the truck.”

He looked at me, exhaustion crowding his eyes. “You sure, boss?”

I patted him on the back. “Of course I am. Now go.”

He trudged away from me and up the road.

I turned and strode toward the burning cottage.

When I reached the center of the courtyard the Jack met me by leaping over the fire, landing in front of me with one hand to the ground to keep himself steady. When he stood, he was a full head and shoulders taller than me. His boots were remarkably Victorian, as was his long, black coat that caught the air like wings when he moved through the air. He wore a mask that covered the top of his head, reminiscent of a Batman mask than anything else. The air around him sizzled with energy.

I held the shotgun in both hands and was ready to bring it to bear. “Rehor Zdarsky.”

His head moved like a bird’s, cocking it at an angle as he regarded me. “I know you.” His voice sizzled.

“Of course you do,” I said. “We have your brother, Boniface. Little scatterbrained, but he’s locked up tight.”

“Where?”

I shrugged. “I used to know back before you brought that bridge down. Now I don’t have any idea.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I could feel power building around us like an incredible static electric charged. I framed a defensive spell and held onto it. I shrugged again, trying to show how relaxed I didn’t really feel. “Doesn’t matter if you believe me or not.” I lowered the barrel of the shotgun and aimed it at his chest. “But if you want to see him I think that can be arranged. We can put you in a room beside him.”

His mouth opened, revealing teeth that had been sharpened to points.

I fired the shotgun, but he was already gone and into the trees, moving impossibly fast.

I felt a spell hit my defenses. All the leaves, twigs, branches, rocks and dirt within a ten foot circle slammed into the invisible barrier I’d created. I staggered under the effort to keep the spell framed, but managed to keep it up long enough to deflect everything that came at me.

“Nice trick, Rehor, but you’ll have to do better than that.”

I prepared another spell, readying it, steadying it, getting it just right. I saw movement out of the corner of my left eye and spun.

He was coming at me impossibly fast.

I threw my spell.

His movement ceased to almost nothing as my spell took effect.

I stepped out of the way even though it would now take seconds for him to reach where I stood.

“What was it you were after, Rehor? What is it the East German’s wanted?”

I could see and feel him struggling against my spell. “You’ll never know.”

“And you can’t get it now. Your Stasi contacts have been killed.” I gestured with the shotgun. “You did that. You caused that.”

He stopped moving. My spell was meant to slow him. It didn’t keep him from not moving at all. He glowered at me.

“You and your one-armed sister,” I said, shaking my head. “Why you’ve aligned yourselves to the Soviets I will never know.”

“We haven’t aligned ourselves,” he said, emphasizing every word.

“That’s not what they think. The Russian oligarchs must revel in the fact they have their own pet freaks.”

His eyes flared.

I saw his hands flex, and not in slow motion.

I went to throw myself to the ground but was too slow. He slid toward me. Blades appeared in both hands, delivered by a spring-loaded mechanism I barely glimpsed before each blade pierced the space where my shoulders met my torso.

“I’m going to take your arms,” he said simply.

I stared into his eyes. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to lose my arms. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me beg. I didn’t want to do so many things. Most importantly, I didn’t want to see the smile of satisfaction on the bastard that was about to kill me, so I closed my eyes.

I heard gunshots. Blam! Blam! Blam!

The blades came free.

My eyes snapped open.

He backed away from me and turned. As he did, I saw Burgess holding the pistol I’d given him in two hands, his legs in a wide stance. Then the Jack ran off, too fast to see.

I fell to my knees.

Burgess ran toward me.

As did Gomer, who was right behind him.

They supported me so I didn’t fall on my face. Both shoulders burned with pain.

A cohort of guards moved past.

“I brought the cavalry,” Gomer said. He glanced over my shoulder. “Looks like you made a mess.”

“Don’t know what they wanted, but they’re not going to get it now.”

Gomer called for a first aid kit and one of the guards threw it at him. He caught it and began to bandage my wounds.

“What about the ceremony?” I asked.

“Major Harold was a little slow on the uptake. Wouldn’t let us disturb it even though I explained that something bad was about to happen.”

“And did it? Did anything bad happen?”

He grinned. “You should have seen it, sir. Golda Meier, Prime Minister of Israel, Henry Kissinger, Secretary of State, Vice President Gerald Ford, and a bunch of people I didn’t know but whose faces I’d seen on the news, all got up in the middle of the ceremony and began to take off their clothes. Ford hugged Kissinger and began to kiss the back of his neck.” Gomer couldn’t stifle his laughter. “It was ridiculous. One moment everyone was being serious listening to the president’s warlock do the Cremation of Care and the next they were acting out a scene of Roman debauchery.”

I could only imagine and I managed to smile. “What happened next?”

“Remi Calhoun dispelled it with a flick of his hand.”

I nodded to Burgess. “That’s what a Level VII can do. You make it there and you’re the president’s personal warlock.”

I could see Burgess take on a dreamy look.

A shadow passed over us.

Gomer stiffened as a blade pierced his back, the tip coming out his chest.

Burgess was lifted off the ground.

The Jack bounded twenty feet away, then stopped and turned, Burgess’s throat gripped in his left hand.

“Give me my brother,” Rehor said.

“I can’t,” I said, a spell beginning to form.

“Then he dies.”

“No!” I screamed, losing the frame of the spell.

Burgess’s eyes widened and his mouth opened into a scream as Rehor’s blade sliced deep through his neck.

Then Rehor was gone, melting into the night, the only proof he’d been there my two dying men.

Gomer grabbed at his neck, his fingers curling like the legs of dead spiders as they feebly tried to stop the blood flow. His mouth made movements as if he were trying to cast a spell he’d never learned. Healing was for Level Vs. I could heal, but I was too weak to heal them both. I could barely move. I could barely even frame the spell. But I managed. And as I laid my hand on Gomer, I watched Burgess die, all of his dreams of becoming something great feeding the ground in bright red blood.

Sunlight streamed through the windows of our San Francisco offices. Moma Told Me Not To Come by Three Dog Night played softly on the radio. I remembered when Gomer, Burgess and I had sung the words on our way to The Bohemian Grove almost three weeks ago. We’d all been different them.

Gomer came in and placed a stack of personnel files on my desk. It was my task to replace a boy who couldn’t be replaced. I wanted another American Indian, but there weren’t many in the program.

My arms still ached, even though Remi had come and healed me. After back briefing him about the mission, he’d nodded and admitted that he would have done little different under the circumstances. That we’d lost Burgess was unfortunate and he promised that the president would personally sign a letter to be sent to the family. Then he’d firmly asked me to leave, stating that the events of The Bohemian Grover were not my affair.

I could thumb my nose at a random Deputy Secretary of the Air Force, but Remi was my ultimate superior. What he said was law as long as I wanted to be a part of things. For a moment, I’d considered tossing it all away. But I’d discovered on the long drive back from Monte Rio with Burgess’s body in the back seat that I had a new focus. I had a new mission. Rehor was out there and I’d find and kill him, even if it meant that I myself would die.

I sighed and hummed the last words to the song, then addressed the pile of files. I needed to find a special person – one capable of speaking with energy and intelligence about creationism and dinosaurs and God and Superman and how on the reservation no one ever played Cowboys and Indians, but instead spent their days playing Indians and Indians, living a life we forced upon them rather than the one they deserved.

It was a long while before my eyes worked sufficiently so I could actually read the files.