Flame in the Dark Page 16

  That bit was news to me, but Yummy was on a roll, so I let her talk.

  “There’ve been whispers that others of the Europeans came ashore during the attack, and found shelter and safety. Rumors that they called those they sired or bound. Mithrans have gone missing.”

  “Some of yours?” Yummy didn’t reply to that one. “And you think they might come after you and Ming of Glass, to harm or kill.”

  “It’s not an impossibility.”

  I debated telling Yummy what we knew about the arson and the shooter. Vamps were flammable, much more so than humans, so the likelihood of the attacker being vampish was not very high. However, she had told me about the situation in New Orleans and her fears for the Knoxville area. Rick would call it quid pro quo. “For your ears only. Would it help if I told you, without question, that the attacker is not a vampire?”

  “You’re so certain?”

  “Yep. There’s no maggots at any of the sites except yours.”

  Yummy gave a low, mocking laugh. “I’m not sure if I’m happy at the information or insulted at the comparison.”

  “Whatever it is, he, she, or it burned the foliage everywhere he moved, with what reads like a chemical burn. You ever hear of a creature able to do that?”

  “No. Chemicals strong enough to kill foliage might damage a Mithran’s flesh. I have access to Ming’s records. I can do a search.”

  “Couldn’t hurt. Might help. If we knew what it was, we might know where to search. Might know when to expect another attack.”

  “If I find something pertinent, I will call.”

  I almost said thank you, but that might put me in her debt. I settled on, “Any information you might provide could prove useful.”

  Yummy laughed again, her tone telling me that she knew exactly why I had phrased it that way, and ended the call.

  I wrote a report on my laptop and sent it in. If I failed to mention Yummy and her information about the Mithrans, well, I could consider the vampire a confidential source because nothing she’d said impacted the case at this time. I felt a little guilty, since Rick had told us to share anything about paranormals, but I squished the guilt down, and then ignored the guilt that came from ignoring guilt.

  Satisfied, I put the truck in drive and motored on over to my assignment for the night, at the home of Senator Abrams Tolliver. I read the earth there too, and it told me nothing it hadn’t before, except that no maggoty vampire had been stalking the premises.

  • • •

  The investigation went on all night, and I kept up with it on my government-issued encrypted cell phone, reading files and reports, in between walking rounds with the feds and the Secret Service. While on dinner break, sitting in the truck with the heater roaring and a cup of coffee steaming on the dash, I ate a sandwich I had picked up at a supermarket and read deeper into incoming reports.

  Arson had been confirmed at Justin Tolliver’s house, though the type of accelerant had yet to be determined. Rick checked out the paranormal scents and told me things smelled odd but not definable or species specific.

  My reading of the land notwithstanding, the attacker had been deemed possibly paranormal, the possibly keeping PsyLED from assuming charge of the case. Based on the possibility, however, PsyLED would have a bigger investigatory role. PsyLED and the FBI were still operating under the auspices of the Secret Service, and for now, we had access to files not compiled by us, cooperation still taking place.

  At least one of the Tolliver family was also deemed likely a paranormal. Justin’s wife Sonya had been outed, though none of the Tollivers knew it yet. Nor did the feds or the Secret Service. Soul was holding that information close to the vest for now, since Sonya wasn’t a suspect.

  PsyLED’s focus had currently shifted to the research facility, DNAKeys. Which seemed like the wrong way to go to me, because interest in the facility was based on the rumored presence of paras in captivity, not on physical, direct, or circumstantial evidence. But my opposition to DNAKeys as an investigatory focus was a gut feeling based on precisely nothing. I didn’t include that in my comments on the report.

  I reopened my notes for tonight’s readings and into the “Comments” space I typed, Ground at Holloways’ and Justin and Sonya Tolliver’s feels wrong. Damage is beneath the surface, not on top, as it would be if chemical or physical agents had burned the ground and plants. This has nothing to do with vampires or were-creatures. I thought about adding the words in my opinion, but that urge was church-think left over from my upbringing as a woman in God’s Cloud. My readings were not opinions. They were fact. So I hit enter and read on.

  JoJo had discovered that there was a fire at DNAKeys fifteen months past, one answered by the East Tennessee Rural/Metro Fire Department. That was when the tales of the creatures imprisoned there began to surface, probably gossip spread by the responders. I doubted that the paid firefighting employees would chatter, but maybe a volunteer had gossiped. Surely Rural/Metro had a roster of volunteers. Since the forest fires of 2016, most rural departments had a list they kept on hand.

  I texted the office and asked for someone to obtain a roster of volunteers at the stations that had answered the fire call at DNAKeys. Tandy texted back that JoJo had already acquired it. I didn’t ask if it was obtained legally or if she had found a backdoor and acquired it on her own. Hacking was illegal, but so easy, according to our IT specialist. Tandy sent me the list and on it, I found two names I knew.

  Thaddeus Rankin Sr. and Thaddeus Rankin Jr., or Thad and Deus, father and son, who had put in the windows on my house. Volunteer firefighting sounded exactly like something the two would do. I texted HQ that I would be stopping by the Rankins’ place of business as soon as my schedule permitted. Tandy texted back that I could leave the night shift in the hands of ALT Security and the other government guards. With PsyLED now in an improved investigatory position, my talents could best be used elsewhere, and Soul wanted an initial interview with the Rankins tomorrow. Meantime she had another job for me.

  I walked the grounds again and said good-bye to the guards before heading back to HQ to prep and organize for a nighttime op.

  EIGHT

  It was the operation I thought to be foolish: Rick and Occam were going to approach the DNAKeys research facility and scope out the place with cat eyes from tree-limb level. The whole idea was stupid, but a probie couldn’t say it to the SAC, or to the man who had asked her to dinner.

  Rick finished the op instructions with the words, “Nell, you’re to pull backup, manage comms, and be an extra ear. Here. Try these.” He held out a set of binoculars attached to a strap system shaped to fit a human head. Rick was holding up the unit’s brand-new low-light, IR-vision binoculars. “You’ll be the first to use it.”

  My heart did a funny little leap. A probie never got to be first on anything good. Last week we had all watched the how-to video for the expensive headgear, which had taken a big chunk out of the remaining budget for the year. The goggles, made with a redundant dual-tube design that could withstand all kinds of weather changes and temps, had an automatic brightness control, bright light shut-off circuitry, and a spotlight/floodlight built-in IR illuminator. The binocular-shaped gadget would allow me to see clearly even in areas with no ambient light. Like, the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night.

  I gave Rick a grin suitable for him giving me a fully equipped greenhouse, took the contraption, and started to put it on. He stopped me with a raised hand, amusement in his dark eyes. “Night vision, remember? Go to the locker room, kill the lights, and adjust it to fit.”

  I had to change anyway and grabbed both my small gobag and my large, four-day gobag on the way to the locker room, where I adjusted the straps and the eyepieces and familiarized myself with the location of the small knob that turned from off to on to IR. According to the video I had watched, the night-vision goggles were pretty much idiotproof.

&n
bsp; Satisfied, I tucked them into my small gobag and changed clothes. PsyLED provided desert night camo like the military used, and the cost had come out of my pocket, but I had never worn the clothing, and Rick hadn’t told me I had to wear it tonight. I dressed in blue jeans, layered dark gray and charcoal patterned T-shirts, and my hooded winter coat, with field boots. All black is visible in low-to-no light, and the paler clothes would give me some light-protection, out in the middle of nowhere. The jeans would protect my body and save my nicer work clothes should I have to hike in somewhere.

  I checked my weapons, making sure I had two extra magazines, one filled with hollow-point rounds, one with silver plating. Just in case. Under the coat, I put on the shoulder holster rig instead of the lower spine holster, which was less than comfortable while driving in the truck. Back in the break room, I ate a quick slice of pizza left over from someone’s supper. I wasn’t stealing; it was on the fridge shelf marked ALL. I refilled my insulated coffee mug and when I heard Rick and Occam departing, followed them down the stairs to the street. It was two a.m. and the guys had been awake for close to twenty hours. They were sniping at each other the way cats would if cats could talk.

  “You’ll follow my lead up to the—”

  “Why should I follow your lead, Hoss? I’ve been a werecat longer than you have. I’ve actually hunted wild hogs, and those babies have tusks this long.” Occam held out both hands a ways apart. I let the outer door close behind me and didn’t look up to see his expression. “They can rip open a predator’s gut in a heartbeat. You, my kitten friend, are the probie here. You have hunted exactly two full moons and brought down exactly four deer. Sweet little Bambis. With help from me, let me remind you. I should take point.”

  From nowhere, a grindylow leaped onto Occam’s back, her neon green coat looking yellowish in the outside lights. “Ow,” Occam said, grabbing her and tossing her to Rick as they walked.

  The SAC caught her in midair and placed her on his shoulders without missing a step. He blew out a breath in a cloud and cocked his head, catlike. His eyes were glowing green in the parking lot’s security lights. The shadows of the men lengthened and shortened as they walked. I followed. When Rick spoke it wasn’t to the grindy, which he petted almost in a reflex, but to Occam. “I’m a black wereleopard. My melanistic coat is perfect for night hunting. Your spotted one is more visible.”

  “I’m more sneaky.” Occam opened the driver’s door of his fancy car. “When you’re in cat form, you’re thinking like a cat in the wild, not like a human, and your cat’s out of control. Not a good thing on an op.”

  “I’m SAC.” Rick got in the passenger side, tossing the grindy to the dash.

  “Which means jack nothing, Hoss. I’m better qualified and you know it.”

  “We have protocol—” The car doors closed. The engine roared and they drove away. Leaving me standing there alone in the parking lot.

  I put both fists on my hips and huffed in disgust, watching their taillights, my small gobag over my shoulder. I turned and waved at the very obvious security camera over the door to HQ, knowing that Tandy had seen the entire exchange. Upstairs, the lights in the office blinked off and back on. The fact that I had been abandoned had been acknowledged. Tandy was probably all worried about me. If it had been JoJo she would have been laughing so hard she’d snort coffee. I had seen that happen. Had to hurt.

  I got in my truck, punched the address into my cellular GPS, and pulled into the street. I had driven a mile when my cell rang. It was Occam. I scowled at the cell and let it go to voice mail. Twice. On the third try I punched accept and said, “What?”

  “Nell, sugar. Where are you?” Occam sounded properly quiet and deferential. “We left you in the parking lot. I’m sorry.”

  An apology went a long way to fixing things, but I had been raised with men who treated women with less respect than they did other men. “Yes,” I said. “You did. And I got in my truck, and I turned it on, and I am driving. Alone. I am perfectly capable of arriving at the correct GPS on this, my first level-two nighttime op. I will see you there.” I hit end.

  JoJo and T. Laine would both say I was being bitchy. And then they’d high-five me and say, “Give ’em hell, girl.” A woman had to stand up to men, even in this new, modern world. Women always did. And never more so than with alpha males who seemed to have a cat rivalry of some sort going on. I just hadn’t thought it would be Occam who made me defend myself this time. Tears prickled my eyes, and ruthlessly I squashed them. That was stupid. I would not cry because men acted in human character and in cat character.

  I took a right and headed toward Millertown Pike, and then Rutledge Pike, also known as Highway 11 West. As I drove, I thought about Benjamin and what would have happened had he been in Occam’s place. He’d have asked me to bring him a cup of coffee and maybe have a good dinner waiting for him when he got back. The likelihood of him even thinking about me going on any mission was low to none. A woman’s presence on such a mission would have been considered valueless. Occam just forgot about me. Or his cat did.

  Men. Dang ’em all. My hands tightened on the wheel and I followed the cell phone’s directions out of Knoxville.

  • • •

  DNAKeys’ research facility was out of town, down a narrow, privately maintained, paved road on the far side of House Mountain State Natural Area. There were no streetlights this far out of town and no visible security measures, but there was also no gated entrance, so the lack of obvious security measures was likely occult—not meaning paranormal, meaning hidden. Occam’s fancy car—a 2015 Ford Mustang two-door Fastback GT with all the bells and whistles—was parked in the dark off the side of the road and down a little-used driveway with an overgrown For Sale sign in the weeds, about a mile from the turnoff to the facility. I pulled in behind it, turned off the engine and the lights, and closed my eyes, letting them adapt to night vision. As I waited, I set my comms earbud in my ear, adjusted the mic, and hooked the comms system at my waistband. When my vision was more attuned to the night, I got out, carrying my flash, which I didn’t turn on, and walked around the fancy car.

  The men were nowhere to be seen, which meant they were changing shape or were already hunting. They hadn’t been that far ahead of me so I was betting on shape-shifting somewhere out in the dark. I sniffed and listened to the night, taking in the smells and the sounds. A little exhaust. My coffee. Something musky. The wereleopards, most likely. I heard no sounds except what might be the far-off hum of cars. In the distance were city lights. Closer were security lights, which I assumed would be DNAKeys’.

  I returned to my truck and sat, engine and lights still off, in the growing cold, sipping coffee from my insulated mug, strong and black. The caffeine was a drug, too bitter to be a froufrou drink, too strong to be my “regular.” I waited, my senses straining into the dark, kneading my rooty middle, literally putting my fingers on my non-humanness. The cold seeped into me, and I pulled the pink blanket over me. I had rescued it from the truck bed and it no longer felt like maggots.

  If this had been Soulwood I could have put my hands in the earth and discovered the cats’ location easily. Out here, so far from home, the land wouldn’t even know I was alive, especially in the dormant season. Trying to read the land would be harder. A lot harder. And I’d grow leaves that I would then have to prune. I shoulda brought me a good book.

  The first indication that the men had shifted was a thump that rocked the truck and Occam’s cat face pressed against the windshield, staring at me, lips pulled back, showing me his fangs. He hissed. My only reaction was to grip my cup so hard I feared I might bend the metal handle. I wanted to jump or squeal, or both, which I presumed he had intended. Occam’s cat was mischievous. I narrowed my eyes at him, knowing he could see me clearly in the dark. His lips lowered to cover his teeth and he stared at me, white whiskers touching the windshield.

  Occam was a pretty cat, all gold
and dark brown, his golden eyes lined with black like an Egyptian king’s with kohl. Deliberately, I sipped my coffee and stared back at him, giving as good as I got. Maybe better. He snorted, blowing twin spots of condensation on the glass. He lay down, belly on the warm hood, his huge, dappled body vanishing in the night, his face close to the glass.

  He didn’t shift his gaze away.

  I was being hunted. I scowled at the cat and set my coffee in the mug holder, pulled on the headgear, drew my service weapon, and set it on the dash. Occam now appeared as a greenish spotted killer, haunches and tail hanging off the truck. “Take that, you dang ol’ cat,” I muttered. Occam blinked. Looked at the gun on the dash. At me. And turned away, giving me the back of his head. He flopped his head down flat on the hood. In cat-speak, it was a complete dismissal and a refusal to consider me anything but a bore, and certainly not a threat. It made me want to laugh or shoot him, or both, but I refrained. “Tit for tat,” I said, knowing he could hear me through the windows. “Don’t push it, pussycat.”

  Occam chuffed and started purring. I could feel the vibration through the truck body. He was having fun. The grindylow joined him, and started grooming Occam’s fur, her long, improbable steel claws combing and probably trimming as she worked.

  About ten minutes later, there was a second thump and a black big-cat joined him, a comms unit strapped around his neck, but otherwise hard to see in the night. My hood bowed, so I tapped on the window and waved them away. They ignored me. I tapped my mic to turn on the recorder and said, “Night op.” I gave the date and the location by address and GPS coordinates. “Time is three twenty-six a.m. Occam and Rick LaFleur at recon. Nell Ingram as backup.” Without glancing my way, Rick nudged Occam. The two cats, with the grindy riding on Occam’s back, slid to the ground and vanished, leaving the truck rocking and the hood returning to normal. Dang cats.

  I adjusted the mic into a more comfortable position and holstered my weapon. Drank down most of the coffee. When the cold started to creep in, I got out of the truck, crossed the road to a tree I had seen when I reconnoitered Occam’s car, and sat on the low branch. I adjusted the fit and the gear until I could see and hear and talk with ease and played with the headgear, switching back and forth from IR to low light.