Iron Angels Page 24

  Jasper stared at her, as if Penny had suddenly starting speaking in tongues. Temple’s expression was skeptical. “And you know about the theology of churches in northeast Africa…how?” she asked. “Meaning no offense, but you don’t look Ethiopian.”

  Penny chuckled. “I know about them for the same reason any guild member does. The oldest of the Blacksmith guilds come out of Africa. Blacksmithing was a sacred vocation in that part of the world. They were followers of Ogun, originally. He’s reputed to be the Yoruba orisha who’s worshipped as the god of iron all over West Africa—although he goes under a lot of different names: Gu for the Dahomey and West African vodoun cultures, Ogu in northern Nigeria. From there, it spread across the world, especially to the New World. In Santería, Ogun is syncretized with St. Peter. In Haitian vodou he’s blended with St. James the Greater and known as Santiago Matamoros. That means ‘St. James the Moorslayer,’ which the Islamic guilds find a little irritating.”

  Now Temple was staring at Penny as if she were speaking in tongues. The coowner of Wayland Precision grinned mirthlessly. “Oh, I could go on, trust me. Guilds in the Muslim world have their own traditions and beliefs. They don’t think Nephilim are fallen angels, as most Western guilds believe. They think they’re a type of djinn. The Câ Tsang cultists, on the other hand, think they’re a type of nâga, likely based on their origins in Bhutan. In the Hindu tradition, nâgas are—”

  “Serpent deities,” Jasper filled in. Seeing the respect at his erudition in Temple’s eyes, he saw no point in explaining that his knowledge came from role-playing games, not scholarship.

  Penny pursed her lips. “I can’t say much more, really. I’m bound by the rules of the guild.”

  Jasper decided not to push that, at least for the moment. Thankfully, Temple seemed inclined to let him lead the questioning. “The cult is the only concrete piece we have to this puzzle,” Jasper said. “We need to be pursuing them. What makes you think Lali is involved with them?”

  “A hunch?” Penny shrugged. “Why would she steal all of our personal information and information on the guild? And she also took a photo picturing all the people currently working here.”

  “That’s still not anything definitive,” Jasper said. “There’s a lot of work to be done to prove any link to a cult with what happened here.” The air inside the office moved, bringing metallic and vegetal scents, renewing them in his nose and mouth. “So, the mushrooms and the fish tanks, what role do they play with all the cult and guild stuff you’ve been filling us in on?”

  “We have old diaries handed down from the inception of our guild hundreds of years ago listing mushrooms and some sea creatures capable of repelling monsters from beyond, like the Nephilim. Whether those old legends are true or not…” She shrugged. “Who knows? But we figure it’s worth a try.”

  “Everyone has superstitions, athletes for one. FBI agents, too.” Jasper hoped he didn’t come across as simply placating someone with a few screws loose.

  “What we’re dealing with here is real. You saw the mangled bodies,” Penny said. “But I can’t say anything more on the topic. I wish I could, but I’m bound by the guild’s laws.”

  “Understood. We have our own rules we must abide.”

  “Penny,” a voice boomed from the hallway outside the office. “I believe your friends have heard enough.” Steve entered the room, hobbling from a leg or hip injury. Jasper meant to ask Penny how her father’s injury came about.

  “I see you staring at this,” he patted his leg. “Old war injury.”

  Penny tilted her head and pursed her lips. “You weren’t in any wars, father. Remember? I’m the veteran in the family?”

  “I meant war as in metal working and the hazards of the machine shop.” Steve winked. He certainly had dialed down the hostility he’d exuded earlier. It occurred to Jasper that the conflict between father and daughter might have been staged, and that Steve had his own reasons for wanting the FBI drawn in.

  Stahlberg eased himself into a chair. “So, Penny has provided you some information, which means you’ll be running back to your little FBI building and running a bunch of checks. I’m also sure you’ve run us through your databases, and—”

  “Actually, we haven’t had time.” Jasper rubbed the back of his head and walked toward the office door. “Been too busy investigating a couple of strange murders you’re not likely connected with—”

  “Hold on—”

  “So you are connected to them?” Temple asked, realizing what Jasper was doing—perhaps they were further along the partner path than he’d realized. His back was turned to them now, but he smiled, and then hid the smile as he spun back around.

  “Of course, we’re not responsible!” Steve said, his expression angry. “But—”

  “But what?” Jasper took a step toward Steve. “If you’ve withheld information that could have saved lives, even of those jackasses who committed suicide in the basement of the Euclid Hotel, you’re partially responsible. Omission is almost as good as lying in my book.”

  Steve’s face reddened and Penny stepped between her father and Jasper. “We aren’t the bad guys either.”

  “No? Then why aren’t you more forthcoming?” Temple demanded. “Carlos was at the Euclid. Carlos reported the first kidnapping. Carlos dated the person who broke in here. And you suspect the person who broke in here, Lali, is also part of a cult. What else aren’t you telling us? What if more people die?”

  Jasper motioned for Temple to follow him. “We have enough to work with, let’s just hope no one else gets hurt.”

  Penny frowned and Steve’s mouth hung open. His face lost a little life and his beard drooped a little more.

  Temple handed Penny a business card. “Call me any time of day if you have anything else to report. And I mean anything relevant to these deaths and suicides.”

  Before he went through the threshold, Jasper craned his neck. “Oh, one more thing—” He paused a moment, realizing how Columbo he sounded, but continued anyway. “Don’t go near the Euclid, and leave Lali to us.”

  Neither Penny nor Steve offered to escort them out, so they climbed the stairs and emerged into bright sunlight. Carlos was nowhere to be seen and his vehicle was gone from the parking lot. Jasper was going to tell him the same thing he’d told his bosses—to stay away from Lali and the Euclid.

  “That went well,” Temple said.

  “At least we have quite a bit to research today,” Jasper said as they walked toward his Charger. “I’m not confident Lali is connected with those idiots who fried themselves, though. Or the kidnappings. Her piece in this puzzle still doesn’t fit very well with any of the others.”

  “I think we have a day of sifting through data ahead of us.” Temple dropped into the Charger.

  Jasper opened the door, receiving a wave of heat.

  “I’m turning the air on, full blast,” he said.

  “No arguments here.”

  Chapter 26

  The FBI building in Merrillville buzzed with activity, which was not unusual for a Monday morning.

  Jasper set up Temple and a lost-looking Vance—who said he waited outside for the past hour—in a small meeting room capable of providing video conferences and contained a couple of FBINET computers, as well as two unclassified internet computers.

  They’d agreed to each tackle portions of the information they’d received over the past couple of days. Vance would handle all the scientific evidence they’d already gathered, as well as a few of the unclassifiables like the mushrooms and sea creatures at Wayland Precision. Temple’s job was to research Völundr’s Hammer, Câ Tsang, Bhutan, and any and all customs and religious information. Jasper’s task was to run FBI database checks on all the names, addresses, and vehicles they’d come across and see if any tied to other investigations. He’d build a list of contacts and leads for them to follow and marry up his information with Temple’s and Vance’s later on. They’d agreed on meeting around lunchtime in the conference ro
om.

  He took a deep breath and, with a cup of coffee, eased into his cubicle. What a horrible invention, these cubicles. He’d heard stories of the old days, where bullpens were groups of four desks shoved together with all four agents sharing a phone sitting in the middle. Back in those days, agents dictated their casework and sent the tapes to the steno pool—not anymore. Each and every agent was responsible for typing their work into the computer. Not a big deal, he supposed, but the administrative burden tied him to a desk more often than he liked. Even though he worked mainly with the locals, he still had FBI rules and regulations to follow. Cubicles isolated people, and with agents spending more and more time in the office, shouldn’t they be face to face? Be forced to interact? A Special Agent’s job involved talking to people, recruiting human sources and working investigations, maybe one day prosecuting someone, or preventing another catastrophe like 9/11.

  His eyes closed. Drifting off would have been easy, so instead he rocked forward and grabbed his coffee.

  The desk phone rang, loud and obnoxious—he nearly jumped out of his skin and spilled his coffee. Some joker changed the ringtone on him. Gee, what a fantastic practical joke. The agent in the next cube snickered.

  “Very funny, Poindexter.”

  “I told you not to call me that, Zeke,” the voice on the other side of the wall said, and Poindexter’s receiver slammed into the cradle.

  “Yeah? Well, stopping screwing with my stuff, Poindexter.” How childish, like he was in grade school all over again. Special Agent Dexter was a wormy fellow with thick, black-rimmed glasses and a pinched face above which he wore his black hair slicked back. All he was missing was a bow tie, worn with a short sleeved button-down shirt with suspenders.

  “Whatever, Zeke, you’re a loser and you know it.”

  Jasper closed his eyes again, and counted to ten. Hard to believe they were all on the same side. He didn’t understand why Dexter hated him so much. His devastating good looks? He grinned and opened his eyes. His superior intellect? He laughed. Right.

  He got up and stood behind Dexter. “What is your problem with me?”

  Dexter spun around in his chair, his top lip curled up, exposing his top row of teeth. He kind of resembled a dorkier version of Buddy Holly, if possible. Dexter didn’t say anything.

  “Well, Buddy…?”

  “I’m not your buddy,” Dexter said.

  “That’s not what I mean, Buddy. You know, as in Buddy Holly?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind,” Jasper said. “What is your fascination with screwing with my shit?”

  “Oh,” he held up his hands and waved them, “you gonna go all Marine Corps on me? Code red?”

  Jasper squinted. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Whatever. If you ever grow up, someday you’ll tell me what I’ve done wrong.” Jasper walked back to his cubicle and plopped down in his chair. He sensed Dexter giving him the finger through the wall.

  His phone blared again.

  “Damn you, Poindexter, I said stop!” Jasper picked up his phone and slammed the receiver down as hard as he could.

  A loud chuckle came over the wall from Dexter’s side, every bit as annoying as the loud ringer. He reached for the phone to take care of the ringer right now.

  The intercom speakers overhead crackled. “Jasper Wilde, please call extension 1002. Jasper Wilde, please call extension—”

  “Great,” Jasper said. “You’re an asshole, Buddy Poindexter. You jackass.”

  “Such foul language today. Seems like the front office wants to have a word with you, I hear they want to flush your lousy attitude down the toilet.”

  Jasper took a deep breath and dialed the phone. His boss’s secretary, Jack, answered, and told him SSA Johnson wanted to see him immediately.

  * * *

  Jasper breezed into Johnson’s office and into the glares of both Masters and Johnson.

  “A problem, Special Agent Wilde?” ASAC Masters stood, straightened his shirt and gestured for Jasper to take a seat.

  Masters reseated himself behind Johnson’s desk, with Johnson standing next to him. Odd. But Masters was his boss and he’d obviously relinquished the seat of power to him. Of course, Masters had his own office, but at the main office in Indianapolis.

  “No, sir.” Jasper automatically retreated to his military days when confronted with Bureau management and when he thought he was in trouble.

  “Excellent. Well, you’ll be pleased to know we’re pulling you back from your temporary duty assignment with this so-called Scientific Anomalies Group,” Masters said with a smug grin.

  Jasper frowned. “Why?”

  “We thought you’d be happy. We’re kicking the headquarters people out of our AOR and back to wherever they came from,” Johnson said. “I’ve been on the phone all morning with SSA Black’s superior back east, you know, the assistant director of the Critical Incident Response Group?”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Look,” Masters spread his hands, pivoting on his elbows resting on the desk, “ever since she—”

  “SSA Black,” Johnson interrupted.

  Masters shot him a look—“she came into town, one disaster after another cropped up, plus she hasn’t been making any friends.” His walruslike countenance worked into a fit of jiggling folds.

  “She doesn’t make friends—what a weak argument. I don’t have time for nonsense. I have work to do. People may be dying or be in danger right now as we speak.” Jasper’s temper was starting to flare. Too bad Dexter had already raised his blood pressure this morning. Mixed with lack of sleep, Jasper knew he was volatile.

  “There is no argument. It’s a decision. End of story, you’re off SAG. You better watch yourself, Wilde.” ASAC Masters jabbed a chubby finger in his direction.

  “But what about the SAC? You said SAC Weber wanted me on SAG, since he was friends with the AD, you know, Temple’s supervisor back east?”

  “Yes, but the SAC left the division last night,” Masters sat back and folded his meaty arms. “The director tasked him with handling some mess out in Albuquerque. I’m in charge until Weber returns—the acting Special Agent in Charge.”

  “Your mom must be so proud.” Jasper regretted the words the instant they crossed his lips.

  Master’s face reddened, as did Johnson’s, his direct supervisor. “You want to be written up? A letter of censure for insubordination?” Sweat erupted from the man’s giant face pores.

  “Not really, but does it matter in the end? Look, why not give me a few days on the bricks while you’re at it? You’ll only be shooting yourself in the foot when all this cult stuff blows up. You’ll be the laughingstock of the Bureau. They’ll make you step down, or worse, send you somewhere horrible to hide your sorry ass.”

  Masters shot to his feet. “Are you—why, I—”

  Johnson stepped in. “Sir? Let me have a few minutes with Wilde.”

  “I won’t be spoken to like this.” Masters shook.

  “Sir, please. Stay here, we’ll go somewhere else. Give me a few minutes with Wilde.” Johnson spun Jasper around and pushed him toward the door.

  Jasper was surprised Johnson remained this calm. His boss escorted him to a little used office down the hall and shut the door behind them and pointed at a chair.

  “Sit down.”

  Jasper sat, not saying a word.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Johnson glared at him, hands on his hips. “Why can’t you simply play by the rules? You do your own thing all the time playing around with the locals and all their crap. We’re sending you back out with the locals and now you’re trying to piss away this miserable career of yours?”

  “You’re upset because you’ve never had the balls—nerves—to say all that yourself. You don’t like Masters any more than I do.”

  “That isn’t the point, jackass. He’s gonna make sure you get some time on the bricks, you realize that, right?”
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br />   “So? Like I said, he’ll only be hurting himself.” Jasper believed everything he said, but a touch of doubt lingered in his mind as to whether the system would work to his favor in the end.

  Johnson’s hands flew to his head, grasping at his now tousled hair.

  “If he wants to get me OPR’d, it’ll take a while. Hopefully by then all of this crazy shit going on up here will have been taken care of.” The last thing any agent in the Bureau needed was the Office of Professional Responsibility investigating them.

  “Oh, my God,” Johnson said. “Are you really buying into all the hokey crap Temple Black’s been slinging?”

  Jasper stared at him, and kept staring until his boss cracked.

  “You are buying into her shit. I can’t believe this.”

  “Boss.” Jasper finally caved in and decided to be reasonable. “Look. We’re putting together everything we have so far. Give me the rest of today, will you? I’m asking you for a onetime favor.”

  “Apologize.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not to me,” Johnson said. “Are you kidding? Apologize to ASAC Masters.”

  “Oh, God, really?” Jasper drummed his knee and swung his head back and forth. “Damn it. Come on, Steve.”

  Johnson’s eyebrows shot up, wrinkling his forehead.

  “Fine.”

  “Good. We’ll let him cool off a bit. Now, tell me why you’re into these investigations all of the sudden.”

  “We gathered evidence of a cult in the area perpetrating the kidnappings. They’re also responsible for the accident two nights ago now. The one at Euclid and East Chicago—right near the same hotel where the first kidnapping victim was found and those two jackoffs offed themselves.”

  “How eloquent.” Johnson rested his ample ass on the corner of the desk, folded his arms, and loomed over Jasper.

  “The best I could do on the spot, sorry.”