supporting them that is at odds with both the Lord and the Great Adversary.”
“Which are?” Kurt asked.
“Don’t know,” Barb said. “As much reading as I’ve been doing since I started this job, I’m still playing catch-up. But there are experts I can call and ask. That’s still only a possible, anyway. There is a Power here, and a group of supporters, and five gets you ten it’s connected to Trilobular or the Art District. Somehow. What did you get on Vartouhi?”
“High school graduate,” Kurt said. “A local private school called Girls’ Preparatory Academy. Scholarship; she’s not from money by any stretch. Community college. Address is listed in a house near the Art District. High-end housing for a high school grad but no indications why. About all I can get without a court order.”
“So what now?” Kurt asked.
“It’s late,” Barb said. “Let’s go find out what the Art District is like after everyone’s gone.”
* * *
At night, with everyone gone, the Art District was definitely spookier. The pleasant paths reflected the surrounding lights oddly, as if they were going through thick glass. The wind from the river whistled between the buildings with the moan of a dying man.
Barb ignored that, walking along the sidewalk with her thermals on. Some demons had been reported to produce an image of heat higher than the ambient. If there was something stalking the grounds, she wanted to see if it would turn up on thermal imagery.
“Anything?” Kurt asked.
“The feel from underneath is stronger,” Barb said. “But I don’t see anything under thermals.”
She took the goggles off and looked around. There didn’t seem to be anything abnormal—then she caught a flicker in one of the upper windows. It wasn’t hot, it didn’t even have the feel of a demon. But something was up there.
“There’s something there, but not the target,” she said. “I wonder how long the demons, if they’re here, have been on this hill? They don’t have the feel of American Indian spirits.”
“Your side of the investigation,” Kurt said. “I’m not seeing anything. But here’s an interesting fact.”
“What?” Barb asked, looking around. There was no one and, as far as she could tell, nothing in sight except the buildings.
“Chattanooga has its fair share of street people,” Kurt said, looking around. “Lots of sheltered nooks and crannies in this area. As far as I know, the cops don’t specifically roust people around here. So where are they?”
“Not here,” Barb said.
“As if they know better?” Kurt asked.
“Possible,” Barb said, nodding. “It would probably be a question for one of your cop friends. We’re supposed to meet with Hugh tomorrow evening, right? Let’s pack it in.”
* * *
“There, I told you,” the woman said, peering through night-vision binoculars. “They’ve sent another.”
“Not a powerful one, though,” the man with her said. “Not from what I can see.”
“She’s strong. She tries to Cloak it, but she does so poorly. On the other hand…”
“They’re looking in the wrong place.”
CHAPTER SIX
George Grosskopf, Assistant Deputy Director, Special Investigations Unit, thought that he might as well buy stock in Pepcid AC and Ambien. There were things man ought not wot of. And he, for his sins, was the guy in the federal government in charge of all of them.
During his slow climb up the FBI ladder George had tried, like any sane agent, to stay off the Special Circumstances call list. Unfortunately, not only did he get more than his fair share of SC investigations, he managed to survive them all, not a common characteristic of the positions. If you weren’t killed by your third, you were generally driven insane. Statistically, five was about the maximum any field agent could handle. He’d had a total of eight.
So since he’d managed to get up to Section Chief when the previous head of SIU had dropped dead of an almost assuredly
“Which are?” Kurt asked.
“Don’t know,” Barb said. “As much reading as I’ve been doing since I started this job, I’m still playing catch-up. But there are experts I can call and ask. That’s still only a possible, anyway. There is a Power here, and a group of supporters, and five gets you ten it’s connected to Trilobular or the Art District. Somehow. What did you get on Vartouhi?”
“High school graduate,” Kurt said. “A local private school called Girls’ Preparatory Academy. Scholarship; she’s not from money by any stretch. Community college. Address is listed in a house near the Art District. High-end housing for a high school grad but no indications why. About all I can get without a court order.”
“So what now?” Kurt asked.
“It’s late,” Barb said. “Let’s go find out what the Art District is like after everyone’s gone.”
* * *
At night, with everyone gone, the Art District was definitely spookier. The pleasant paths reflected the surrounding lights oddly, as if they were going through thick glass. The wind from the river whistled between the buildings with the moan of a dying man.
Barb ignored that, walking along the sidewalk with her thermals on. Some demons had been reported to produce an image of heat higher than the ambient. If there was something stalking the grounds, she wanted to see if it would turn up on thermal imagery.
“Anything?” Kurt asked.
“The feel from underneath is stronger,” Barb said. “But I don’t see anything under thermals.”
She took the goggles off and looked around. There didn’t seem to be anything abnormal—then she caught a flicker in one of the upper windows. It wasn’t hot, it didn’t even have the feel of a demon. But something was up there.
“There’s something there, but not the target,” she said. “I wonder how long the demons, if they’re here, have been on this hill? They don’t have the feel of American Indian spirits.”
“Your side of the investigation,” Kurt said. “I’m not seeing anything. But here’s an interesting fact.”
“What?” Barb asked, looking around. There was no one and, as far as she could tell, nothing in sight except the buildings.
“Chattanooga has its fair share of street people,” Kurt said, looking around. “Lots of sheltered nooks and crannies in this area. As far as I know, the cops don’t specifically roust people around here. So where are they?”
“Not here,” Barb said.
“As if they know better?” Kurt asked.
“Possible,” Barb said, nodding. “It would probably be a question for one of your cop friends. We’re supposed to meet with Hugh tomorrow evening, right? Let’s pack it in.”
* * *
“There, I told you,” the woman said, peering through night-vision binoculars. “They’ve sent another.”
“Not a powerful one, though,” the man with her said. “Not from what I can see.”
“She’s strong. She tries to Cloak it, but she does so poorly. On the other hand…”
“They’re looking in the wrong place.”
CHAPTER SIX
George Grosskopf, Assistant Deputy Director, Special Investigations Unit, thought that he might as well buy stock in Pepcid AC and Ambien. There were things man ought not wot of. And he, for his sins, was the guy in the federal government in charge of all of them.
During his slow climb up the FBI ladder George had tried, like any sane agent, to stay off the Special Circumstances call list. Unfortunately, not only did he get more than his fair share of SC investigations, he managed to survive them all, not a common characteristic of the positions. If you weren’t killed by your third, you were generally driven insane. Statistically, five was about the maximum any field agent could handle. He’d had a total of eight.
So since he’d managed to get up to Section Chief when the previous head of SIU had dropped dead of an almost assuredly
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