The trip had been…odd. It was the first time Barb, who had traveled extensively and in most forms of transportation, had ever flown in a Gulfstream. Now she knew how the other half lived. She’d already been packed; Sharice and Germaine apparently kept a traveling bag readily available, so the real question was, given that the plane had been prepped for takeoff when they arrived, did FLUF maintain a private jet? As it turned out, no. The FBI maintained a private jet for FLUF.
By the time the team had reached Chattanooga, Janea had been moved from ICU to a semi-residential “long-term care” facility located near Memorial Hospital. Her condition had been determined to be non-life- threatening for the time being.
The move was fortuitous since it meant nobody commented on Barb bringing a cat into the room.
“Do you know where she was found?” Augustus Germaine asked.
Augustus Germaine was the head of Special Circumstances for the US and Europe. In the US, the SC organization was called the Foundation for Love and Universal Faith: FLUF, pronounced “Fluff.” The inoffensive acronym was intentional; FLUF was the antithesis of a public operation. And in many cases it was even on point. Many, most even, of the Special Circumstances investigators were highly non-violent Wiccans and Buddhists.
He was not an adherent of any religion. Nor was he agnostic or atheist. He knew gods existed, but for him, that was like saying air existed. You can’t see it, it’s there anyway, so what? Being strictly neutral was also the only way that he could settle the more-than-occasional disputes between his various agents. He didn’t care what kind of air it might be, as long as you could breathe it and not die.
“Coolidge Park,” the neurologist replied. “Initially police thought she was under the influence of drugs. She was, at that time, conscious but incoherent, and attacked the officers. They started to place her under arrest and her heart arrested, so she was transported here. She was thought to be suffering from drug toxicity, until her tox screen came back negative. Then the FBI identified her as a consultant and, well…”
“I understand,” Germaine said. “From your medical point of view, what is her condition?”
“There were some small surface contusions,” Dr. Downing continued, pursing his lips in thought. “Possible indication of a struggle. That might actually have come from the altercation with the officers. No indication of sexual assault, and even the contusions are problematic. But nothing that would cause a coma. And it’s not a coma. She’s just very asleep. She has had a full CAT scan, EEG, and radiological MRI. There is no gross trauma to the brain but she remains in REM sleep. Only REM, not deep sleep. Heartbeat is up, blood pressure is high. Indications are of a more-or-less continuous nightmare. Which, sorry, isn’t good. The body can only stand so much stress. When I got all the tests done we administered a sleep antagonist, which is when it got truly unusual.”
“She coded,” Sharice said.
“Yes,” the neurologist said, frowning. “How did you know?”
“I’ve seen the condition before,” the witch said. “I take it you administered an antagonist?”
“And she went right back to this condition,” Dr. Downing said, nodding. “Do you know of a cure? I haven’t been able to find anything in the medical texts on this condition.”
“It’s not common,” Sharice said. “And no, I don’t know of anything you can do to cure it.”
“That’s a rather broad statement,” the neurologist said with a sniff.
“It’s a rather accurate statement,” Germaine replied. “I know two neurologists in the world who are familiar with the condition. I’ll have one of them e-mail you.”
Barb laid her hand on her friend’s shoulder and prayed to God for guidance. In return she received a very slight feel of life, of struggle.
“Sharice…” she said a moment later in a strained voice.
Sharice laid her hand on the patient’s other shoulder and then nodded.
“She’s so far…”
“I think that the good doctor has other things to do,” Germaine said. “We can stay with our friend, can we not?”
“Absolutely,” the neurologist said. “If you need anything else…”
“Not at all, Doctor,” the head of FLUF said. “But I appreciate your briefing in this matter.”
“Her ka has been ripped from her body,” Sharice said after the door was closed. “This wasn’t an intentional projection. It was pulled out. The silver cord is barely holding.”
“She’s fighting,” Barb said. “I get a feeling like dozens of…things ripping at her.”
“Harpies,” Sharice said. “Probably the origin of the myth. That’s what most call them, anyway. One of the things to avoid on the Moon Path. She’s held, trapped. And being tortured astrally.”
“How do we get her back?” Barb asked.
“That’s a tough one,” Sharice said. “Augustus, I’m going to need help.”
“Who?”
“Drakon and…Hjalmar,” Sharice said. “I’m going to have to go onto the Paths and battle. If we keep her here, I’m going to need physical security on her as well. She should be moved to a more secure location. We’ll need a nurse that can keep her mouth shut, support equipment and an on-call MD. Then Drakon to watch my astral back. Hjalmar, because if Freya doesn’t get involved pretty damned soon, we’re going to lose her.”
“What can I do?” Barb asked.
“Right now, what you’re doing,” Sharice said. “Send her power. It’s helping her, I can tell. We may need to bring in a coven to raise the support we’ll need. But you’ve got other things to do.”
“What?” Barb asked.
“Someone or something did this to her,” Sharice said, looking over at Augustus. “Am I right?”
“Presumably,” the senior agent said. “There has been an upgrade in the case. It is now officially Special Circumstances.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“ See the Boss.”
Kurt snorted at the post-it on his computer monitor and then crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash. Special Agent Kurt Spornberger had been an FBI agent for barely two years, but he wasn’t exactly a newb.
He’d been a street officer with Chicago PD for three years before moving to investigations and had worked his way up to Homicide before being recruited by the Bureau. The Bureau was, at the time, going through one of its periodic reevaluations, and some bright consultant had noticed that many investigations that the Bureau had been credited with solving could better be credited to local LEOs. It just made sense in many ways. Bureau agents rarely spent enough time in any one area to really develop relations with the local informants. They didn’t spend their early careers working the streets of a city. They often didn’t really get the zeitgeist of the local culture. Local law enforcement officers-at least the good ones-did.
The suggestion of the overpaid consultant was taken to heart by at least one member of senior management in DC, and the order had come down from on high: Recruit some local guys. Kurt had good relations with the local office. After he turned up a critical lead in a local serial-murder case, an eyewitness to an abduction who just happened to be a street whore who would have never talked with a Fibbie, the local Supervisory Special Agent had recommended him. He had the requisite four-year degree, albeit in anthropology, not pre-law or criminal justice, and he had a good rep. He was a little less “STRAC” than the Bureau normally hired, another way of saying he didn’t look like he had a ten-foot spike jammed up his ass, but the idea was to look at different cultures and everyone agreed Kurt Spornberger was “different culture.”
But he had an interesting time at the FBI academy. Some of the classes were taught by agents who had “been there, done that.” You could tell by the look. These were guys who had spent decades looking at bare scraps of evidence, trying to find that one word buried in billions that would pop the perps, turn up the terrorists, break the bank-robbery team.
Those instructors looked him in the eye, looked at his record, listened to his answers and then nodded. He might be a greenie to the Bureau, but he wasn’t green. They’d brought him in on some techniques he hadn’t known and let him slide through the stuff that was rookie material without being assholes. He got along with the Old Guys.
