There’s not much else for me to do.”
As Barb unlocked her door, a black van with tinted windows pulled up beside her.
“That was somewhat nervous-making,” Brother Marquez said as the passenger-side window rolled down. “If we’d had to do an entry, it was going to be tough. We’d have to blow the stair doors and go up eight flights.”
“I take it you’ve seen the blueprints,” Barb said, crossing her arms.
“For tactical reasons the Bureau gets copies of all new building permits and their schematics,” Brother Marquez said. “When we go somewhere, we get copies of their copies. Also something I’d prefer you not share with your friend Kurt. Hop in.”
The back of the van was laid out as a mobile command post, and two men were watching screens as they pulled away. Barb strapped herself into a seat as Brother Marquez swiveled his captain’s chair to the rear.
“The entry to the house, the entire house in fact, has architecture that I’d describe as Hittite,” Barb said. “But it’s not. Slight differences.”
“Osemi?” Brother Marquez asked, raising an eyebrow. “Where would they get Osemi architectural data? The Hittites destroyed every trace of the civilization.”
“That’s a very good question,” Barb said. “The thing is, I don’t think that’s their power center. It didn’t have the feel of an active temple. I’ve been in an active temple. There’s a definite…vibe to one. There wasn’t one in Reamer’s house. A slight vibe, but not anything strong. Much stronger at Rembrandt’s.”
“But those houses well predate any indications of supernatural occurrences,” Brother Marquez pointed out.
“Which is why I don’t think it’s in that building cluster,” Barb said, frowning. “I’ve got the sneaking suspicion it’s under them. But the entrance has to be close. Probably under Rembrandt’s or one of the other buildings. But we don’t have enough information to get a search warrant.”
“Who needs a search warrant?” Brother Marquez said, shrugging.
“I’d rather we try to avoid a black-bag operation,” Barb said, referring to a covert entry on a building. The term went back to the early days of law enforcement when the tools would be carried in black leather satchels.
“As do I,” Brother Marquez said. “But those are public buildings, no? You’ve never heard of a health and safety inspection?”
Barb hoped that her hair tucked up under a Chattanooga Food Safety Inspector ball cap and a matching blue shapeless coverall was going to disguise her enough. It might work as long as she avoided Vartouhi.
The buildings didn’t have basements as such. Just subground levels, partially open. That was as good as it was going to get. She was tapping one of the solid rock walls when the restaurant manager caught up with her.
“Can I ask what you’re looking for?” he asked, seeming amused.
“Rat holes,” Barb said, shining a light under the wine racks. “Rat droppings. And structural unsoundness.”
“We’re on rock,” the man said, with a shocked expression. “And we don’t have rats, ma’am!”
“Sedimentary rock,” Barb replied, glibly. “Water flow can cause sudden openings in it that lead to unsoundness. And you’d be surprised what rats will bore through to get to food.”
“Oh,” the manager said. “Well, I can assure you we don’t have rats. I am very strict about that sort of thing. But if you need anything, just holler.”
“I will,” Barb said, tapping at the walls with a stick until he was gone. Then she opened her Sight and tried to get something from the surroundings. There was still the feeling of otherworldliness. But now that she was in the basement, it didn’t seem…malevolent. She realized it was more just…power. Not even really power she could use. Just raw power, like the hum from electric lines. You tended to get nervous around it, even fearful.
She started as her phone rang with Germaine’s ringtone: “Danse Macabre.”
“Yes, sir?” Barb said.
“I understand you’re at Bluff View,” Germaine said.
“Yes, sir,” Barb replied. She wasn’t even going to bother to wonder how he knew.
“I have arranged a meeting for you at Tony’s in ten minutes. Ask for Mrs. Arquero. I believe you shall find the conversation…enlightening.”
Tony’s was a fairly high-end restaurant for Chattanooga, and Barb felt rather out of place in her coveralls.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Arquero?” she told the maitre d’.
“This way, Madame.” The maitre d’ may have found the coveralls a bit underdressed, but nobody in the restaurant industry was about to piss off a health inspector.
“Mrs. Everette.” The speaker was “a woman of a certain age.” Barb placed her as anywhere from thirty to sixty. Dark hair, short, wearing a suit that probably cost more than Barb’s entire wardrobe. “Christina Arquero. I believe Germaine called you?”
“Yes, he did, Mrs. Arquero,” Barb said cautiously, sitting down at a wave.
“My husband and I are the owners of Bluff View,” Mrs. Arquero said. “And we are of course quite concerned about a health and safety inspection from such an eminent inspector.” She gave a slight smile.
“It’s a…fascinating place,” Barb said. “Very…fascinating.”
“It’s a labor of love,” Mrs. Arquero said. “We took a bunch of run-down and honestly unsafe apartment buildings and old houses, and turned it into a place of beauty and repose.”
“The food is excellent,” Barb said. “I really love Rembrandt’s. It almost tempts me to gluttony.”
“Almost,” Mrs. Arquero said. “Do you speak Spanish, Mrs. Everette?”
“One of the languages I never learned,” Barb said, wondering at the change of topic.
“ Arquero is generally translated as ‘The Archer,’” the lady said, taking a slight sip of wine. “However, the etymology is complex. It is also the term, in what Americans call soccer, for a goalkeeper. This etymology comes from its Castilian definition, which is ‘a guardian at the gates.’”
“Ah,” Barbara said.
“The reason for Augustus’s call becomes more clear,” Mrs. Arquero said, giving a very slight chuckle. “We have lived in the South for many years, and I must admit I am sometimes given to Southernisms. If you will permit the indelicacy, you are barking up the wrong tree.”
“That…yes,” Barb said. “The problem being, I really don’t have another tree to bark up.”
“Tell me what you know,” Arquero said.
“Janea was attacked,” Barb said, carefully. She avoided the word “mystic.” “When she was found, she was wet as if she had been in the river. This place is across the river and had a certain…air.”
“Indeed it does,” Mrs. Arquero said with what was an almost unladylike snort. “One has to be…extremely mundane to ignore it.”
“But…I realized as I was working, not exactly a…negative air. Nor…positive.”
“Neither,” Mrs. Arquero agreed. “Quite, quite neutral. As neutral as a hurricane. Yet an air that is…workable. Useable. And many come here to install, as it were, wind turbines. Some less neutral than others. While others act as…windbreaks. My husband and I are not the only such. There are at least nine. And perhaps twice as many groups involved in wind generation. Fortunately, those who act as windbreaks are generally stronger than those tapping the wind. Generally.”
“And now?” Barb asked. “If Janea didn’t come from here…?”
“As you noted, your friend had been…attacked,” Arquero said. “She was, therefore, in not the best of conditions. Had you considered the strength of the Tennessee River? To swim across is difficult in the best of conditions. It is, however, quite possible to float.”
“Float?”
“Have you considered what is on the other side of the river?”
“Kurt,” Barb said, walking up to his cubicle. “What do you know about Girls’ Preparatory Academy?”
