“No,” Barb replied. “You don’t. And…I don’t see anything.”
The entrance had de rigueur brick pillars and a large sign. The road curved around the main entry building. From the maps and satellite photos, they knew there were several buildings in the compound with a “quad” in the middle that was entirely enclosed.
“No demons?” Kurt asked.
“They’re generally associated with people,” Barb said. “I’ve never seen one schlepping down a street. And there’s a distinct lack of people here.”
The school was closed and there weren’t even any cars in the parking lot.
“So we get out and poke around?” Kurt said.
“There is never anything interesting in the front of a building,” Barb said. “Let’s take the road around.”
“Public road,” Kurt said. “No problems there.”
“Public?”
“It goes to a subdivision sort of behind the school,” Kurt said. “High-end condos.”
The road curved around the school, under a bridge and down to the river. Behind the school there were athletic fields, more buildings and a dock on the river.
“Good a place as any to start,” Barb said.
“Why couldn’t we have checked it out when the girls were around?” Kurt asked.
Lazarus suddenly lifted his head off of Janea’s chest and hissed.
“Familiar?” the young witch said, looking around the room. There were no apparent threats.
The cat stood up and hopped to the floor, then scratched at the door urgently. He had gotten up a few times before, mostly when the rest of the team was awake, to eat and use the catbox. But this was something different.
The witch let him out, then followed, more or less at a run, as the cat bounded down the stairs to the front door and started pawing at it frantically.
“I wish you could talk,” the witch said, opening the door.
The cat darted past the startled security guards and down to the road, turned right and started running.
“Should we follow him?” one of the guards asked. “I mean, we were told the cat was one of our protectees.”
“Cats such as that can look after themselves.”
They got out by a large concrete-block building that was apparently the support building for the athletics department. The bottom was mostly open, surrounded by chain-link, and appeared to hold the boats for the crew team.
“I’m seeing a distinct lack of goat’s blood,” Kurt pointed out.
“Ever see a building like this with a large fireplace?” Barb asked, pointing at a massive chimney. “I mean, one that was made after 1920?”
“And the significance of a chimney is…?” Kurt asked.
“Heck if I know,” Barb said. “But it’s odd. Burning the bodies?”
“And there’s a distinct lack of bodies,” Kurt pointed out. “We probably should have parked up by the school buildings. Any psychic read?”
“I wish you’d quit asking that,” Barb said. “I’ve got Sight. I’m not a psychic.” She paused and turned her head from side to side. “On the other hand…”
Kurt’s phone buzzed and he pulled it off his belt to check the message.
“What was the ‘on the other hand’…” Kurt asked, curiously.
“Something’s…happening,” Barb said. “I mean…I don’t know. Something. What, I’m not sure.”
“The reason I ask is the message,” Kurt said. “I set up a query to Headquarters on anything related to GPA. We don’t have Carnivore access, but cyber teams track certain open-source information on the Web. Mostly looking for predators, but they keep track of other stuff. And they picked up an indicator.”
“Which is?” Barb asked, trying to look over his shoulder at the phone.
“Apparently several open sites, Facebook mainly, are reporting that ‘GPA girls are skinny-dipping off McLellan Island.’ There are even photos being circulated, which was what triggered the alert. Technically, they’re child porn. Good thing I’m exempt from the statute or I’d be in violation of federal law just looking at this stuff. What are you getting?”
“Basically…I guess you’d call it the feeling you get right before a lightning strike,” Barb said. “This area is a current of energy as strong as the river, and something’s pulling at it. Something nearby, but I can’t tell even which direction. I’m not good at this. Where is McLellan Island?”
“Right there,” Kurt said, pointing to the apparently deserted island in the middle of the river. The bridge they’d gone under passed over the river and the island.
“Then that’s where it’s going down,” Barb said.
“What is going down?” Kurt asked. “More zombies?”
“I don’t know,” Barb replied. “But…my spidey senses are saying that it’s about time for you to run for the hills.”
“There are boats headed for McLellan Island,” Kurt said, pointing. “Looks like a waterborne flash mob situation.”
“Party on McLellan Island,” Barb said. “Figure that is going to be mostly males. And as the climax of the party, everybody gets turned into zombies.”
“If it’s GPA girls who are doing it, and we still don’t have a good read on how,” Kurt said.
“Then I guess it’s time I went and found out,” Barb said. “The question being, how do I get to the island?”
“Well, you can rappel off the bridge,” Kurt said. “If you’ve got rappelling gear. Or you can swim. I think you’d probably float okay…”
“Not in body armor, I wouldn’t,” Barb said. “We need a boat. Now if I just knew how to use one of those crew boats.”
“I guess I am going with you, then,” Kurt said.
“Like heck.”
“Do you know how to scull?” Kurt asked.
“No. Not one of my skillsets. I don’t even use a rowing machine to work out.”
“Then I’ll have to scull you over.”
“You know how to scull?” Barb asked, looking at him askance.
“I had a rowing scholarship,” Kurt said. “Doesn’t mean I’m gay. It’s not like it’s male gymnastics or something!”
“Seriously?” Barb asked. “You?”
“I’m a man of many parts,” Kurt said, looking at the chain and lock that secured the chain-link. “Just one problem. FBI agents, despite what you see on TV, are not routinely trained in picking locks. Got a pair of bolt cutters?”
“No,” Barb said, sighing. “But I’ve got something that will work. On the other hand, it’s practically blasphemy to use it.”
“Where?” Kurt asked.
“In my bag.”
Cats are sprinters, not long-distance runners like dogs. And while Lazarus didn’t really have a concept of distance, he did know he had a long way in cat miles to go. Which meant he needed a ride. One he could control.
Dean Jensen was, all things considered, a fairly nice and inoffensive fellow. He contributed both time and, when he had it, money to various causes. He liked animals. (That was about to change.) He did his duty as a steward of Earth by not littering, contributing to environmental awareness and, alas, riding a bike as his primary form of transportation.
It was simply bad luck that had him pedaling down East Third Street when Lazarus needed a convenient and
