Too bad I couldn’t start directly on my list. Before I could leave Reapers, training needed to get done. I was convinced new torture devices had been built in the middle of the night. This morning we had a set of pull-up bars. I had no upper body strength, so the concept of pull-ups was hysterical to me. Airborne school had been hell, but I had managed to survive it. Constantine’s boot camp, on the other hand, was likely to kill me. His first instructions were to dangle from the bars and work on doing high kicks. The cat was nuts. I was a musician, not a gymnast.
After an hour of psychotic pull-up exercises, we moved on to balancing exercises. This area I didn’t mind so much; I didn’t want to fall off a balcony anytime soon. We practiced some weird routines using Pilates ropes that I was sure Constantine had made up. According to Constantine, I needed to master the art of suspension. I had no idea what he was talking about. Where was I supposed to be suspended from? It was probably a good thing I never got around to asking him, since we moved to cardio for another hour. Constantine was easily offended if you were able to talk during his cardio sessions.
For the second day in a row, I was soaking wet and smelled like hell. I prayed the evil overlord would have mercy on my soul, but no. Last hour, we went underneath the loft next to the vehicle entrance. With Constantine in the lead, I was prepared to enter another medieval torture chamber. I was pleasantly surprised. The room underneath my sleeping chamber was a high-speed firing range.
For a group that is forbidden to kill, they sure had violent devices. I was afraid I was going to be out of practice, but like most things the military teaches, shooting was another muscle-memory activity for me. I was in heaven. It was a sad thing to admit, but I missed having a real gun with me, specifically an M16 rifle. That had been my buddy. Constantine actually had to kick me out of the range. According to Bartholomew’s list, I needed to be at Saint Edward’s Outreach Center before it closed at noon.
It was past eleven in the morning by the time I hit the shower. The good news was that I could shower in under three minutes—thank you, Uncle Sam. The bad news was that I was starving, and the only thing quick was Constantine’s odd shake. I asked what was in those things, and he told me I’d rather not know. I called them Constantine’s protein shakes. They tasted like peanut butter shakes. Whatever the secret ingredient was, it was supposed to help me heal and develop muscles.
The reality was that I did not want to know what I was drinking. With my luck lately, I was probably drinking mouse droppings or some other disturbing ingredient. I grabbed the suspicious bottle and ran out the door. I took one last look around and found Constantine getting ready to nap on the couch. No wonder he was always ready to go—he napped all the time. I wasn’t hating on him—just envious I couldn’t do the same.
By the time I made it to the outreach center on Ash Street, they were getting ready to close. The outreach was known as the Blue House to its clients. It shared the house with something else that I had no idea about. If I’d gone to church more often, I might have known. The highlight of my day was being able to find it. The outreach was located on the back side of Saint Edward Church. They provided daily lunches to anyone who showed up, Monday through Friday.
Honestly speaking, I had no clue what I was doing. I was not an investigator and had no experience getting information out of people. It wasn’t as if I could just ask if anyone had seen a bunch of witches stealing people. Bartholomew’s paper said to look around and be sociable. Driving the Whale made me look more like a person in need than like someone looking for a friend. That stupid hole did not help at all.
I climbed the four short steps in front of the house and entered. Inside the outreach, the first thing I saw was a large counter in front of the entrance. There was a small corridor that opened up to a back area. The room was divided by a set of curtains blocking the view to the left—unfortunately not very well, since I saw a work table and pantry shelves in that area.
At the entrance a pretty blonde, maybe in her early twenties, handed me a plastic bag. The food was set up like an assembly line on the counter. You took a bag and grabbed an item from each stack. It was a pretty efficient system, since they were only open for two and a half hours.
“Please take only one item from each basket. You can get your coffee at the end of the table.” She pointed to the coffee station, where a lady in her late sixties with gray hair was pouring cups.
I handed her back her bag and looked around the room. There were only four people, including the pretty blonde. The servers had little name tags that read Volunteer. I couldn’t find anyone who was actually staff.
“Thank you, ma’am, but I was actually looking for a friend of mine. He’s about six feet two inches and maybe two hundred pounds. His name is Bob. He’s an army vet. He might be hurt. Have you seen him, by any chance?” I was, technically, looking for Bob, so I could use that angle to start.
The outreach was made up of volunteers of different ages and genders. On a Tuesday morning, most of the people there were probably retired. A
