The Bureau, page 13
Abandoning his memories of the past, Des hurried through the doorway and the metal door slid closed. The lock engaged with a decisive thunk.
Chapter Two
Kurt Powell loved the running track at the Bureau’s new headquarters in Sherman Oaks. Well, tracks, plural, to be precise: one outside and one in. Sometimes he’d use both during the same day, putting in a couple of miles in the cool outdoors before sunrise and then a couple more inside when he was done for the day. Some of the other agents scoffed, not seeing the point in running around in circles. But he appreciated not worrying about traffic and other hazards. Jogging here gave him the rare opportunity to put his brain on autopilot, to move and be without thinking about where he’d been or where he was going.
So this afternoon, after working on the paperwork for the newly finished Long Beach case, Kurt headed to the locker room, changed into shorts and a tee, and began circling the indoor track at a rapid pace.
The Long Beach case had been a complicated one. A sea serpent, of all fucking things, had showed up in the harbor, where it began interfering with ships. Nothing fatal, luckily, but it had caused a lot of damage, which pissed off the ship owners and insurance companies. Some of the people at the Bureau had advocated bringing in the Coast Guard and letting them blast the monster to bits, but apparently someone in Washington disagreed. Instead Kurt and three other agents got sent on a weird sort of fishing expedition, the goal of which was to figure out whether the serpent was sentient. He didn’t know what the course of action would have been if the creature turned out to be intelligent. The fact that it seemed about as smart as the goldfish he’d had when he was a kid put it out of the Bureau’s jurisdiction.
The sea serpent was now somebody else’s problem, but Kurt was left with a shit ton of reports to file. Almost made him wish he still had his old job selling cigarettes and beer.
As always, it took several laps for him to sweat away thoughts about work. He then registered that it was Friday. After his run, he could go home and shower and maybe call and invite his buddy over. What was that phrase Vaughn liked to use? Friends with benefits. Yeah. Kurt could enjoy those benefits and spend the weekend kicking back and relaxing. He’d get some yard work in, then see if his son Jason wanted to go catch a movie or something. Kurt wouldn’t have to worry about reports until Monday morning.
He ran a little faster in anticipation of a few days of freedom.
As he rounded the track, there was Chief Townsend standing to the side and smiling at him.
God dammit.
Kurt stopped a few feet short of Townsend but kept jogging in place. “I’ll have that report to you by Tuesday, sir.”
Townsend waved dismissively. He held an unlit cigarette in one hand and his hat in the other. “Never mind about that. O’Shea can finish it.”
“O’Shea writes like shit, sir.”
“I know. He could use the practice. Anyway, I’ve got something else for you.”
Kurt tried not to groan. “It’s Friday.” Please let the situation—whatever it was—wait until next week.
Townsend’s knowing grin suggested he knew exactly what Kurt was thinking. Hell, he likely did. The man had an uncanny knack for reading minds.
“That it is, Powell. Tell you what. You go have a peaceful couple of days with your son, but come see me first thing Monday. I’ve got a fresh new assignment for you.”
Well, fuck. Now Kurt was going to wonder about it all weekend. “Does it involve more boats?”
Townsend’s laughter echoed in the vast room. “The opposite, my boy. I’m sending you to the desert.”
* * *
God, parenting a seventeen-year-old was a strange endeavor. Jason spent half the weekend intelligently discussing his prospects for college and the other half playing on his Game Boy, scarfing fast food, and grunting in response to questions. On Saturday afternoon he drove to the movie theater—an experience Kurt found more terrifying than any monsters he’d faced, even though Jason drove reasonably well. The film his son chose was a bad remake of an old TV series, a stupid comedy that caused him to snort with laughter at potty humor and sex jokes.
Kurt liked to think he’d been much more mature at that age. After all, at seventeen he’d already spent years participating with his parents in civil rights marches and had begun demonstrating with them against the Vietnam war as well. Although to be honest, he’d complained about it. He’d also screwed around in school, skipping classes and smoking weed with his friends, giving no thought to what would happen after graduation. His grades had been too shitty to get into anything but community college, and he’d screwed around there too. In truth, he hadn’t really grown up until he was nineteen and, irony of ironies, got shipped to Vietnam.
That was a type of maturity he hoped Jason would never have to face.
On Sunday night after dinner they took their usual positions at the sink, Jason washing and Kurt drying, and Jason turned talkative. “Hey Dad? Did you ever really love Mom?”
Great. Nothing Kurt enjoyed more than talking about his complicated past. “Yeah, I did.”
“But… you’re gay, right? So how could you love a woman?”
Kurt paused in wiping a frying pan. “I guess it’s a different kind of love. Your mom’s beautiful. I could see that as clearly as any straight man would. And she’s smarter than anyone I know. Funny, too. I really enjoyed being with her. I suppose I mixed up that kind of love with the romantic kind. I wasn’t really clear in my own head about who I was at that point.”
That was an understatement. He’d had sex with a few guys in Nam but chalked that up to desperate times and limited opportunities. He’d come home so messed up that he clutched frantically at anything resembling normalcy. A pretty, intelligent wife; a comfortable little house in La Crescenta; a job in a convenience store—he’d honestly believed that if he had those ordinary things, if he tried hard enough, he’d achieve ordinariness too. Just that guy who mowed his lawn on Saturdays and watched football on Sundays.
Jason paused, suspending a dinner plate halfway out of the soapy water as he watched Kurt closely.
“Jayjay, your mother is an amazing human being. She put up with way more than anyone should have to, and she treated me with kindness and patience when I didn’t deserve either. I’m incredibly grateful we were married because that’s how we got you. But I never loved her the way a husband should love his wife.”
Jason nodded. “But you didn’t, like, fool her on purpose?”
“You know me and you know your mother. Do you really think I could get away with that?”
“No, I guess not,” Jason said with a laugh. “Mom knows all.”
“Don’t you forget it. I fooled myself, really, and it was only because I was so sincere that she got taken in too. She knew I was living a lie before I did.”
Apparently satisfied for now, Jason turned his attention back to the dishes. When that task was complete, he put on his shoes and jacket and grabbed his Game Boy, and he and Kurt got into the car. Kurt drove this time. It wasn’t far to the house where Jason and Maryann lived, the place that Kurt had once called home. When they arrived, Jason didn’t get out of the car right away.
“Dad? Do you worry about AIDS?”
Kurt had been rehearsing this conversation in his head for a few years, and he was ready. “I’ve lost some friends to it. But I don’t have HIV, and I’m careful to engage in safe sex.”
Jason squirmed a little in his seat. Not, Kurt guessed, because Kurt was gay, but rather because no kid wanted to think about his parent having sex. Time to strike while the iron was hot.
“Safe sex is important for you too, Jason. If you’re ever too embarrassed to buy condoms, you can let me know and I’ll get them for you.”
“I’m not gay!”
Kurt snorted. “Didn’t say you were. But straight people can transmit and catch HIV too. Not to mention herpes, gonorrhea, syphilis, and all sorts of other things you want to avoid. And then there’s unwanted pregnancy, which at least is something I don’t have to worry about.”
Jason rolled his eyes and scrunched down in his seat, mumbling something that might have been grudging agreement. After a moment or two, he cut his eyes toward Kurt. “So have you ever been in love with anyone, then? The romance kind.”
“No.”
“How come?”
“Maybe I just haven’t met the right man.”
Or maybe the part of Kurt that was capable of that kind of love was dead—rotted away in the jungles of Asia or poisoned by the booze and drugs that he had consumed in the years after he returned.
Jason gave him another long look, his face startlingly adult. Then he shrugged and he was a teenager again. He grunted a good-bye of sorts, exited the car, and loped toward the front door.
Chapter Three
He knew the hour based on when the lights blinked on. The one in the corridor perpetually glowed through the thick glass panel of the metal outer door, and he’d learned to sleep despite it. But at six every morning, the fluorescent bulbs overhead began to hum and glare, and they always woke him up. Early on, he’d shouted in protest. It wasn’t as if he had a bloody appointment to get to, so why the forced early rising? But nobody answered his shouts, and he’d finally given up. It was just one more maddeningly pointless aspect of his incarceration, like jumpsuits too narrow in the shoulders and food always lukewarm.
Rubbing his eyes, Des rose slowly off the mattress and shambled the length of his cell—six small steps—to the toilet-and-sink combo. Handy, that. Once he took a leak, he could wash his hands and face without having to move elsewhere. He brushed his teeth next, somewhat awkwardly due to the short and flimsy prison-supplied toothbrush. The clear toothpaste tasted like ashes and chemicals, but it got the job done—as did the cheap comb that tamed his long hair. And that was it for morning hygiene.
One day every week, a guard would open the outer door but leave the floor-to-ceiling bars closed, and he’d order Des to strip. Once Des had handed over his jumpsuit and socks and done a humiliating little display to prove he wasn’t hiding anything under his balls or up his ass, the guard would give him a razor, soap, and shampoo. The shower in the corner of the cell would turn on automatically—a low-pressure spray of lukewarm water—and Des had three minutes to scrub while the guard watched, flat-eyed. No towel to dry off with, since that was too much luxury for the likes of him. He’d shave afterward, as best as he could without a mirror, and then hand the razor, soap, and shampoo back through the bars. The guard would give him thin socks and a clean but ill-fitting jumpsuit , and Des would be left alone again.
Today wasn’t a shaving day, so Des stayed whiskery and, he supposed, stinky. He’d long ago grown immune to his own reek.
Exercise was next. Des jogged around the cell and did push-ups and sit-ups. Three hundred of each, and he’d do another couple of hundred later in the day. He also stacked books and used them as hand weights. Prison was a good way to remain fit, he supposed. He’d lost track of his age but suspected that, had he remained free, by now he’d have a soft belly and weak arms. He always had liked eating better than exercise—but that was before prison food.
A guard brought his breakfast tray shortly after Des finished his sit-ups. Same as always: watery coffee, watery juice that looked orange but didn’t taste like it, a scoop of gummy unsweetened oatmeal, a few tablespoons of powdery scrambled eggs, and a slice of white bread with a pat of margarine. He ate it all, even licking the tray for the last bits. At dinner he allowed himself the luxury of remembering one favorite food. Sometimes from his childhood in Northern Ireland: Fish and chips hot enough to burn his fingers and tongue. Or his mother’s stew, fragrant with mutton and onion. Other times from his short stay in Chicago: Chop suey from the restaurant his relatives went to on special occasions. Or a vendor’s hot dog that required Des to lean forward when eating so the toppings wouldn’t drip on his clothes.
“Ah, but save those thoughts for dinner,” he chided himself as he slid the empty tray through the slot in the bars. “Don’t be greedy.”
By then the sun had risen enough for the rays to shine through the small horizontal window near the ceiling. He stood and gazed for some time at the sliver of blue sky. It had been years since he had been outside during daylight. “As if I’m a bloody vampire.” He laughed weakly at the unintended aptness of his words and wondered if there really were vampires locked up somewhere in the building. Perhaps. Or maybe the Bureau considered them too dangerous and simply destroyed them. Lucky monsters.
In addition to the small camera near the ceiling—its light constantly blinking—his cell contained a desk, stool, and shelves, all made of concrete. He’d never been much of a reader, but now he devoured whatever the guards saw fit to give him, often rereading the same books four or five times until they were replaced with new ones. He didn’t know how the specific titles were chosen, but he was grateful for anything at all. He settled in at the desk with his most recent novel, a romance about a Russian countess. He wouldn’t have chosen it had he been free, but It was a blessing indeed to lose himself for a few hours in pre-World War I Paris. Later he’d have a sandwich for lunch, more exercise, two hours of shows on his black-and-white TV, dinner, and a brief time in the dark, cold outdoors. A bit more reading before the lights extinguished and then bedtime.
Another day of his useless life gone.
Sometimes he prayed, although he wasn’t good at it. He’d never paid much attention when, as a boy, his mam dragged him to church. He wasn’t even sure he believed in God. If there was a God, why would He listen to Desmond Hughes, who’d turned away from the right path so many years ago? But Des had time on his hands and reckoned prayers couldn’t hurt. So now and then after the overhead lights blinked off, he knelt against the concrete frame of his bed and clasped his hands. I’m sorry, Lord. He never prayed out loud—this was between him and the Almighty, not something to amuse the guards. Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. And he added to the familiar plea: Please grant peace to the souls of the people who were harmed and to their families.
He never hoped for forgiveness. Even the kindest deity wouldn’t grant him that.
Chapter Four
The Monday morning dawn was barely breaking, smog-induced orange and peach just beginning to tinge the sky. Kurt had driven to Sherman Oaks in T-shirt, shorts, and Nikes, so he dropped off his suit in the locker room and headed straight to the outdoor track. The air carried a faint honey-and-musk smell of jacaranda. He spent a few minutes stretching out and was just about to begin running when the door from the locker room banged open and two men came out to join him.
“Shit,” Kurt said with a manufactured groan. “You guys always make me look bad.”
The taller of the two, a strikingly handsome man named Terry Brandt, laughed. “Edge makes you look bad. I end up way behind both of you.”
Edge just grunted. Unlike his partner, he wasn’t much of a talker. Maybe that was because he was a dog shifter, or maybe it was just his personality; Kurt didn’t know. In any case, Kurt liked both of them. He trusted them at his back when things got ugly, and unlike some agents, they weren’t annoying to be near during slow times. Yes, Kurt envied them a little—they were partners in life as well as work and clearly adored each other—but that was his issue and not theirs.
It did irk him that Edge ran faster, even on two legs, than Kurt ever could. In dog form, the bastard could outrun any human. But he gave Kurt a challenge, and since Kurt wasn’t getting any younger—he’d slid past forty a year ago—he needed all the incentive he could get to keep in shape.
Today Edge didn’t zoom off at top speed but instead kept just a few strides ahead of Kurt, either to tease or encourage. He had a gorgeous ass, so watching it was no hardship. There were a few agents who made snide comments about Terry having sex with someone who wasn’t human, and that always pissed Kurt off. When his parents were married back in ’51, they’d had to move to California to avoid conviction under Arkansas’s anti-miscegenation law. And even on the West Coast, a married black man and white woman caught plenty of abuse. Kurt himself had been flipped plenty of shit for the color of his skin and for being queer. As far as he was concerned, it was nobody else’s damned business if Terry and Edge were in love. And as for Terry and Edge, they mostly ignored anyone who tried to give them a hard time. They’d survived worse than a few bigots.
Edge and Kurt ran five miles, with Terry so far behind that eventually they completely lapped him. He swore at them cheerfully as they passed.
They all hit the showers, where Terry serenaded them with a current hit song. He had a good singing voice but a terrible Scottish accent for the lyrics, and even the usually dour Edge joined in the laughter. “You still on that kraken case?” Terry asked Kurt as they were getting dressed.
“Sea serpent, and no. Chief’s got something else waiting for me this morning. I don’t suppose I’ll be sharing the case with you two?” That would make the assignment more pleasant—and would make Kurt feel more secure. Good backup was always a benefit.
But Terry shook his head. “Don’t think so. We’re heading up north tomorrow. There was another Sasquatch sighting in eastern Oregon, and we’re supposed to check it out. I think if the poor bastards exist, we should just leave ’em alone. They’re not hurting anyone.”
