Brutal Asset, page 13
I foraged in the kitchen nearest our suite, finding a pretty well stocked fridge and pantry. Not surprising as most of the human team was clustered around the 'Queen's' quarters, stationed for maximum protection by Arkady. Two grilled ham and swiss sandwiches later, plus a mixing bowl of seafood Newburg left me temporarily full. I tried to form a mono-edge around my left hand but it stilled flickered, although it was a bit better than the previous evening's attempt. It wasn't reliable like my right hand, so after some thought I returned to the suite and dug into the box of personal stuff crammed in the back of my corner of the dance hall that Tanya calls her closet. My father's .44 magnum was right where I had packed it, snapped into a DeSantis cross draw holster, four speedloaders of mid-power magnums wrapped with it. Steve Sommers, the armorer for the NYPD Special Situation Squad had handloaded a good supply of silver filled ammo for the hefty revolver and I made sure the cylinder and loaders were full of the good stuff.
The weather report had indicated a cool, rainy day, which meant I could probably wear my vest. It looked like a light, quilted black nylon vest but had hidden pistol pockets built in that were sturdy enough to carry the three-inch barreled Smith and Wesson Trailboss. A little bulky but my torso is v-shaped enough, angling down sharply to my waist, to leave plenty of room for the gun and vest to hang without printing. The speedloaders went into the hidden compartment on the left side, the revolver on my right, set up for a left hand draw. My 'transformation' had left me with the ability to shoot equally well with either hand. The vest is very minimally insulated, so it would be okay for my higher body temperature.
Fed and armed, I headed out into the city, emerging well away from Columbia or any of my usual exits. Then I took a cab, watching closely for anyone who might be following and paying attention to my Grim instincts. Nothing hinky, so I got out East of the University, paid the cabbie and slowly made my way to the campus, placing a call while I walked. The phone I used was a new one, taken from the stash that Chet makes for the Coven’s use. My signal was routing all around the world before arriving back in the same city.
“Hello?”
“Hey Gina, what’s the word?” I asked.
“Hey yourself! The word is black,” she responded.
“How black?”
“Like a rogue black hole,” she said. I was pretty certain the word rogue wasn’t by chance. Her careful speech indicated we were being listened to.
“Those rogues are bad, never know what part of space you’ll find them in.”
“Yup, ya gotta be careful!” she agreed. “Hey, studying today?”
“Yeah, on my way, why?”
“You’ll see a lot of old friends in class,” she said.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yup, lots,” was her answer. “Hey, gotta run, I’ll chat with you later.”
“Okay,” I answered and hung up. She wanted the call to be over fast. The part about friends most likely meant Creek’s people hanging nearby.
The campus was busy, students milling in groups despite the cool, wet weather. Summer wasn’t too far behind us, but the dark gray clouds brought to mind chilly Fall and snowy Winter weather. A group of young men were throwing a football on one of the grassy areas in the quad, and I skirted them on my way to Hamilton Hall.
“Heads up!” a voice yelled. I was already paying attention to an inner voice’s warning, my right hand snatching the descending football from the air before it could hit me in the head. The intended recipient of the throw jogged toward me to reclaim it. It took a second, because he was dressed in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, but I recognized the tall, athletic form of Agent Perry, who had driven the vehicle that took the Keonie children home. He fit the role of a college kid pretty well, and the jock image was good cover for a military toned physique.
“Dude, nice catch,” he said as I tossed him the ball underhand. It was pretty good, particularly since I hadn’t ever looked at the ball. “Thanks,” I said, nodding back to him. The throw had been more accurate than it had seemed, achieving the goal of letting me know Creek’s men were all around the campus.
Continuing on, I glanced about, picking out one or two more faces that I had last seen in military battledress uniform. As I approached the entry to Hamilton a man in a dark suit stepped toward me, two more moving up behind me.
“Mr. Gordon…Agent Gentis, FBI,” he said, holding up a credential folder with his ID. I stopped and reined in my violent side which had immediately plotted out the most efficient combination of moves to kill all three agents.
“Ah, Agent Gentis, what can I do for you?” I asked, surprised by the blatant approach.
“You need to come with us, we have some questions for you,” he said, in a manner that precluded refusal.
“Can I see that ID again?” I asked, my Grim side just below the surface as the two agents came up behind me. I was conscious of the gun in my jacket, which wasn’t legal for me in NYC.
He frowned, pissed that I would doubt him, but still flashed the creds.
“You based here in the City, Agent Gentis?” I asked.
He frowned again, not liking my question.
I continued before he could answer. “Because I’m wondering if you know what you’re doing? Like did you bother to clear this action with anyone above you on the food chain?” I asked.
“Listen here! I don’t know who you..” he started, then cut off as a threesome in suits headed our way from the foyer of Hamilton. I also noticed Agent Perry’s band of football players moving closer.
Gentis turned to look at the salt and pepper buzz cut of the man leading the approaching group. General Creek was styling power broker in his expensive charcoal suit and his eyes were boring holes in Gentis as he marched up.
“Gentis, you having difficulty following orders?” he questioned, then kept speaking before the other could respond. “Because if you can’t understand the basic directive to steer away from this case, I can arraign an alternative career for you.”
Gentis grimaced, but shook his head. “No General Creek. I understand. I was going to ask Mr. Gordon here about an unrelated case involving property he owns upstate,” he said. Nobody in listening distance believed him, but I got a ring of truth about the unrelated case.
“Agent Gentis, let me repeat this once more! No agent of Homeland Security shall approach Mr. Gordon without prior authorization by my office! Is that clear? Do I need to explain it to anyone else in your chain of command?” the General said, his voice cold and quiet yet more effective than a shout.
The chastised agent moved off with his men, the angry set of his shoulders and head indicating I probably hadn't seen the last of him. I still didn't know why I had seen the first of him.
“General, what was that about?” I asked.
“That was about the mess you left me in Brooklyn!,” his angry tone now directed at me. I felt my eyebrows raise themselves as my own anger rose.
“Mess? But General Creek, that's what I do! I make messes out of people who attack me and mine, especially people who attack my goddaughter. And I'm really partial to making messes out of rogue black ops units who use...shall we say 'experimental' technology to carry out those attacks!” I said in a rough voice. The general and his men each took an involuntary step back, a look of realization flashing across most of their faces. I've spent years learning to avoid attention and remain innocuous. Other than my freakish eyes and looks, I still carry myself that way. So, I'm told it's easy for people of any flavor to forget what I'm capable of, which, it appears is what the good general did.
We have an uneasy relationship, General Creek and I. He thinks I'm too much of a loose cannon to be allowed to roam unchecked. The problem is I'm too big of a cannon for anyone in the government to 'check' me. Creek's a military man, through and through. A weapon of my potential belongs under lock and key. I can sympathize with that notion, but I disagree on being kept locked, particularly by everyone's favorite uncle – Sam.
“We're looking into that!” he said, his tone still brusque, his body language embarrassed. He continued,
“That was an interdepartmental rivalry that should have been squashed long ago. Gentis was involved with the investigation of I.S. 341, and the Atlantic Avenue situation. He was ultimately locked out of both investigations as well as this newest...one.”
“But he knows who I am?” I asked.
“He thinks you have something to do with these events, seeing as how your old NYPD unit was involved in....unexplained phenomenon. The fact that Gina lives two blocks from the Brooklyn ...incident, also intrigues him. Damage to the assailants matches much of what happened at the school. Then there is the fact that your name sets off red-flag alarms on all government systems and you can see his train of thought.”
I nodded, having allowed myself to calm down. “What did he mean by an incident with my property upstate. I haven't heard anything from my grandfather about an incident.”
“There was a death. Victim was found with animal wounds, but the local police were able to keep the autopsy sealed, so the extent of the mauling isn't known by the locals. I understand it happened near your land, but not on it. Gentis was just fishing.”
A mauling near my grandfather's farm raised my concern level sky high. Brett Mallek's pack lived on our land and this couldn't be a coincidence.
“Leave it to us, Gordon. Go take your religion class or whatever it is you're doing here,” he said, effectively dismissing both me and my use of time. He turned away, his posture telling me he was done with me for now, and implying I was a waste of time. I turned away, mentally crossing the general's name off my list of men I admired. Professor Pitcairn was angling across the quad, headed to Hamilton, watching my group from the corner of his eye. My path to the door brought me there at the same time he arrived. I paused to let him through first but he waved me onward.
“Making new friends, Gordon?” he asked, his tone sarcastic, but not in a mean way.
I snorted. “Just ironing out working arrangements, Professor,” I replied, as we head up the stairway.
“You know I had a nice chat with Chet Aikens about you, Mr. Gordon,” he said in a conversational kinda way.
“What a coincidence Professor, I had one with him about you!” mock surprise in my voice.
“He said that the questions you have may go a bit deeper than this class's range,” he stated.
“That's probably true, maybe a good deal deeper,” I said as we continued to climb.
“What are you looking to get from the class?” he asked, seemingly with genuine interest.
“I'm interested in Native beliefs and ceremonies. Particularly those that involve spirit guides,” I said.
He looked at me with curiosity. “I see....well, you're gonna like today's lecture than,” he said, leading the way into the classroom.
As before, the room was crowded, in fact, there seemed to be even more people and fewer desks open. A familiar triad of girls waved at me, and Kelsey indicated a seat between her and Jamie that held her bookbag until she lifted it clear. I sat down next to her and looked around. Everywhere a face looked back, mostly female, but some male as well. There definitely seemed to be more people, many without textbooks for the class. “Why so many people here?” I asked in a whisper.
She just smirked.
Pitcairn set his briefcase down and looked at the sea of faces, glancing my way before looking downward at his class notes.
“Well,” he began loudly, “it appears we have more people tonight than the class roster can account for.” A nervous laugh ran through the room.
“I don't mind people auditing the class...UNLESS you disrupt it in any way! Questions should only come from students who are actually in the class. Anyone who can't abide by these rules can leave now. So, if we understand each other let's get started. I know that Mr. Gordon over there is anxious to hear tonight's lecture,” he said, nodding in my direction.
Suddenly, I was again the center of attention, much to my personal horror. Kelsey gave me a puzzled look to which I shrugged, then settled in, my ears burning.
Pitcairn wrote the word shamanism on the board and began with a general definition.
“That great font of all wisdom, Wikipedia, tells us that shamanism is 'an anthropological term referencing a range of beliefs and practices regarding communication with the spiritual world.' Therefore, a shaman is someone who is a practitioner of these rituals.”
Turning back to the class he continued.
“Shamans are found on every inhabited continent on the planet and in almost every culture. Their role, while primarily a spiritual adviser or guide, also usually is that of a spiritual healer and sometimes a mediator.”
He went back to the board and started to write a list.
“These are some of the functions a shaman would fulfill. Coming of age ceremonies, helping others find their spirit animal, acting as a spiritual guide, presiding over death and burial ceremonies, passing on history and information through storytelling, driving away evil spirits, foretelling the future, communicate with spirits,” he said as he wrote.
“Sounds like my priest!” quipped a guy in the sixth row.
The class laughed and Pitcairn spun around with a smile. “Actually, Mr. Cring, these are all common tasks for religious leaders, be they rabbi, priest or medicine man. Although, I’m sure most priests would be quick to point out the differences.”
“Like what, Professor?” Cring, a skinny beanpole of a kid, asked.
“Shamanism is not an organized religion. Shamans usually undergo training, often for many years, but they are ultimately independent. Whereas, priests, ministers, rabbi, and imams are all part of an organization with a hierarchy and rigid rules,” Pitcairn said.
I raised my hand.
“Ah, Mr. Gordon, I’ve been expecting a question or six. What would you like to know?”
“You mentioned that shamans helped people find their spirit animal. How?” I asked
“You mean what methods do they use?” he asked. I nodded, ignoring the faces that flipped back and forth, watching us both.
“Well, I’m thinking you’re mainly interested in North American, First Nation ceremonies, is that correct?” he asked, then continued at my nod.
“Initial contact for a young man or woman would usually be part of their coming of age ceremony. Isolation and fasting were usually part of the process, either in a specific location or as part of a vision quest. The young person would be contacted by the animal spirit or totem during the fast.”
He went on to talk about other aspects of vision quests till I raised my hand again.
“Yes?”
“How did or do shamans help their people maintain contact with spirit animals?”
“There are regular ceremonies that they would conduct. Most common is a sweat lodge ceremony, but some groups used mind altering drugs to provide contact,” he said.
“That’s the shaman I want!” Cring declared. The class laughed. Professor Pitcairn looked at him quizzically.
“What? It seems pretty clear – hot and sweaty lodge or getting high? No contest!” Cring defended his position, again to more laughter.
“We’ll be going over sweat lodge ceremonies in much greater detail later, but the concept is fairly universal, even among the groups that use hallucinogens,” Pitcairn said, with the last directed at Cring. He looked my way. “Gordon, I’ve got a couple of good books on sweat lodge info I can lend you,” he said, rummaging in his briefcase. He pulled out a slender volume.
“Actually, here’s Bruchac’s ‘The Native American Sweatlodge: History and Legends’,” he said, tossing me the book.
“Thanks Professor,” I said, caught off guard by his gesture.
“No sweat!” he deadpanned. Most of the class groaned, but a few of the more smitten coeds giggled. Pitcairn shrugged off his own pun, then turned back to the lecture. I looked through the book while listening with one ear. My attention flicked back to him when I heard the word ‘Navajo’.
He was talking at this point about subsets of shamanism in North American tribes and the topic that tripped my switch was Navajo witches.
“The term ‘Witchery Way’ is used to describe a Navajo witch. These are individuals, usually male, but not always, who have chosen to take an evil path in their spiritual work,” he lectured.
“You’ve all heard the term ‘skinwalker’?” he asked, looking around the room. Most of the class was nodding. Pitcairn noticed my attention was now on him and he caught my eye for just a second as he continued to talk. “Skinwalker is a Native American concept, the gist of which is a person who can turn themselves into an animal by wearing the skin of that animal. The tradition is most developed among the Navajo and is part of the Witchery Way, along with another branch known as the Frenzy Way that was used by a witch to influence the minds and emotions of others,”
