The Bureau, page 14
“But we’ll get to go into the forest,” Edge added, his eyes glittering with excitement.
“Yep. And I think we should take our own sweet time making sure everybody up there is good and safe.” Terry turned to Kurt. “No Sasquatch for you, huh?”
“No. Guess I’m getting shipped out into the desert.”
“Good luck with that.”
They all took the stairs to the third floor, where Terry and Edge shared an office, and then Kurt climbed one more flight. His own small office was neat and functional, with a couple of photos of Jason as his only personal touches. He had a view of the outdoor track and the little office park beyond it. The message light on his phone wasn’t blinking, which was good, but a small piece of paper sat centered on the desk. Chief Townsend is expecting you. Kurt recognized the firm, even handwriting of Townsend’s secretary, Mrs. Kirschenheiter. Straightening his jacket and tie, Kurt left his office and climbed the final flight of stairs to the fifth floor, where his boss reigned supreme.
Townsend’s suite was identical to the one he’d occupied in the old HQ, down to the lingering smell of cigarettes and the framed newspaper articles hanging crookedly on the walls. Entering the suite always disoriented Kurt slightly, as if he’d been suddenly transported from Sherman Oaks back to downtown LA. No time to deal with that, however, because Mrs. Kirschenheiter was glaring at him.
She unpursed her lips enough to speak. “He’s been waiting for you, Agent Powell.”
Kurt glanced at his watch. “It’s not even eight a.m. yet.”
“He’s been waiting.” Mrs. Kirschenheiter was a solid woman with bobbed steel-gray hair. She always wore gray suits and sensible shoes, a pair of glasses on a chain around her neck, and a disapproving look. Kurt was almost positive she had never been a child and had never once cracked a smile.
“I’m sorry to keep him,” Kurt said. No point antagonizing her further.
Still scowling, she picked up the phone receiver, jabbed a button on the console, and said, “He’s finally here.” Then she waited a moment before hanging up and narrowing her eyes at Kurt. “You can go in.”
Townsend sat behind the oversize desk in his inner sanctum, writing something in a battered black leather notebook. “Come in, come in.” He didn’t look up.
Kurt entered and, when Townsend continued to ignore him, sat in one of the low-slung chairs and looked around. The chief’s office fascinated him, although he didn’t know why. It looked perfectly ordinary: two tall metal filing cabinets, a coatrack holding Townsend’s jacket and hat, and, under a big window, a round wooden table and four chairs. Papers cluttered the tabletop. Among the framed newspaper articles were a couple of framed certificates. Townsend’s name was the only thing in English; the rest could have been in Latin, although Kurt wasn’t sure. Townsend’s gold lighter and silver cigarette case sat on the desktop next to an overflowing ashtray. There was nothing truly unusual about the room, yet Kurt always had a sense that something odd was happening just past his peripheral vision. No matter how quickly he turned his head, however, nothing weird showed up.
Kurt caught the scent of booze but, as usual, didn’t see any. He’d heard from other agents that the chief drank heavily in their presence, but Kurt had never seen him take so much as a sip. Maybe that was out of respect for Kurt’s history with alcohol and drug abuse—a history Townsend knew well.
After five minutes of writing, Townsend put down his pen, clapped the notebook shut, and lit a cigarette. He blew out a big cloud of smoke. “And how are you doing, my boy?”
Kurt might have bristled over the term boy, but Townsend used it for all male agents regardless of their race or age. He called the women girls, even Mrs. Kirschenheiter.
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Got in your exercise this morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. An agent should stay fit.” Townsend, a rotund man who always strained the seams of his clothing, apparently saw nothing hypocritical in the statement. “You were running with Brandt and Edge again?”
Why did Townsend insist on asking questions he already knew the answer to? Kurt tried to keep his expression neutral. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Those two have worked out well for us. They did an excellent job helping capture the reprobates who were breeding dog shifters.”
“I’ve heard about that case.” The facts of it had made him ill, especially once Kurt realized that Edge had come from one of those breeders, had been bought and sold like a dumb animal without any regard for the humanity that shone clearly from his soul.
Townsend stubbed out his cigarette, leaned back in the chair, and laced his hands over his belly. “Hmm. Did they tell you I’m sending them up north?”
“Yes. Am I going to join them?”
“No,” Townsend replied, chuckling. “Frankly, it’s more of a little holiday for them than anything else. A chance for Edge to run free for a bit. He finds the city stifling, I think.”
“There’s no Sasquatch?”
Townsend snorted and flapped a hand. “Our large-footed friends never harm anyone, but still people insist on calling in when they see them. So I send a couple of agents to investigate, Edge gets his romp in the woods, and everyone’s satisfied.”
Kurt gave a noncommittal shrug. Even though Townsend had probably saved his life and had definitely improved Kurt’s prospects, Kurt was never certain how far to trust him. He didn’t understand the man’s motives. Sure, his story about Terry and Edge’s new mission might be completely factual—or it might not. And Kurt knew from experience that speculating about Townsend’s motives would get him nowhere.
Avuncular smile firmly in place, Townsend lit another cigarette and peered at Kurt through the smoke. “Where do you suppose you’d be right now if we hadn’t met?”
“In a grave. Or in prison.” Kurt felt the truth of that in his bones.
“Hmm. And yet here you are, very much alive and free. A hero, even.”
“Sir, I’m not—”
“How many lives do you think you’ve saved since joining the Bureau?”
This wasn’t a question Kurt had ever considered. He simply figured he was following orders, doing his best, and hoping the outcomes were good. “I don’t know.”
“Nor do I. It’s hard to count things that didn’t happen. But I think it’s fair to say you’ve saved more than a few. Sometimes you’ve risked your own neck in the process, and that qualifies you for hero status in my book—even if you’re damned quiet about it. Once upon a time you were spiraling down into self-destruction, and you were damaging your family in the process. Yet now you rescue others. That’s the classic redemption arc, my boy. A beautiful story.”
Although this facile summary of his life experiences made Kurt’s jaw tighten, he didn’t protest. In part because Townsend was the chief, and in part because nothing he said was false. “I’m doing what I can,” Kurt finally managed through gritted teeth.
“Indeed. I believe in redemption, Powell. It’s not just a pretty story—it’s our future, our hope.” Cigarette seemingly forgotten in the ashtray, Townsend leaned forward over the desk. His eyes glittered with enough intensity to make Kurt dizzy, and he spoke in a hushed tone that was nothing like his usual rumble. “The road to redemption is long and twisted and paved with shards of glass. Your feet bleed when you travel it. The heat sears your blood and the cold breaks your bones. Savage beasts chase behind you. Every step is uphill. But all other roads lead to devastation, you see, so you must keep going, and you must remain on this road. No matter what.”
Anger curled in Kurt’s stomach, scorching him. “Are you trying to imply that I’m slipping? I’m not. Haven’t touched a drink or anything stronger than aspirin since I got out of rehab.” Eleven years and counting. “I’m a good agent and a good father.”
Townsend shook his head slowly. “You’re misinterpreting. I already told you that you’re a hero. Your son is growing into a fine young man, and you’ve never given me any reason to doubt you. I count you as one of my great successes, in fact.” He chuckled. “Not that you haven’t contributed to your own achievements. But then that’s part of my point here—while everyone must walk that road himself, some are fortunate enough to find a guide.”
Kurt, his anger cooling, didn’t understand what Townsend was getting at but nodded anyway. “Does this have something to do with my next assignment?”
“It has something to do with every assignment. Even my own. Especially my own.” Townsend twisted his lips into a wry smile that Kurt didn’t understand.
The phone on the desk—a heavy black one that would have made a good weapon—buzzed urgently but was ignored. Townsend opted instead to finish his cigarette and then light another, staring at Kurt for well over a minute before quirking another small smile as he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a brown accordion folder stuffed so thickly that the elastic band barely held it closed. “Here.” He dropped the folder on the desk with a heavy thud.
“My new assignment?” Kurt asked.
“Of course. Take today to read through it. Tomorrow I want you to requisition a vehicle—something sturdy and not too flashy. An SUV, I think.”
“All right. Where am I driving to?”
Townsend smiled widely. “Into the desert, my boy. It’s time for you to meet a lost cause.”
Chapter Five
Days felt interminable inside the cell, but nights were worse. Des had never needed much sleep. When he was a boy, he’d sneak out of the house after everyone had gone to bed—carefully avoiding the creaky floorboards—and wander the alleyways of Belfast in search of adventure. He wasn’t supposed to go, due to the soldiers on patrol, but he was good at slinking through shadows. Generally all he found were drunks and stray cats, but that was all right. Even though his Illinois family had kept him from straying after bedtime, he kept a flashlight hidden under his mattress, and after hours he’d read or draw or play with the set of toy soldiers his mam had given him before sending him away. His teenage years had found him back on midnight streets again, visiting bars if he could afford a few drinks or just walking if he couldn’t.
Now he was allowed none of these luxuries. His cell lights were doused at ten, shortly after his outdoor time, and then it was too dark to read. The guards yelled and threatened him if he got out of bed for any reason other than the toilet.
“Could wank,” he whispered as he slid a hand into his jumpsuit to fondle his cock. But it remained uninterested, as it generally did. His fantasies had grown stale years ago, and he was weary of his own touch. With a sigh, he pulled his hand out, tugged the blanket more tightly around his chest, and did his best to reposition himself—his too-tall, too-broad frame no match for the hard narrow mattress.
He pulled up a different distraction. “Remember the eggs, Desmond? Yeah, I’ll never forget them.” After running away from Illinois when he was fourteen, he tramped around the country, hitching rides and catching odd jobs when he could. One job—when he was fifteen or sixteen—had been on a vast chicken ranch where he gathered eggs. Everyone there thought he was twenty because he’d lied about his age and his body was big enough for them to believe it. He hauled heavy sacks of chicken feed, shoveled manure, found and removed dead chickens, and collected eggs. “Hard work. They paid me nothing but shite. And I’d come back to that trailer stinking so badly I had to hose myself off before going inside.” But he’d shared that tiny living space with three young men, and at night they’d drink cheap booze, play cards, and fuck like bunnies.
Eventually he fell asleep on his concrete bed and dreamed of eggs.
Six o’clock: lights on. Piss, wash, exercise, breakfast eggs made of chemicals and sawdust. Then a third read of a book about a woman who gets knocked up by the devil. Partway through he closed the book and paused to think. “Does the devil really exist? Mam said so, and so did the priests, but I didn’t believe it when I was a lad. But then there was Larry….” No. Larry had been a man and nothing more. No use giving Satan credit for purely human evil.
Des had just gone back to the book when the lock clanked open on the outer door of his cell. Startled, he leapt to his feet and hurried to the bars that separated him from the door. Maybe it was time for his annual visit to the prison doctor, a fragile-looking man with a Hungarian accent so thick he was nearly unintelligible. Des knew his hair wasn’t yet long enough for the barber’s yearly ministrations, and that was the only other reason he left his cell through the hallways.
Four burly guards crowded into the shallow area between the open outer door and the bars. They had impersonal numbers rather than names on their puke-green uniforms. “Wrists!” barked the bald one, who was apparently in charge.
Des obediently maneuvered both hands through a gap in the bars. One of the guards slapped on a set of cuffs and tugged hard to make sure they were tight.
“Feet!”
Des pressed himself to the bars so the guard could chain his ankles together and then fasten a chain around Des’s waist, attaching the handcuffs to the front of it. Funny how all these chains meant he was about to temporarily gain a bit more freedom. “It’s a topsy-turvy world sometimes,” he said, and the guards shot him a collective scowl.
The bald guard pulled a stun baton from a holster and pointed the end at Des. “Behave, now.” As if Des were a disobedient dog.
But Des nodded, and his heart raced as the bars slid open. Probably a dozen locks lay between him and escape, not to mention a host of heavily armed men, but it was pleasant to imagine himself running down the corridors, out of the building, and into the wide open desert. Where the sun and the rattlesnakes could have him if they wanted. At least he’d no longer be in a cage.
He didn’t run, though. He shuffled down the hallway surrounded by his phalanx of guards. The one behind Des nudged him with his baton whenever he raised his head, so Des stared at the worn floor tile instead. He caught glimpses of cell doors from the corner of his eyes but couldn’t see who—or what—was inside. No sounds met his ears aside from the jangle of chains, the swish of his feet on the floor, and the clomp of the guards’ boots. He sometimes caught an odd, musky scent like the odor of a wild animal. One of his fellow inmates, perhaps.
“Am I due for the doctor, then?” Des had so few opportunities to speak to anyone but himself. “I thought that was in summer, and I reckon it’s late autumn now. Has the schedule changed?”
“Quiet!”
Well, that had gone about as he’d expected. He’d get to talk to the doctor at least—if that’s where he was going. But instead of the familiar right turn he’d expected, down a wider hallway that led to the tiny medical room, the guards led him to the left.
For the first time in many years, Des felt fear. It tightened his throat and turned his breathing ragged. It swirled like ice water in his bowels. It made his limbs heavy, dragging at his feet until his steps faltered and he nearly fell.
“Please,” he whispered. “Why now? I’ve followed all the rules. I’ve—”
“I said quiet!”
Shaking his head like a bull in the ring, Des came to a halt. He tried to raise his hands in supplication but the cuffs and belly chain prevented him. “I don’t want to die.” Which was stupid, really. After all, what did he have to live for? Long days and nights in his lonely cell, his body slowly failing him, his last memories of freedom and happiness dimming. But he had his books and the star-filled sky, and somehow those things were enough to make him value his life.
One of the guards had raised his stun baton and was pointing it at Des, but the bald one waved at him to lower it. Des was surprised to find something like gentleness in the bald guard’s eyes. “Nobody’s going to kill you. Not unless you’re a threat.”
Breathing hard, Des stared at the man. He could have been lying. It could be a trick to lure him docilely to his execution. But not everyone was a liar—Des vaguely remembered that. Not everyone meant him harm.
Des inhaled and exhaled deeply and gave a quick nod. The guards fell into formation again, and they all resumed their trek down the corridor, which seemed to stretch for miles.
Although Des’s cell had seemed modern when he was first locked into it, he’d always had the sense that the prison itself was quite old. The current corridor had stone walls and floors, vaulted ceilings, and lightbulbs hanging on chains like an afterthought. Ancient, he thought, like the ruined castles in Northern Ireland; yet that couldn’t be right. His grasp of American history was poor since school hadn’t held his interest, but he knew white people had first arrived in the desert fewer than two centuries ago, and the Indians didn’t build vast stone prisons.
He was still trying to puzzle this out when they reached a wide wooden door with an arched top. The bald guard unlocked it with a large key and pulled it open. Curiosity and fear mingling, Des stepped inside.
The room proved entirely unremarkable. Perhaps ten feet square, it had bare concrete walls and two fluorescent lights attached to the ceiling. The floor was scuffed linoleum, like the hallway outside of Des’s cell. A heavy wooden table was bolted to the floor dead center, with a pair of plain wooden chairs facing each other across the scarred and gouged top.
“Sit,” the bald guard ordered, pointing at one chair.
After a brief hesitation, Des obeyed. The guards quickly fastened his ankle cuffs to bolts set into the floor, giving his feet a scant few inches of movement. Then they detached the handcuffs from the chain at his waist, only to fasten them to a chunk of metal in the tabletop. He could move his hands, but not much. He couldn’t even scratch his nose without bending awkwardly, which of course meant it began to itch.
“Why am I here?”
Nobody answered.
After so much monotony, he should have been grateful for a bit of novelty; he knew that. But he was used to routines, and even though he was now reasonably sure he wasn’t about to be put to death, the uncertainty made him feel shaky. A little queasy even. He was glad he was sitting down.
