Chapter Three
The Bureau’s West Coast headquarters occupied one of those ugly urban buildings that had sprouted up during the late fifties and early sixties. No effort or money had been wasted on ornamentation, and passersby paid it so little attention that they likely didn’t even remember it was there. This particular edifice was four stories of graying concrete in a nondescript neighborhood in one of the many communities that made up Los Angeles, and for several years, it had been more of a home to me than any of the dull apartments where I’d slept. It still felt like home now, even as I entered through the door marked Visitors and stepped into the cool sterility of the lobby.
Every surface there was hard and smooth; it was a space completely devoid of warmth and life. The smallest noises echoed, and my footsteps sounded like an advancing army. Liz Biggs sat behind a tall reception desk, her back straight and hair as perfectly coiffed as always. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked crisply, as if she hadn’t known me for years.
“Need to see Townsend.”
“You may email his assistant to set up—”
“Now.”
“Associate Director Townsend is in a meeting.”
Almost certainly bullshit, but I didn’t call her on it. “Then he can take a break. I need to talk to him. People are dying.”
A flash of irritation showed on her face, which I considered a major victory. I continued to stare her down, even though both of us knew there wasn’t a damn thing I could do if she turned me away.
Biggs blinked first. She spent a moment working her tablet before looking up at me. “You may go ahead, Mr. White. He’s in—”
“I know where he is.” I took the plastic card she held out and stomped past her. When I reached the elevator bank, I flashed the card at the scanner. Although Townsend was only three floors up and I certainly could have taken the stairs, the card wouldn’t let me into the stairwell. The Bureau was careful about which parts of the building visitors could access.
The elevator doors whispered open, I stepped inside, and the doors closed. There were no buttons to press, but thanks to the card, the elevator knew where to take me. I wondered who was watching on the security cameras. Tipping my face upwards, I gave a mocking little salute.
The elevator released me into a long, nearly featureless corridor. None of the metal doors showed any markings, and they all had scanners rather than knobs. As I walked by, I imagined I could feel the invisible hexes on each threshold, meant to repel certain magics and unwanted inhuman visitors.
As an agent, I’d spent almost all my time in the field rather than at HQ. I hadn’t even had an office here, although they gave me a temporary space whenever I’d come in to work. Still, I’d walked this hallway countless times. It felt odd to be doing it again, without the weight of my badge in my pocket.
Townsend’s suite lay at the end of the hall, accessible through wooden double doors rather than metal. They opened as I approached, then shut behind me. His reception area was carpeted, the walls hung with landscape paintings, and the faint odor of lemon furniture polish tingled my nose. His assistant, Victor Holmes, smiled placidly from behind his enormous desk.
“He’ll be with you in a few minutes, Mr. White.”
Holmes was a tiny man, his face and body twisted from a brutal encounter with an ogre in Montana. But although he was confined to a wheelchair and appeared barely strong enough to lift a pencil, everyone except Townsend was terrified of him. Including me, to be honest. Something about the peculiar glint in his eyes. If I had to choose to fight either him or an ogre, I’d go with the ogre.
But today I didn’t have to fight Holmes.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asked.
“No.” I didn’t sit in one of the heavy leather chairs either, instead choosing to pace the room and inspect the paintings as if I aspired to become an art critic. Holmes watched me.
It was interesting that nobody had searched me or asked me to hand over my weapons. Surely they knew I was armed. In fact, somewhere between the building’s front door and Townsend’s office, I’d undoubtedly been body-scanned, and my gun would have been easily visible inside my boot. Also the knife I kept as a backup in the other boot. Either they didn’t believe I was a threat or they were confident I couldn’t harm anyone.
I was peering at a scene of snowy mountains flanking a meadow when Holmes called my name. “You can go in now.”
The furniture in Townsend’s office was big and utilitarian—several battered gray filing cabinets, a cluttered bookshelf, an immense metal desk. He’d stuck newspaper clippings haphazardly on the walls, and everything reeked of cigarette smoke. Townsend himself stood behind the desk, overflowing his expensive suit, his smiling face an unhealthy ruddy color. As usual, a half-empty bottle of scotch perched on the surface in front of him, along with stacks of papers and an overflowing ashtray.
“This is a surprise, White.” He shook my hand with a heavy grip, collapsed into his oversized leather chair, and gestured at the low chair intended for visitors. Then he poured himself a glass of scotch. “One for you?”
“No thanks.”
“Given it up?” he asked, eyebrow raised.
I simply shrugged. After being severed from the Bureau, I’d spent a month or so drunk. But booze has never suited me, and I decided I wanted to spend whatever time I had left with a clear head. Besides, there are better ways to die.
“I hear you’re living up in Frisco,” Townsend said, despite knowing that nobody really called it that.
“Yeah.”
“Nice city, if you don’t mind freezing your balls off all summer. You staying out of trouble?”
“I guess.”
He lifted his glass, drained it in one swallow, then refilled it. Some of the guys used to say Townsend’s veins ran with nothing but scotch, and I’m not sure they were joking. If he’d ever become drunk, I’d never discerned it.
“You been seeing a shrink?”
“No.”
“I figured.” He tugged at one ear. “Psychologists. Sometimes they’re worse than wizards, you know? Least wizards get shit done. But sometimes a good headshrinker is what a fellow needs. Helps with the nightmares.” He tapped his forehead.
“I sleep fine,” I lied.
“You’re still a kid. I know you don’t feel like it, and you figure your glory days are behind you. But there’s plenty of work you can still do—good work, important work—if you get your head together.”
“If you’re trying to tempt me with a job offer, that’s not why I’m here.”
Townsend’s bark of laughter shook his entire body. “No, I didn’t think so. Anyway, your days with the Bureau are permanently over. But there are many other doors waiting to open. I’ll even be a reference. I have positive things to say about you.”
“Gonna tell them about the little kids I killed?”
“I’m going to tell them you’re a good man who sometimes acts with his heart and guts instead of his brain. The same could be said of most heroes.”
“I’m no hero,” I muttered, looking away. Then I firmed my jaw and turned back to face him. “I didn’t come here for job counseling either.”
“Of course not. I threw that in for free.” He drained his glass a second time and didn’t pour more. “What can I do for you?”
“You can send some agents up north to catch whatever’s been murdering young men.”
Townsend showed no surprise at my statement. He took a cigarette package out of a desk drawer and flicked a silver lighter to life. When he exhaled, he blew a perfect smoke ring. We both watched it drift to the ceiling.
“This isn’t any business of yours,” he finally said.
“Just because I’m not on the Bureau payroll doesn’t mean it’s not my business.”
“And why do you think it is?”
I had to think about that for a moment. “They’re people who don’t deserve to die. If I can do something to stop that—”
“It won’t bring back those children.”
I winced, not so much at the reminder of what I’d done as at the echo of what Marek had said about penance. I hated feeling I was so transparent that anyone could see my feelings and motives. “I know.”
After a deep sigh, Townsend took several long drags from the cigarette and then stubbed it out. “So, what can you tell me about the situation?”
“Not much. A bunch of dead young men—more than the cops are aware of. Kids who liked to hang out in clubs. Every one of them drained.”
“Anything else?”
“It’s not a vampire. At least I don’t think so.”
“What makes you say that?” he asked, chin lifted.
“Condition of the bodies. Not just bloodless, actually desiccated.”
“You don’t think a vamp can do that?”
“No.”
“What makes you so sure?”
I looked down at my hands, sitting uselessly on my lap, then up at him. “I spoke with a vampire.”
I gave him a cleaned-up version of my encounter with Marek. Townsend listened expressionlessly, but his eyes told me he wasn’t surprised to learn about Marek—and he knew perfectly well we’d done more than chat. When my brief narrative was finished, Townsend refilled his glass but didn’t yet drink it. “So you believe in an ethical vampire?” he asked.
“Maybe. If he was the perp, why would he have let me live? Why send me here with a warning?”
“Dunno. Because he hopes to deflect attention from himself?”
I’d considered that possibility, but it didn’t feel right. Of course my instincts had been wrong before, with lethal results.
Townsend heaved his bulk out of the chair and took a few steps toward a wall, where he inspected a yellowed newspaper clipping. The headline was about a congressman from Modesto who’d been caught in a Bureau sting operation a few years back. The bastard had tried to sell his soul to the devil in return for being elected governor. I hadn’t worked on that particular case, but I remembered it well.
Still facing the wall and with his scotch glass in hand, Townsend spoke. “I appreciate you sharing this information.”
“And? You’ll send agents?”
“No.”
“But—”
“I believe what you’ve told me, White. You’ve never been a liar or an alarmist, and frankly, you don’t have the imagination to make this shit up.”
I shook off the small dig. “Then why won’t you act?”
“San Francisco police are already on the case.”
“SFPD!” I snorted. “Yeah, that’s fine if the perp speeds or parks with his wheels angled wrong.” Actually, I have a fair amount of respect for local law enforcement agencies. They do a tough job under challenging circumstances, and I’d always relied on them for information while working a case. But they were neither trained nor equipped to deal with nonhuman criminals. That’s what the Bureau’s for.
“It’s their ballgame,” Townsend said.
I hopped to my feet. “But why, dammit?”
He tapped the newspaper article and then turned to face me. “Politics, my boy. The Bureau’s priorities lie elsewhere. And that’s all I’m gonna tell you. Anything else is above your pay grade.” He chuckled at his bad joke.
“Politics. And how many people will die because of it?”
“Everyone dies. Eventually.” He laughed again, although I didn’t know why. He pointed at me with the hand holding his glass. “They die even if they’ve never sinned. They die despite love and medicine and good intentions. It’s the first rule of the world, son. What goes up, must come down. What lives, dies.”
“Your job is to delay that.” I wanted to shout, but I dropped my voice to a gravelly rasp instead.
“It is. And I do. But I can’t save everyone—none of us can—and I am not exempt from outside pressures.”
“Dammit, Townsend! You can’t—”
“Enough. The matter’s settled—the Bureau’s not involved.” He softened his tone. “You’ve done your duty. You can rest easy over this one.”
I growled, turned on my heel, and headed toward the door.
“White!”
I stopped but didn’t turn around.
“If you get yourself in the middle of this, you’re going to end up dead,” he said.
“Everybody dies.”
“But there’s no reason to hasten the inevitable. Take this.”
Looking over my shoulder, I saw him holding out a small piece of paper. “What is it?”
“The contact info for a former agent. He retired… oh, some years back. Does private-eye stuff. If you’re gonna throw yourself into the mess, he’d be a good man to have at your side. Him and his partner both.”
“I can’t afford a private eye.”
“Talk to him. Maybe he’ll take the case pro bono.” When I hesitated, Townsend moved closer. “Think, White. No need to throw yourself on the sword. At least try for help.”
I didn’t point out that I’d come to his office for exactly that reason. Instead I grabbed the paper, and without saying another word, I left. I didn’t speak to Holmes either. Had there been a trash can along the way, I would have tossed the note. But there wasn’t, and curiosity got the better of me by the time I was in the elevator. Scrawled in black ink was an address in Santa Monica, along with a name: Charles Grimes.