Chapter Three
The Bureau’s West Coast building hulked near the Four Level Interchange just north of downtown. At one time the headquarters might have boasted Art Deco lines like the nearby city hall, but the grimy cement structure had been marred over the years by asymmetric additions that stuck out like tumors. Townsend steered his Cadillac into the gated parking lot, and a uniformed guard waved as they entered.
“We’re building a new HQ up in Sherman Oaks. We’ve barely broken ground on it, but it’ll be a lot nicer. Give us more room to stretch out.”
Unsure what he was expected to contribute to the conversation, Harry remained silent. Townsend had refused to divulge any details of the assignment during the short drive. He’d seemed cheerful, but his demeanor hadn’t calmed Harry, who didn’t trust him. Every time the car stopped at an intersection, Harry had been tempted to bail out. Surely he could outrun a big guy so recently stuffed with breakfast and pie. But Harry had nowhere to run to, at least nowhere that wasn’t a dead end, and anyway, he couldn’t help but be curious about what Townsend had in mind.
Instead of parking, Townsend rolled to the curb adjacent to the big front doors. A young man in a suit came dashing out, and when Townsend and Harry got out of the car, the kid hopped in and drove off without a word. Harry didn’t get a chance to see where he drove to, because Townsend swiftly led the way into the building.
Harry had come here for his interview, and on that occasion he’d had plenty of time to take a look around the lobby. Not that there was much to see: well-worn marble floors, white walls empty of all décor except for a large sculpture of the Bureau’s emblem, a few uncomfortable wooden benches, and a reception desk. Townsend whisked him through without even a glance at the woman behind the desk. He headed for the bank of elevators, but instead of pressing the call button, he took out a key and unlocked a slightly battered wooden door off to one side. “After you,” he said, gesturing at the dimly lit descending stairway.
Obediently, Harry started down the steps. Townsend closed the door—the lock snicking into place—and followed close behind. Their footsteps echoed loudly. Although Harry could easily imagine Townsend giving one good shove between his shoulders to send him flying onto the floor below, he kept his pace measured.
The narrow corridor at the bottom of the stairway had scuffed walls and a few flickering lights. Although there was nothing overtly sinister about the space—which included several identical doors distinguished only by the black letters painted above them—the hairs on Harry’s nape prickled and his stomach knotted tightly. Townsend unlocked door C and waved Harry inside.
A grizzled man in uniform, sitting behind a desk, rose to his feet as they entered. “Chief,” he barked. His left arm was missing, the empty sleeve folded and pinned to the shoulder; deep scars etched his cheek and jaw on that side. He could have sustained those injuries in the war, but the marks looked suspiciously like they’d come from claws.
“Good morning, O’Keefe. You’re having a quiet shift?”
“Always do, sir.”
“Tell you what. Why don’t you take a break? Go get yourself some coffee and a sandwich. My boy Lowe and I will just be visiting for a while.”
O’Keefe turned his hard gaze to Harry and then nodded. “Yes, sir. If you need anything—”
“We’ll be just fine.”
Limping heavily, O’Keefe crossed the room, unlocked the door, and left, pulling the door closed behind him. Townsend walked to the other side of the desk and collapsed into the chair, which creaked in protest. After a few moments of leafing through the tidy stack of magazines—Life, Boxing Illustrated, Home Craftsman—he pulled out a cigarette and lighter. “O’Keefe could’ve taken retirement, you know. We take care of our men.” He blew a cloud of smoke. “But he wants to stay on. A lot of guys, they get used to this life. They have a hard time giving it up.”
“What about the agent with the demon?”
Townsend laughed. “Yeah, he was still young when he left us. I thought we’d keep him longer. Being a Bureau agent, that’s what kept him on the right path. If he’d never signed on with us, well, let’s just say there’s a good chance we’d have met up eventually anyway—with a far less positive outcome for him. Anyway, his demon does that for him now.”
“Does what?”
“Keeps him honest,” Townsend said with a wink and a chuckle. He tapped his cigarette against a metal ashtray and leaned back in the chair. “Why am I here?” Harry asked. There was no place for him to sit, and he was tempted to pace the small room like a caged animal. Instead he stuffed his fists into his pockets.
“Death.”
“What?” Harry hoped he didn’t look as spooked as he felt.
“You’re here because of death. I guess we all are, in a way, the whole damn Bureau, but in this case that theme is more apparent.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“When you think about it, death is the master of every one of us. Doesn’t matter how strong we are. You could be richer than Rockefeller, more famous than Jimmy Stewart, more powerful than Stalin, but in the end, death beats you. And none of us gets much say in how or when.” He grinned as if he found this amusing. Then he leaned forward and pointed the tip of his cigarette at Harry. “So tell me, boy. If you wanted to be the most formidable man in all of history, what would you try to do? And don’t say make money, because I told you already that isn’t it.”
Unsure whether this was a simple conversation or a test of some kind, Harry chewed his lip in thought. He’d always hated it when his teachers called on him—his mind never worked fast enough, and the other kids laughed at his bumbling responses. “You’d want to control death?” He couldn’t help phrasing it as a question.
Townsend slapped the desk hard, making Harry jump. “That’s right! I thought you’d say something about creating life, but that isn’t it either. Every two-bit floozy who gets herself knocked up can create life. Nothing special about that. But death!” He nodded. “That’s something else.”
Although Harry was relieved to have landed on the right answer, he still had no idea where the conversation was going. He remained silent and looked around furtively as Townsend stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. The smoke hung heavy in the room, which had no windows or other sign of ventilation. Besides the steel door to the hallway, there was a smaller door, also of heavy steel. Although no sounds came from behind the smaller door, Harry sensed that something lurked there.
How did O’Keefe manage to spend hours here, alone, without losing his mind?
“Have you ever been to Portland, Lowe?”
Harry blinked at the change in topic. “Oregon? No.”
“Rains all the time. Weird things grow in all that dampness.”
“Mold?”
“Weird ideas, boy. A man spends too much time cooped up inside, looking out at the gloom, he starts thinking strange things. Like maybe he starts thinking he’d like to get the better of death.”
Oh, so they were back to that again. “How does someone do that?”
“Well, necromancy for one. Or vodou. A fellow who learns one of those can raise the dead.” He shrugged. “It has appeal for some, I guess. The kind that want slaves to do their bidding.”
Harry shuddered. “That’s… awful. Can people really do that?”
“Sure. We took down a bokor—a vodou sorcerer—last year, up in Bakersfield. The agents we sent after him had to burn their clothes afterward. They couldn’t wash the stink of death out of ’em.”
“Jesus.”
Townsend laughed. “No, that’s a whole other kind of raising the dead, and no mortal I know has managed it. Anyway, here’s the thing. A necromancer or bokor isn’t really besting death—he’s only… well, partnering with it. Because those things he raises, they might be shuffling around, but they’re still dead. A truly powerful man would do more than that. He’d take the dead and bring ’em entirely back to life.”
Harry could have stayed in Missouri, maybe with a job at the grain elevator. He could have headed up north and found employment in a Chicago factory or a Detroit car plant. He could have come here to LA and looked for something at the port. Or he could have hidden that he was queer and joined the Army. In short, Harry’s life could have taken another path, a path that didn’t lead to this office, locked in a basement with a man who was talking about raising the dead.
“That sounds fucking horrible,” Harry said.
“I’m glad you think so.” Townsend smiled. “But there’s nobody you’d be tempted to dig out of their grave? No beloved family members, for instance?”
“I don’t even get along with the ones that are still alive.”
“That’s right. You’re alone in the world, metaphorically speaking. Many of our best agents come to us like that.” He stubbed out the second cigarette and seemed to consider lighting a third. But instead he heaved himself out of the chair and walked around the desk.
As he drew near, Harry braced himself and didn’t back away.
“There’s a man up in Portland,” Townsend began, “who is interested in bringing the dead back to life. Or so our sources tell us. He’s apparently been unearthing fresh corpses, stitching the best pieces together, and trying to make the resulting mess human again.”
“Like… Frankenstein?” When he was a kid, he’d sometimes been able to earn enough to go to the pictures, and he’d seen the monster played by both Chaney and Lugosi. Those hadn’t been his favorite movies, though; he’d preferred Bogart and Grant.
Townsend clapped Harry’s shoulder. “You got it, kid.”
“Frankenstein is real?”
“This guy’s name is Swan, but yeah. He’s real.”
“And you want me to do what?”
“Nothing much, really. Gather more information. Because so far all we have are hints and rumors, and we need to know if Swan’s really onto something. We don’t give a damn if he’s just going around digging up some stiffs. That’s the Portland Police Bureau’s problem, and we’re not getting ourselves tangled up in some kind of jurisdictional cockfight. But if those stiffs ain’t so stiff by the time Swan’s through with ’em, that’s our problem.”
This made some sense but was only a partial explanation. “So I go up there and ask him if he’s got a mad scientist lab or something?”
“A little more subtle than that. Swan isn’t going to want to advertise what he’s up to. But we hear he’s got a taste for pretty boys, so maybe he’ll let you get close enough to see what’s what.”
Harry’s mouth tasted of ashes. “You want me to seduce him?”
“Something like that.”
He shook his head. “I’m no whore.”
“Didn’t say you were, boy. But a Bureau agent has to be willing to play whatever role an assignment requires. And this one requires a pretty boy.” He clapped Harry’s shoulder again, harder this time. “You don’t have to fuck him—just play nice enough that you can get close to him. Can you manage that?” Townsend’s expression had gone serious and hard.
Could he? The idea turned Harry’s stomach. But was it really any worse than whatever dim future remained for him if he turned Townsend down? Hell, a couple of men in the park had offered Harry money to suck their dicks, and while Harry had indignantly said no, he’d thought more than once about those offers as his cash ran low.
“I can do it.” His voice was hardly above a whisper.
Smiling broadly, Townsend patted him again. “Excellent! Now let me show you the bait we’re gonna add to the hook.” He marched to the smaller door. The lock squealed as he opened it.
Harry had steeled himself to see something terrifying, although he had no idea what that something might be. But when Townsend switched on the light, Harry saw nothing but a dingy room not much larger than a closet. Only after he and Townsend entered—and the door slammed closed—did Harry notice the pair of iron manacles hanging from the ceiling and the brownish stains splattered on the concrete floor. The small space reeked of piss, sweat, and something that might have been pure fear.
Harry backed against the closed door, the handle digging into his lower back. “I don’t—”
“Hang on. This lock sticks.” With a cheerful little smile, Townsend put a key into yet another door. It protested loudly when he pulled it open. “Here we go!”
Curiosity—and a sense of inevitability—overcame Harry’s sense of self-preservation. He peeled himself away from the wall and crowded next to Townsend in front of the open doorway. It took Harry a moment to understand what he was seeing inside the bare, dirty cell, but when comprehension hit, he had to clutch the doorframe for support.
“Fuck!”