John Ringo - Queen of wands

“I dunno,” Barb said. “I don’t watch much TV.”

“It’s on A amp;U,” Kurt said, distantly. “I’m not sure I want to know what this is for…”

“Well, it’s the only thing we’ve got from this mess,” Barb replied. “But we’ll check it out later. We’re missing something.”

“You always are,” Kurt said, sighing. “It’s why the Monday morning quarterbacking you get from stuff like Congressional investigations is so stupid. Sure, all the data is there, and in hindsight it all makes sense. But when you’re looking at it, it’s just mush.”

“What do we know?” Barb said, leaning back on the dresser and closing her eyes. “Janea was found in Coolidge Park.”

“Over on North Shore,” Kurt said, nodding. “But that’s a dry hole. No actual connections to that immediate area. And her car was on the other side of the river. Which means she probably took the walking bridge over the river. But we interviewed everyone we could find in the area and nobody saw her crossing. Either way.”

“But that’s where she was,” Barb said. “On the North Shore. She was conscious, then. But already incoherent. Probably already on the Paths but sort of functional to move in the mundane world. So it couldn’t have happened far from where she was picked up. We need to pay a visit to Mr. Yeaton.”

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Kurt said, holding out his ID. “We’re looking for Hugh Yeaton.”

The address listed on the business card had led them to a suburban two-story house in a working-class neighborhood in East Ridge and, presumably, the lady of the house. The thin, dark-haired woman looked at the ID suspiciously, then sighed.

“I’m sure whatever it is, officer…” she said.

“We just need to ask him some questions about a case we’re working on,” Kurt said, smiling. “He’s not in any trouble. Honest.”

“He’s at work,” the woman said. “Bennington Subdivision, Lot Fourteen.”

“Oh,” Kurt said, nodding. “Thank you for your help.”

“He’s not in any trouble, right?”

The woman seemed ambiguous about the question, as if she half hoped that he might be.

“None that I know of,” Kurt said, shrugging.

“Well, this is odd,” Barb said as she pulled up to the indicated lot. Bennington Subdivision, Lot Fourteen, was a partially constructed residence. Currently, it was just being framed.

“It’s got to be the right guy,” Kurt said, looking at the card again.

“We’ll see,” Barb said.

“Hugh Yeaton?” Kurt shouted.

The shout was necessary because the man they’d been directed to was operating a power saw, cutting a long rip in a strand of plywood.

“What?” the man shouted, holding one hand to his ear. The carpenter was burly and had a sour expression on his face. He also clearly was enjoying messing with the “suits” by continuing to operate the saw.

“FBI,” Kurt shouted, holding out his badge. “Want to shut that off?”

“Sorry,” the man said, turning off the saw. “What do you need?”

“Are you Hugh Yeaton?” Kurt asked.

“Yes,” the man said, somewhat nervously.

“Then we have what we need.”

“Yeah, I remember her,” Yeaton said, taking a drink of Gatorade. “Hot redhead, right?”

“That would be Janea,” Barb said. “Where’d you meet her?”

“When we went out for the Art District investigation,” Hugh said. “She was walking around when we showed up. It was after most of the stuff had closed, so that was a little strange. You know, young woman, by herself, dark streets…”

“I doubt Janea was much worried,” Barb said dryly.

“Kinda got that impression,” Hugh said. “One of the team, Pete Crockett, kind of latched onto her. Since Pete’s about as straight as a hula hoop, it wasn’t ’cause he was hitting on her or anything. We’d been looking for a new researcher, and when I was talking to her, it was apparent she knew her occult lore. I said if she was interested to give me a call.”

“Art District?” Barb asked.

“It’s a collection of museums and shops downtown by the river,” Kurt said. “Old houses. It’s supposed to be haunted. Nice place. Great restaurants, and Rembrandt’s is to die for.”

“Yeah,” Yeaton said, frowning. “You’ve clearly never been there after everything shut down. I hate to ever admit anything’s haunted. It’s what makes us different from most of the paranormal groups out there. But if there’s any place I’ve ever visited that has…some sort of not-normal activity, it’s the Art District.”

“Where is it?”

“Across the river from Coolidge Park, come to think of it,” Kurt said, nodding. “Near where her car was parked. What day was this?”

“Sixteenth of March,” Yeaton said. “She left when Rembrandt’s closed.”

“That’s ten days before she was attacked,” Barb said.

“She got attacked?” Yeaton said. “One of these damned Madness things?”

“Not…directly,” Barb said. “She…I take it you’re somewhat familiar with the supernatural, Mr. Yeaton.”

“Depends,” he said, looking at her suspiciously. “I’ve seen a couple of things over the years that are hard to explain.”

“She’s currently in something like a coma,” Barb said. “But not a coma. She just won’t wake up. Are you familiar with the term ka?”

“Sure,” Yeaton said. “And I don’t believe in it. If I can’t measure it, it’s myth, not science.”

“Well, be that as it may,” Barb said, smiling, “her ka was stripped and is lost on the Paths. I’m trying to find out who or what did that to her.”

“Well, if that search leads you to the Art District after closing time, you’d better be a pretty steady person,” Yeaton said. “Because that place scared the crap out of me. And I don’t scare easy. I’ve got work to do. Is there anything else?”

“No,” Kurt said, handing Yeaton his card. “If you think of anything else or hear anything you think we should know, please call me. This does have to do with the Madness investigations.”

“Hmmm…” Yeaton said, looking at the card. “You might want to come by my place. I’m pretty busy with work and the investigations but…Say, Friday afternoon? I’ve got some stuff you might want to look over.”

“Okay,” Kurt said. “Around seven?”

“Works.”

“Where to now?” Kurt asked.

“I’m drawing a blank,” Barb said, looking at the papers on her lap. “I think we need to interview the cops that found Janea.”

“I’ll get ahold of them,” Kurt said.

“What’s the FBI doing out after dark?” the police officer asked as Kurt slid into the booth.

The City Cafe, Chattanooga, was part of a small chain in the area. The cafes delivered and had one of the largest menus in the world. Everything from pizza to omelets, passing through Greek, Italian and various American dishes, was available. Twenty-four hours a day. Which meant it was the pit stop of choice for Chattanooga PD.

“Hi, Teach,” Kurt said as Barbara slid in next to him. “This is Mrs. Everette. She’s consulting on the Madness cases. She’s the replacement for the lady you found in Coolidge Park.”

“Oh, that,” the policeman said. “That was one fricking weird incident.”

“Walk me through it,” Barb said, sliding Lazarus out of his bag and setting him next to her. She’d already had her standard encounter on the way in.

“We were contacted direct,” Tom said. “That is, we got the call from the station, not from nine-one-one.”

“That seems strange,” Barb said. “Anonymous caller?”

“No,” the policeman said, wincing. “It’s not all that strange in this area.”

“Chattanooga nine-one-one is notorious,” Kurt said, chuckling. “They’ve got the worst call-through in the nation. Only about thirty percent of the calls to nine-one-one get through to the people that need them. People have gotten used to calling the local fire station if they’ve got a fire, the police if they need a cop…”