Weston Ochse - Reign of Evil

“You don’t actually have evidence of it then.”

“Nothing that would stand up in court, Your Honor.”

Ian interrupted the exchange. “You mentioned that there might be something here that could help. You meant the powers here were left over from the old priory days, right?”

She nodded.

Walker turned to Ian. “What’s inside the boxes in the hall? My guess is that they’re relics and souvenirs from operations going back I don’t know how long.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”

Walker turned back to the witch. “You used the words ‘a shuddering of the veil’ earlier.”

“The veil between this reality and any other. If it’s breached by something large enough and we’re in proximity to whoever or whatever came through, then we can feel it on a spiritual level.”

“Sort of like early-warning radar.” Walker understood the concept better than most.

She nodded. “Something like that.”

“I have this… ability.” He almost said “curse.” “When I get close to something supernatural, I get this feeling in my body, like electricity. Sometimes it makes me have seizures.”

“Wait a minute. If that’s the case, then why didn’t you do that when you met Ms. Moore?” Jerry asked.

Walker caught the witch giving him a look much like he imagined a vet would a polydactyl rabbit. She spoke up before Walker could answer. “It’s because I’m not made of magic. I conjure it and cast it. I’m a funnel.” To Ian she said, “If you really have relics and pieces of beasties in those boxes, maybe you’ll let Walker and me go through them and see if there’s anything handy.”

Ian shook his head. “Back when defending Her Majesty against the supernatural was a popular occupation, they graced the walls of the priory as mementos of missions past.”

She gave him an intent stare. “And now they’re in boxes gathering dust. A lot of good they’re doing.”

Ian returned her stare with equal intensity for a moment, then relented. “Fine. Just don’t break anything. We’ll eventually get our building back, and when we do I want something to put on the damn walls.”

Preeti entered and evinced surprise at seeing the witch. Trev brought her up to speed after a brief introduction; then she spoke. “I ran a scan of the closed-circuit cameras in the area of her home in Woking,” she said to Ian. “The cameras ceased working during the event as if there was some sort of interference.”

Ian crossed his arms, then brought his right hand up to scratch his jaw. “Do you think something’s jamming them? If so there could be a more mundane than arcane solution.”

Preeti considered it. “I suppose it could be microwaves, but the interference is localized to any camera that had optics on the street leading to her home. You’d need at least seven microwave dishes to pull it off.”

Ian scratched his chin. “Still not an impossibility.”

Walker asked, “Was the interference static?”

“Do you mean was it fuzzy?” Preeti looked confused.

Walker shook his head. “No, what I mean is… did it merely appear right or did it arrive from another location? Consider the possibility that the interference might be moving.”

Preeti’s eyes widened. “Oh. I see. No, I didn’t consider that. Very smart, Mr. Walker. Very smart indeed.”

Jonathan Fitzhugh considered himself a good worker. Not a great worker and not a bad worker, but a good worker. He got to work on time most mornings, at least those when he hadn’t gotten too deep in his cups the night before. He was conscientious every evening, ensuring the groundskeeping equipment was clean and put away. And he was polite to the club members, always remembering to call them sir and their lady friends, whether they be an obvious tramp or an overweight wife, ma’am. So the idea that he had to go see the club manager today at noon was infuriating. They hadn’t even explained what it was about, but by the tone of the note attached to seat of the riding lawn mower it was clear that they weren’t happy.

There was no way they could have known he’d pawned three sets of golf clubs this year. Not only was there no one around when he took them, but the fact that their owners had left them behind demonstrated that they didn’t really want or need them in the first place also. Plus, he’d taken each to a different pawnbroker in Bath. No, there was no way they could have known about those.

The morning fog did little to deter the first foursome of the day. He recognized them as they approached the first tee. The tall one in the middle was Nisam Kazmi, a Pakistani businessman who’d been in the papers. The owner of five car dealerships, he was also interested in the fair treatment of immigrants and was a vocal opponent of any law or policy that inhibited his rights. The other three were his usual partners, two Pakistanis and one Afghan.

Fitzhugh kept one eye on them as he checked the oil level of his lawn mower. There were those down at the pub who’d call them disparaging names, such as ragheads, but then that was just stupid. The real ragheads were the Sikhs, who actually wore turbans on their heads. No, Fitzhugh wasn’t one to call the Pakis names. As long as they were good upstanding citizens, why shouldn’t they be able to come to the club and play a round of golf?

But Fitzhugh couldn’t help but think what if… what if they were planning something terrible while they played golf? What if they were arranging for an attack on the Queen or parliament or perhaps something worse involving nerve gas or explosives? He smiled grimly and briefly flashed to an image of him in the newspaper with the headline GROUNDSKEEPER FOILS PLOT TO KILL QUEEN.

He held on to that as he started the tractor and headed toward the third hole where ducks had recently been crapping on the green. The last thing he needed this day was for the Pakis to complain to his boss about a crap-filled green.

The fog wasn’t burning off like it usually did. If anything, it was getting thicker as he headed toward the small pond near the green for the third hole. He knew there was a scientific reason for it, but he really didn’t know what ten-quid words to use, nor would he have understood their meanings. Plus, this time of December and so close to Christmas, the club was lucky the weather was holding as it was. It might as well be spring.

Sure enough, during the night the ducks had crapped all over the green. He grabbed a flat shovel from the back of the tractor and scooped up all but the smallest pieces and dumped them in the water. He searched for one of the ducks to curse, but they’d made themselves absent. Good thing; he might have found a rock and had something for dinner if he’d been able to find one.

He next grabbed a bucket. Then he was on his hands and knees picking up the smaller piece because god fucking forbid one of those little white balls goes off course because it struck a microscopic piece of duck crap. He’d be bottled for sure.

Fitzhugh wasn’t positive how long he’d been on his hands and knees when he heard some yelling. He glanced up and saw the Paki foursome halfway down the fairway waving at him. Had he been there that long? A wave of fog passed between them and him obscuring them for a moment.

Where the hell was that fog coming from?

He stood, wincing as his bum left knee reminded him that he was old, drank too much, and could do with losing a bit of weight.

They yelled again. “Fore!”

Of course.

They wanted him to move out of the way.

He glanced down and checked to see if he’d gotten all of the duck crap, then limped back to his tractor. He decided to wait until they finished before he started it up. No use having them complain about the noise when they were trying to hit their bloody damned balls.