The Spirit in St. Louis Read online

  The Spirit in St. Louis

  From the Files of the BSI

  Mark Everett Stone

  Camel Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information go to: www.camelpress.com

  markeverettstone.wix.com/mysite-1

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  The Spirit in St. Louis

  Copyright © 2016 by Mark Everett Stone

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-256-6 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-257-3 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016950842

  Produced in the United States of America

  * * *

  For Aeden and Gabriel

  * * *

  Chapter One

  BB (Director Bauer)

  Imitation of Life

  Television, radio, and newspaper reporters surrounded the black van as it slowly motored through the throngs of press practically drooling on the windows. The gleaming vehicle was unlikely to come through the gauntlet without a few dings and even a dent or two. Miraculously, and not without running over a few toes, the van made it to the curb in front of an enormous drum-like building of glass and steel that squatted at Chestnut and North 4th Street, encompassing an entire city block with its shiny bulk.

  What used to be home to several businesses had been taken over by the billionaire Tobias Quint, whose idea of progressive capitalism was an office building with all the charm of a squatting toad. At least it had a good view of the famous Gateway Arch, which rose above the Mississippi River. The only reason Quint couldn’t plant his monstrosity closer to the Arch was that the Hyatt Regency across the street from Gateway Park hadn’t been for sale at any price.

  The driver’s side door opened and a powerfully built woman in a no-nonsense business suit stepped out, pushing through the reporters as if they were recalcitrant children. Although they tried to impede her advance, shoving microphones into her face and shouting rapid-fire questions, the hard-faced woman with the long, curly-brown hair would not be slowed, could not be stopped. Their cries bounced off her granite façade as she slogged her way to the van’s sliding door and grabbed the handle.

  Before opening the door, however, she turned to the reporters, who lowered the volume from earsplitting to merely annoying, expectantly waiting for a juicy sound bite. “If you don’t clear the way to the building, there won’t be a press conference. If you don’t allow the Bureau of Supernatural Investigation to do its job, how can you report on the outcome?” Her voice cut through the clamor with the force of a siren, and the throng parted, as if afraid of the formidable woman. Best guess … they were.

  Almost soundlessly, the van door slid open.

  Everything went still, church quiet, as hundreds held a collective breath.

  Six people emerged from the dark vehicle dressed in identical black, chitonous armor that hugged their muscular frames like second skins. Each person carried enough weaponry to reduce City Hall to rubble. Five men, one woman, and they all had the stone-cold faces of expert killers partly disguised by wraparound shades. Immediately camera flashes went off and the reporters once again cut in with a barrage of questions, albeit at a lesser volume thanks to their fear of the woman in the business suit.

  Then the littlest one, a young man with the unfortunate handle of Tweezer, spoiled their grand entrance.

  “Holy, [DELETED]! I hope somebody at least brought some [CENSORED] pizza.” The smile on his acne-scarred and youthful face exposed nearly all his mostly straight teeth.

  “Way to go, pipsqueak,” said a tall, blond Aryan type as he slapped the miniscule Agent on the back of the head. The media absorbed every move they made.

  Before the reporters could flood the team, the no-nonsense driver rushed forward to stem the tide, the force of her stern gaze gluing them in place. “Listen up, folks, you know the Agents don’t field questions. As the team Receptionist, that’s my job. So I will start this show off. And remember, one question at a time.” She pointed to a television talking head with cameraman in tow. “You, speak.”

  “Jeff Corso from WGT, ma’am. What is the nature of the Supernatural threat in the Quint Building?”

  Easy question and always the first. “There have been reports of a ghost. We talked to several tenants of the building and their stories are similar and consistent. Yes, you with the bad toupee.”

  “Uh, Michael Wint from the Post-Dispatch,” said the man with the unfortunate hairpiece. “Is this ghost dangerous? Could it be something else?”

  “That’s two questions. You, the blonde from NBS.”

  “Is the ghost dangerous?”

  “It could be. That’s why the BSI always goes into an operation loaded for bear.”

  As the Receptionist fielded more questions and answered with calm competence, the tall Aryan-type shuffled his feet impatiently.

  “What’s wrong, Sixer?” the only woman on the team asked in a soft voice. Her name was Helen, but everyone called her Twist. There seemed to be something brittle about her face, as if the bones of her skull were made of glass.

  “This blows,” Sixer replied, also keeping his volume low. “I should be out there answering the questions. I’m the team leader.”

  Tweezer cut in, “Bad idea, dude.” He scratched a mole on his stubbly cheek. “Kal and the Director made the rules for a reason and the Receptionist always handles the press. You know that.”

  Sixer snarled, “Screw Kal Hakala with a fork.”

  The other five inhaled as one. Many believed that if you even mentioned Kal Hakala’s name too many times he’d appear to kick your ass, like Beetlejuice.

  “He’s an old man who doesn’t take missions anymore. Old and done. All he ever does is train Green Peas and go on talk shows every now and then. He’s the lazy face of the BSI, gone all soft. Hell, if he went on an op now, he’d probably die in the first five minutes.”

  “I knew you were stupid, Sixer,” said Twist, shaking her head, her hair a mass of spikes thanks to an abundance of styling gel. “I didn’t know you had a death wish, too.”

  “Listen up, you chowderheads,” Sixer whispered fiercely, schooling his face so as not to alert the reporters who were staring at the Receptionist as if she was the Second Coming. “This is my last op before retirement and I mean to make a splash.” He grinned, displaying his dimples. He looked good and he knew it. “Let me show you how it’s done.” With a swagger in his step, he moved forward, cutting in front of the Receptionist as she was offering a detailed answer on BSI response times in an event of an emergency.

  “Ladies and gentleman of the press,” he purred, smiling wide. “My name is Steven Essex, better known in the Bureau as Sixer, and I am the leader of Team Omicron. I’m here to tell you that there is nothing to fear from this so-called ghost.” Smiling even wider, he posed for the crowd, an almost indecently handsome man with piercing aqua eyes, a strong chin, and close-cropped, streaked blond hair.

  As he spoke, the Receptionist dropped her hands to her sides and began a series of hand gestures that the rest of the team—all except Tweezer, who was picking his nose—caught immediately. ‘Get this idiot out of here’ was the message.

  “And let me tell you, I will personally kick any spirit’s butt that happens to be in there,” continued Sixer
, unaware of the Bureau sign language the Receptionist was broadcasting to his team. “Twelve missions, no fatalities, what does that tell you?”

  “It tells us that Sixer is good at his job,” the Receptionist broke in, shouldering the team leader aside with enough oomph to bruise. The other members of Team Omicron waved to the crowd, laying hands on Sixer and bustling him toward the lobby doors of the Quint Building before he could protest. “And Omicron is very capable, as are all the Bureau teams.”

  “What the heck are you doing, guys?” Sixer protested as Twist opened one half of the double doors that led into the building. The inside looked darker and more menacing than it had any right to be on a warm summer day.

  “Saving our asses, bonehead,” growled Twist as she held the door. The rest of Omicron, Boogie, Snow, Fireplug and Tweezer, shoved Sixer inside and followed immediately after. “You may not care anymore about the Bureau, but after this, we still have to work there.” The door closed behind them with a bong like the closing of a crypt.

  The Receptionist, Tylan Carter, shook her head and waited in the van for a mission update, the bone induction patch behind her ear and the near-invisible throat mic her only access to the team. The van itself carried all the equipment necessary to keep an eye on Omicron through the micro-cams embedded in their night-vision contact lenses.

  Tylan picked up a pair of glasses mated to the team’s micro-cams and carefully put them on. “Omicron, I have you on visual,” she said.

  “Sixer here. We are in the lobby. Who killed the power?”

  “The owner of the building, QuintCorp, had the power turned off once the sightings had been confirmed, although there are indications that a couple of backup generators are online.”

  “Cheap bastards.”

  “And you’re a crazy bastard to do what you did in front of those reporters, Sixer.”

  “Chill out, mom—” The rest of the sentence was lost in static.

  The visuals coming through the sunglasses went bright white and Tylan cursed, ripping them off, head pounding in pain. “Dammit!”

  After a few seconds she tried reconnecting. Nothing came through the glasses. “Omicron, come in!”

  Nothing.

  “Omicron!”

  Even more nothing.

  The door to the van flew open and the Receptionist burst out into the bright sunshine, knocking reporters every which way. Shouts and screams followed as she made for the double doors, her suit soaked with panic sweat. Her hand reached for the long aluminum handle of the door and … slipped off. She tried again, but her fingers failed to find purchase. It was as if some invisible slick of oil coated the metal, rendering it frictionless, resisting her grasp.

  “[CENSORED] this,” she muttered, drawing a 9mm from beneath her tailored black business suit. She opened fire on the door. Instead of a shower of tempered glass or a set of neat holes, there were only crushed lead pebbles that dropped to the ground like dark hail.

  Conscious of the gaggle of reporters at her back, Tylan re-holstered her weapon and waited. The sturdy set of her shoulders and the anger radiating from her every pore kept the media at bay—fear a greater barrier than any troop of handholding police officers or sawhorses.

  As the sun traveled west, the crowd refused to thin. Nothing is more persistent than a reporter who smells blood. By the time the sun settled below the skyline, television vans had set up bright halogens but were kept across the street by hard-eyed feds in black suits and suspicious bulges under their jackets. Yeah, blood was in the water, yet the Receptionist stood resolute in front of the doors, hard eyes riveted on the mass of glass and steel.

  “What’s going on, Tylan?” asked another sharply dressed woman coming up from behind—slim, fortyish, and with hair in a tight, no-nonsense bun. “Any developments?”

  Mutely, the Receptionist shook her head. “Nothing. Whatever strange force that’s keeping us out is still in place. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

  The other woman, Moira, shook her head. “The Director wants a debrief. Ten minutes.”

  Before Tylan could reply, bright flashes came from within the building—so bright, in fact, that the light easily penetrated the building’s mirrored glass like graphic punctuations.

  The Receptionist rushed to one of the ten-foot panels that comprised the outer wall of the building, hands cupped around her eyes to better view the dim images inside. The sight nearly tore her mind apart.

  Sixer stood just inside, facing off to the left, a vacant look on his bloodied face and the glint of madness in his eyes. Slowly, as if in a trance, he lifted one arm, fist full of .45 ACP, and put the weapon against his temple. Although his head blocked her view of the gun she knew by his body language what he was about to do.

  “NO!”

  A dim flash of light and something splatted against the glass—a wet, gelatinous blob that slowly streaked down the smooth surface. As the Receptionist watched, an unblinking blue eye separated from the mass and fell away.

  * * *

  Blur ….

  I took the DRAFT glasses off my face and rubbed my temples. The headache had nothing to do with VR overload. The scene had been an ugly one, easily one of the worst I’ve ever witnessed. I am so tired of watching Agents die ….

  “Are you well, Director?”

  That was a hell of a question. Who could be well after witnessing such a horrendous event? “As well as can be expected, Ghost,” I rasped. Coughing, I stood and prepared myself a drink at the wet bar. Cognac, Louis XIII. Smooth and silky and horrendously overpriced. Kal always teased me for having expensive tastes. How he was able to swill that turpentine-turned-liquor he called vodka was beyond me.

  “Director Bauer, the Committee attempted to reach you four times while you were in VR. They’re wondering how you will handle the St. Louis situation.”

  Damn. The Committee. Ever since the president and the other world leaders revealed the existence of magic, Magicians, the World Under, and Supernaturals, my life has been a never-ending battle against the forces of bureaucracy. Instead of answering to the Joint Chiefs, or the VP, or even POTUS directly, I have to face a committee consisting of the three branches of government plus a representative of the military appointed to oversee the Bureau. Senator Stein, Judge Whitehall, the new Chief of Bureau Relations Marlene Brisby, and Admiral Ellison. Singly not too difficult to deal with, but as a group they were a nightmare walking. I longed to un-ring the bell and put the old ways back in place, but I might as well have been wishing for the moon. As it was, the last year had been one of chaos, mayhem, paranoia, religious hysteria and finger pointing as the Straights collectively freaked out.

  All in all, they took the news rather well.

  “What did you say to them?”

  Ghost’s annoying drone sounded amused. “That you were evaluating the data and determining the proper response to the situation.”

  “I take it they weren’t put off.”

  “They want action yesterday.”

  Of course they did. Everyone in the government wanted things done yesterday until the ball landed squarely in their court; then they whined about not having enough time. More and more lately, retirement seemed to be my best option.

  My back popped as I stretched, my jaw opening in a cracking yawn. What a mess. Of course I pulled Tylan in from the field for a debrief so I could experience the event in VR, but knowing what was going to happen never prepares you for seeing it up close and personal.

  Once again I found myself silently cursing the Sidhe, those elven miscreants who, with their plots to destroy humanity, forced our leaders to reveal the existence of the World Under a decade ahead of schedule. As good and capable an administrator as I am, I wasn’t quite ready to deal with operating aboveboard on a global scale. As a covert agency, the BSI was used to dealing with people in power one at a time, in small doses. Now, however, every tin-pot politician who thought they were God’s gift wanted a piece of the Bureau of Supernatural Investigation.


  “They are on the line again, sir.” Ghost sounded positively snippy.

  Of course they were. I settled the DRAFT on my face. “Go ahead.”

  Four people appeared, or should I say their upper halves, in the DRAFT, real-time images in the Heads Up Display (HUD). Two men, two women, all with faces set in stone. People you didn’t want to cross on a bet, but I sparred with them on a daily basis because if I didn’t show backbone, didn’t strike before struck, then they’d lose all respect for me. In politics, all that mattered was whose dorsal fin was bigger.

  “Greeting, Committee Members.” I always kept the capitals in there, a small concession. “Let me guess … you want to know what I’m doing about St. Louis.”

  Judge Whitehall, her graying hair perfectly curled, nodded. During her time as a federal judge in the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals, she had reduced more than one attorney to gibbering incoherence with her steely gaze. She earned her nickname as the Silver Saber not only for her sharp wits, but also for her deft ability to cut through the manure in any given situation. “It’s a public relations disaster. Your Receptionist didn’t handle it very well,” she said, her thin lips barely moving.

  Now that raised my ire. No one messes with one of mine, not even a Committee Member. “She handled the situation better than most Agents and a sight better than most any agency personnel could.” My voice was colder than arctic ice. “She did well, so let us not discuss that issue again.”

  Whitehall gave a miniscule nod, a concession that spoke louder than a shout. “Agreed, Director. You know your people, and if you say she did well, who am I to argue?”

  My boss, I thought grumpily as Admiral Ellison spoke up. “All well and good, Director Bauer, but the question still stands. The public is flooding social media, reporters are having a field day, and it’s a feeding frenzy in Congress. You’d think there was an election around the corner, the way they’re behaving. The situation is quickly spinning out of control. The BSI needs a win here so the public can feel safe, not a sudden disappearance inside a new office building on what should have been a routine cleanup of a haunting.”