Chapter Six

You ready to go?" Barbara asked, banging on the bathroom door.

She hadn't shared a room with a female her own age in years and she had a hard time not coming on the Mom with Janea. When she'd examined the assignment, she'd managed to get down to two Pullmans and a carry-on. But Sharice had still needed a borrowed van from the center to get them to the airport. Janea had seven bags, which were now stacked around the room in the Holiday Inn Express in Dumfries.

She had gotten up early this morning, knowing that it was going to take some time for her to shower, shave her legs and armpits and do her hair and make-up. Janea, who "didn't do mornings" had woken up much later and had been in the bathroom ever since. Barb had gone out to breakfast and returned, bringing coffee and some rolls, and as far as she could tell, Janea had been in the bathroom the whole time.

"Ready!" Janea said, throwing open the door. "What do you think?" she asked, posing.

Barbara had dressed in a conservative suit she had previously only used during her brief stint selling real-estate. Pinstripe jacket and skirt, skirt falling to just below the knee, cream button-down shirt, fairly comfortable pumps in anticipation of a fair amount of walking. If more walking was required, she had a bag with cross-trainers in it.

Janea's idea of "conservative" dress for a meeting at the FBI training facility in Quantico Virginia was: five inch black spike heels, a black, pleated miniskirt, quite short while not being entirely scandalous, that gave the vague impression of being from a very naughty schoolgirl's wardrobe and a white shirt so sheer it was impossible to miss the underwire, push-up bra. Especially since she'd unbuttoned the shirt far enough to show an enormous amount of cleavage and a hint of lace. Her hair and makeup were, however, superb.

"We're going to be late unless we hurry," Barb said, pushing up her sleeve to look at her watch.

"You don't like it," Janea said, crestfallen. "Is the shirt unbuttoned too much?"

"It's lovely," Barb replied, heading for the door of the room.

"I can change," Janea said, following her. "I've got other outfits. Some of them might be a little skimpy for the FBI, but . . ."

"It's not a problem," Barbara said, "but I'm driving."

"Oh, great," Janea sighed, handing over the keys. She had driven from Dulles to Daleville in the rented Grand Am, the trunk and back of the car packed with luggage. She wasn't looking forward to having the "church lady" drive, probably slowly in the left hand lane, as they tried to find their destination.

Barbara didn't comment except to take the keys and get in the car. But the reason she was driving was that Janea couldn't keep her mind on the road. She was usually all over the lane, if for no other reason than checking her makeup, couldn't maintain speed and had a tendency to miss turns. They'd had to turn around three times to make it to the Holiday Inn, which was right off of US-1 and not particularly hard to find.

When Janea was settled, definitely not wearing a seatbelt, they'd had that conversation yesterday, Barb pulled out of the parking spot and headed for the entrance, slowing only for the speedbumps. When she reached US-1 she pulled out into a narrow slot in traffic, tires screaming and smoke rising from the asphalt.

"Freya preserve us," Janea said, her eyes wide, grabbing at anything solid to hold herself in place as Barbara slid dexterously into the left hand lane then back to the right, weaving through traffic. Despite rush hour traffic, she managed at times to get up to seventy in the forty-five mile per hour zone.

"We're a tad late," Barb said, calmly.

"Do you always drive like this?" Janea said as Barbara swerved into the turn lane to evade a car going the posted speed in the left hand lane.

"Yes," Barb replied. "More or less. Less when I'm on time. More when I'm in a hurry. I haven't gotten into the oncoming lanes. Yet."

She managed to avoid that fate, spotting the sign for Quantico's main entrance and screaming through a narrow spot in oncoming traffic to make the left turn. She slid to a stop a few feet from the bumper of the car at the rear of the line waiting to enter the base and the Grand Am rocked for a moment on its springs. At the shriek of tires, the three Marines checking people into the base turned to look, their heads almost simultaneously tracking like turrets to identify the sound, note the Grand Am, then back to what they were doing.

"Thank you, Freya," Janea said, breathing out finally. "We have arrived alive."

"I've never had an accident," Barbara said, calmly, a faint smile on her face.

"That's incredible," Janea replied, looking at her. "I've had, like, five."

"Really?" Barb asked, moving the car forward as the line crept up to the gates. "Call it another gift. I am but a Servant of God."

"Yeah, right," Janea scoffed. "God tells you to drive like a maniac? There's a real little devil hidden under that church lady exterior, ain't there? Did your daddy teach you to drive, too?"

"No," Barbara said. "A boyfriend. He was a stockcar racer."

Janea collapsed into her seat theatrically and threw up her hands.

"I'd hate to be in the car if you were in a real hurry," she said, digging into her purse for ID.

"It is interesting," Barb admitted, rolling down the window as she reached the Marine guard. "Hi, Barbara Everette and . . ."

"Doris Grisham," Janea said, leaning way over so the Marine could look down her shirt. She held out her driver's license but it was a moment before the transfixed guard could remember to take it.

"We're here to see Special Agent Halliwell at the FBI Academy," Barb continued, handing over her own driver's license.

The guard shook himself and consulted a clipboard then shook his head.

"If you ladies could pull over into the lane on the left," he said, pointing to the appropriate spot. "Somebody will be with you shortly."

Barbara pulled forward to the spot and parked the car, waiting as patiently as she could, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Janea dug in her purse and pulled out an emery board, touching up her nails.

"He's probably wondering when the FBI started calling in escorts," Janea said after a moment.

"I certainly hope I don't look like an 'escort,'" Barb said, primly.

"When you're with me you do," Janea replied, grinning. "Or maybe my manager."

Barbara just rolled her eyes and glanced in the rearview mirror. Two of the guards were heading their way.

"Heads up," she said.

"I'm sure they are," Janea answered, arching.

"Sorry about that, ma'am," the sergeant said, nodding at both of them but looking down Janea's shirt. "We had to call the FBI academy to get verification on you. Could I see your ID again?"

Barbara handed over the IDs and ignored the fact that the other guard was looking past her as well. She wasn't used to being ignored by men and she found it . . . annoying.

"There's a thirty-five mile per hour speed limit on base," the sergeant said, handing back the licenses as the private with him filled out a parking slip. "It's strictly enforced."

"I understand," Barb replied, smiling at him winningly. It wasn't worth the effort, his eyes were glued to cleavage. "How do I find building F-134 again?"

The sergeant went through a bewildering explanation for a moment and then shrugged at her expression.

"Just follow the signs to the FBI Academy," he said, still having a hard time making eye contact. "You can find it from there."

As they pulled out, Janea leaned back and put her license away then looked at Barbara.

"I'm annoying you, aren't I?" Janea asked.

"No, dear," Barb answered, reaching over to squeeze the other woman's hand. "I'm simply finding it a challenge in many ways I hadn't expected. You are a very good friend and the challenges are good for my soul."

"That's another way of saying yes," Janea said, leaning back in the seat. "I just get this way around men. It's broken up so many relationships for me you wouldn't believe. But I enjoy attention."

"That is, I suppose, a goodly thing to your goddess," Barbara said, ignoring the posted speed limit and cutting through the turns to the FBI Academy. "I, on the other hand, am realizing I'm not as perfect as others thought. Or even as sinless as I had thought. I hadn't realized I was as vain as I am. It's something I need to work on. So for that, if nothing else, I thank you."

"You're weird," Janea said.

"You keep saying that," Barb replied as she finally spotted building F-134. It was a brick building like most of the others on that part of the base, single story and long with several doors, most of them marked with blue signs. She hunted around until she found the door marked "Federal Bureau of Investigation Research and Analysis Lab" and then found a parking place.

When they reached the door she found it locked and pressed the button next to it, presumably a buzzer. After a moment the door clicked to the buzz of a solenoid and they went inside.

The entry room was hard tile floor and acoustic tile ceiling under bright fluorescent lights. There was a desk with a woman sitting behind it, a rather pleasant faced younger woman who looked like a receptionist.

"Barbara Everette and Doris . . ." she locked up on Janea's last name for a moment, "Grisham. International Society for the Study of the Paranormal."

"You're expected, ladies," the woman said, smiling. "Through the door."

"Mrs. Everette?" the man on the far side said, taking Barb's hand as she came through the door. "And Miz Grisham?"

"The same," Janea said, smiling and bowing faintly as if to a courtier. "I prefer to be called Janea."

"Janea, then," the FBI agent said, virtually ignoring the way she was dressed. "I'm Special Agent In Charge Jim Halliwell. Let me take you back to the lab so we can get started."

"I take it we're not going to be working directly with you?" Barbara asked as they went down the long corridor. To the left were offices while to the right was a cube farm. As they passed one of the side corridors in the cube farm, an agent with his arms full of documents ducked back from Halliwell then did a double take at the sight of Barbara and a triple take at Janea. By the time they'd reached the end of the corridor, there was a general buzzing from the cube farm and Barb looked over her shoulder to see various people, male and female, "prairie dogging" over the tops of the cubes.

"No, the agent assigned to your portion of the investigation is Special Agent Greg Donahue. He has the asset of having attended conventions previously."

"And is he aware that there are . . . Special Circumstances to this investigation?" Barbara asked, carefully.

"Yes, he is," Halliwell answered, opening the door to the lab.

The room had microscopes and various instruments with readouts on the front. Also a large number of computer monitors. And that was about all that Barb could determine from it.

"The FBI crime lab in DC does most of the direct crime investigation," Halliwell said, leading them across the room. "This lab does research into oddball aspects of forensics. Trying to determine if the DNA from pollen on a victim can be traced to a particular area or plant, that sort of thing. It also handles most of the Special Circumstances . . . oddball aspects. Fortunately, the techs are rather closed mouth about what they do." He pushed open a conference room door and waved the ladies in ahead of him.

There was a tall, thin man in a white lab coat and a larger man, both taller and much more heavyset, in the room. The lab tech, or doctor or whatever, was sitting very straight and still while the other had sprawled in his chair, hands behind his head. He sat bolt upright, though, as first Barbara and then Janea entered the room.

"Dr. Hannelore, Agent Donahue, Barbara Everette and Doris Grisham," Halliwell said. "Miz Grisham prefers to be called Janea."

"Mrs. Everette," Donahue said, standing up and taking their hands. "Janea . . ." he continued, looking her up and down for a moment and then shaking his head. "I'm going to be working with . . . you two?"

"Better assignment than you expected?" Janea said, archly, sitting down and crossing her legs so they were in clear view of everyone on her side of the table.

"Uh . . ." Donahue said, his mouth open for a moment. "Yes, as a matter of fact," he continued as he regained the capability for speech. "I was expecting . . . I dunno. A couple of little old lady psychics."

"Guess again," Barb said, placing her purse on the floor and then rolling up to the table. "What do you have for us, Special Agent."

"Dr. Hannelore?" Halliwell said, passing the ball.

"Seven victims," Hannelore replied, dimming the lights and bringing up a picture of a young woman on the projection monitor. "Each of them killed by having her throat cut. Indications of sexual assault and ligations from binding. Each with these symbols," he continued, showing a close up of a stomach covered in a strange script, "marked on various portions of the body. We sent the symbols to an expert in these things and he identified them as . . ."

"A prayer to a Hebraic Shedim," Janea interjected. "Originally a Persian Daevas called Remolus. Might be related to the brood of Tiamat but seems to be a lower ranking daevas than that. The writing appears to be early Fars but it's not quite right. Hints of Sanskrit or maybe latter Sumerian. We hadn't seen this particular script before but it's interpretable according to our sources. I'm no expert in it myself. And clearly a summoning; he's trying to summon Remolus and is probably channeling from him at the very least."

"Remolus," Halliwell said, stepping over to one of the workstations and typing. "It says here that he's got no priors during our period of control of this area. 'The Soul Eater'?"

"All demons are soul eaters," Janea said, shrugging. "And the translation's a bit off. Remolus' major secondary name comes from an Aramaic inscription that translates as Soul Drawer or possibly Soul Sucker. As far as we know, there is no way that purely through necromancy he could possibly gather enough power to summon Tiamat. That takes enormous power. Although, if he did, that would be bad."

"How bad?" Halliwell asked.

"Tiamat is a gate and the key to the gate between the worlds," Janea said, frowning. "Effectively, if she stays in place for any significant time at all, and she is very difficult to kill, then you have a fully opened gate to . . . call it Hell. Demons can come through in swarms. Of course," she added, looking over at Barbara, "the heavenly host is supposed to be manifest to battle them directly upon earth. However, the power levels would be so high . . ." She paused and shrugged. "IT might be better to have a nuclear war."

"Heaven forbid," Barb said, softly.

"As you say," Hannelore replied, looking at the dancer in interest. "The bodies had not been killed at the location. There is significant exsanguination. We're not sure what was done with the blood, whether it was kept for necromantic purposes or dumped."

"Probably burned as an offering," Janea said, musingly. "That's a common method with Daevas. Properly there should be an effigy of the god or godling with a fire in the belly section and an open mouth. When the fire is hot, the blood is poured into the mouth, raising a fragrant offering to the god." She paused and shrugged at the looks that got. "It's a common motif. Any parts missing?"

"No," Hannelore said. "The bodies were intact."

"Odd," Janea said. "Generally organs are added to the offering. It might be an indication of squeamishness on the part of the necromancer."

"We have two of the bodies here in our morgue," Hannelore said. "We'd appreciate it if you could . . . use your abilities to see if there's anything you can tell us."

"Of course," Janea said, standing up.

"Can I get something straight?" Donahue asked. "Which one of you is in charge? I'd assumed it was Mrs. Everette, but . . ."

"I'm the more experienced," Janea said, looking over at Barbara. "And I've had more training. But Barb is . . . the more powerful."

"I think we're both wondering that," Barbara admitted, grabbing her purse and standing up as well. "Maybe by the end of the mission we'll know."

"That's . . . a problem," Halliwell said, seriously. "In a crisis, you have to know who is in charge. In the event of power manifestation, control of the situation automatically shifts to you two. Who does Donahue look to for decision-making?"

"If it's informational, Janea," Barb said.

"And if it's . . ." she paused not sure how to go on.

"Tactical," Barbara interjected. "I guess that would be me."

"Great," Janea grumped. "And I'm the Asatru in the room. But, yeah, if it's tactical, I'm going to just back Barb up. Not that she'll need much help."

"By tactical you're referring to direct power fighting?" Hannelore asked, interestedly.

"And any other," Janea said, shrugging.

"I'm sorry, I have a problem with that," Halliwell said. "I don't think a civilian should be engaging in any sort of direct combat. Among other things, it's illegal."

"Sir," Hannelore said. "Case A-1674, the Bayou Slasher?'

"Oh, damn," Halliwell said, closing his eyes. "Sorry about the language, Mrs. Everette. And sorry for not making the connection."

"You're . . . aware of that?" Barbara asked.

"Who do you think cleared you to get out of the hospital?" Halliwell said. "And sent Germaine to you. Yes, we're aware of that. I just hadn't made the connection. I concur. In a Special Circumstances tactical situation, control devolves to you, unreservedly."

"Excuse me," Donahue said. "What does . . . ?"

"You're not cleared for that compartment," Halliwell answered the unspoken question. "I'll probably kick it open and see if I can clear you for the mission report. Let's just say that if Mrs. Everette says: 'Mine', back off and let her handle it."

"Agent Donahue," Hannelore interjected. "Mrs. Donahue was previously involved with a Special Circumstances investigation in Louisiana. The analysis, for obvious reasons, had to be done carefully. HRT handled the combat analysis. Let me just say that one portion of the analysis stated that HRT was, quote, impressed by the combat training, armed, unarmed and of special nature, of the subject and would, unreservedly, accept subject for entry to HRT based upon analysis of combat actions. End quote. I don't think I've broken any regulations by telling you that much."

"Oh," Donahue said, looking at her again.

"I'd like to make a point," Janea said. "What we are dealing with, almost assuredly, is a person, a human, who is gathering power to create a manifestation. The person may have power, may be able to channel, but should not be truly 'supernatural' in nature. He may, however, be able to use powers to control an unshielded person, such as Agent Donahue. That is what we have to be cautious of."

"Understood," Halliwell said. "Did you get that, Greg?"

"I'm trying to," Donahue admitted. "But what are you talking about, exactly?"

"Oh, something like this, perhaps," Janea said, closing her eyes and smiling.

Donahue felt himself overwhelmed by an unstoppable wave of lust. What was bothering him the most was that it wasn't even directed at Janea, but at Mrs. Everette. He closed his eyes and tried not to fantasize about what she would look like with her hair spread on a pillow, quite unsuccessfully. After a moment the feeling faded with only a lingering trace. He opened his eyes again and shook his head.

"That wasn't exactly going to stop me from doing anything," he said after he regained the power of speech.

"It was an aspect of my goddess," Janea said, smiling. "Her control methods are more . . . subtle than some."

"That was anything but subtle," Greg said, glancing at Barb and blushing.

"The point I'm trying to make is that if the person uses power on you, you may not have any control," Janea said. "You could be held against your will, at the very least, unable to take action to defend others. Or, possibly, depending upon the person's level of power and control, forced to use your weapon against others or even yourself. Self preservation is a very deeply held instinct, though. It is hard to overcome through direct means. However, you are unshielded. If you feel control slipping over you, simply work your will as hard as you can to prevent your own death and let Barbara and me handle the rest. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Donahue said, glancing at Barb again. "Are you still doing it to me?"

"No," Janea said, sighing. "But, unfortunately, the effects can have some lingering effect."

"Thanks so very much, Janea," Barbara said, acerbically.

"For the effects to last there has to have been some prior emotion," Janea said, coyly. "Now, I think we were going to view a body?"