Center of Deception Page 2

  August planted himself at the bar, armed with his supply of Scotch, as the agents swarmed over the Black Castle. The ambulance came and went. Photographers crawled over the scene. Another agent, male and therefore a non-Wielder, bombarded August with the same barrage of questions and was likewise stonewalled when he asked who had been there that night.

  Hours later, Agent Jameson landed next to him on a stool, crossed his arms and leaned back against the bar. He took in a deep breath. August could tell, even under his jacket, the man worked out; his arms were well defined. Muscled men didn't really turn his crank, but Jameson had a good look to his face. Strong jaw, straight nose, though his eyebrows could be tamed a bit.

  “Stephen working tonight?” Jameson didn't turn to him, just kept looking out into the empty bar.

  August had asked if he could clean up for the night—it was going on two and they'd already gone over the sitting area—but was told to just hold up. “Yes.” The agents were certain to ask his staff who’d been patronizing the Black Castle that night. To be honest, he didn't think his waitresses knew of his side business, and he wasn't sure how loyal they would be facing the Bureau, but he didn't want them to have to go through this dog and pony show.

  “Why'd you let him go?”

  “Bro, it's two. I did the guy a favor. Nobody wants to be trapped here 'til dawn.” August tried to keep his tone light. No point in antagonizing the agent. Must be hard enough having to kowtow to all the Wielders who would always rank higher than he would. But August was tired and ready to go home and worried that they wouldn't let him. “Can I get you a Coke or coffee?”

  “Ah, August... what I want is that list of names. We'll just go to your employees. Do you really want to drag them through this?”

  Agent Wolfe-Martin joined the men. She settled her hands on her hips, gave her partner one look, and he stood and walked away.

  “Listen, August, none of them know your secret. I've kept that for you.” He frowned at her threat. She'd discovered he was a Wielder during an unfortunate raid a few years back. “I need to know who was here.”

  “Yeah, so you can harass my customers.” His shoulders drooped. He was tired and worried and ready for the day to roll itself up into a ball. “Honestly, Agent, I don't think anyone here did this. It happened outside, by some third party that I'm not involved with. Shouldn't you be canvassing the neighborhood? Looking for some force Wielder? Raping minds at random to get that knowledge and keep everyone safe.”

  August tried to keep a perky outlook on life. Really, he tried. The last thing he needed was a shakedown, and pissing these people off always led to a shakedown. The agent's eyes narrowed.

  “Instead of mind raping people at random, why don't I just take you down, get a warrant, and have my way with you, Mr. Whalen. Legally.” She smirked at him. His stomach sank.

  “Ah, but my lady, I don't swing that way.” Though, that was a mostly a lie. Either women or men could catch his eye. Still, pushy cop ladies were not on the list.

  Agent Wolfe-Martin turned away. “Jameson, cuff him. We're taking him in.”

  ~~~

  Silence escorted them for the duration of the short ride. August sat petulantly in the back of the sedan, his cuffed hands sitting in his lap. He should keep his mouth shut at all times when dealing with these people. Shut. Zipped tight.

  He was so good with reasonable people.

  He sighed and slouched low in the back seat, squeaking against the disgusting leather upholstery.

  “Oh quit hemming and hawing. You brought this on yourself,” Wolfe-Martin said.

  “Just give us the names, and if anyone asks, Wolfie here ripped it from your tremulous thoughts.”

  “Tremulous?” Wolfe-Martin asked.

  “Yeah. Good word, huh?”

  “I like it.”

  “Then,” Jameson continued, “you won't be a snitch and we can all go home without all the paperwork and the bullshit.”

  It was a delicious deal. He wanted to take it.

  “Come on, August,” Wolfe-Martin said as if she were coaxing a man off a very high cliff. “A man died. Another human being. You said you smelled almonds—”

  “Maraschino cherries,” he interrupted.

  “And the man definitely looked like his body had been broken by a pusher,” she continued without missing a beat. “It could have been a hit and run, but telltale signs were missing for vehicular assault. Plus, you didn't hear a car in the alley.”

  “I could have missed a car,” he said.

  “And the body had a brand. A cultist brand.” She let that sit for a moment. “We all know the Black Castle is a hangout for male Wielders, members of the cults, something I've kept out of the director’s ear for your sake.” She finally winded down. “What, no more interruptions?”

  August grunted, then said, “It's not that easy.”

  Wolfe-Martin turned her blinker on and drove around the block for the fifth time. August watched the headquarters of the local BWS pass by his window once again.

  “There have been other deaths with this Tracer,” Wolfe-Martin admitted. “That's not public, but this pusher has been killing male cultists. The dead man was probably a Wielder himself. A Wielder is out hunting you guys. You could be on his or her list.”

  That got his attention. “Fine. I'll give you the names I know. But I don't know everyone. Just some faces I recognize and other customers that I have no association with.”

  “Everyone you remember. Descriptions are fine,” Jameson said, pulling out a small pad.

  “Fine, fine.” August slouched lower in the back seat. “There was Marcus Reynaldo. And...”

  Chapter 3

  August flipped off the bar's lights and taped the 'Closed until Further Notice' note to the outside of the door. His reflection in the bar's glass door sported no smile, nor did it hold much optimism as he locked up the Black Castle. God in Heaven this sucked. Stephen, Tracy and Eriko were like family. He’d pay them half-wages as long as he could, but he didn’t own a gold mine. He leaned his forehead against the glass and stood there a moment under the unlit Black Castle sign as cars whizzed by behind him.

  That Wolfe-Martin.... He grit his teeth, cursing her name. She'd guilted him into coughing up those names. Like the Sword of Damocles, his doom hung over him. The cults would be on his ass like hounds after chickens. His specialty import and export business shouldn't be affected, but if he stayed open, he only stretched his chicken neck out there for the axe. Not to mention what backlash would hit his customers? Mara Murda, Tooth and Claw, hell, the female cult, the Martiniques, would probably throw fire bombs at the place if they caught word of this.

  Even if he was brain-raped for the info—which was how the story was spun—he'd still proved a leak to their organizations... and leaks got plugged.

  Oh, his precious bar. The business he'd built from a simple idea he and his parents had chalked out over beers around the campfire, now drained to an empty husk, waiting for its owner's return.

  The hiss of car tires on the road slowed to tires crunching over rocks in the parking lane. An engine idled and August turned, bracing himself. A white compact SUV waited at the curb facing oncoming traffic. As the window rolled down, John Gould's face emerged inch by inch, stampeding goosebumps across August's flesh. He reached out for the Nerve, unsure if he could combat another Wielder with his delicate touch, let alone stop a speeding bullet, but he wasn't going to stand here and let this cult member mow him down.

  He shifted his weight, ready to bolt.

  Gould draped his arm out the open window. “Hey Whalen, wanna go for a ride?”

  August's smile automatically did its thing, expressing his ease and charm. “With having to close my bar—”

  Gould bared his teeth revealing something internally feral. “Those BWS fuckers. Can't believe they put the pressure on you.”

  August stalled a moment, wheels spinning in his head, then jumped back into the conversation. He adopted a contrite look, l
etting his self-disgust out on full parade. “Hey, bro, you know… You shouldn't be here. I mean, they put me to a reader.”

  The cultist slapped the side of his vehicle. “Of course they would. If it weren't you, it woulda been your employees. Dude, don't sweat it. We know how they work. Just wanted to thank you for giving us an out last night.” Gould watched the oncoming traffic. “So, why don't you come for a ride and we can talk.”

  Play it cool. Play it cool. Was Gould a mentalist, a booster, or a bender? August couldn't let on that he'd sent their names to the BWS wrapped up with a bow. A memory wipe would have hidden his own duplicity, but he hadn't thought of it at the station. Damn. He slapped his palm against the glass entrance one more time and walked around the front of the SUV to climb in the passenger side.

  “So, are they still riding your ass?” Gould pulled back into his own lane.

  “The BWS? Not really. They got what they wanted. Names, faces.” He paused, glanced over at Gould who was focusing on the road. August wondered where they were going. “I figured I would be boycotted.” He struggled to find words that kept him noncommittal about anything. His mind shielding was as weak as wet paper and he didn't like to lie.

  “Hey, August, it ain't your fault. Those queen bees rule the hive and they'll sting anyone who steps outta line. I should know,” he snorted, “I was married to one.”

  “An agent?” August stared at the other man in disbelief. Gould painted the picture of an anarchist cultist; August could not imagine him shacked up with a silver-star.

  “A Wielder. She'd always pull this better-than-you shit on me. Bitch.” He turned on his blinker and took a left up a major arterial. The heater blew hot air into August's face.

  “Did you—?” August wasn't sure what he wanted to ask. “Get divorced?”

  Gould glanced over at August and shook his head. “She left me.”

  “And so you joined a cult?” Seriously? Talk about a man spurned. And they thought women were bad.

  The muscles in Gould's jaw flexed. “I joined a brotherhood. I joined a group of men who understand the suppression in our society. Who can do the things I can and are fighting the madness. People who are working to fix things.”

  “Fix things?” August nearly laughed then caught the serious expression on Gould's hard face. The buildings blurred by as Gould drove east. The deciduous trees held few leaves as the wind rattled through their tops. One red leaf, caught under the resting windshield wiper, beat against the glass. It was cold outside, but August felt colder inside. “How are you fixing things?”

  Gould barked out a laugh, then nodded, slow and steady. “We've doctors and scientists studying Taint and Corruption. We've developed drugs to staunch the madness. You don't see the BWS researching anything like that, do you? They like to keep men down, trapped within their cravings and obsessions. Man-haters, the lot of them.”

  “Wait a minute… go back.” August's ears were ringing with the promise Gould had just sculpted with words and attitude. “You have got to be shitting me. You have a cure for Nerve madness?”

  A slow smile built up over Gould's face. “Nearly. We're nearly there.”

  August flopped back in the seat, stunned. He could Wield the Nerve of the World without giving into those damned cravings? He could be free of disgusting mangoes? Free of a future of inevitable insanity if he Wielded too much?

  “How can…? Can you fix me?”

  “Well,” Gould drawled, “it's still in the experimental phases. Golden Boy is still a pipe dream—nothing makes Wielding free and easy. But our scientists are working with volunteer subjects now. You've heard of Pixie Dust?”

  August scoffed. “Yeah. It's the speed boat to loolooland.”

  “Hey, hey, that's Bureau propaganda. For some, yeah, it can totally rip you to shit. But for most, it lessens the Taint. Trust me, it works. I take it and I can Wield more often with delayed Taint reaction. And that's just one of the drugs we've developed. We're still working. It takes time. We're privately funded, keeping our projects secret from the government, so it's not like we can hire chemists on the up and up. The cooks we usually get are from the drug world, and though it's not our first choice, we'll take the skill where we can get it.”

  “So,” August asked after letting this fairy tale soak in, “why are you telling me all this?”

  He wasn't sure where they were anymore. Mountains rose in the distance and the city skyscrapers behind him danced in the side mirror as the SUV rolled over some train tracks.

  “We want you to join us.”

  “Me?” His stomach plummeted. “Why? I’m no druggist. I'm a business man.”

  “With connections.”

  August clenched his jaw. Leonard Markland… August would curse him later when he wasn't traversing the current field of landmines. August could not refuse. Sure, right now Gould sounded reasonable, but he knew enough about the cults to know none of them were led by reasonable men.

  “Yeah, I know some people.”

  “That could help out. Help out all us guys.”

  The car slowed and stopped at a red light. August considered jumping out and running for his life, but where would he run?

  “What if I don't think it's the best path for me?”

  “That's fine! No worries.” Gould chuckled. “It's not like this is high pressure join or die. We'll let you be. Go back to your business and live your life. I just thought you'd like the opportunity to help others. To make a profit. Join in on the cures. And to stick it to the Bureau bitches.”

  Ah, the magic word. “Profit?” If only the cultist had said so from the beginning.

  “Of course.” The light turned green and Gould pushed through the intersection. “We would pay you for your connections. A fair price. It would be a business arrangement.”

  Now, August didn't see any reason to refuse. His bar being closed wouldn't be the end. Those lovely employees of his would be taken care of.

  “So, who exactly is this 'we?’ Which cult?”

  John Gould burst out a surprised laugh. “What, you don't know? Shit. We're Mara Murda.”

  ~~~

  On his condo doorstep, after the two-hour joyride with John Gould, a package waited for August. He hadn't ordered anything; he nudged it with his toe. It didn't react. An Amazon swoop on the side gave it benign camouflage. He scooped up the box and slipped into his third floor condo overlooking the river.

  He set the box on his dining room table, grabbed a Deschutes porter, and stepped onto his balcony to stare across the river towards the over-sized houses on the opposite shore. The cold evening air cooled his ears as he swigged his beer. Inhaling deeply, he let the quiet calm him. A light flashed across the river, perhaps the reflection from a pair of binoculars. Perhaps a camera. Maybe it was something simple and not anything out to get him—the glowing light on someone's watch. He took another swallow.

  The offer to join a cult. The box of unknown origins. He wasn't stupid; of course he was being watched. His life sailed down shit river and the waterfall of You’re Screwed waited for him at the end, all thanks to a misplaced corpse. If the man had only had his deadly fight one block over, August wouldn't be in this mess. He enjoyed his quiet, steady life completely in his control. Now, control had been ripped from his hands.

  The flash again. August returned to the inner sanctuary of his home and yanked closed the curtains. He wondered if his condo was bugged too. If there were cameras viewing every angle of his living room, his bedroom, his bathroom. He'd need to hire a bloodhound to sniff them all out, and until then, he couldn't feel safe here anymore.

  He sliced the box open with a kitchen knife, lifted the cardboard flaps up straight to give the box more depth, and glanced inside.

  Inflatable pillow padding.

  He yanked out pillow after pillow and in the bottom of the box was a cheap cell phone. A thick model with a rubbery case. He put a smile on his face and mumbled, “About time,” as he pulled the phone out and slipped it into his c
oat pocket. Then he went about frying up some marinated tempeh and sautéing a mix of Chinese vegetables. He considered making rice, but boiled some Asian rice noodles instead. While eating he read a few pages from a thriller novel, then reread them because he couldn't remember what was on the page, and eventually gave up. He grabbed his jacket and left his condo, deciding that a walk along the forested river side would help clear his head.

  Once he was safely in the trees, he fished the phone out of his pocket and dialed the one number programmed: Aunt Sheela.

  Aunt Sheela? Who would buy Sheela? Only if he was Australian.

  August called the number. An old woman answered with a shaky, “Hello? Auggie?”

  Auggie? “Auntie, how are you? Is uncle Bert still in the hospital?”

  “Oh no, Bert is just fine now. Just a bit of the gout. Your little cousin wants to talk to you.” Then the old woman called out, “Bethy, come talk to your cousin.”

  In a moment the dry, no nonsense voice of Bethany Wolfe-Martin said, “Hello dear cousin. I hope this evening gives you the solitude you crave.”

  “Oh, you never know when a relative will drop by, cous.”

  “So you were approached by Gould. Tell me what happened.”

  August strolled the paved path. Glimpses of the river peeked through the thick set of trees along this portion of the trail. Someone could easily overhear him if they were lying in wait, but he didn't think anyone could see him. Still, he had to be careful.

  “Sure, sign me up for three frozen pies. Love to help Sammy with his fundraiser.” He paused, thinking. “And at such a great price. How could I refuse?” He chuckled. “Pie, it's a cure for what ails you, they say.” He thought again, pondering what to say next, thinking about what an eavesdropper would hear. “Oh, I might be heading out of town for a few days. Bartending conference. Even though last time I told them their flashy bartending wasn't what I wanted in my bar, it's still something interesting to learn. You never know when you'll need those flipping skills. I just loved Cocktail, and a young Cruz is always a nice addition to any flick.” He stopped babbling and waited.